Its human nature. We look for something – someone – to blame. Its their fault. Its fault. Her fault. His fault. Your fault.
I suppose it was only natural that I looked to find fault in someone when Kurt died. There were many places the blame could have rested. Him for not taking better care of himself. His parents for giving him the genes that caused his heart to stop. The world for being cruel and unforgiving. God for being the same. But while some of my anger was turned in those directions, the blame was not. It was my fault. Solely on my shoulders. For not being there sooner. Not hearing him collapse. Not harnessing the strength required to move him. Not picking up on the signs.
Not being able to save his life.
So here I sit, with the blame turned inwards. And the blame becoming guilt. I know I need to accept. To acknowledge. To forgive. To allow myself to say I could not have done more. But that’s easier said than done. To surrender blame is to surrender responsibility. To admit that it was not preventable. That regardless of what anyone said or did, my husband was going to die. That's not an easy fact to state, let alone accept.
To get even to the point I am hasn’t been an easy process. Despite what anyone says, guilt is not a coat you can simply remove at the end of the day. It clings to you. I still blame myself. I still go back and rethink what I could have, should have, would have done.
I wish things had played out different. That something – someone – existed where I could place responsibility, blame, and ultimately forgiveness. Someone other than me.
I’m still struggling to forgive, for in order to forgive I first must accept. Accept what happened. Accept his flaws. Accept my limitations. Accept my fate.
Someday I’ll get there. Get to the point where my apologies are not directed at Kurt for what I did not do, but at myself for what I have put me through since. Get to the point where I’m okay to look in the mirror and say “I’m sorry.” And mean it.
And forgive.
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