The title of this post was taken from the song Wake Me Up by Avicii.
My Dearest Mike,
April 14, 2011...
It's been three years.
Thirty-six months since I've heard your voice.
1,095 days of living without you.
I've spent 26,280 hours trying to figure out what the heck I'm supposed to do now
1,576,800 minutes since the kids heard you tell them you love them.
Just because I've managed to piece a life together for myself doesn't mean that I don't miss you. Just because I live some sort of ordinary doesn't mean that I feel any more normal today than I did yesterday.
From now until around 4:15pm tomorrow I will go through each hour remembering the last time things felt normal. I don't know if I've ever mentioned it but I had a horrible feeling that something was wrong that day. From around 11:00 am on something just didn't feel right. When you didn't answer the 20+ phone calls I made to you after work... I knew something had happened. I cried the whole way home because at the core I just knew. They said you passed away early that morning, sometime right after I left for work. Once again how is that possible? Sometimes I drive myself mad with the "what if" questions. I can't go there right now. I always tried my best to be everything you needed me to be, but I couldn't help you as your heart gave out that morning. I feel like I've been asked to bear way more that I should have to in this life.
Tomorrow, three years. I'm working tomorrow. I can't stay home and drive myself crazy thinking about the day you died. I just can't. I've scheduled meetings to help me keep my mind busy. I have a dentist appointment tomorrow afternoon, because even going to the dentist can't be has horrible as what I'm dealing with right this minute. I'm not going to the cemetery. I don't know if the kids realize what tomorrow is. We do not focus on this day. We focus on your life. They feel your absence every. single. day. They do not need me to remind them by talking about it. In a few weeks we will put fresh flowers on your grave. I have debated pulling out home videos tomorrow. Can I handle seeing videos of you? I don't think I can but I'm starting to feel like maybe it's time. We will see. Please watch over us as we continue to live on without your physical presence. Each and every time I hug the kids I feel you near and I'm filled with an appreciation for the time we had together. I've struggled lately with all of this, and I know you won't read this but I do believe you are watching over us. If you could send some extra comfort and peace my way I'd appreciate it. May you forever know how much we love you.
Love You Bunches and Bunches,
The following is what I read at Mike's funeral.
"I feel the need to share some thoughts and funny moments to help me remember this day as not one of just mourning, but a time to remember all the good.
Mike's favorite job was not working at Westvaco, although he loved the people he worked with. His favorite job was being a dad. He loved his children more than anything else in the whole world. He was the kind of dad who loved being there for every part of their lives. He often changed more diapers than I did...however that might have been because he didn't have a sense of smell. He loved watching his children in everything they did and especially in their different sports. He would practice soccer with Sebastian and cheer him on at games. For Tyler's gymnastics he might have been the only dad to know what a kip or a back hip circle was. He sewed costumes, did most of the Christmas shopping, and made sure all their video game needs were taken care of. Then he would enjoy the video games just as much as they did. He shared his love of music with them and it's evident by the Metallica sticker that Sebastian wanted on his laptop. Mason can often be found bobbing his head to the songs Mike played most often.
He was a fan of everything Star Wars and now even Sebastian knows more about it than I do. Mike was an artist that enjoyed sharing his gift when he knew it would make someone smile. He wouldn't take many requests from other people, but he would always take the time to create whatever I asked of him.
Mike and I have been together for almost 15 years. To say that Mike and I had our quirks would be an understatement. Mike always hung up his car keys, and I always lost mine. One day as I frantically searched the house for my keys Mike stood back and laughed until finally I realized they were hanging from the ceiling. I often told Mike I could dodge the raindrops and he understood my fear of mayonnaise. Likewise, I knew all of his favorite bands and supported his need to collect everything Star Wars, or Nine Inch nails related. He lived through his music and I often knew how he felt based on the music that he chose to play, and he knew the same about me.
He loved me for me and I'm not sure anyone else could do that. No one else would have taken me to a They Might Be Giants concert because it was my favorite band. No one else would have known every word to every song, and later admit that they had a good time.
I watched Mike grow from a handsome young man with hair longer than mine, into an incredible husband and dad with a receding hair line. That's okay because he often pointed out any gray hair I had.
Mike had a great love for his mom, dad, sister, brother and extended family. He often commented that he hated how busy life was, because he didn't get to see them enough. However, I hope it comforts you to know that you all were often the topic of conversation in our home. He loved you even if he didn't get to tell you enough.
I keep telling people I'm just not sure how we are going to function and move on without him. How do we pick up the pieces? However, there have been times when I can almost hear Mike whispering in my ear a favorite quote, as if he's trying to comfort me. As we grieve the loss of this amazing man, and wonder how we are going to make it, he would simply quote Yoda and say "Do or do not...there is no try."