Little things I should have said and done, but I just never took the time,
You were always on my mind, you were always on my mind.
              Willie Nelson, “Always on My Mind”

Psychologists say there are three phases to experiencing grief: shock/denial, anger/guilt, and acceptance.

I definitely experienced the first phase – not being there in person when Bryan died, and instead receiving a notification via a knock on the door made the whole ordeal very surreal. I needed to see his body, but the cost was high. the image of him lying on the gurney at the mortuary blocked so many of my positive memories of him as a warm, living, smiling, loving, breathing man for quite some time.

The second phase? I’ve never experienced one minute of anger, which strikes me as very strange. Many friends and family members who have experienced similar loss tell me it may still come. None of us gets to choose our time, but how could I be angry at Bryan for leaving so young, so untimely? But oh, the guilt and regrets…

And the final phase, acceptance. In many ways, I have accepted his loss, his resounding absence, perhaps too easily because I’ve always been so independent. I’ve worked hard to rebuild a life and new routines with the boys. I’ve picked up the threads of my professional life, re-established my travel schedule, and extended my connections to the family and friends I hold so dear.

And yet, this is where the guilt builds, in layers.

Bryan and I loved each other very much. Our marriage was far from perfect, but we worked hard to make it happy, and took good care of each other. Surely his absence ought to be more cataclysmic, and my life should be more torn asunder by his passing? And yet, I keep going, one foot in front of the other, as I must to take care of my sons, my job, pay the bills, and keep myself on a relatively even keel.

Another layer of sadness, of regret.

There are so many little things, and large, that we wanted for ourselves. We meant to boat more. To take a trip together this summer, a cruise to Alaska. To see Zach graduate from high school next summer, and see him off to college. To collaborate on a writing project. To retire together, with our dogs and our books and our hobbies.

Yet another layer of guilt.

Tonight I went to a movie by myself. I pride myself on my independence, my willingness to adventure alone or with my sons, family or friends. Still, sitting in a movie theatre or restaurant alone isn’t always comfortable in a society built around couples. Bryan loved movies and television, and I often scorned the media, preferring to read or write. (Action film can occasionally trigger a migraine for me.) So tonight, sitting alone at a romantic comedy I might not have gone to with him in life, the tears began to flow.

And still more regrets.

As I go through the house slowly, there are so many reminders of half-kept promises, of good intentions, of commitments together – the foot rub lotion, the camping gear, the movies we bought but never watched, the empty photo albums waiting to be filled.

Missing him is an ache, but I don’t cry much and still feel somewhat sad and numb. I know I could have been a better wife and partner to him while he was here on this earth. And we both should have lived our lives more fully while we were together, instead of always deferring wisely to the future – which, in hindsight, wasn’t very wise after all.

I will never regret loving him; I simply regret not giving him more during the brief time I had him in my life.

I don’t know how to get past the guilt and regret, since I have no way to make amends or fix things. I accept that he’s gone; somehow I have to also accept that I’m a flawed human being, as well, and learn from the experience, forgive myself and keep going.

Maybe I haven’t finished the whole acceptance phase after all.