Moving On

When I moved out here four years ago, Sue recommended her family doctor to me.  I am lucky enough to not get sick very often so I haven't had a whole lot of visits with him.  When I would have an appointment, though, we would often discuss Sue.  She had signed paperwork naming me as a person who could discuss her medical information with the doctor.  I would ask him questions about her condition, and get his opinions on what medicines were working and which ones weren't.  When she died, he came to the funeral visitation.

I was avoiding going in for my yearly physical.  It is always hard to talk to people for the first time since her death.  I feel sad and awkward and I'm sure it's no picnic for them either.  But, I need to make sure I get my physical and take care of my health, so I took a deep breath and scheduled the appointment.

At the appointment he asked how I was doing, how her kids and husband were doing.  He talked about going to the funeral home.  I cried a bit.  I told him that I'm doing okay.  I'm working through it.

I thought I was doing pretty well, especially since I was having a hard time being there.

Then out of nowhere, as he was checking my ears he said, "What you really need to do is move on."

I didn't say anything.  I was trying to process this.

"No, really" he said, "You just have to move on."

I didn't answer him, but I should have.  I just got out of there as fast as I could.

Here's the thing: don't tell me how to feel.  Don't tell me that I'm not doing it right.  Don't tell me when you think I should be better.  Don't tell me that you know just how I feel because your hamster died.  Don't tell me that you have been in a funk before so you understand my grief.  Don't tell me that you can't imagine how I'm feeling because I don't want you to imagine how I'm feeling.

And don't, DON'T tell me that I need to move on.  That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.

Every day that I get up and do everything I need to do for my kids, I'm moving on.
Every time I feel sad and cry about her, and then feel a bit better because I let it out, I'm moving on.
Every time I go to a counseling appointment or a support group meeting, I'm moving on.
Every time I make it through a holiday or special event without her, I'm moving on.
Every time I post about her on my blog, I'm moving on.
Every time I feel hope for my future, or her kids' futures, I'm moving on.
Every time I sit in the parking lot of the grocery store and remind myself that I can't call her before I go in (as was my habit), I'm moving on.
Every time I visit her grave, then walk away, I'm moving on.

I spent last night researching local doctors and I've found a new one.

It was time to move on.