Mosaic

I wrote this back in December to Jeremy, but it kept coming back to me. Mosaic has been the metaphor that seems to have become my theme lately. This was a reminder of how far I'd come, but also how much work God is still doing with me:

I have been at a stand-still lately. Unable to form words, unable to express the evolution of my heart the last few weeks. I miss you so very much, and the freshness of it sometimes is enough to take my breath away. The moments get further apart, and the feeling of being blessed takes over, but you are always there as a reminder of how great a loss I've had. 


The other day, I started cleaning out the scrapbook area in the basement. It was the only section of the house that hasn't been unpacked yet. I uncovered so many things in those boxes: pictures, written letters, things the kids made for you, special things I had written down to remember. I was reading Faith's mini-album I made her for her 3rd birthday, and she told me she wanted to grow up to play ball like her daddy and that her favorite thing to do was wrestle with you. The most painful were the letters that you had written to the kids for their birthdays. I actually didn't remember you writing one for Caleb (I remember bugging you about it, but I didn't know you finished it) so when I found it in his envelope, it was like someone had punched be in the throat. Baby, for all that I have suffered and lost, I grieve so much more for our children. I could give you up if it meant our children could have their daddy back. You were such a wonderful daddy and the wound was ripped open new the other day going through it all.


After going through all that, I ached to find more of your things, read more of your things. I wanted to feel close to you and spend time with you and my memories of you. So, I went back through the box I keep next to my bed, full of letters and keepsakes over the course of our relationship. All the letters I wrote for you for different milestone anniversaries - I had finally opened them a few months back - and they twist the dagger in my heart as I realize I will never get to speak those words to you or read the letters to you. Then, I read the letter I wrote for you to read if I died before you. I've read it a few times (and I say very few, because it is too much most of the time) and have debated sharing it. Today, I am able.

Hello my love,
If you are opening this letter, it means that my life has passed before yours. I have always said that I would rather die before you so that I wouldn't have to live a day without you. Even though it's too late now if you are opening this, I know now that I would rather suffer without you than to make you suffer. I never want to cause you pain. I am so sorry if this is causing pain and suffering, but please know that it will be okay.
I have tears welling up right now while I am writing this just thinking about all of our memories. Words cannot express the joy and love you have shown me. I have never in my life found anyone who can make me smile that way you do, who can heal my wounds as quickly as you, and who can fill me up the way you do. I know that even if I lived to be a thousand, I would never find that again. Baby, I love you with all that I am, and no one can break what we share.
I want you to know that my life was such a blessing. God has blessed me with so much. Even if there was something that I didn't get to do, I know that it won't matter anymore. Now I can look down from Heaven and be satisfied knowing that you are moving on and being happy, and doing all the things you dreamed of. More than anything, I want you to be happy. No matter when I die, no matter how old, that is my wish for you. As hard as it is to say, I want you to be able to move on. Don't forget about me. but know that as long as you are happy, let your heart and God lead you.
Promise me one thing - let God take over in everything. If we have children, don't let a day go by without them knowing that I love them, and that God is the only one who can change their lives. If not, tell yourself that. I need to make sure that this is not the last time I get to see you.
I don't want to leave anything unsaid or unfinished, and I am sorry if I have. There is nothing more that I can think of to tell you other than that I love you. You are the love of my life. You are my one and only. Nothing is more important to me than that. Thank you for filling my life full of love and laughter and giving me so much to remember.
This is my chance to say good-bye. My prayer is that you will only remember the good things. I know that I'm not perfect and that I've had my moments of regret, but you far surpass any obstacle I could face. God gave you to me when I needed you the most, and He has let me keep you in my life as my husband. You are my greatest gift and my biggest treasure. You are my angel. I only hope that I have left with you half as many wonderful memories as you have given me. I know God has an awesome plan for you, so reach for the stars. When you get there, I will be waiting just beyond.
I will see you in Heaven, my love. I can't wait to see you. I miss you already. I love you with all that I am.
Love always and forever and ever and ever and ever,
Your Vee

A few things came to my mind when I read this. The first is how young I sound (20 is young, though). The second is how little I knew about loss and death when I wrote it. If I had to write it now, I might be more practical, and tell you how it might hurt to breathe and it's okay to curl up into a ball if you need to. Or I might write about how to take a break when taking care of 3 kids on your own becomes too overwhelming, and don't be afraid to ask for help. Or I would tell you to take things at your own pace and not worry about others and the way they grieve, everyone is different. Or I would tell you that there would never be anything more painful in your life than losing our love, but if you could survive that, you could survive anything. Or maybe I wouldn't change it because at the end of the day, the only thing there really is to say is that I love you and I want to see you again. 


