Several of my “widdas“ are acknowledging significant dates this month, and others are writing about the loss of their loves. I won’t say celebrate, because who wants to celebrate a death-aversary, a cancer-versary,  or something like that? But I do know that I celebrate each of them and many more, all steel magnolias who have helped me through the last 3 years.

This past Monday was February 20th. Yea, the 20th. One more month until “THE 20th” .

3 years ago, February 20th, Gregory was alive. 28 days later, he was dead.

3 years. Who would ever know that in these almost 36 months I would emerge as a different person, a different Kim.

Not so hard about things, more laid back. Getting used to being by myself.

Closer to forgiving myself for signing the papers that pulled the plug. Telling him goodbye. Admitting to myself in the hospital room, alone at 2am while machines beeped around me that he was really already gone. He was being kept alive by Alabama Power.  There was no life in his eyes, no movement, no warmth. I realized as I was putting lotion on his feet, that I was holding the toes of a dead man. I didn’t cry. Then. I didn’t scream. Then. I just knew. Right then. I sat down on the edge of his bed, put clean socks on his lifeless feet, and knew.

And now I’ve known for almost three years. The pain will never go away. It ebbs and flows, but it’s always there.

I have an inch and a half scar right above my left kneecap. When I was 13, I fell through a plate glass window and required plastic surgery, a blood transfusion and 186 stitches in my legs and face. For years, the scar was an angry red blob. It felt strange to touch it, and though it didn’t hurt, I’d jerk my fingers away like it was hot if they got too near. I’d never let anyone touch it. As time went on, the scar faded, but it’s still there. I found that eventually I could touch it and it was just another part of my body and the reminders of what I have been through in my life. Gregory would lay his fingers across it as he draped his hand on my knee, and it tingled then, not with pain or annoyance, but with the warmth of love and contentment.

That scar will always be with me, the same as the pain of losing Gregory will be. Like the marks on my skin, each day I get more and more used to it. I don’t always think about it, but it’s always there, forever a part of who I am.

“Scars are souvenirs you never lose, the past is never far.” – The GooGoo Dolls 

Never in my life did I ever think that I would want or need to go to a place known as Camp Widow.

I expected to grow old with my husband, travel and eventually end up getting kicked out of the nursing home for streaking or some similar escapade.

I never expected to be a widow, but I am. And in widowhood, I never expected to find the community that I found online. These men and women have lifted me up these last two years, have held my hand, dried my tears, and have just been there, which as any widowed person knows, is what we need the most.

Camp Widow would be an opportunity to meet these people in person, hug their necks, and tell them just how much they have meant to me. It would be a time to laugh, to cry, to remember. I hope that I get the chance to go back to camp in my life, if only for a little while.

As February comes to a close, the arrival of March both excites and saddens me.

March means warmer days, springing forward, flowers, the beach, St.Patrick’s day and hours spent outside prepping for the months ahead.

It brings the 10th which was our “second second” anniversary. We eloped on December 15 but had our wedding and reception March 10th with our friends in our favorite city, New Orleans.

March also brings the 20th.

The first day of spring.

And two years ago that day, the last day of my husbands life and the end of mine as I knew it.

Yet again, the calendar mocks me. The colorful text announcing “First Day Of Spring” makes me want to smile and at the same time curl into a ball, clutching the page that I want to tear from it’s binding, as if somehow it will make that day disappear and bring him back.

I try not to let it get to me.

I try, and I fail.

It is forever in my mind that my husband died on the first day of spring of the year 2009, and my father died the first day of winter of the same year. Every remaining year of my life the calendar will remind me, no matter how hard my mind tries not to do the same. Even though each day I feel better, lighter in my grief , on those days especially, I will feel the weight return, and with it the sadness will come.

I hope that the first days of summer and fall continue to be kind.