PART 2: When You Said Your Last Goodbye

When you said your last goodbye, I had no clue that would be the last time I'd see you.

We were in town. You were wearing a white shirt with navy blue stripes. The plan was simple—go back for one month, finish your deployment, then come back home to me. So I didn't hug you longer. I smiled and said goodbye, see you soon.

They say you are at peace now. I know that, but I have to admit that I died a little bit inside when you took your last breath.

In the weeks that followed, I can't count the stories I had to make up in my head about you coming back. You know how in the movies, people in the army disappear for missions but turn out to be alive with secret identities? I was willing to believe that rather than actually come to terms with the truth.

The burial was a blur. I remember seeing the casket at the front of the church. Going to church has never been the same for me since.

The next morning when I woke up, I wished this was all one big scary dream, only to realize it was real. I got angry that the sun rose. Why would the sun rise when you were no longer breathing? How could God do that to me? How could He take you away knowing I needed you? How could He take you when dad is so devoted—we were always the first people to arrive at church and the last to leave. All your friends came back home except you. Why, why, why, why?

But the questions didn't stop there. This grief didn't just break my relationship with God—it shattered everything else too.

Most of my friendships didn't survive my grief. Nobody likes the sad girl. My friend at some point said to me, "I see that you are in so much pain, but there's nothing I can do, so I avoid it, to be honest." My boyfriend at the time couldn't fully understand why I cried so much, even years after the burial had passed. I guess society sets the expectation that once the burial is done, everything is done. But in truth, that's when you actually start to grieve.

The first Christmas after you died didn't feel like Christmas at all. My mom used to like to host—we haven't hosted a single Christmas since then. Why would we when your seat would be empty? What would we be celebrating when there was such a big gap left in the family, when I don't even recognize us anymore?

I remember for New Year's, I wrote: "I miss you, Dee. I don't know how this year will be without you." When people were making resolutions, that's all I could think of.

There is so much to life for everyone, but for me, grief seems to be the thing that easily rolls off my tongue, and happiness felt so fleeting. I remember December—even the air was humid and somber. Food tasted different. Laughter felt different because it was more of a silent, sad sob. The sleepless nights and the ever-rolling tears. The pain was too intense. All I could say was I miss the life we had before. I kept bouncing back to that night at the petrol station.

I graduated, got a job, graduated with a master's degree, but still grief seemed to be the only thing rolling off my tongue and heart.

Everything hurts. I can't breathe. My jaw has this searing pain. I thought I wouldn't survive if I let the grief in.

So I carry it tucked away, poking at it every now and then, always walking through the world with a heavy hurt. It feels like my heart is open and I'm walking through a field of thorns. It hurts like hell.

We both died that day, but only you stopped breathing and i've just been surviving.

I lost everything that Wednesday. My life was never going to be the same after.

We used to enjoy Christmas as a family, but what is Christmas when your empty seat is glaring at us?

Stay tuned for part 3, where healing begins