76. Pure, Unadulterated Joy

"There was never enough time.  Until there was too much time." 

~Anonymous

Before I walked down the aisle on the day of my wedding, I experienced a moment of pure, unadulterated panic - I could literally hear the galloping of my heart resonating in my ears.  Oh my God, I am really going to do this.  And I am so lucky - I'm embarking on a future with the love of my life, and all because I was fortunate enough to have found him at such a young age - all the much more time for us to enjoy together, I thought.  I cannot believe this is happening to me.  This cannot be real.  This cannot be happening to me.  This is the moment I've been waiting for.  This is real.  My mom's hands were shaking as she straightened my necklace and checked one last time to make sure everything was in its place.  Yet I was the one who was shaking, in the metaphorical sense of the word.  I was shaking...from pure, unadulterated joy.

It's hard to believe that a love like that can be so suddenly - and so unfairly - ripped away.  For years, I hoped for a different outcome.  I thought if I immersed myself in all the sadness and wished for it enough, I could somehow change what happened.  Nope.  The outcome I have is the outcome I got.  It's the same outcome I will always have.  No matter how many tears I cry and no matter how often I wish it, I cannot bring Jon back.  For some unknown reason, this is my course, and I have little choice but to follow it.

Since Jon's death, I haven't experienced a joy that even comes close to what I felt on the day of my wedding...but I have felt a sense of accomplishment, of pride, and of strength.  I've mentored other young widows in the early days of their grief, I've continued on to achieve great personal feats, and I've found ways to honor Jon's legacy through memorial projects and events.  None of these things can serve as a substitute for the man who brought me such joy on the day I said "I do"...but perhaps, in time, the belief that I'll be okay will grow into something resembling an alternate form of happiness.

It's just me now.  Me and only me.  I don't mean to sound selfish, but it's actually not so bad.  The worst part of being alone is letting yourself believe that you're alone.  Now that I seem to have conquered that fear, I feel ready to take on the other challenges life has to offer.  Lesson learned?  I should have done this a long, long time ago.