One year. 12 months. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 31,536,000 seconds. That is how long it has been since that phone call. THAT one phone call everyone dreads. The call that altered my life. Drastically changed my future. I remember the moment vividly. Standing in my living room. The phone ringing and the dreaded words "There has been an accident. Sarah, it was Troy." At that moment, I went into shock. To some extent, shock is different for everyone. I equate shock to numbness. I went numb. Don't misunderstand, I have grieved. As you can see from this blog or facebook, I have moments when sorrow comes and tears are inevitable. However; I will borrow from a friend as she put on her blog. We have masks now we never had before. That is how I would describe life. I have a mask of numbness. Anniversaries are typically time for celebration. Birthdays, weddings, engagements... Death not so much on the celebration. I would say reflection. Reflecting on where this path has brought me. Opposite what I could have ever imagined. Rejoice in that? Yes. Rejoice in the path that led me here? Difficult to say. I try not to think about him and then again I hate that I'm forgetting him. Grief is strange. One year though, its difficult to think of anything, but him. I stood at that door of reflection, opened it, removed the mask of numbness, and stared. Looked at what would never be. I would never grow old with him. I would never have a family with him. I would never fight and make up with him. I would no longer dream about the future with him. The grand vacations or dreams would never come to be. As I walk through the door with these thoughts surrounding me, that gut wrenching heartache hits. There are no words to describe the pain. I hold his clothes as if somehow it will bring comfort. I cry, no sob while looking at his pictures of a happier time. I sit on the couch wrapped in his bike jacket. Smell the leather that's so familiarly Troy. Yet that memory, as so many others are, is also fading. I see the blood and remember he was once alive. I sit. Hoping, wishing, begging for this not to be my path. The Bible tells us to grieve with hope. I know this is true. I do have hope. I will see him again, but that doesn't take the grief away or bring the comfort I so desperately want from his arms.
I have returned from the reflecting. I have closed that door. The mask of numbness is placed back on. I try not to think about him and what could have been. The numbness is my protection. I keep it close. I know others want to talk, remember, laugh about old times. I want to forget. I don't want to forget. You see where this grief has so many degrees. I remember thinking at one month there is no possible way I can do another eleven of these. I have. Grace. Tons of grace. I dare not end the blog on this note. I have so much to be thankful for. I've been blessed beyond measure. I've been reminded the last two days of where I must remain: at the cross. The future path I can not see. It is dark and foggy. I do have light for each step though. The Word. It lights my path just enough to take the next step. I remain (especially these days) on my knees staring at the rugged cross. That love...that sacrifice...that is my hope! I may stay numb when it comes to thinking about Troy for my heart's sake. However; I do rejoice and take comfort in My Savior. I realize this may sound a bit contradictory, but the loss of your other half will never this side of heaven make complete sense to me. Hence; the varying "masks" (as my sweet friend has put it) I have at the one year mark.
