Untouched

Italicized writing was when I first wrote this and the normal text is my reflecting on it nearly three years later.

It's been two years since that horrific night that my husband Rick died, leaving a void that can never be filled. In the back of our closet, a pair of muddy brown Carhartt’s hang untouched, just as he left them that gray day in May. Each time I look at them, beautiful memories flood my mind and I find myself transported back to the moments we shared, the love we cherished, and the life we built together. I can do that now with a smile on my face and sometimes tears will well up in my eyes, but that it is easier these days. It was only a few short months ago, that all I could do was weep for what was no more. I felt cheated and I was bitter.

The thing is those Carhartt’s were more than just work pants. They were a symbol of his unwavering dedication to providing for our young family and it continued even as new grandbabies were added to our family. I will always remember the last time he put them on. We had moved to Texas only four months before. The house we bought needed some work both inside and out. We loved remodeling our homes to make them our own. I was extra excited about my plans for this house. The previous owners had neglected the outside. The property had hundreds of beautiful old oak trees of different varieties. All around these magnificent old trees it was overgrown with brambles, weeds, and dead shrubs. There was a lot of work to be done, and first up was getting the dog runs cleaned up even though I had been working on them at my own pace since moving in. He decided to finish them finally, simply so I didn’t have to.

That morning, he donned his work boots and favorite brown Carhartt’s, then he carefully stepped out into the mud and rain determined to clear the many years of overgrowth and brambles in a day. I found my mind drifting and thinking of all the other times that he put those “work pants” on as he got ready for work. He was fussy about his work clothes, he liked to invest in his clothes, coats, and work boots because he believed you get what you pay for. It drove me crazy. He cared more about his work attire and was happy in a t shirt, Levi’s and a baseball cap any other time. If one of his t shirts cost more than ten dollars, he wasn’t interested.

He loved how sturdy Carhartt’s were. But those were a favorite and he had all different kinds. Lighter ones for summer, and the heavier duty ones for winter. He also had his work coveralls and coats (All Carhartt’s too) to keep him extra warm when it snowed in Washington. I smiled at the thought that he wouldn’t need to worry about wearing those again since Texas weather was much warmer than Washington. Those muddy brown Carhartt’s bore witness to his love for all of us. The dried mud and wrinkles on the fabric are like etchings of our life together. They remind me of the days he spent working diligently for us, for our future. Those pants became a part of our story, a tangible representation of the efforts he made to support and care for our children and me.

Though I see them every day hanging in the closet as he left them that fateful night, I don’t allow myself to touch them too often. Once, I gently ran a finger across the faded brown fabric and quickly pulled away, only to stare at them wistfully. It's as if they hold a sacred energy, a connection to him that I dare not disturb or the essence of him will surely be gone forever. They keep him close to me like a guardian of his memory, and in that sense, it feels as if he is still nearby. I know that if I were to move them, or wash and put them away,  that it might feel like I'm letting go of the last trace of him. After he died, I was left with my life in tatters, my heart in a million pieces scattered all around. The rawness of grief and loss laid bare for everyone to see. And those muddy brown Carhartt’s serve as a reminder of that vulnerability, and they also symbolize the strength and resilience that continues to emerge as I move through the loss of Rick.

From the depths of my own sorrow, they are a testament to the love that we shared and the bond that continues to endure even in his absence. Though I miss him with every fiber of my being, I find solace in knowing that if those pants hang in the closet, his presence lingers. They are sacred keepsakes; a tangible connection to the love and memories we cherished. So, there they will remain last touched by him, keeping his memory alive and his love forever etched in my heart every time I see those muddy brown Carhartt’s.

I still am amazed at how much I wonder about what is normal or not to feel during grief. The reason is twofold, it helps with some of the fear and anxiety, searching for a connection because most couldn’t understand the depth of my pain, which made me feel even more lost and isolated. I desperately needed to find others who felt similarly, there was an odd comfort or safety in that. That being said, it makes perfect sense when looking back at this old post I wondered if not wanting to touch the last things that they touched was typical for those in my situation. I know I’ve read about little things people have done but then I look back at the many things that remain “untouched” since he died and there seems to be an abundance here and I question how healthy it is.

