“I’ve got thick skin and an elastic heart; But your blade might be too sharp; I’m like a rubber band until you pull too hard; I may snap and I move fast; But you won’t see me fall apart"

The air is dense and heavy on my shoulders. Yes, the news was good and I am relieved. But now, after three weeks of waiting, the feelings, that were pushed down for too many months, are rising to the surface.

I think back to last summer and twice before when I faced insurmountable trauma – she died. Then, he did. My two heroes. I never anticipated living in a world without them, but in eleven years, they both left.

She, murdered. A terrorist attack. One of thousands of casualties. Here, then gone. That fast. Years of unrelenting grief followed.

Him, cancer. Stage four and it had spread. Six months and two weeks to prepare. When the end came, I was ready for him to leave his physical body and unyielding pain. I was not prepared for my loss. The utter devastation and years of anguish.

Others followed. I remained upright.

Then, nearly a year ago, the pang found me again. First with absence, then facing truths – more than I thought possible. A breakup and dissecting every conversation, moment, and text. Finally, seeking and finding closure on my own. Healing and a rebirth.

I look back on that initial period like watching a movie. I am not her, but I know she is me. I see her moving chopped firewood that is stacked on the side patio to the shed, trimming the hedges of the front bushes and overgrown shrubs, weed whacking, and mowing the lawn. She rage-cleaned the house, brought in gently-used temporary furniture, then painted and gave new life, with permanent furnishings, to the rooms in her home. She cried in private and held strong in public. She fascinated me with her unrelenting will to survive and ultimately thrive.

She changed her routine, tried new hobbies and therapies, and met new people. She was eager for a cliched fresh start. She grew. Matured. Loved, lost, and let go. She found a better version of herself and one that a younger version would hold in awe.

She became my hero.

Then, came the phone call. And unexpectedly, the feelings.  

The enormity of emotions bottled up over months maneuver to the brink of my eyeballs. I sit up straighter. The details embedded in questions I never got to ask now make themselves known. The confusion, gaslighting, and fury haunt me.

I will not return to that old version of me, nor will I entertain the questions. That is over. The answers don’t matter. They don’t change anything.

The feelings grow bigger. Their threat to break through and flood my eyelashes looms. The lyrics of the song coming through the speaker test my boundaries.

And it dawns on me: I want a hug, not a gentle acknowledgment, but a full-bodied embrace. I want it from someone who genuinely cares for me and has my best interests at heart. I want it from someone who appreciates me.

At home, my little one with four legs and a tail greets me. She follows me to the couch and cuddles me. It’s the best interim solution.