Hollow

Matt left for Regina at 3am. I woke up to the sound of an engine in the driveway. I shook Matt awake, knowing his ride was here. I saw him off, thankful I’d actually woken up in time to do so. Usually, once I’m out, I’m out.

It was hard falling back asleep, but after a while I did…then I woke up around 7 to Archer calling for me. The boys and I started our day, with them asking questions about Daddy. Surprisingly, there wasn’t any tears…just a moment of sadness when Nolan realized he didn’t get to kiss him goodbye (when he was awake anyway, Matt snuck kisses).

The boys were good this morning, eating their breakfast and getting ready without complaint. Bus drop off went okay, I drove the truck because it was raining. Bane tagged along.

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I was going to take Archer to play group. I wanted to, desperately. I could have used the distraction…but I need to keep myself aware. I can’t over do it, because there is no back up…and Nolan has a doctors appointment this afternoon that I’ll need my “spoons” for. Instead, we stayed home. Folded and put away the laundry, and tidied the upstairs.

I’m still trying to process how I’m feeling. I told Matt I’d likely be in denial for a bit. Probably so much so that I’d yell at him to get out of bed in the morning, hah. But…I’m not in denial. He’s gone and he feels gone, and it’s a heavy feeling because of the length of time.

I miss him, a lot already. Especially when Bane climbed up beside me on the couch at exactly 10:20am for cuddles…the usual time that he and Matt have their good morning snuggle session.

But…I know we are going to be okay. I’m sure there will be moments this month that certainly won’t feel like it, but I know we’ll be okay. I’m sticking to a strict schedule, planning things ahead of time and being aware of my limitations. I’m setting clothes out the night before for the next day, preparing juice bottles and lunches so the morning won’t feel so rushed. I’m staying on top of cleaning so it doesn’t get overwhelming. Nolan has already been a big help with that; helping me tidy and prepare.

So, I can do this. I’ve got this. Even with that knowledge, I feel hollow and numb…like huge chunks of my heart and soul are far away from my body. I suppose, in a way, they are.

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About J.C. Hannigan

25. Mother. Wife. Lover of words. Weaver of stories. My first book, Collide, is available in e-book for Amazon Kindle and Kobo.
This entry was posted in anxiety, big things, bits and pieces, blogging, challenges, changes, chronic pain, confessions, depression, emotional, facts, feelings, happenings, hard stuff, health/medical, heaviness, homesick, honesty, how we do, kids, love, love & marriage, Matt, me, MHE, musings, pain, parenting, personal, plans, raw writings, reflecting, trial and error, uncensored, updates, us, verbal diarrhea, words and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

6 Responses to Hollow

  1. You got this woman! You are so strong and I am here for you.

  2. mscat says:

    Let your friends and family save you — look forward to and keep longstanding playdates, have an open door policy for drive-by visits, take anyone up on their offers for help/dinner/childcare, whatever. You got this.

  3. Pingback: When It’s Quiet | The Fevered Pen

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