Someone to Watch Over Me?

The picture above was taken one month before Daniel died.  We were waiting in the train station for Amtrak to take us to Disneyland.  Daniel took the picture, and if you look closely you can see his reflection in the glass behind us.  I remember seeing it for the first time a few months later and thinking how much like a ghost he looked in the picture and how I wished I could see the specter of him watching over us as he seems to be doing here. 

I know he does watch over us, and there are times I feel like he sends me messages when I really need them.  I've seen multiple mysterious messages.  On a particularly terrible day, I was crying as I was driving by the hospital he spent his last night in and  "I love you" flashed on a pharmacy sign and then disappeared completely.  I stopped, and watched and waited for 10 minutes to see if it was some gimmick of the pharmacy, but the message never repeated itself.  

Another day about 6 months after he died, I had to leave the office to have a private cry fest.  I realized at some point that I was starving - I likely hadn't eaten in a day or something ridiculous, and I stopped by a random Chinese place for takeout.  My fortune in my fortune cookie said simply "I miss you".  Um, yeah, I didn't make it back to work that day. 

Last example:  I was working on a pipeline project in Mississippi, it was a gorgeous day and for whatever reason I was missing him terribly.  I was sort of cursing the cloudless blue sky and thinking how unfair it was....a giant black and gold butterfly - the size of my hand, swooped down and almost landed on my head.  I decided it was a message from Daniel.  I'm sure I've made up tons of messages from him over the years, but some of them really seem to be too perfect to be coincidence.  I choose to believe.

I'm sure I'm not the only widow to make special requests of their dead spouse, and I'm certain I've sent more prayers directly to Daniel than to God in the last 6 years.  Recently, after hearing of a co-worker's wife's cancer diagnosis I asked Daniel to pull whatever strings he can in heaven to make sure that Carl lives a long, long life.  It's a strange universe when you send prayers to your late husband about your new one...but it's my reality, isn't it?  I asked Daniel to please make sure I never had to live through that again.  I'm sure he was listening, and if I know him he'll do his best to watch over me and G.

So We Stopped By For A Visit

Last Friday was Daniel's birthday. He would have been 42. I've tried to imagine what he'd have looked like now. I see all the new lines in my own face, all of the evidence of the 6 and a half years that have passed since he last saw me. I wonder what he'd think of me now? I wonder how the years would have changed him?

The cemetery where he is buried is next to the church where we were married, and down the street from the family farm. It's about an hour outside of town. We all headed out there on Saturday for lunch, an Easter egg hunt, rides on Uncle Derek's four-wheeler, and a trip to visit Daniel. The cemetery trip was the last part of the day, and almost everyone wanted to go. I piled into my car with Grayson and four of his cousins (three little ones 5 and under, and one big 13 year old - thanks to Garett for his help with the little ones!). We arrived at the cemetery before anyone else and walked to Daddy/Uncle Daniel's grave.

Over the years, quite a collection of "offerings" have been left at his grave. Washers, fishing lures, various crosses, and little carvings with poems on them. As I started pulling weeds on Daniel's grave, the cousins and Grayson did an inventory of the bits and pieces. Genevieve (5), picked up a small pewter book with a poem carved on it, and began to read it aloud. Her tiny voice cut the silence of the cemetery and her slow and deliberate reading made each word stand out clearly. The poem has always pulled at my heartstrings - it was left there by two nephews and a niece shortly after Daniel died - but hearing it read by the sweet voice of my niece pierced my heart and brought tears to my eyes.

The Broken Chain by Ron Tranmer

We little knew that day,

God was going to call your name.

In life we loved you dearly,

In death, we do the same.

It broke our hearts to lose you.

You did not go alone.

For part of us went with you,

The day God called you home.

You left us beautiful memories,

Your love is still our guide.

And although we cannot see you,

You are always at our side.

Our family chain is broken,

And nothing seems the same,

But as God calls us one by one,

The chain will link again.

When she finished, my nephew Jackson told us he loved the story and asked Grayson to read it to him again. I can't even describe how sweet the scene was, and how lovely the words were as Grayson read them. I was so sad for him, and so proud of him as he read the story and thought about the meaning. When the others arrived, Genevieve asked if she could read it again and there wasn't a grown-up dry eye in the place when she was done.

We spent the next 20 minutes pulling weeds and chatting, the little ones picking flowers and walking around the graves. As odd as it sounds, it felt so natural. Although it isn't a gift I wanted to give them, our little ones have experienced the tragedy of death and are learning that it is a part of life. They are learning that life goes on, but they are also learning that gone does not mean forgotten.

You are definitely not forgotten Daniel Dippel. You were and always will be well loved. We miss you.

Sticky Toffee

Guest blogger Wendy Diez is filling in for Jackie today...thanks Wendy!

Picture from here

I’m on my way to pick up the kids at preschool and decide to stop at Panera to grab a decaf with extra, extra cream and no sugar.  I wait in line thinking about all that I have accomplished in my kid-free two and a half hours when I hear the woman in front of me order a Sticky Toffee cookie.   I’m transported back in time.

I’m in England five years ago with my dad, stepmom, stepsister and Chris.  We’ve just spent a week in Ireland and are finishing up our vacation with a three day stay in London.  We are eating a traditional English meal at a pub and after our dinner, our waiter asks if we would like dessert.  He lists the options and ends with, “And then there is the Sticky Toffee,” with a typically British accent that makes the dessert sound much grander than it actually is.  The delivery is so convincing though that, don’t you know, five minutes later we are all enjoying several servings of this delicious concoction and cracking ourselves up by repeating to each other over and over again, in our pretend accents, the words: Sticky Toffee.  

“Would you like some Sticky Toffee?”  Cue uproarious laughter.

“Why, yes, sir, I will have some Sticky Toffee!” One of us coughs out a chuckle

“Would you be so kind as to bring me some more Sticky Toffee?”  Giggling erupts through Sticky Toffee-stained teeth.

“Have you heard about our world famous Sticky Toffee?”  Someone actually snorts.

The pints of beer we consumed earlier in the evening only intensified how hilarious we thought we were.