I will never again judge those who keep their child’s bedroom a time capsule. That room remains untouched since the day that child died. For I have too, made some aspects a time capsule of the way Rick left it. His work backpack, his wallet, his toothbrush in the master bathroom, his dresser drawer. Further, anything that he hung or worked on inside of this house, remains the same. It has become an internal struggle to change or touch anything that Rick did. I doubted this was healthy and as time marches on, I know it isn’t. It has been almost three years and yet when I think of moving his things, throwing them away or packing them into a box, this wave of panic comes over me and I know it’s not time. I also know it will happen when I am ready. I think to push myself too soon would have negative consequences for my mental health. I am still fragile, even though I am stronger, and I have healed considerably over the last few months. I have no idea where to draw the line.

I stayed at my daughter Bri’s house for the first week or so. When we stayed at my house for the viewing, I snuck into my room, shut the door, and locked it. I pulled his shirts out of the dirty clothes and pulled his pillowcase off his pillow and placed them carefully into zip loc bags to retain his smell. Before I sealed them, I took a deep breath and let his essence soak into my bones. It provided me with a sliver of peace, however fleeting. I closed my eyes and felt at home again and once again I was crying for all that was lost. I was interrupted by a knocking on my bedroom door. I felt ashamed, like I was doing something wrong. I stuffed the bags in a drawer, didn’t bother to wipe my tears, and let my mom in.

Rick was the cleanest person I know. He never had an offensive body odor, he showered faithfully every day, he didn’t need deodorant and yet he chose to wear it. I realized it was his deodorant that was making me think of him. I still have his toiletries, his razor, shave gel, deodorant, and favorite over the counter meds in a drawer on his side of the bathroom. Yet another thing that remains untouched nearly three years later.

 While we were at my place, someone had washed a few of his things and it sent me sobbing uncontrollably until I could barely catch my breath. I felt like a crazy person, emoting, and weeping that his clothes had been washed. I looked at them as if they were somehow “ruined.”  I would never tell them why I was upset when they were simply trying to help lessen my burden by doing laundry, but I couldn’t help but feel like they erased a piece of him and that felt unbearable. Truly, Rick was everywhere within the walls of this house and still I was fixated on what they “took from me.” I knew it was irrational and yet my irrational brain was in full control most of the days following Rick’s death.

In the shower hung his shower scrunchy, his shampoo set on its lid, to get the last of the remaining shampoo out. His half-used bar of soap still sat exactly where he laid it for the last time. He loved the smell of Irish Spring bar soap. He refused to bother with body wash, he thought it was a waste of money. His Carhartt’s where he hung them were still in the closet. His rain jacket was hanging in the garage to dry, his boots by the door along with his cozy flannel jacket he wore when he was puttering around the house. Still right where he left them. I had boxes of his clothes from the move waiting for me to be well enough to be noticed and unpacked, sitting right where he left them in the large master bathroom.

 I knew that I needed to unpack those boxes because there was no way I could toss any of Rick’s things, yet. But my ability to function and problem solve was nonexistent. To unpack those boxes meant there would be emotional unpacking that would come with it. I didn’t want to deal with that. Besides, it was too hard to figure out where to put them, so I left them. The old me would not have been able to stand those boxes sitting there for a year, but they did. When I finally unpacked those boxes, everything I pulled out I had to touch, smell, and hold for a minute. It took an entire day because much of it was spent crying and feeling cheated out of the beautiful life we had together. He was taken too soon. I hated my miserable life. I called it the “gray suck” because even with the sun on my face, most days it felt gloomy and suffocating. I doubted that I would ever feel the joy and happiness I did with Rick. When I thought about this grief journey taking me years, I pushed back. What was the point to all of this mental torture?

As for all his other things – they are just as he left them. That bar of soap is still there and has only shrunk a bit. The upside-down shampoo bottle, the shower scrunchy, his drawer in the bathroom, his brown Carhartt’s, his boots, his backpack and coat by the door. As I reflect on why his things are still where he left them, I realize that for the first year there was this notion that, just maybe, he would come back to me. As I slowly came to terms with the fact he was not ever coming back, it became a reminder to me that he indeed did exist, and our love was real. It was a beautiful love story that started with a look. When I am ready, I will carefully box up his things and label them “Rick’s Things” and when I’m ready I will place them lovingly in his shop. I’m not sure how long it will be before I am ready to take the next step, but one thing I have learned from all of this is, sometimes baby steps are all we can do and simply have to be ok. No judgement and no expectations because like everything in grief, there is no timeline.