They say time heals all wounds, but I disagree. I had an appendectomy when I was five, and when I sneeze, if I don’t tighten my abs a certain way, I’m in severe pain for about 12 seconds. I hear a country music song that reminds me of my grandma, which sends a slideshow of other memories along with it, and I get misty eyed. I smell something that reminds me of my grandparents house on the farm in northern Minnesota, and I long for the simplicity of spending time with them and my cousins and family, and I want to rewind time so badly. Time doesn’t heal anything. Memories can both haunt and soothe us forever, and for me, time pushes me along, but the healing comes from somewhere else.

I miss Aaron ever single day. I do. Sometimes I cry, sometimes I sob, and sometimes I smile, and even laugh. The days that I smile I don’t miss him any less, but that particular day is a little easier for me. I feel him with me a lot. And I feel without him a lot. During the first few months, I wanted (maybe even needed) a sign from Aaron. I wanted to know that I was doing things the “right way,” whatever that is. I worried that I wasn’t doing things the right way when I didn’t get whatever sign of approval that I needed so badly. And after a few days, weeks, and then months, I realized that this sign might not be coming.

The thing is, in a marriage, as parenting partners, and as part of a team in general, we always had another person to bounce ideas around with. Making decisions alone was something that I wasn’t used to. Even small things “What sounds good for dinner?” “Which shirt looks better with these pants?” “Rom Com or documentary?” “Boating or a park?”

There were 2 votes in almost every decision we made, And making decisions alone was a really tough adjustment, especially when it came to our kids. There’s a fine line between being too lenient and letting them get away with too much, and being sensitive to their grief, their loss, and giving them a whole bunch of extra loving. I try to stay consistent, try to keep my composure, and I often fail. I’m a fairly patient person, but our four and six year old test that patience often. When Aaron was here, I could tap out as needed, could consult about appropriate consequences, and could talk about strategies and ideas to promote good behavior, and encourage our kids to be resilient, helpful, kind, and empathetic little human beings. Now, it’s just me. I know I’m not perfect, not anywhere near, and as much as I missed Aaron as my husband, I missed him as my parenting partner just as much. Aaron just had a way to bring joy to everyone, especially the kids. I see how much they miss that, and they probably sense that about me, also. We will always miss that.

After a few months of not getting the sign that I wanted so badly, I started to realize that it just might not be coming. And the absence of any sign from Aaron might have been the message I needed all along. From the time Aaron died, the decisions were mine. He couldn’t take credit or blame for the things that I did right or wrong. I felt so vulnerable, so scared, and so uncomfortable. I had been balancing and walking with 4 legs for over almost 13 years, and adjusting to 2 was very unnatural, and incredibly painful.

A few weeks after Aaron died I was in a conversation with another young widow who had lost her husband in a car accident almost 2 years prior. At some point in our conversation, as we were talking about parenting, she told me about her husband “the next time I see him, I want him to look at me and say “I knew you could do it, and I’m so proud of you.” I think of this from time to time when I need a reality check, and when I try to decide how badly I have already screwed up my children. There are moments that I doubt Aaron is proud of me, and there are moments I’m not proud of myself as a parent. But it’s really hard to look at my girls, even on their worst day, and think that he wouldn’t be proud of his family.

It’s been 11 months since Aaron died, and I can say with positivity that time won’t heal our wounds. The shock is gone, the times that I look for him in a crowd are fewer, and I don’t sob into my hands every time I am alone, but the pain is still very real. The only thing that has made this easier is the people. Our friends and family who have stepped up in a huge way, couldn’t possibly know how much I appreciate them, and as much as I try to tell them, my words fall short.

As guilty as this makes me feel, I approached Christmas with some dread this year. It’s a time that we normally welcome as early in the year as possible with Christmas smells, food, and a plethora of holiday music to accommodate impromptu dance parties and sing alongs throughout the day. This year was met with less gusto, and some sadness of the memories that we have from the past. Nostalgia comes along often, and sometimes we expect it, but other times we don’t.

The day after Thanksgiving the kids and I pulled out all of our Christmas decorations. This was a task that I had been dreading, and at one point had considered not doing it this year. I knew that the two little ladies living with me would notice the lack of excitement, and so much of the fun part their lives has disappeared. It would have been cruel of me to deprive them of the joy of the Christmas season, and I knew that decorating would be fun for them.

Last year, Aaron put all of the Christmas stuff away when I was at work one day, and as much as I appreciated it, he did things a little differently. When I put some stuff away that he had missed, I rolled my eyes as I noticed stuff shoved in random boxes, not where it belonged. I knew there was a hot mess on the storage area, which didn’t encourage my lackluster excitement.

Anyway, we got to work. I knew there would be tough moments, and there were. As we unpacked the ornaments, we looked through the “just married,” “baby makes three,” “new baby,” “our new home,” etc., and the sting was there. In 2005 Aaron’s parents got us snowmen and ice cube ornaments. They couldn’t find one with my name prestamped on it, so they sharpied it on. Every year it makes me smile. In 2005 Aaron and I had known each other for only 7 months, but we knew that it was probable that we’d get married. When his folks gave us the ornaments, it showed us that they recognized and appreciated the rarity of what Aaron and I had. They thought that there was some permanency, that we’d be celebrating together indefinitely.

The tree looked silly, decorated in clumps all under 3 feet, but it was perfect. The kids laughed, sang and danced as they found spots for decorations. There was a box that Aaron had labeled “X Mas, No Kids Allowed,” that we saved until the end, we assumed that it was fragile decorations. As we opened the box, there were some fragile items. And underneath, there were some new pajamas that Aaron bought for Maizy and Layla last year. When I pulled them out, I cried, and sobbed. Layla hugged me, then cried a little, too. Maizy got very excited when she realized what was happening, so soon they were both jumping up and down squealing with delight, and jumping into their new jammies shouting “I can’t believe we got a present from Daddy and we didn’t even know it was coming!” “I’m going to keep these forever!” They were both overjoyed with the surprise gifts, and I felt the spectrum of emotions. This was truly a gift from Aaron. It was so like him, to surprise us with a sweet gesture- and although it wasn’t a sign that I’m doing things right or wrong, it was definitely a sign that he’s still with us, and always will be.

The rest of the holidays went nicely. We were given so many blessings from our friends, and some amazing, shocking, and wonderful surprises as well- I’ll share more about that later as I’m still in shock and soaking it in. But we spent time with family doing what we have always done: enjoyed our time together, made memories, and celebrated all of the things we have to be grateful for.

So here we sit, 11 months after losing Aaron. The next time the calendar shows #13, it will have been a year. Most of the time, it still seems unreal, and yet, sometimes it seems like it’s been forever since I last saw his face. Time itself has healed nothing, but people, generous with their hearts and their time, certainly have guided us through the last 11 months. Thank you all for giving us your love and your hearts- that is what has tended to our wounds.