But every time I read it, I tried to hear your voice in it. I remember wishing you would write me a letter like this just in case. I would have BEGGED you to if I had known, just to have something to hold on to. So I pretend you wrote this to me. Truthfully, I CAN hear you in most of it, I know you would say the same things. I know you want me to be happy, I have felt you telling me that a lot lately. I tell the kids every day how much you love them - they will never doubt that. And I have felt even to a greater degree after your death, how much you love me. Such an ironic experience to appreciate love and life in a way you could never possibly before and no longer have it to appreciate. 


I guess I just want you to know that I love you, and I am holding on to the pieces left behind. Like a mosaic masterpiece, all these little pieces that on their own are just useless, broken pieces of glass....but when all the broken pieces are put together can create something meaningful and beautiful. Slowly, I am putting something together piece by piece. I don't even know what it is yet, they still just seem like useless broken pieces of my heart, but I put them side by side and try to fill in the empty spaces left behind with love and memories, family and friends, and trust that a masterpiece is being created. It is not what I intended to do with my heart, and the pieces will never come together in the same way again, but I see now that it can still be beautiful and meaningful. 


Thank you for teaching my about life and love. I miss you every single day and I WILL see you again. I love you always and forever.

Filling In Again

Well, since Janine is on vacation...you are all stuck with me again! And since I am writing for the second time this week, I started thinking about the purpose of this blog and about how far we've come since my first post.

If you are interested in a little Widow's Voice history, you will find it HERE.

From the very beginning of this blog the intention has been for our writers to share their widowed journey not by looking backwards (and with the benefit of hindsight), but by sharing their in the moment ups and downs. I wanted our readers to know what widowhood looks like from a variety of perspectives. I also wanted to provide a glimpse of widowhood for the long haul. Because contrary to popular belief widowhood doesn't last only one year. Believe it or not, our widow experience will color every part of our lives, and that is not always a bad thing. The thing is once you have lived the fact that people die up close and personal, it is a fact you will never forget.

So, in the spirit of what this blog is really about, I will share with you my own widowed journey right now.

I work with and for widowed people every day. There aren't words to describe how grateful and honored I am to be even a small part of walking with this community through despair and pain into hope and possibility. People look into my eyes and believe, sometimes based on my word alone, that this gets better. Hope is not just a word to me. Hope is a life line that I hold out, virtually and in person, over and over again. I can't imagine doing anything else.

I miss Phil. Every once in awhile there is a moment where I still forget he is dead. Thinking that he might be missing me too, and that he cares enough to send a "sign" my way once in a while brings tears to my eyes. I have long since stopped caring about whether signs are real or imagined. I figure this road is hard enough, take what comfort you can in messages, signs, or coincidence.

Yes, I am re-married. The photo above is of me and my husband Michael. He is a truly incredible man. He attends my presentations regularly. Yep, that would be the presentation when I talk about how much I love my dead husband. Michael is our Camp Widow camp photographer for the West Coast. He spends the entire weekend in San Diego photographing the event and trying to be sure I ate something! But maybe the most amazing thing about him is that he not only knows that I love Phil, he expects nothing less. In his mind it is ridiculous to assume that I would ever stop loving someone who meant so much to me. That statement is how he won my heart. I didn't have to give up my love for Phil to have new love in my life. Besides all of the understanding he shows with regards to my widowhood, he enhances my life. We live, we laugh, we love, we plan, and we know that our time together is finite. Somehow that makes life sweeter.

Being married doesn't remove my widowed experience. In fact, there are a few ways that Phil's death impacts my life with Michael....I always remind Michael not to get hit by a car. If he hasn't exercised in awhile I will remind him that death is not an option so he better get to taking care of himself. On a road trip he took with a friend not long ago, we discovered that I didn't like talking to him on the phone while he was away. Some weird part of my brain decided that if I didn't talk to him on the phone I could distance myself enough emotionally that if he died it wold hurt less. Yes, I know this is ridiculous. But that was the widow part of my brain talking...you all know better than to try to make sense of that!

