$108.63. That was the total amount on the last check I wrote.
My daughter had dozed off on the way back from preschool, and I gently carried her to the living room where she settled into the cozy red armchair. While she napped, I tackled some pre-dinner chores. I started a load of laundry, played with the dogs, and eventually sat down at my desk to handle some bills. I began with a credit card bill, followed by a receipt for a propane refill that had been tucked away in my storm door.
As I filled out the check, writing down my account number and the amount, I felt a strange pause when I reached check #1300. This was it; the last check I would ever write with my late husband’s name on it.
I knew this moment was inevitable. Six months before my husband passed away, as his health began to decline without any clear indication of how soon we would lose him, I had ordered return address labels. They were light blue with a charming tree design, a theme we’d cherished for years. In a moment of absent-mindedness, I ordered two sets instead of updating the names to reflect our current reality, leaving me with a stack of labels that no longer fit my life.
After his passing, I continued to use those labels, but only for bills. I didn’t want to upset anyone by sending out mail addressed to a man who was no longer with us. While I got accustomed to receiving mail in his name, I knew it would be a shock for others. I held onto the labels, using them occasionally for impersonal correspondence but never for personal notes or birthday cards.
As I looked at check #1300, I felt a surge of emotion. It was remarkable how something as mundane as a checkbook could carry so much weight, serving as yet another reminder of what I had lost. After finishing the bills and affixing those pretty blue labels, I set one sheet aside for a memory box in the basement while I recycled the others. Surprisingly, instead of feeling overwhelmed, I felt a sense of acceptance. I was sad, yes, but also okay. It had been 15 months since my husband’s passing, and I had marked yet another milestone on this journey of widowhood.
The “firsts” of loss continue long after the first year, the holidays, the birthdays, and anniversaries. They come in waves—both expected and completely out of the blue, much like the first flowers of spring pushing through the remnants of winter snow.
I’ve learned to stop anticipating what might trigger my emotions and to stop judging myself for how I feel. I’ve found a sense of peace in the ebb and flow of grief, grateful for the freedom to mourn in whatever way I need, whether it’s shedding a tear over checks or holding onto a single sheet of address labels. If you’re navigating similar feelings, you may find solace in resources like WebMD’s guide on IUI success and Boost Fertility Supplements to support your journey.
For more on home insemination, check out this insightful post.
Summary:
In the journey of grief, milestones, both expected and unexpected, continue long after the initial loss. The author reflects on the emotional weight of everyday tasks, like writing a final check, and the bittersweet reminders of a life that has changed. Embracing the fluctuations of grief, she finds solace in the memories and learns to navigate her new reality with acceptance.