This was our running joke for the rest of the trip.  A few weeks after we returned, my dad, stepmom and stepsister came over to look at the pictures from the trip and Chris surprised everyone with homemade Sticky Toffee.  He was a fantastic cook and his version rivaled the original one.  And again, we amused ourselves by sitting around repeating the words “Sticky Toffee” to each other.

After a few weeks, as can happen with inside jokes, the Sticky Toffee references came less often and eventually, we dropped it altogether.  Only on rare occasions would it randomly come up when our Ireland/England trip was referenced.  And then, I completely forgot about it.  Until the woman in front of me at Panera orders a Sticky Toffee cookie.  

Now all I can think about is that trip and how my husband was a saint to agree to take one crabby, old man, one sweet but slow old lady and one thankfully normal stepsister on a vacation with his wife of just one year.  As an extremely experienced traveler, Chris took on the responsibility of planning the entire trip from the towns we would visit to the places we would stay to the sites we would see.  He was the only one brave enough to drive a car through the unpredictable terrain of Ireland all on the wrong side of the road.  He tolerated complaining, cancelled plans, unexpected delays and way too much family together time.  I won’t say he did it all with a smile on his face because anyone who knew him, knew that he liked things to be a certain way.  He liked to be in control of his time and didn’t normally have patience for people that slowed him down. 

And yet, he did it.  He embarked on this adventure because he knew I wanted to do the trip this way.  He did it because he knew it would make me happy.  He did it because he wanted to see Ireland and England with me even if it included some tag along travelers.  He did it because he loved me that much.

I could hug that woman in front me at Panera who ordered the Sticky Toffee cookie.  She just reminded me how lucky I was to have experienced that kind of love. 

The Passing of Time

Six years ago today.

Six years ago today started with a horrific shock at about 1 in the morning. It happened so quickly I can hardly believe I was there for it, or that it was real. One moment I was laying with my head on Daniel's chest listening to his heart beat, and moments later the ER staff were in our room fighting to save his life. They were not successful.

In my day to day life now, that time seems like a terrible nightmare lived by another woman. A woman who doesn't exist anymore. In my quietest moments, if I allow myself to go there, like right now, it is as if I'm right there and it is still happening. I'm 36, my husband is 35, our son is 5, and Daniel is fighting for his life with every ounce of strength he has. For the first year, nothing was real except that moment. I relived it constantly, replaying it, trying to look for some meaning in the moments. I wanted to review it to see if Daniel knew I was there, if he knew I refused to leave his side while they worked on him - even when they asked if I wouldn't rather wait outside.

The horror of the scene and the terror I felt in those moments is still there, permanently imprinted on my brain and in my heart. If I think about it now, I still feel the urge to cry and throw up at the same time. I still want to know how it was for him. I want to be reassured that it was a hell of a lot more peaceful for him than it looked. I want to know he's okay and that whatever heaven looks like it is so wonderful that he isn't up there somewhere sad that he didn't get to finish his life here the way he planned. I want to know that my vision of him laughing and enjoying his ever-after life is true.

I won't know the answer until I go there myself - which is why I don't allow myself to contemplate it very often. What's the point? I may never know. I have learned to live with that. It's during the days leading up to this anniversary that I can't control the memories and I have to wade through them. Starting in about mid-September, I put the memory hip-waders on and prepare to gut it out.

It is an amazing process each year and this one has been no different. Six years ago today I unknowingly said my final I love you to a great man. I did not get to say goodbye or a final thank you, and I'll always regret that. How do I feel 6 years later? Still sad. I'll always feel sad that things turned out the way they did. It wasn't fair to him or those of us left behind. But six years later I also feel incredibly blessed and grateful. Thank you Daniel Dippel for the years you spent with us. It wasn't enough time, but I'll always be grateful for every moment of it. It was a lovely cruise indeed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rfY4NMaQd68

Guilt of a Happy Widow

Got this little Nutella freak from here

“Hey! How are you?” she asks.
With that question a hand is placed gently on my upper arm. Her eyes are round, her voice soft and kind, as if she were talking to a person who is old.
I wonder “Do I look ill? Is the lack of sleep that apparent?”
My friend wants to know, to
…really
… know
how I’m doing.
Only her assumption is that I’m not doing well. After all,
I
Am
A
Widow.

And all I want to do is smile and say “I’m doing….

GREAT! Today, the kids got ready for school by themselves and this included Langston (age 14) folding his laundry. The very same laundry he put into the wash AND the dryer by himself the night before.

I had to tell Ezra this morning as he dilly-dallied over his breakfast to “put down the book or I’d have to take it away from him." This same child, 2 months ago, I had to cajole into picking up a book.

Pallas is using me as her confidant (I know this will change) she comes into my room and we talk about friendships and bodies and nail polish color.

Me. Well, I closed my business and I feel free. I have an informational interview next week and you never know where those end up! Our new place is great. I like that there aren’t all these places to disappear to. If Langston is not in the great room then he’s in his bedroom or the bathroom. That’s it. No where else to look for him. And did I mention that it was 75 today? And I wore shorts that I couldn’t fit into when Art was alive because I am now healthy skinny not a holy-shit-my-husband-is-dead skinny? “

I want to tell her all of this. I want to go on and on and on to show her the other side of widowhood, the side that is beyond just getting through another day.

But I don’t. Because I also don’t want her thinking that it’s all OK again. I don’t want her to walk away from our conversation thinking I am “over” Art's death.

And then I feel guilty. Guilty for feeling good..

Guilty for thanking Art for dying. Without his death I would never have become 70% fearless. 89% authentic, and 100% alive. I really like all the ways I have been pushed to grow and expand and live.

Guilty because the kids and I are actually ok. We laugh and have fun without him, without thinking about him.

Guilty because the intense bouts of grief come further and further apart from each other. I can go weeks without crying about him. I can go days without yearning for him.

Guilty because most of the time, when I think of him, it is with sweetness, laughter and a deep sadness that doesn’t overwhelm me.

And honestly part of me doesn’t want to disappoint her. I want her to know that as a widow my life will never be "back to normal." I want her to know that I am still different from her and she absolutely CANNOT complain about her husband to me. I want her to know that it’s still a struggle – just less and less of one.

So instead of answering her, I simply change the subject.

Tired

This is a re-post from February.