My message for you today is that this gets better. There are no short cuts through the pain. Healing takes as long as it takes. Moving forward will not be seamless. Community matters. Hope matters. And there is no risk of you forgetting, or not loving, or leaving behind your loved one. They reside in the safest place possible now....inside of you.

The "A" Word: Acceptance

Amanda is turning in grades this week in Australia (teachers work so much more than we know behind the scenes!)...so she has asked me to write for her this Tuesday. Looking through the archives, I found this blog I wrote about the concept of acceptance, and thought I would share it again today. As you all know, acceptance is the final of the stages of grief. Well, I guess it would be the last stage if the stages were indeed linear...but that is a whole different post! Here is my idea, written two years ago, about how I found peace with the "A" word....and since Phil and I would have been married twelve years on June 16th, I thought a photo taken on our wedding day would be the perfect image for this post. Long live love.

Since Phil's death, grief has created a long struggle between the desire to overcome daily challenges and the need to accept the realities that widowhood has brought into my life. The concept of acceptance when applied to Phil's death was not okay with me. Somehow I felt that accepting Phil's death was a horrible combination of giving up and giving in to the pressure I felt to be "better." The way people said the word always sounded so FINAL to me. So, instead of heading toward the horrifying land of acceptance...I stubbornly planned around any roadblock that would slow what I thought was forward life progress, but I trudged forward with no clear destination. I think I believed that if I kept moving I could outrun the need to accept the fact that the man I loved was not coming home.

One woman I met just a few months after Phil died shared this idea with me, and I have never forgotten her words. When she was surrounded by the pain of either loss or loneliness after the death of her husband, she would challenge herself to "rest in the riddle." She allowed herself to not know the answer; to sit in the stillness; and gave herself permission to not ask why, when, what or how. This was a foreign concept to my stubborn, planning, determined mind. I remember wondering HOW exactly she did that. Since resting would require being still, would acceptance sneak up on me unbidden while I wasn't busy doing? What I can see now, that was not so clear then, is that I was terrified of being frozen in grief. IF I stopped what would happen to me. Would the darkness swallow me up? Would accepting Phil's death mean he was forgotten? What would I have to let go of in order to meet the acceptance criteria?

I have struggled with this answer for five years, and it has taken me every bit of that time to find a path towards acceptance that didn't feel like giving up, or somehow failing Phil.

Eventually I embraced the concept that my life is a tapestry. By making my every relationship, word, effort, endeavor, friendship, challenge, and tragedy a part of my life work...nothing is ever left behind.

Accepting Phil into my life tapestry, and weaving a pattern with his love so beautiful that it becomes a piece of the whole that is noticeably more vibrant than many others gave acceptance a purpose. His love shines through my weaving, but only if I can allow him to become part of me instead of an idea outside of myself. That thought turned out to be a form of acceptance I could live with...and a worthy place for the kind of love Phil and I shared.

Every day we are faced with choices about what to add to our own piece of life art. Your loss will color the final product, but so will your love. The lost moments we so long for are often the smallest gestures, the quietest moments, the most unimportant seeming details...you are still creating those every day, and are slowly stitching them into your own personal tapestry. 

Stitch with flourish.

One Year

From Here

One year ago today, I sat in a waiting room and stared blankly at a stranger as he told me my 38 year old husband was dead. Outside the hospital, the sun was shining and the sky was outrageously blue. I dimly thought that it shouldn't be a beautiful day. That it shouldn't be allowed.

After Dave died, I couldn't listen to music at all for days. There was no thinking involved in this, it was all gut-level stuff. I just couldn't bear to hear music. Previously, I couldn't make it through a day without hearing music. Actually, I am stunned to hear that there are people who don't really care about music (I've met some!). It is elemental to me, almost as important as food, water and shelter.

So, no music was a sign of the depths I'd fallen into. Eventually, though, I began to crave it again. For some reason I still don't understand, the only thing I could stand to listen to at first was Bon Iver. Anything and everything Bon Iver. I latched on to that music and didn't let go. All day long, it was Bon Iver. In the kitchen, bathroom, car, bedroom. I even listened to it through earplugs while I did yard work.

It sustained me like food. I could almost feel my strained and jangly neurons smoothing out as soon as the familiar notes began. This went on for weeks before I could listen to a broader range of music. I began to think of Bon Iver's music as a part of my recovery. Like medicine.

