I remember that day like it was yesterday.  I remember every conversation Chris and I had that day.  I remember every text we sent that day.  I remember our conversation on the porch that day.  I remember dancing in the kitchen that day.  I remember every tear and laugh we shared that day.

But I also remember every move I made in the middle of the night.  I remember every word of the 911 call.  Every desperate chest compression.  I remember every second that the paramedics were here.  I remember every call I made.  I remember sitting on the floor of that same kitchen, waiting.  I remember sitting on that same porch, hearing the worst news a wife can hear.  I remember sitting on my hardwood floors that I loved so much, begging the paramedics to tell me I was sitting in a dream.

But they didn’t.

I can go some days without that night ever entering my mind.  But that becomes more difficult this time of year.

Others are celebrating birthdays, and anniversaries, and baseball season, and azalea season, and happy annual events.  I am too.  But it will always be grayed by those vividly intense memories.

But I will keep going.

Because on the night of April 23, 2016, Chris Wall took his last breath on earth.  And I did not.

On the night of April 23, Chris’ life stopped, while mine kept moving forward.

And as it rolled over to the first minutes of April 24, 2016, I went from a Party of 2 with a network of friends and family, to a Party of 1 with an army of family and friends.

I went from, “I believe I’m independent, in theory,” to “I have to be independent, whether I like it or not.”

I went from happily married, to living with loss.

I know it will get easier.  I know that this Hefty bag full of grief I carry will slowly deflate, and maybe just become the weight of a more reasonable purse.  Maybe like a crossover bag, so it won’t hold me down or inhibit me as much.  Hands-free.

I miss him every day.  But I will keep going.  I don’t want to look back and know that I was conquered by something out of my control.

I may fill my next few days with distractions – questionable or otherwise.  But I will keep loving.  I will keep serving.  I will keep going.

Because I have to plan for my tomorrow’s, rather than live in my yesterday’s.

I will keep moving.

Forward.

If you are not aware, this is a semi-colon.  In grammar, it is used when a sentence could have ended; but instead it continues on.  (See what I did there?)

In mental health, it has become a symbol for pushing forward in life.  Even when the world is dark.  Even when depression, loss, or pain sets in.  Continue on.  Press forward.  Don’t give up.

In a much more enthusiastic tone, Jimmy Valvano encouraged us to do the same as he faced incurable cancer.

“Don’t give up!  Don’t ever give up!”

The world is dark and horrible and unreasonably cruel sometimes.  But it’s also beautiful and remarkable and ever-evolving.  If we let it be.  If we evolve with it.  If we become something more beautiful with it.

The Art of Kintsukuroi (or Kintsugi)

The Japanese call this Kintsukuroi.  It’s the art of repairing broken pottery with gold to show that something can become more beautiful, even after it’s broken.  It makes the broken-ness an actual part of the object’s history, rather than something that needs to be fixed and hidden.

So I might have been broken.  I may even still be.  And I may be travelling through the rest of my life, living with a deflating but always-present handbag of loss for all of my steps on earth.

But I will continue on.  I will continue living my remaining dreams.  I will continue working on loving others.  I will continue improving my service to others.

I will persevere.  I will persist.  Nevertheless.

Forward.