I can't write.
I'm tired, so, so, so fuckin' tired.
I don't know how I will get up tomorrow and begin another day.
I am tired of putting on my battle armor every morning to go through my day.
I am in over my head, raising my kids and trying to earn enough for us to survive.
I feel my energy being leeched, drawn out, mercilessly sucked from me every day.
I just don't see how this can keep happening.
I can not replenish as quickly as it is drawn forth.

So, I re-post.
in an effort to give myself the tiniest of breaks: to suck in, a small portion of what has been sucked out.

-------------




I’m tired of being a widow.
I’m tired of bringing the car to the mechanic when the red maintenance light visually screams at me.
I’m tired of running out of food and being responsible for getting more.
I’m tired of waking up by myself.
I’m tired of being solely responsible for:

Bringing in all the income
Paying all the bills
Making sure the kitchen is clean.
Preparing the kids for their car pool.


I’m tired of not hearing “Daddy?”
I’m tired of hearing “Mom?” from three different voices in 13 seconds.
I’m tired of being interrupted while I am trying to hear what the first "mom" yeller (or was it the second) call was about.

I’m tired of telling people I’m a widow.
I’m tired of using it to help me get what I need
Or don’t need (like that traffic ticket).
I’m tired of the look that people give me when they find out I’m a widow.
I’m tired of that fucking gentle touch on the arm which really means “I’m so sorry for you and I’m so glad it’s not me.”
I'm tired of my widow story.

I’m tired of explaining that widowhood is not all doom and gloom
I’m tired of talking about the growth, the joy, the fun it is too.

I’m tired of going to teacher conferences alone.
I’m tired of teachers asking me to do that one more thing for one child or another, not realizing that it will break me.
I’m tired of taking the kids to doctor’s appointments, dropping off the prescriptions and picking them up and administering them by myself.

I’m tired of listening for that horrible cough in the middle of the night by myself.

I’m tired of holding our children as they cry because they want you to come back.
I’m tired of my powerlessness to fix it.
I’m tired of telling myself that they will be better people for your death.

I’m tired of my over reaction to the Legos on the floor.

I’m tired of not knowing what will trigger sobbing.

I'm tired of the guilt I feel because Langston, as a teenager, doesn't have a father.

I’m tired of being awed by all that they are doing and then, in the next breath regretting that they won’t ever know the joy of looking up and seeing you smile at them after they did it.

I’m tired of the irritated sound of my friend's voices when I need to talk.

I’m tired of the shallow “OMG! You look so great!” as if there is a direct correlation between looking good and feeling good.

I’m tired of admiring my body…by myself.

I’m tired of deciding to: break the cell phone contract, buy a new couch, and enter that cycling race with you not here to discuss it.

I’m tired of being lonely.

I’m tired of writing about widowhood
I’m tired of crying.
I’m tired of missing you.
I’m tired of loving the person I have become since you have been gone.

I’m tired of forgetting, in very brief moments, that you are dead.

I’m tired of planning each day, a closely choreographed dance, with dancers who want to go their own way on a tiny stage.
I tired of remembering drinks for the team, that Langston is sleeping over at ___'s house, that Ezra needs cleats and what color Pallas wants to paint her room.
I’m tired of asking:

What is your homework plan?
Did you write that thank you note?
Will his parents be home?

I’m tired of forgiving myself for the missed phone calls, forgotten plans and skipped lunches.

I’m tired of fearing dates:
6 months,
1 year and now
two years dead.
Your birthday or
Langston’s or
Ezra’s or Pallas’s.
Or mine.

I’m tired of discovering that the reason I have been feeling so crappy for so many days is because I have been in a death march (Susan, such a great and accurate phrase!) because one of those dates is coming.

I’m tired of crying in Trader Joes (I am sure they are too).

I’m tired for trying to remember if something occurred before you died or after.

I’m tired of looking forward to the weekend, only to realize the weekends offer no break from the kids, from the grocery shopping, from being an only parent.

I’m tired of the men I date not even trying to understand what it is to be an only parent, not just a single one!

I’m tired of not having someone to tag team with.

I’m tired of not having anyone to look horrible in front of but still be loved.

I’m tired of your parents who can’t take ONE damn step out of their comfort zone to see your children.

I'm tired of hearing them say how important family is but backing it up with NO action whatsoever.

I’m tired of not having someone to talk about the car or the stupid pedestrian I almost hit on my bike ride today.

I’m tired of having no one to discuss my day with.
I’m tired of thinking about the energy and time it takes to get into a new relationship.

I’m tired of craving sex.
I’m tired of wanting to be held, of needing to be touched.
I'm tired of wondering if my sagging breasts are a turn off.
I'm tired of wondering if I'm good in bed.
I'm tired of waiting to have sex.
I'm tired of wondering if I can give a good blow job.
I'm tired of worrying about diseases!

I’m tired of wanting someone to take care of me, so I can have the energy to take care of everything and everyone else.

I’m tired of clean sheets and a clean body and no one to enjoy them with.

I’m tired of wishing I could see you just one more time, just one more fucking time, healthy.

I’m tired of watching the anguish in our kid’s eyes as they miss you.

I’m tired of writing about you.
I’m tired of talking about you.
I’m tired of telling stories about you to our kids so they can know you.

I’m tired.
I am so, so, so fucking tired.

So honey?
When the fuck are you coming back? Cause I’m tired of this shit.

Clean, Fresh Landing

 
We're moving. 
September 16 the packers come.
September 17 they take it all and move it to our new digs.
I've been clearing out,
getting rid of stuff,
And
bumping into him.

On Thursday, the kids and I emptied out his closet.
He had his own closet.
It was such a tiny thing for such a big man. (6'6")
At four months, I got rid of all the clothes of his that
I didn't like
plus
the ones on his side of the dresser.
In death, I rejoiced in the small pleasure of having extra space.

But the clothes I loved,
the clothes that meant something to me,
the ones I kept thinking that he would walk back into the house wearing,
those I kept.
A suit, his navy jacket,
the many favored t-shirts,
7 pairs of his size 14 shoes -- the black Chuck Taylors, the Kenneth Coles and the LL Bean slippers.
His smelly red cycling jacket,
his UVA cap and the shirt and tie my grandmother bought for him.
I kept them all,
trusting that "they" would be right,
I would know when it was time to shed his belongings.

