My husband was diagnosed with young onset Alzheimer’s shortly after his 59th birthday. He lived three and a half years after diagnosis and I write about caregiving, grieving and joy.

For about 4 years, I didn’t leave the house without shoving a few kleenex in my purse or pockets. I always had a box in the car.

The first year after Dave’s diagnosis, I didn’t cry much. I was too busy. Crazy amounts of paperwork, loss of independence for both of us really, as I became the only driver in the house. It actually got to be harder to leave the house, than to stay home, so staying put became the default.

But, if I got out, I took kleenex.

Last weekend Chuck and I went to our college homecoming reunion. We talked about how it could be an emotionally complicated weekend. We both had met our first spouses at York College, so … could be a little emotionally complicated, was a fair prediction.

It was actually not as difficult as I thought. We got to alumni chapel on Saturday morning, the whole auditorium of this big church was full of alumni from many years past. We had a baby in front of us to entertain, friends all around. And lots of people we new 40 years ago, but they didn’t have grey hair then.

I write about this so you understand grieving more. Not for sympathy.

There was nothing obvious to trigger an emotional response. But, completely out of the blue, my face got hot, my chest started to feel compressed and without any warning, tears were running down my cheeks.

Can you believe, I had no kleenex in my purse or in my pockets. None! And my shirt sleeve wasn’t a good choice.

I don’t know why. I wasn’t feeling sad. But, I was clearly in a place where memories and stories had been made. Was it the weave in the pew cushions, the lights in the ceiling, a smell, a word, just the acoustics in that church auditorium? You tell me, I don’t know.

But, that is a part of grieving, especially the loss of a spouse. It’s not a wound that heals, and it’s not a wound really at all. A wound heals and leaves a scar that fades. With the loss of Dave, a holder of 40 years of mutual memories no longer has a voice. Something has clearly been taken away, and that spot never gets filled again.

When Chuck and I decided to marry, it wasn’t to fill in that spot. We honor that spot that each of us carries, as we continue to create our own memories and stories.

Grieving is not an event. It is an important part of our humanness.

And while these moments become farther apart, and less traumatic with time, they still occur, without warning.

I still can’t believe I didn’t take a kleenex.

Your friend,

Anne Dovel Morris