This year of firsts. You know the year I mean. The one that starts the day you lose a loved one. The first day, then week, then month without them. The first birthday, yours or their’s, that you face. All the first times you go somewhere without them.

I have been doing that. I can’t say that I have been doing it very gracefully or with a high level of documentation. Primarily, it’s been trying to give myself the room to be sad, to miss my boys and to be okay with the fact that there are still tears.

Yesterday was Henry’s birthday. I woke up early yesterday morning, hours before the alarm to talk to him and to cry. The best time for me to cry is when the whole household is asleep. I knew that if I didn’t do that, it would be hanging over me like a cloud for the rest of the day and yesterday, I needed to be high functioning as I was speaking at an event.

I try to keep them close to me. I still hold George’s last blanket up to my face every night before I go to bed and first thing in the morning, to breathe in his smell. It’s fading and I know it. Henry’s little t-shirts are ducked into my drawer and they still smell like him. Last weekend, I cut open my arm from the work we were doing to build horse stalls. I reached for the Vetramil and smeared it on the cut, knowing that if had been good enough for Henry’s skin, it would be for mine as well. And mostly because I wanted to be reminded of the smell.

I skipped my birthday this year because there was nothing I wanted to celebrate. I chose instead to make the promise to myself that when I feel like celebrating it, I’ll just choose the day. For so many years, my birthday meant going away with the dogs to somewhere where they could be free and I could pretend to relax.

In some ways, I am getting better. I don’t cross the streets anymore to avoid walking past someone and their dog. Last week, I held a small dog in my arms until he fell asleep. I can spend time around dogs. I give the cats the attention they ask for, instead of trying to keep them at a distance. This is hard because they have all needed to adjust as well and now they are much more people oriented. Sometimes I wake up in the night thinking it is the boys that are sleeping next to me. Instead it’s Pickle or Olive if it’s really chilly. In that moment of half awareness, I think that the boys are still here and it’s just been a horrible dream.

I know that this will just take time and I cannot problem solve for it. While I haven’t slowed down, I also know that I can’t come through this by simply keeping myself so busy I don’t have time to think or feel. So I am not. While I typed that last sentence, Pickle just climbed up into my lap and is now hanging diagonally across my chest with his head over my shoulder. Glad he is comfortable!