"Tonight," I said to the kids,
"Tonigh we need to go through Daddy's clothes. You can each pick out a few pieces that I will put away for you but the rest will go to the Los Angeles Men's shelter downtown."

Just before we started, I warned "This may bring up a lot of feelings.  That's a good thing.  If you feel sad, it's good. If you don't, it's good.  Just remember, the grief will not hurt you permanently. I know you know this but I want to remind you that it will feel like the world is ending but it's not.  They are just feelings.  All feelings pass."  I used my most gently mom voice.

Then we go to work.
The result is his closet now looks like this.

A few days before, I was squatting in front of the black credenza by the front door. 
I peered in to see what was on the shelf.
And there it was.
His medical notebook.
The second notebook that detailed all his medical procedures,
drug cards with their omimous side effect warnings
everything is there except...
the fact that he was dying.

I go through the notebook, remembering names like adriamycin and neutrapenic. I find the tickets from the blood drive held at his school.  When I go into Cedars blood donation center a week after the drive, to collect those tickets, the head of the center stops me. "Who is Art Nagle?" My husband I said.  "Well he is one hell of man. In my 15 years of doing blood drives I have never seen such an outpouring of love. He's touched many people."

I'm holding those tickets in my hand now and smiling, remembering that in a way she saw more of him than I did.

Behind the tickets is a piece of paper.
It has his handwriting on it.
It is a list of all his symptoms before
we knew it was cancer.



















I stare at the list
angry at our stupidity.
"Honey, just write down all your symptoms.  It'll be easier than trying to remember it."  I told him.
The list was from the second time he had cancer. I know this because he wrote "loose stools." A stoic man from Maine would never write "loose stools"  had he not already understood that in illness, your body is not yours.

I can't take my eyes off the list.
I read it over and over and over again.

As I lay it down in the keep pile,  I want to smack myself, to punch myself in the face for being so fucking stupid, for not recognizing the signs of the cancer ... again.  For not believing that lightening can strike twice. 

Like it would have helped.

Nothing helps. He's gone.  I'm here.
Even in our new place, I see that death has taken away my ability for a
clean,
fresh
landing.

There is no such thing.

Father's Day, Independence Day

July 2008, Malibu

So I was gonna try and ignore Father’s Day.
It’s Father’s Day and my kids don’t have one.

I was gonna just treat it like every other Sunday only….
Well last time I tried to run from one of the “big” days,
like his anniversary death date,
like his birthday,
like random days when his loss seems to be around every corner,
I get slammed,
Emotionally beat up,
eaten and then spewed out.

It took days for me to recover.
My whole body, my mind, just like in the beginning,
unable to focus, skittish,
in a sluggish way.

So this time, instead of running from his loss,
I turn into it.

Not out of bravery.
Not out of “I’ll show it whose boss!”

I turn into it out of the idea that facing the monster diminishes its power.
I’m not afraid anymore (or well just not afraid TODAY )

Cause what I have learned on this 792 day since his death is:

the loss won’t kill me.

Its unpredictability, won’t make my heart stop.
Its depth won’t suffocate me.
Its “holy-shit-this-hurtness” won’t be with me every single moment of every single day.
I have learned that all that pain that often brings me to my knees in random places like the kitchen, outside the car and yes, once in Whole Foods,
washes over me and then goes away.
And while I don’t like it, (I will never like the feeling of being left, abandoned and vulnerability),
every time, every fucking time afterward,
a rainbow appears.
And at the end of that rainbow is the new, better me!

It was a gift to have him even if he did stink up the bathroom (Cannonization of Art)
It was a gift to loose him (Dancing)

I am standing here, not just stronger, but wiser, more open, more sensitive than I have ever been.

I am standing here alive.
And alive means feeling all of it but knowing that “all” passes. The joy all and the yucky all, it passes.

Now as for the kids, cause really, the day is more about them, than about me.

This year I watched the grief and hopelessness catch up with Langston and flip him, and for moments, pin him to the floor. I have watched him look for relief in food, in friends and in video games. I have stood beside him, nodding my head, rubbing his back, curling me 128lb frame around his 251lb one.

He is walking his own journey and it is not for me to dictate it, fix it or say “No, no don’t go that way!” because he has to find his own place of strength. I have to remind myself that it is not one I can create for him.

His blessing through this? It seems that it is dawning on him (slowly) that the outside things bring him only temporary relief. He’s learning to turn into the loss, too. (That’s more awakening most adults 3, 4 and 5 times as old as he is!)

For Pallas, I still worry. I’m not sure where she is. I watch her float around with her friends, and with me seemingly content. I worry but as the saying goes, “Worry is putting a negative spin on the future.

For Ezra, I watch him fear the fear of his loss, hold it in till he turns blue with it and then let it out because he doesn’t have the strength (who does?) to keep it all pent up! And then worry what we will think him less than when it comes tumbling out. I am waiting for him to discover, like his brother, to run from it, gives it more power.

They lost a father, a man that cannot be replaced. I lost a husband who frankly, can be replaced. (I don’t believe there’s only one soul mate per lifetime.)

And the journeys my kids travel are their journeys. Not mine, I have to be careful not to confuse the two.

No doubt Father’s Day will mean different things to them as they grow up, as they discover and acknowledge their own courage and growth as it spills out of them in this life.

This year (cause next year may find me in completely different place!) Father’s Day is a day to give thanks to Art for being a decent dad and for mourning the kind of father he “could have been.” It’s also day for me to marvel at my children as they make their way in the world without a dad, something I didn’t have to do.

The one thing I hope for them for forever is that Father’s Day doesn’t scare them, doesn’t become a day to avoid.

I hope that Father’s Day becomes their independence day.

Every Sunday

(Written 2/2011)

Every Sunday it happens.
I go into my office to print out the grocery list.
And find myself on the computer
Searching for……
a distraction,
a reason,
a gift,
something that will ease the unease.

I read the past week’s posts of the other widows.
I look at my emails.
I answer the ones that don’t take much out of me.
Finally, I refocus but not before I feel
Overwhelmed
by the emails
that require me to plan, to think, to notice that I have to do it again
alone.

I have to make lists that will get checked off
by
me.

