February 22, 2011

22nd on the 22nd

Posted in Uncategorized tagged , , at 12:32 am by letterstoelias

I had a bit of a ‘cheerier’ post running through my brain the past few days (that I will get to), but my hopes that I could skate by the 22nd of the month just never seem to pan out (though it did seem to sneak up a little faster than usual).  There’s been a lot going on these days and it’s tough to avoid.

A friend’s mom was recently diagnosed with cancer.  Interested in natural treatment options, I wanted to offer any information on what Elias and I found/tried and even some leftover supplements if necessary.  I haven’t yet provided all of the info, as I know how overwhelming it is . . . at the same time I have these resources and information floating around – I’d like to try and make them of use and most of all, potentially help someone else.  I wish I could help.  I hate that they are going through it.  I hate anyone going through it.  I hate the damn, wicked disease (big surprise there I’m sure).  In some ways it’s taken me back to some memories I’ve tucked far, far away.  We shared a great deal of our experience, but we didn’t share it all – and there are some parts I will never share with anyone.

The other night, while leaving my dance class, C looked up at the night sky and said:

“That star reminds me of Daddy.”
Me:  That’s nice my Love
C (as I was buckling her in her seat):  “And that star means I Love Daddy.”
Me:  That’s really beautiful C.
C (as we were driving home):  Do you think one day we could all fly up and catch the stars?  Then we could die. (she said this sounding very happy/excited)
Me:  Well . . . (before I could finish)
C:  When will we die?
Me:  I don’t know, my Love.  no one knows.
C:  But, when will we die?
E:  Not until we’re really old
Me:  Hopefully . . . (there were a few more ramblings between the three of us before they started singing to the music once again)
And, in another conversation while doing puzzles the other day, she said something about a dog dying (she was doing a dog puzzle).  She then asked me when Cali would die.  I again said I didn’t know.  E piped in and said that it would probably be soon because she’s getting old.  I agreed that was possible though she hopefully still had a few years left, but added that dogs and people don’t always die when they’re old – we hope that’s the case, but sometimes people and animals die young too.  C says, “Like Daddy.  Daddies die when they’re young.”

There was an accident recently, in our little community.  A man was killed at work.  Left behind, among many other friends and family, is his young wife and their four little ones.  I don’t know them, but this too has touched my heart in so many ways.  I recently wrote to a friend of hers to let them know that I am here incase she wants to email or meet, talk on the phone.  I know how isolating it felt to have no one around me who understood what I was going through.  Loving friends and family – absolutely.  And they helped in ways I could never properly express my gratitude for, but being able to share with people who understand is invaluable as well.  Again, I hope that a little of what I’ve been through may be at least a little help to someone else.  And again, hinking of this woman and her girls has also brought me back to some of the early days after Elias died.

And today.  Another ‘anniversary’.  Now 22mos, and creeping up on the 2yr mark.  A blink of an eye and an eternity all at once.  I often relive moments of that day/night.  It comes in bits and pieces, here and there.  But it’s almost impossible not to on the anniversaries.  It’s not that I want to (at least consciously, anyhow).  It’s not that I try to.  But, how exactly do you turn that off?  As E went to bed tonight and said, “See you in the morning” it hurt, knowing that 22months ago, she went to bed having no idea that she would never see her Daddy again.  How do you not look at the date, at the clock, and realize it was the last time you were able to look into your loved ones eyes, and to have them look back?  Talk to them, and to hear their voice in return.  Touch them, and have them touch you back.  The last ‘I Love You’.  The last breath.

* * * * *

And, with every breath I’ve taken since, I’ve missed you.  With every breath until my last, I will continue to.


P.S.  I Love You



  1. Boo Mayhew said,

    oh Chelsea, I want to hug hug hug you ❤

  2. Dianne said,

    Hi Chelsea ~ I don’t know if you’ve heard the story of Chad and Sara but will include the link to their story. Chad is someone who could probably use some “hand holding” through the process of grieving the loss of a spouse and who better than someone who knows what he’s going through.


  3. jpinnick said,

    Hi Chelsea.
    My name is James.

    I lost my wife to cancer about 18 months ago. She was only 29. I have read your blog for quite a long time now and like your insights. I’ve never written to you before but I wanted to say hang in there, simply. I never wanted to really write but now I am overflowing with some emotions lately and need to get them down on paper. I think I have you to thank for some of the inspiration to get my feelings out there.

    I just noticed you have some other Widows/Widowers blog links on the site. Can I humbly ask you to add my blog to that area?

    It’s called 29 Years Old. I Shouldn’t Be A Widower. http://www.jamespinnick.com
    I will add yours as well with your permission.


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