Five Years Later, September Still Hurts

Five years ago, I rushed him to the hospital. I had no idea he would never come home.

September has never been just another month for me.

Every year, as September comes around, I find myself sitting in that pain again. Five years may have passed, but some memories don’t get smaller with time. Some moments remain just as vivid as they were the day they happened.

I still remember rushing him to the hospital.

I remember the fear, the uncertainty, and believing that we were going to get through whatever was happening. I never imagined that I was watching him leave for the last time.

I didn’t know that he wouldn’t come home.

That’s the part of grief people don’t always understand.

You don’t just grieve the person. You grieve the future you thought you were going to have with them. You grieve the conversations that will never happen, the ordinary days you will never get back, and all the moments you assumed were still waiting for you.

And five years later, I still sit in that pain every September.

I still cringe every time I have to walk into a hospital.

I still struggle with the thought of being in one myself. For years, I have avoided going to the hospital for my own care because walking through those doors brings me right back to that time—to the fear, the waiting, the uncertainty, and ultimately, the loss.

People sometimes think that five years means you should be “over it.”

But you don’t get over losing someone you love.

You learn to carry it.

You learn how to keep working, keep showing up, keep building, keep laughing, and keep living while carrying a piece of that loss with you.

And sometimes, when September comes, that weight feels a little heavier.

So as I approach five years, I’m not going to pretend that it doesn’t still hurt.

It does.

I still miss him.

I still think about that day.

I still wish I had known it was the last time.

Because if I had known, I would have held on longer. I would have said more. I would have memorized everything.

But I didn’t know.

None of us ever really do.

And maybe that’s the greatest lesson this loss has given me: don’t wait to tell people you love them. Don’t assume there will always be another conversation, another visit, another tomorrow.

Five years later, I am still here.

Still carrying the loss.

Still remembering.

Still healing in ways people cannot see.

And still grateful that I had the privilege of loving someone whose absence could leave such a permanent mark on my life.

September will always be the month that changed everything.

And I will always remember the day I took him to the hospital, never knowing I was taking him there for the last time.