Before I get stuck in overwhelm, I force myself to remember what I came in for.
I print out the grocery list and begin the routine.

Weeks meal plan
Three grocery stores
To Do List for the week

Every Sunday, I feel empty and alone.
Every Sunday I use my computer as a way to run from it
and every Sunday it doesn’t work.

This Sunday I went further
I tried ice cream, hoping the cold creaminess will make me
forget the
cold
emptiness.

It didn’t.

So I tried alcohol.
Hoping the gentle relaxation would allow me to weather the
insecurities, the fear, lesson the weight of the world that not only sits on my shoulders
but my spine,
my stomach and
my knees.

It doesn’t.

I call a neighbor. “Do you have anything?” I ask.
He runs me up a little something to smoke.
I look at it. I go to light it and I stop.
I know it won’t work either.

So I call this guy I know. This friend.
Strong hands, a comforting hug, a good kisser
I go to him.
I want to know that I matter to another man.
I want to feel his arms around me, to sink into the testosterone, the power
the protectiveness of him.

It works
but only for a little while.

I get back into my car
And I am crying
And praying to God

“Please help me!
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t take the weight, I cannot make one more decision on what we will eat this week by myself I can’t!”

And even as I say it, I know I am lying.
I’ve done it every Sunday for over 52 of them. I can do it for 100s more.

Every Sunday I wonder, is this it?
Is this what surviving grief looks like?
Is this what I worked so hard to get too?

Really?

Not Okay

I remember using the words "not okay" with Grayson when he was little to teach him that something was wrong. I'm not sure why we used "not okay" instead of "bad" or "wrong" - but I'm sure it was in tune with the current kinder gentler way of teaching kids right from wrong. For whatever reason the phrase has stuck with me, and I've used it since then on many occasions.

Over the past five-ish years I've wanted so much to respond that I'm "not okay" when asked the "how ARE you" question....Most of the time I did the kinder thing and lied, "fine" was the rehearsed answer. These days the "how ARE you" question never happens. I really am fine, most of the time at least.

The past few days I have not been fine. I've really been not okay. Not for the expected reasons - dead husband, only parent, too much work. This time it's cancer that has me feeling off kilter. The father of a friend from work was diagnosed with cancer two weeks ago. He went from a reasonably healthy 60ish cancer survivor who was feeling a bit under the weather and having some pain to an invalid receiving a death sentence and hospice care in a matter of two weeks. He was running a business and planning his retirement. Now, with the help of his son, he is planning his death.

A friend from work was diagnosed in October with the same cancer as Daniel. It was further along by the time it was diagnosed, and he was at M.D. Anderson within days. Flash forward through life altering surgery, very painful radiation and gut wrenching chemo followed by a heart attack. Mike passed away on Good Friday. He was 60 years old, just about to enjoy his retirement with his wife of 41 years.

You don't have to tell me that death happens to everyone and that the older I get the less surprised I should be when it happens to people I know. I get it. I've lived it. What I still find appalling is cancer. With all of the medical advances we've made, we can't beat this stuff. It creeps in quietly and it takes our lives away. Not in a single stroke though. That would be too humane. Cancer takes away our ability to enjoy the time we have left. And if the disease doesn't make you feel awful enough, the treatment is enough to make you wish you were dead. Cancer sucks your bank accounts dry, saps your joy, kills your dreams and the dreams of those left behind. Cancer scares the shit out of me and I am not okay with it. Not one bit. I'm so sick of hearing of the devastation left in cancer's path that I want to scream.

I'll be attending Mike's funeral this afternoon. I'll have to welcome another poor person into our unfortunate club. It's tragic and I'm not okay with it. Cancer sucks.

- Michelle D.

The goal for the Widow's Voice Blog team is to provide you with a good variety of perspectives on the challenges, and the triumphs, of life as a widowed person. With that goal in mind, I am pleased to announce that I will be sharing Tuesdays with Chris Weaver (who has guest posted for me recently). Chris is a fellow Texan and widowed person who also lost his spouse to cancer. He will formally introduce himself to you next week, but I wanted to thank him in advance for his willingness to share his journey with us. Thanks Chris. I look forward to your upcoming blogs!

The New Road

some where on the I-5 in CA heading south

862 miles

14 hours in the car

in two days
.
Less actually, because we left at 
1:00 pm on Friday
 and got back tonight (Saturday) at 7:00 pm.



It started with a casual comment.
"Hey, you guys wanna go to Sacramento to the State Championship Basketball games for the boys and the girls varsity teams?" I asked my kids on Tuesday.



"Sure." came their reply, unaware of the weight their casualness carried. 



The plan?
Drive to San Francisco, (387 miles) stay over night with Art's cousin.
Get up early the next morning and drive to Sacramento (91 miles).
Watch two basketball games, then drive home (384 miles).

The motivation is simple and clear.
It would be fun and
I think I can do it.


862 miles in 30 hours.

Crazy talk.


Overwhelming talk.


Why-didn't-someone-talk-me-out-of-it? talk.



Only this time, I notice, I'm on a new road.



It's unfamiliar.


It makes me grin.



The road is called SPONTANEITY!

 And I’m diggin' its slickness, its sense of adventure, its well-what-the-heckness, its I-can-handle-an-unplanned-event confidence.


Two years ago, I could not have done this.
Last year I could not have done this.
4 months ago, I could not have done this.
Today, I smirk.
I did it.


Spontaneity powers my grin.

Forgiveness powers my spontaneity. 


Death powers the forgiveness.

Because after his death,


after the grief lifts for longer and longer periods of time,
I see that …

grief
didn’t
kill me
(although I was sure it would).

I notice that...
I didn’t
cry
myself
to death
(although I tried).

I realize that...
the next day
kept
showing up
(although I doubted it would come again).

I grasp that ...
life went on,
but
yes,
yes
it
got
better.

I have faced loss,
painful,
excruciating loss
and
I’m still hear.

Did you hear me???????

I'M STILL HERE!!!!!

Nothing will be as hard as those moments.

N-O-T-H-I-N-G!!!!

In the realization comes freedom.

Spontaneity is my new road and I’m driving it, baby, on cruise control because
I
have
been
to hell
and
I’m
back.



