The worst day of my life

January 21st, 2020 was the worst day of my life.

It's the day that I had to cut through my pain and shock and tell my two teenaged stepsons that their mom was dead.

For the better part of the year, I didn't even clearly remember the events of that day. Drowned by the flurry of activities one gets drowned in when your wife dies. Sedated by the constant drinking that helped me get to sleep at night. Stranded by the loneliness provoked by the global pandemic.

As summer rolled in, the activities and the sedation wore off. I started to remember. I remembered all the phone calls I made to her friends and family. I remember that each phone call was like a gunshot. I remember all the pain I was causing all around me. And I was powerless to take that pain away.

Hindsight tells me today that all the people that I talked to at that moment. The first friend I texted before I knew how serious it was. My brother who jumped into his car and started driving the minute I hung up. The friends and family members whose lives I transformed with only a few words. And of course, the boys who were in for such a profoundly strange year. These are all the people that rallied around and gave me the resilience to be here one year later.

The day that Virginie died is not something I want to celebrate or commemorate. But it is something I need to exorcise. Over the past year, many things have been excruciating. But none so painful as the constant flashbacks from that moment. I have to get over that because it turns-out: For all the pain that I have inflicted, all that came back in return is love.