They say “you never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.” As much I did not want to learn this lesson, I have. From the moment I saw Gregger’s lifeless body floating in the water I realized my only choice was strength. Despite the odds. I panicked. Screamed. Stopped breathing. Sunk to the sand. But a force greater than me took over. I don’t remember how. Or when. I just remember feeling embraced with courage. An aura. I knew I had to be something “bigger” than I’d ever been before. In my life. Maybe for my kids. Maybe for everyone else. Maybe just for me. Whatever the reason. It happened.
I remember talking to the chaplain that day. I felt at peace. I was probably in shock. Disbelief. But, I believed him. I kept questioning. But, in reality, I knew what he spoke was the truth. I knew it was out of our control. I knew it was Gregger’s time. None of us wanted to believe. He was too young. Too vibrant. This couldn’t happen to such a “good” person. But it did. A “higher power” wanted him that day. And I knew it. I cried. I felt broken. I ached. I felt pain like I never felt in my entire life. But I knew. I knew what I had to do. I knew it would never be easy. I knew life would never be the same. But I knew there was a strength in me that had never been there before.
I remember waking in the middle of the night. The first night. I sobbed. Uncontrollably. I felt such a loss. A void. An emptiness. A deep, dark hole. I kept reaching, searching. But I couldn’t find my way out. I allowed myself to sob. Silently. My kids were next to me. Breathing softly. Lost in sleep. Hush my sounds. But I needed to cry. And then as the sun rose I wiped my tears and began a new day. I could carry a little more weight on my shoulders. The weight of two people. It was just me now. But I had no choice. Again, “you never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.” Well, I was learning.
I remember talking to people. Through the airwaves. Easier. I didn’t have to see their faces. Their tears. I could hear the emotion. The choking sounds. But I could speak. I couldn’t say the “D” word. I said he was “gone.” I talked about what happened. But the “D” word was not in my vocabulary. I wasn’t there yet. It was too final. If he was “gone,” maybe he was coming back. Gone is when you go somewhere. On a trip. To the store. Not somewhere that you don’t return. So gone was okay. I could be strong with “gone.” Death was too final. Death did not exist in my world. Not yet.
To be continued…
