I didn’t yet understand why I had such an odd even familiar feeling as I sat in the front passenger seat with my kids in the back. The driver was taking us home in the same model (but much cleaner) minivan like we owned. Our minivan was being serviced and cleaned with the hope it would look like this one when they were done with it.

As I sat there, I felt this feeling, one I’d felt before, but what was it? Finally it hit me, and I instantly cried almost out loud right there in front of the Toyota employee. 

It was the first time in 8 months I’d been in the front passenger seat instead of the driver seat with my kids in the car; and with a man driving the car as I managed the kids and all their shenanigans. It was a quick clip of a life once lived where this was a natural and everyday occurrence. 

I’d been the sole driver now for over half a year, never once consciously noticing the extra exhaustion and responsibility that comes with never being the passenger. Instead being the one in charge; driving, managing the trip and the kids, all the kids, all the time, all on my own with not one moment of reprieve.

Never asking or answering the question, “Do you wanna drive?” That’s how it had always been till now. Grant loved to drive, so he always drove when we were together. I enjoy driving, but mostly while I’m alone. I like to be next to the driver, relaxed in a way, with all those little people (the ones that came out of my body) buckled in seat belts with nowhere to go. 

It is a kind of relief that only comes when my kids are contained and they accept such. It’s the kind of relaxation that comes when they’re all in bed asleep too. I love that feeling.  It’s then that my body goes into a little deeper of a relaxed mode. I’m not darting my eyes all over, nor counting again. There’s 1, 2, 3 and 4, whew. No, 3, where’s number 4? Oh there he is, wait where'd number 2 go now? Ok, 4. Now I only see 3 again… and on and on. 

Now I recognize that this is another thing I have lost since Grant died. My other driver. It’s not like I didn’t drive the kids around by myself a lot before, I did. It’s that now, I just realized I’ve been the only one to do it without those mini breaks. I’d depended on those moments before and come to love them. Now I feel that loss.  

The little things you lose while on the path of grief seem to never end. It’s not just losing a husband, companion, confidante, friend and father, it’s so many more things you never even thought about and just took for granted. Say thanks to your loved one for driving. For me.

So there in the car with the service driver, I mourned another loss. Now, I was aware of the weight of being the sole driver for my kids. Another big weight I’d been carrying, realized and acknowledged. I leaned into the grief of my losses all over again. The sinking feeling of, “I can’t change this,” sweeping over my body in the heaviness of the moment. When will this grief end? In that thought, a voice came to my head and said, “It won’t ever end, but it will change.”

My heart sank again as it has so many times with these hard answers. Change? Yes. Get easier? No, but it will get different. And different could be easier to manage.  I know this is true because I’m a different person now too.

Stronger because I’ve kept going under what feels like a burden heavier than I ever knew I could live with. A resistance that increases the strength of a person. Just like training my muscles, this exercise has given me resistance to the point of breaking every day and yet I’m still here. I’m not totally broken.

I get stronger. I’m grateful for that. I pray for the burden to be lifted. Now I pray to be strengthened too. And, now I silently feel my wish to thank him for all the times he drove because now I realize I miss it. I will thank the driver. He won’t understand why it means so much to me.

It’s a thank you not just to him, but said to him. It’s a thank you sent back in time. Hopefully Grant will get that message from a lonely girl missing her boy. Thank you for driving.