On Thursday, a friend texted me and asked
“Do you want to go see Lady Gaga on Monday? VIP seats!”

As if I need VIP seats as an incentive.

Ghost of Art

I read one of his journals today.
I read it because
I sold
our bed,
in three hours.

I had to empty out his bedside table (they went too) before the guy came to pick it up.

Later, as I try to decide where
a mattress
on a floor would look best,
in MY room,
I get side tracked
and sift through
the box of stuff from the bedside tables. I sit down, pick up a journal and read.

It starts in June 1995, 6 months after we had been married.

I recognize his early fear of not being strong enough for us. I recognize my young self, but from his eyes. It is a refreshing and slightly embarrassing view. I am soften. I want to reach in and back and hug him and tell him it will all be ok.

The journal gives me a memory of things I had forgotten. He records our bike trips, the time he got fired from his job as a basketball coach. He records his fear and excitement about my pregnancy…and his amazement at how I just want to eat all the time. He records our trip to Paris and every single place we visit. He records his disappointment at work and his deep disappointment for his parent’s reactions. He records his love for me.

He records the good advice I gave him, calling it “another good thing Kim said..”

When I open his journal
I did not expect to see him,
Rising, like a ghost.
But he is no longer clear.
He is like mist.
I can see him if I stand still or far enough away from this life.
But up close, he looses his definition.

Reading that journal brought him back to me but not in a full form.

My life is past him, and here in this life 702 days away from loss,
I can only see traces of him.

It’s strange because I see
the idea of him, of Art,
doesn’t fit in this new place,
in this bedroom with no bed.

I could not be who I have become if he were here.

It’s almost like another death. A quieter
More gentle death
As I move forward, I leave him behind
In the mist
As a ghost.

Tonight
I will lie on the mattress,
on the floor and cry,
for him, for me
for how I am leaving him,
and for all the good things I have
become since he has gone.

That is what needs to happen
So I can find a new bed.

Tired

I’m tired of being a widow.
I’m tired of bringing the car to the mechanic when the red maintenance light visually screams at me.
I’m tired of running out of food and being responsible for getting more.
I’m tired of waking up by myself.
I’m tired of being solely responsible for:

• Bringing in all the income

• Paying all the bills

• Making sure the kitchen is clean

• Preparing the kids for their car pool.

I’m tired of not hearing “Daddy?”
I’m tired of hearing “Mom?” from three different voices in 13 seconds.
I’m tired of being interrupted while I am trying to hear what the first "mom" yeller (or was it the second) call was about.

I’m tired of telling people I’m a widow.
I’m tired of using it to help me get what I need
Or don’t need (like that traffic ticket).
I’m tired of the look that people give me when they find out I’m a widow.
I’m tired of that fucking gentle touch on the arm which really means “I’m so sorry for you and I’m so glad it’s not me.”
I'm tired of my widow story.

I’m tired of explaining that widowhood is not all doom and gloom
I’m tired of talking about the growth, the joy, the fun it is too.

I’m tired of going to teacher conferences alone.
I’m tired of teachers asking me to do that one more thing for one child or another, not realizing that it will break me.
I’m tired of taking the kids to doctor’s appointments, dropping off the prescriptions and picking them up and administering them by myself.

I’m tired of listening for that horrible cough in the middle of the night by myself.

I’m tired of holding our children as they cry because they want you to come back.
I’m tired of my powerlessness to fix it.
I’m tired of telling myself that they will be better people for your death.

I’m tired of my over reaction to the Legos on the floor.

I’m tired of not knowing what will trigger sobbing.

I'm tired of the guilt I feel because Langston, as a teenager, doesn't have a father.

I’m tired of being awed by all that they are doing and then, in the next breath regretting that they won’t ever know the joy of looking up and seeing you smile at them after they did it.

I’m tired of the irritated sound of my friend's voices when I need to talk.

I’m tired of the shallow “OMG! You look so great!” as if there is a direct correlation between looking good and feeling good.

I’m tired of admiring my body…by myself.

I’m tired of deciding to: break the cell phone contract, buy a new couch, and enter that cycling race with you not here to discuss it.

I’m tired of being lonely.

I’m tired of writing about widowhood
I’m tired of crying.
I’m tired of missing you.
I’m tired of loving the person I have become since you have been gone.

I’m tired of forgetting, in very brief moments, that you are dead.

I’m tired of planning each day, a closely choreographed dance, with dancers who want to go their own way on a tiny stage.
I tired of remembering drinks for the team, that Langston is sleeping over at ___'s house, that Ezra needs cleats and what color Pallas wants to paint her room.
I’m tired of asking:

What is your homework plan?
Did you write that thank you note?
Will his parents be home?

I’m tired of forgiving myself for the missed phone calls, forgotten plans and skipped lunches.

I’m tired of fearing dates:
6 months,
1 year and now
two years dead.
Your birthday or
Langston’s or
Ezra’s or Pallas’s.
Or mine.

I’m tired of discovering that the reason I have been feeling so crappy for so many days is because I have been in a death march (Susan, such a great and accurate phrase!) because one of those dates is coming.

I’m tired of crying in Trader Joes (I am sure they are too).

I’m tired for trying to remember if something occurred before you died or after.

I’m tired of looking forward to the weekend, only to realize the weekends offer no break from the kids, from the grocery shopping, from being an only parent.

I’m tired of the men I date not even trying to understand what it is to be an only parent, not just a single one!

I’m tired of not having someone to tag team with.

I’m tired of not having anyone to look horrible in front of but still be loved.

I’m tired of your parents who can’t take ONE damn step out of their comfort zone to see your children.

I'm tired of hearing them say how important family is but backing it up with NO action whatsoever.

I’m tired of not having someone to talk about the car or the stupid pedestrian I almost hit on my bike ride today.

I’m tired of having no one to discuss my day with.
I’m tired of thinking about the energy and time it takes to get into a new relationship.

I’m tired of craving sex.
I’m tired of wanting to be held, of needing to be touched.
I'm tired of wondering if my sagging breasts are a turn off.
I'm tired of wondering if I'm good in bed.
I'm tired of waiting to have sex.
I'm tired of wondering if I can give a good blow job.
I'm tired of worrying about diseases!

