The “Blurter”

I miss Jake.  I don’t just miss him.  There isn’t an actual word for what this is.  This is deep in your soul, gut wrenching, agonizing pain.  This has taken everything inside of me and crumbled it up into tiny pieces and moved it all around and I’m working hard at making everything fit together again–but its like a puzzle that I have all wrong.  It’s just not working.

Although I’m getting better at this, for a while, I became a “blurter”.  I thought every stranger I came across NEEDED to know what happened to my husband.  Someone looking at me with a slight smile and a nod of the head would find themselves caught in the middle of my terrible story.  (Makes things very awkward for most strangers…).


Setting: coffee stand drive-thru.

Characters: Kristen and barista.

Barista: “Good morning, how’s your day going?”

Kristen: “Well, my husband just passed away very unexpectedly and we have four young children ages 9,6,4 and 2 and I can’t quite acclimate to life outside of a hospital unit even though I’ve lived outside of one most of my life.”  (Sobbing starts)  “Can I please have a 16 oz. non-fat latte with 3 pumps of organic vanilla?”

Barista: (awkward silence)

I guess maybe this blog is my way of blurting without having to look into someone else’s eyes and feel their discomfort.

My oldest son and my husband loved to go on roller coasters together.  The faster, the better.  Their favorite roller coaster was “California Screamin'” at California Adventure.  They waited years until my son was finally tall enough to go on the ride, and then they rode it over and over and over again.  Tonight, as I was putting my kids to bed, my oldest son was talking about how great those times were–going on California Screamin’ with daddy.  He remembered that the last time we were there (last summer), they went on it once and had to stop and eat some dinner.  They were so eager to get on it a few more times.  By the time they had scarfed down some hotdogs, the ride was shut down for technical difficulties.  We waited a long time for them to fix it, but it never did come back up that night.  My oldest son looked at his dad and said “That’s okay dad.  There’s always next year”.  While retelling this story, my son started to cry (he cries for his dad most nights).

I feel like there’s a lesson to be learned from that.  Something about something.  I can’t think about the lesson now, though.  I will–I’ll get there.  Right now all I can do is remember that night and wish they had gone on that roller coaster one more time.


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