Fall in Pennsylvania really is something special.
The trees turn brilliant shades of red, orange, and yellow. The air gets a little cooler. The mornings have that crisp feeling that reminds us another season is upon us.
I’ve always appreciated the changing seasons. The back roads, the trees, the little places most people drive right past without giving them a second thought.
But this year, as beautiful as the fall colors are, there’s a part of me that desperately wants to go backward.
Back to spring.
And that is a strange thing to say, considering how difficult this past winter and spring really were.
From January through August, I spent so much of my time driving back and forth to Cleveland to see Tabby.
The miles added up. The gas receipts added up. The exhaustion added up.
So did the worry.
Every trip carried its own set of questions. What would today bring? Would there be progress? Would something else go wrong? Would we get good news or another setback?
There were days I dreaded the drive.
Not because I didn’t want to see her, but because I never knew what I might find when I got there.
And yet, looking back, I would give almost anything to make that drive again.
When Hope Started Growing
That’s what makes this so difficult to explain.
Those months weren’t easy.
They were physically, mentally, emotionally, and financially exhausting.
But we were making progress.
After everything Tabby had endured, after the strokes, the hospitals, the setbacks, and the uncertainty, we were beginning to see pieces of her coming back.
We were gaining ground.
Her trach came out.
And then something happened that meant more than I could possibly explain to someone who hadn’t lived through those months.
We got to hear her speak again.
Her voice.
After so much silence, so many questions, and so much waiting, there it was.
It wasn’t necessarily the conversations we used to have. It wasn’t everything we wanted.
But it was something.
And sometimes, when you’ve spent months fighting for every little bit of progress, something feels like everything.
I could hear her again.
There was still that sharp mind, that caring heart, that person I had spent twenty years married to.
We had a long road ahead of us. I knew that.
But I believed we were still on that road together.
We had reasons to hope.
And then, on August 7, she was gone.
Just like that, all the progress, all the plans, all the little victories we had celebrated became memories.
And I was left trying to understand how we could have been moving forward only to have everything disappear.
The Flowers Don’t Know What Happened
I look at this photograph of the bright yellow flowers growing and I see something I might not have noticed a year ago.
Life continuing.
Flowers growing around something that has been sitting there.
Nature doesn’t wait for us to be ready.
It doesn’t stop because our world has fallen apart.
The flowers bloom.
The leaves change.
The seasons move forward.
And sometimes that feels almost cruel.
Because while the world is busy getting ready for fall, part of me is still sitting in a hospital room, listening to Tabby speak.
Part of me is still driving to Cleveland.
Part of me is still hoping that the next appointment, the next treatment, the next small victory will bring us closer to getting her home.
I know I can’t go back.
I know how the story ended.
But knowing something and accepting it are two very different things.
The Tears Nobody Sees
People ask me how I’m doing.
And I appreciate that they ask.
I really do.
But I don’t know that there’s a good answer.
I get up. I take care of things. I spend time with Skyler and Bella. I work on the things that matter to me. I attend meetings, answer emails, make phone calls, and try to keep moving.
There are moments when I laugh.
There are moments when I enjoy myself.
There are moments when I almost feel normal.
But there hasn’t been a single day since Tabby passed that I haven’t broken down and cried.
Not one.
Sometimes it’s something obvious.
A photograph.
A song.
A memory.
Something one of the kids says.
Other times, there’s no warning at all.
It happens when I’m alone.
In the car.
Sitting quietly somewhere.
Doing something around the house.
Sometimes it’s just a few tears.
Other times, it completely takes the wind out of me.
And most of those moments nobody ever sees.
That’s the part of grief that doesn’t make it into the photographs or the Facebook posts.
The private moments.
The moments when you don’t have to be strong for anybody.
When there’s nobody asking questions and nobody expecting an answer.
Just you, your memories, and the reality that someone who was part of your everyday life is no longer there.
Twenty years of marriage doesn’t simply disappear.
Neither do the hopes you carried for what was supposed to come next.
Wishing for a Season I Couldn’t Wait to Get Through
There’s a certain irony in all of this.
Last winter, I couldn’t wait for spring.
When spring arrived, I wanted summer.
I wanted better weather, easier travel, fewer complications, and more progress.
I wanted to get through the hard part.
I kept looking ahead to the day things would finally settle down.
Now here we are in October.
The trees are changing.
The weather is cooling.
And I find myself wishing I could go back to those exhausting days.
Back to the uncertainty.
Back to the long drives.
Back to the hospital rooms.
Not because I enjoyed any of it.
But because she was still here.
That’s the part that gets me.
I would gladly take the exhaustion, the worry, and the miles if it meant another conversation.
Another opportunity to hold her hand.
Another chance to tell her about something ridiculous that happened during my day.
Another moment to hear her voice.
It’s amazing how quickly the things we once wanted to get through become the moments we wish we could have back.
One Day at a Time
I don’t have some grand lesson about grief.
I don’t have a magical formula for moving forward.
And I certainly don’t have everything figured out.
Some days, getting through the day is enough.
Other days, I can look a little farther ahead.
I’m learning that both are okay.
I’m learning that grief and gratitude can exist in the same moment.
I can be thankful for twenty years of marriage and still be devastated that there won’t be a twenty-first anniversary together.
I can be proud of the family we built and still feel the enormous emptiness of her absence.
I can appreciate the beauty of fall and still wish it were spring.
Those feelings don’t cancel each other out.
They’re simply part of loving someone and having to learn how to live without them.
And maybe that’s where I am right now.
Not moving on from Tabby.
Not forgetting.
Not suddenly becoming okay with everything that happened.
Just trying to move forward while carrying her with me.
One day at a time.
The Seasons Keep Changing
Soon the yellow and orange leaves will fall.
The trees will be bare.
Winter will arrive.
And eventually, whether I’m ready or not, spring will come again.
There will be new flowers.
New leaves.
New beginnings.
I don’t know what that spring will feel like.
I don’t know whether the tears will come as often or whether the memories will become a little easier to carry.
I hope there will be more laughter.
I hope there will be moments of peace.
I hope I can continue finding purpose in the things Tabby and I believed in, the family we raised, and the people whose lives we tried to make a little better.
But I’m not going to pretend that I’m there yet.
Today, the fall colors are beautiful.
The yellow flowers in this photograph are beautiful.
Life is still happening all around me.
And I’m trying to appreciate it.
But there’s a part of my heart that is still somewhere between January and August, making that drive, holding on to hope, and celebrating every little sign that Tabby was getting better.
If only we could go back to spring.
Not to change the weather.
Not to escape the changing leaves.
But just to have a little more time.
A little more hope.
And one more chance to hear her voice.