Health by Heidi

  I met a friend at a coffee shop yesterday afternoon for our monthly catch-up.  I arrived first, and while I was placing my order, I saw a former client of mine.  We hadn't seen each other in quite a while, and greeted each other with smiles and a hug.   I know what's coming. We exchanged pleasantries and small talk.   Any minute now... She asked a few questions about how my work was going and told me about her workouts and what she had been doing.   Any second now... And then she asked it.  The question I knew was coming.   "How's your husband doing?" "My husband died."  No hesitation.  No preamble.  No introduction.   She recoiled, took a step back, hand on her chest, jaw wide open. "Oh my God," she stammered.  "I'm so sorry.  I don't...I can't...I'm so sorry." I gave her a sympathetic smile.  "I'm sorry," I offered.  "I'm still working on my delivery.  I'm not quite sure how...

  I keep wondering if I'm approaching my breaking point.  What does that look like? It's too much.  But I've been saying it's too much for a while now.  So when is it actually too much? I pushed "Send" and my text whooshed off to my best friend, Denise.  Three dots immediately popped up on my screen.   You're stronger than you think.  Tell your brain to shut up.  You got this! I smiled at her reply, even if I doubted her confidence. In August, my husband of 17 years died.  One day, he was alive, healthy, vibrant, and strong.  The next day, he was dead.  Just like that.  No warning.  No preparation.  In an instant, my world crumbled into a million tiny bits that flung themselves to the far corners of the solar system.  I couldn't fathom how to get through that day, or the next, or the next.  I remember thinking, What does November even look like?  Or next summer?  How do I even get there? ...