Sunday, July 11, 2010


2002 summer family photo

This post if from May 8, 2009, just 22 days after Art died.

Recently I needed to go back, to see how far I'd come. I've been blind to the changes -- the small little changes like that I can remember to order shoes, and that today is hot lunch day at camp each thought within 10 seconds of each other. This daily action of putting one foot in front of the other, sometimes with confidence and other times only by force, leaves me unable to see where it is I started.


Day 22
May 8, 2009

Emotional residue from receiving the death certificates was all over me today.

I watched movies, read and suffered with heartburn. I felt like I was swimming through stern fog – muffled, holding me up, my movements like those of a beginner marionette puppeteer.

I am tired of talking to people about how I feel. I am tired of talking. I want to be left alone only not alone. I need people around me, just quietly there. Come to my house and read a book, roll your eyes with me when I get snippy at the kids. But don’t ask me how I’m feeling. Telling you leaves me with little left.


Now, at day 420 after his death, I find that I have spiraled back around but in a different place. I am tired, again, of talking about how I feel about his death. I find comfort in being with the few close friends Art and I had before this journey began, where I can bring up his name and not a single person gives me those stupid puppy eyes or reaches for my arm. Only here today, I see that a new woman has emerged. So it's not that talking about it is so draining, it just feels more like talking about it is a waste of my very valuable time.

I also noticed I don't have widow mouth. I can have full conversation with stranger for over an hour and mention that I am a widow. I do, however, derive secret sadistic pleasure in comments like "My husband was 6'6"" or "My husband was the Upper School Director of ___________."

While I am not surprised to find myself here, I am a bit taken aback because this is not how I pictured it. But death never is how we picture it, is it.

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