After Kody’s death, I went to his apartment for the first time. I wondered if perhaps he was somehow ashamed of it, as he’d never said where it was or allowed anyone that I know of to come up to it. If we met, it was somewhere far away. In the moment I had become a suicide loss survivor, I was also unsure what my role was.

Going to the apartment, caused me so much anxiety. Faced with the unknown, I worried about what I’d see there. Being there made everything real. Seeing how his apartment manager looked at me with pity in her eyes made my heart break. Walking into the apartment and seeing all those familiar items pierced my soul.

There on the shelf were books I’d given to him. On the space next to his bed, were other items I’d gifted. The message in a bottle I’d sent him during his time on the east coast in Navy training, a pill container I’d brought back from Ireland, and a puzzle box containing the engagement ring. His tiny apartment was filled with tokens of me.

The engagement ring was what hurt the most to see again. When we’d begun our friendship again after the divorce, I asked him if he wanted anything back and he asked for the ring. He’d met me at my grandpa’s house, where I was staying. Together, we laid on the blue carpet in the sunken living room, just talking. At the end of the visit, I gave him the ring and he hugged me tight.

A year later, when I told him my boyfriend had proposed, he was so happy for me. But he confided in me that the reason he’d asked for the ring back was so he could propose with it again when and if he was ever better. The fact surprised me as he’d long said we were always best as friends.

When Kody died, it felt so strange. I was already remarried at this point, but felt like a widow. I’d long prepared myself to be a widow by the time I was thirty. Kody always told me that if he didn’t have it together by the time he was thirty, he wouldn’t continue. When he made it past his thirtieth birthday, the summer before his death, I felt hope for the first time in a while.

After his suicide, I felt like a widow, but no one treated me as one. I wasn’t planning memorials or having meals dropped at my door. The community around me supported me, but the distance between me and Kody’s family felt greater.

I wanted to be there for them and for them to be there for me. Later, it occured to me that I should have been searching with them when he disappeared. How were we supposed to interact now he was gone, when we’d been distanced in the years since the divorce? I felt far too awkward socially to insist on seeing them. Especially, as I had no idea if my presence would be welcomed or not.

I appreciate Kody’s sister and his family for allowing me to go through his things and take what was meaningful to me and for getting me some of his ashes. These were kindnesses that helped me feel like I was still his family too. I couldn’t ask for anything more.

I was Kody’s person. Our relationship to one another will probably never make sense to anyone else entirely. I am a suicide loss survivor and something similar to the connotation of widow. No word quite describes it.