I’m tired of wanting someone to take care of me, so I can have the energy to take care of everything and everyone else.

I’m tired of clean sheets and a clean body and no one to enjoy them with.

I’m tired of wishing I could see you just one more time, just one more fucking time, healthy.

I’m tired of watching the anguish in our kid’s eyes as they miss you.

I’m tired of writing about you.
I’m tired of talking about you.
I’m tired of telling stories about you to our kids so they can know you.

I’m tired.
I am so, so, so fucking tired.

So honey?
When are you coming back? Cause I’m tired of this shit.

The Smell

I didn’t mean to.

I was only trying to help,

to help him,

because he missed you so much.

He was in your closet.

He came out and said,

“It doesn’t smell like Daddy anymore.”

He looked so sad.

He looked so forlorn.

So I showed him my secret.

Your cap.

The one I keep folded up

tight,

in a Ziplock bag,

stashed in my

bedside table.

I unzipped it.

We both inhaled.

It smelled like you.

And then his face crumbled.

Mirroring mine, I think.

Your smell.

Your smell reminding us,

of how it no longer surrounds us,

how it is not just part of the background of our lives,

how it is fading,
from your cap,
from us.

We didn’t remember what you smelled like

till that moment.

And after we remembered,

me and Ezra,

Ezra and I,

sat on the floor
holding each other,

sobbing like ….

the people we are.

A wife,

a son,

missing you.

Official First Date!!

As we walked he wrapped his arm around my waist.
I leaned in, not away.

As we talked he looked into my eyes (so sorry for the corniness of that statement)
And I looked back, not down.

We sat at dinner and I danced in his attention.
Rose, glowed, warmed when he looked at me thinking I was not paying attention, when he laughed at my quick wit, when he beamed after I said "OMG, these charred Brussels Sprouts are soooo, soooo good! Thank you soooo much for ordering them!"

And when I got up to use the restroom,
(with the intention of not taking another sip out of either my wine or water...damn the date rape drug)
I intentionally didn't pull my shirt all the way down over my jeans
knowing that he was looking,
feeling like he was lucky to be able to look, lucky that I wanted him to look.

As we went up the escalator his warm hand found mine
and only let go briefly in the movie.
And just like in the movies, he was shocked that I was crying.
He took both my hands, pulled me in, his face all concern and asked "Are you ok?"
And when I respond that "I cry easily," (which is my new truth after Art's death) he smiled and kissed me on the forehead.
And then starts to gently, affectionately wipe my tears away,
until the flow gets to be
too much
and I have to stop him
because
well...
the tears are mixing with
the stuff coming from my nose.
And after all,
it is only our first date.

And then he walked me to my car
and we stand there,
knowing what was going to happen next.
And I'm asking God, "Please make him a good kisser. Please make him a good kisser!"
And he is.
And I am delighted
and I revel in his touch, his soft hands, the firmness, the gentleness,
the experience-ness of them.
And I revel in the light, respectful but oh so wonderful kisses.

Then he pulls away and says,
"Art was very lucky to have you."

And I revel more, like a dog who has found a really
good
smelly
pile
of stuff ...
to roll in.

I see I am not just reveling in his kiss,
or his attention
or his touch, although all three are good enough reasons.

I am reveling in myselfness. This widow, who couldn't see this place, who didn't want to go to this place, is now dancing and shining and laughing in this place.

And there is no guilt
And there is no shame.

This widow is alive and boy, does it feel fuckin' good!!!!

Other People's Grief

I’m back east with my family; one of my sister’s, her husband and kids, my mom and her husband (both widows) and my aunt and uncle. Cousins, another aunt, a step sister and her husband will arrive tomorrow.

Tonight I saw it on them.

In their eyes. In the way they looked at me.

I saw their grief.

Other people dealing with the loss of…. my husband.

Other people…. missing him.

Other people… tearing up over him.

Other people’s grief.

Before today, I had not noticed.

My grief was a full time job, that seems to have, a few months ago, turned into a part time position with some harrowing, surprising “breaks.”

I see that they are not used to seeing me without him.

I hear about how they catch themselves.

“We’re going to see Kim and…..” sigh.

I hear “For a while, I lost faith in God. I stopped praying after he died.”

Other people’s grief.

They miss him too. They think about him too. They shake their heads in disbelief. They wish it happened … not me.

And their grief pains me. I want to make it go way. Those sighs, those eyes, that moment of silence. I want to make their hearts happy and fill them with light.

And I think I’m looking into a mirror.

I think about those people and so many others who miss Art…still. Who cry that he is no longer here, who stopped believing in God for a little while when he died, who can’t understand how this could happen.

And I think about those people and all the others who have watched me: hollowed eyed, confused, overwhelmed, frightened and came to witness my grief even though all they wanted to do was to suck it from me with a giant titanium straw.

I cry. Not for myself. Not for Art.

But for those people and all the others who still miss him. For those people and all the others who still talk about him, who go to call him and then remember…

I cry because I see their grief and

it

pains

me

almost wild with helplessness.

Just as my grief must have (does) pain them.

I am humbled by those people and all the others who are still here, after witnessing such pain, they are still here.

My family and

all those other people

are my family.

I love you.

You are the reason I know there is a God.

Contentment

On vacation with the kids in Ixtapa, Mexico. My financial struggle having just ended. Not sure what to write about it. After all the months, (years really) After ALL these months of anger, sadness, resentment, hopelessness, joy, surprise, discovery, light, regret and hope, I find myself at odds with ……dare I call it, contentment.

I’m not sure. I don’t feel overjoyed to be here. I don’t feel sadness either. I’m not worried (other than Langston is not feeling to hot and we’d need a translator if we were to see a doctor). I don’t need anything. I don’t need alcohol or drugs or a distraction. I don’t feel like I need a man. (Club Med does a most excellent job, though, at hiring these 21-30 year old pieces scrumptious eye candy!)

I feel nothing. I don’t feel dead inside. I just feel at peace and it’s startling. And I wonder is this what normal feels like?

Before his illness and before his death I spent much of my time in my head, scared, worried, putting a negative spin on the future. I spent much of the time trying to prove myself, trying to live up to the person I thought all these people expected me to be. My expectation being way beyond what anyone wanted. My expectation for perfection was impossible. It was murderous and it almost killed me several times.

