365 Days Later

"The boys are off on a pre-Philmont hike with the Scouts, so the girl and I are cooking together (breakfast casserole), listening to music together (Laufy), and drinking c/mocktails together (cherry lemonade for her, hot & dirty martini for me). Happy weekend!! #funwithmygirlie #motherdaughterbonding #hottublater"

That was my FB post, one year ago today. My last post before my life shattered. Before my world came crashing down around me. Before everything changed.

Before I became a widow.

One year. Three hundred and sixty-five days. Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. (Go ahead, sing it. I know I did.)

And I survived.

There were moments when I wasn't sure I would. There were moments when I wanted to give up. There were moments when it took every fiber of my being not to simply crawl under the covers and refuse to do anything. There are still days when just brushing my teeth is a major accomplishment. Or mowing the lawn. Or doing laundry. Or making a phone call. Or writing a Sunday School lesson. Or making dinner.

Life is still hard.

But between the hard days, there are glimmers of hope. My children give me hope, and a reason to go on. My friends give me support, and the encouragement to go on. My faith gives me strength, and the ability to go on.

I still feel like only half a person, like my insides are hollow, like a part of me is missing. Because I am, they are, and it is.

I've lost my sanity check, my normal meter, my reassurer. I still feel like I'm faking my way through life, groping in the dark, figuring things out as I go along that I feel like I should already know. I still worry that I'm missing something important that I should somehow know needs doing, yet I don't. I live in fear of dropping a ball. For myself, for my kids, for something or someone I've committed to.

And yet, the world doesn't come to an end if I do.

The bills have gotten paid, even if a few of them were late because I was juggling his/ours/mine credit cards and bank accounts. The house is still standing, even though I haven't scheduled the painters or weeded the front island or opened the pool. My children are housed and fed and clothed and loved and in clubs and activities, even if I can't make it to every event and performance. My sanity is reasonably intact, even if my social anxiety is in high gear and I can't bear to take advantage of every gathering I'd like to or should be a part of.

My friends and family understand.

I know they understand, because I have gotten more messages of love and support today than I ever imagined. I didn't think people would remember the date, or that they'd remember or understand what a struggle today is for me, and for my kids.

And it was hard. It was REALLY hard.

But we got through it, together. There were tears, there were hugs, there was laughter, there were reminiscences. There was grief, but there was love. And there was hope.

There will always be a sense of loss, and a sense of incompleteness. Something - someONE - will always be missing. And yet, our family is whole, whether we are six, five, four, or three. We are here, we are together, because of one.

Herb Philpott

December 26, 1962 - June 13, 2025