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We're friends, not doctors, financial or legal professionals, and we're not "grief experts." But we are here, and we've been "there."

I finally have the answers that I've been waiting for for almost 5 1/2 months.

And I'm truly not sure what I'm feeling now that I have them.

I spoke to the State's Attorney's Office yesterday. Of course the call came in the middle of conference that I was supposed to be at – of course it came at the worst possible time – but I needed to drop everything and have that conversation.

The upshot is they can't press charges against the man who hit and killed my husband in a head-on collision.

They've determined that the driver of the other car went into diabetic shock – and his reasoning was compromised when he crossed the line and hit John.

There was regret in the attorneys voice when he spoke to me – he clearly had wanted to do something, anything in this case. But the law is the law – and I would rather live in a world where the people who have the power to press the charges are conservative in their approach. A huge amount of power resides in that office – and I'm glad they're using it carefully.

The anger that has been my constant companion all week came back full force. I know it's a part of the grieving process and I understand that it will be here as long as it needs to be. But I did not expect was how much this brought back for me last night the trauma of initially finding out that John had passed away. I cried my heart out – again and again and again. I notified friends and family of the determination by the states attorney-and cried some more.

A trial would not have solved anything – I know that. It would have likely put Collin and I through even more trauma, even more exposure, still more remembering of this terrible event. Everyone (police, coroner, states attorney) has done their best for us and while it breaks my heart we need to accept that this is the result.

I was trying to explain my grief to a family member. What I said was in the beginning it felt like razor blades on my soul. Every moment hurt. Every memory was a slice.

Now I feel like I'm at the edge of the ocean on the sandy beach. The waves of grief come. Sometimes, I see them and I can brace myself and know what to expect and they pass over and around and through me. Sometimes, they arrive unexpectedly, as though my back is to the ocean and I can't see the size of the wave when it hits. There are those that have a huge undertow to come with them. Others arrive gently, lapping around my feet and my ankles.

But the thing that has changed for me as this new, softer grief has arrived is that I now know my way back to the beach. The sand is not a solid surface. It's not easy to plant my feet and take a step forward into this new life, but I know the way and have been finding my way back.

Yesterday, I had to find my way back to the beach-again and again and again. I couldn't stop crying. But most of my tears were directed at the situation and that how helpless I felt in the face of having to wait five and half months for those answers. I cried because I miss the love of my life all over again. I cried because I needed to let out all the hurt that I had inside over the helplessness that I felt with losing John.

Another chapter closed.

Much as it hurts I need to write my new story with my son. I need to finish the story, even though I'm writing it without John. And so we get up in the morning move forward with our lives, not forgetting what we've lost, but struggling to find ways to integrate the best of what he left us into our lives now.

And so, this morning, we raced out into the driveway to look at the crazy lunar eclipse. We try to find joy in every day moments-and we do. This weekend, go off to a fabulous scout campout at an airport. He'll see military jets the inside and 727 and experience all sorts of other incredibly cool activities.

And me? I will be checking myself in to a bed-and-breakfast for two days. I'll be hiking around the lake and looking at the fall color. I will be rediscovering me – somewhere in the course of the last 5 1/2 months I lost me– In the grief in the Logistics- in the agony of waiting for answers.

I will not stop grieving – but I can't stop living either.

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