Here in this place, sitting in an outdoor patio in Ixtapa, listening to the waves, the wind whipping my hair around and bringing in the nightly rain storm, I find myself calm. It’s unfamiliar and it’s uncomfortable. Like a new hair cut and every time I walk by a mirror I am surprised because I expect to see the old me.

I have spent the week doing nothing, a 100% complete impossibility before Art died. I tried to work. I tried to get the kids to eat vegetables. Andthen I didn’t know why I was making myself or them do it. I had no words of judgment wagging in my head so I let them eat ice cream, a lot of it and put my computer away.

Instead, I entered an archery competition and end up DFL (dead fucking last) and still talked trash to the others in the competition. I told the kids I lost and saw their puzzlement at my not caring. I butchered the Spanish language multiple times a day! I kayaked, I rock climbed, I did yogalates and swam in the ocean. I napped, I read and I napped again. I ruined and brand new bathing suit with the fine gritty sand of Ixtapa and some sunscreen. I discovered the joy in having a glass of wine, late at night in the reception area where I can listen to the soothing music and the ocean waves and just think about … nothing.

And it’s the thinking of nothing that has me so puzzled. After these years, the pain, the willing, the missing, the pushing, the discomfort, the disliking of myself, the ‘nothing’ is just weird and wonderful. I feel settled. Not complete, not whole, not done, just settled, like a huge ass oak tree.

I will not always feel this kind of contentment. It may be that I am seeing my circle of concern and circle of influence are closer together. I no longer seek to control all that I cannot.

I am a widow, I am a mom, I am a business person, I am an athlete (re-inspired by the trapeze and the archery to begin working on that again). And I am dying. We all are. And all this makes sense to me and brings me hope and courage and the knowledge that no matter what I feel, it will pass. It will pass. There is contentment in that.

Art’s life passed. And damn it all, just damn, damn, damn, damn it all. This powerful gift of my growing into myself, of the discovery and comfort of who I am and who I am not, of understanding the power of loss, is because of his death. It’s all because his last great gift to me was his death.
The gift that truly keeps on affecting me, like a pebble in a pond.

Blind

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.

Happy Mother's Day?

Kids and I on a hike. 2007

Since Day 365 I have been haunted by Art. It’s like making it to that day I somehow expected that he’d show up at the door and yell “Just Kidding!” …at which point I would beat him to a pulp and then cover every bloody inch of him with kisses. After Day 367 that fact that he's not coming back is more real, almost tangible. And it makes me so very, very sad. It’s like this low level hum, not quiet irritating, not quite clear, but there, vibrating fast of enough for me to know it’s present, not loud enough to make me crumble. It seems to make my movements, my speech and my joy, not less bright but well, less something more empty perhaps. Like they are in a shadow.

Happy Mother’s Day!

(But where is the guy who helped me become a mother?)

This is a day we honor all mothers

(He’s not coming back, is he.)

You are special.

(Not special enough to bring him back.)

Today is the day we honor what you have given to the world.

(His mother would dispute that I’m sure. That world took her son.)

You are the unheralded heroes who raise our future citizens.

(This hero found nothing to say when her youngest was crying about his missing father today.)

You are amazing, full of courage and fortitude.

(OK I’ll take credit there.)

The world is better because of your guts to grow and change and adapt and then change some more.

(True again. I did make to Day 365 which means I will make it to Day 730 and beyond.)

Your love for not only your children but for others determines how we love ourselves.

(Huh. Ya know… getting through this I have learned a lot about self love, about my own

strengths, about how to shine.)

How much we do owe you for your kisses that heal wounds both physical and emotional.

(Not all wounds can be kissed away. I am a mother, not God. But thanks anyway for the kind words.)

So make sure that you honor yourself on this Mother’s Day.

(Two years ago, wow now I say two years ago, he was gonna arrange for me to take the car (minivan back then), fill it with mother friends and head to the mountains for a long hike that would ended with us, the mothers, toasting to ourselves with mimosa and cheese and crackers. He was good, no?!)

So this Mother’s Day honor…

(I will honor. I will honor him for helping me to become a mother. This Mother’s Day I will say thank you to him for making me, the mother of his children, happy, angry, disgruntled, joyful, daring, faithful, tough, humble, fierce and too many other things to be named.

This Mother’s Day I will honor the way good, the bad and the way ugly of our 14 year marriage.

And next Mother’s Day

When I will say "three years ago,"

I will go to the mountains with mimosa’s and cheese and crackers packed by me but enveloped in his love.)

Happy Mother’s Day to me.

Happy Mother’s Day to you.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of us.

We matter more than we will ever know.

In it for the Long Haul

For the longest time the question that haunted me was: "why him, why not me?" - for a while, the question was more often "why not take me too?". Michele and I used to talk about the big black ship that would come pick us up and carry us away to wherever Phil and Daniel were. I told myself I'd jump on that boat and race away without a second glance.

I knew, even then, that it wasn't true. I wouldn't jump on the boat and ride away to see my man. As much as I wanted to see him (and still do, every day), I had one big reason to stay here and see it through - Grayson. In the early months, Grayson was the only thing that kept me from throwing myself on the funeral pyre (or off the nearest bridge). I knew Daniel would never forgive me if I didn't take care of our little man. Daniel was counting on me to be strong for Grayson and carry on. I needed that guilty knowledge to keep me focused on survival.

It's funny, but for a while after Daniel died, I was fearless. I dared God to take me. I was defiant and bullet proof. I mean, really...what were the chances that I'd die too? And, did I really care? Most days, not so much. Four years later, my greatest fear is dying. But, not for the reasons you might think. I don't fear death. I'm ready for it when it is my time. What I do fear is leaving Grayson without a parent. I pray almost daily that I get to live until I'm really, unnaturally old so that he doesn't have to lose both of his parents when he's still young. I want to watch him grow up and live a long and happy life.

I know I can't protect him from all pain, and I wouldn't want to - life is the whole package, the good and the bad. I'd prefer it though, if the most painful thing he ever has to experience has already happened and it's all downhill from there. A girl can dream, right? In the meantime, I'm grateful to be here, watching the little guy grow up too quickly.

Happy Tuesday - Michelle D.