I never realized how intertwined my life was with my husband’s in terms of our profession until he wasn’t here anymore. I mean, I knew. We met at work. Teachers. Classrooms right next door to each other.
I survived our anniversary. No tears.
But the first day back at work without him? I couldn’t stop crying the entire drive to work. Or back. Or everything in between. I was a mess. I’ve been a mess this entire week. Here is what I wrote:
First day of school without my buddy. Up at 4AM prepping food for the day, a ritual that we used to do together, now spent alone in the quiet of the house during a time that reminds me of the day he died. I have to stomach somebody new in his classroom next door and go through the motions pretending I’m not living in my own personal hell, my only consolation prize that the crushing pain I feel means I’m still alive.
People keep asking me how I’m doing.
“Do you want the real answer or the fake answer?” I ask them. I know they want the fake answer and the fake smile, but the truth is, it’s going. That’s about it. It’s going.
Teresa Shimogawa 