In September, almost 4 months after Dave's death, I saw Bon Iver live for the first time at an outdoor venue with one of my Superfriends who had survived the last four months right alongside me. It was the most emotional, spiritual musical experience of my life and I vowed within the first few minutes that I'd see Bon Iver live again in the near future.

When I discovered that they'd be performing at Red Rocks Amphitheatre just days before the one year anniversary of his death, I knew I'd be there, come hell or high water.

I optimistically bought two tickets, hoping superfriend or someone else would be able to come with me, but it was not to be. It must have been written in the stars that I'd go it alone.

Dave's death has allowed me to meet a me I never knew before. One who is scared but acts anyway. One who is stronger and more independent than I ever imagined.

This journey so far, has been a lesson in relying on myself, leaning on myself, believing in myself, and trusting myself to an extent I never experienced before.

So, it makes perfect sense that I'd go to that concert alone, even though I very much wished for a companion (ANY companion!).

Red Rocks Amphitheatre, just outside of Denver, CO, is the only acoustically perfect, naturally occurring amphitheater in the world. It looks like something from The Flinstones, or maybe a place where you wouldn't be surprised to see a dinosaur or two. It's perched at 6,450 feet above sea level and overlooks a panoramic view of Denver far below. It is like no other and stunningly beautiful.

The sky was just darkening as the first notes of the first song, Perth, began. The stars and the lights of Denver sparkled. The moon made its way over our heads to hover just above the soaring rust-colored rocks.

My eyes instantly filled with tears and I was sure my chest would burst. The altitude probably just added to the physical reaction I had to this music in this beautiful place. It felt like I my insides were carbonated.  I wanted to sit and close my eyes to better absorb every heavenly note, but I didn't want to miss one visual snapshot of the performance.

Time disappeared and before I was ready, it was over.

I had done it, I thought as I trekked back to my car. I had gone to a concert alone. I had made it one year. I had survived.

I also spent several days in Colorado alone and, while I missed having a companion to experience it all with me, the truth is I loved being alone, too. I loved not having to compromise or worry about someone else's needs.

There's a good chance Dave would never have come along with me, anyway as he didn't "get" my taste in music, nor did he have any desire to attend concerts. This somehow made the trip easier.

I'm finding that things that fit in better with my new life, rather than my old life, are easier to bear. There's too much pain wrapped up in the things we used to do together. Things we used to experience. Places we used to go. Stepping into this new life of mine, while bringing his memory along with me, feels better to me, than staying in that old life, waiting for him and the life I had with him to miraculously return to me.

It's funny, during the concert I didn't really feel Dave with me. It almost felt like he'd taken leave of the whole situation. I wonder now if he watched this unfold and thought "She's got this. I'm off to do my own thing for a while."

All I could think of was what a long way I've come, despite being heartbroken. I thought back in wonder, realizing that I often forget about my accomplishments and that they are many.

I'm a tough cookie and it's taken Dave's death for me to realize that, much less admit it.

My life goes on, and it didn't begin or end with Dave's death. I will never understand why he was taken from me. I would trade it all in to have him back, but I can't, and this means that I take what I do have and run with it. I keep experiencing life and all its beauty. I keep working on loving myself and healing. I keep moving and living.

I wouldn't have met this new woman occupying my body if Dave hadn't died. What a strange and terrible way to find out what was inside of me all long.

"Uncle" Pete Zonsius

Please bear with me today as I may be stretching the concept just a little.  Our community at St John Brebeuf School lost a treasure Thursday.  I've known Uncle Pete since I was in first grade.  After Lisa passed away he was there for me right away and keep me busy and focused on what is still important in life.  I write this for him today.  Sorry for the length of the piece, he was just so special.

I remember in 2007, coming home from work and my seven year-old daughter is standing in the foyer, both arms stretched out, hands filled with candy.  A smile is on her face that is normally only reserved for Christmas morning or grilled cheese sandwiches past bedtime.

            “Look Dad,” she says. “Look at all the candy I got from school.  Uncle Pete came in our classroom and said ‘Where’s Haley Croke?’ I was nervous but went up and he was holding a tub of candy.  I reached in and grabbed some but he said, ‘God gave you two hands didn’t he? Then get two fists full of candy!’” 

            I nodded my head in understanding, of course, Uncle Pete.  Even at 86 years old, still barging into classrooms and singling out children to grab fistfuls of candy while the rest of the class has to watch.  Pete never worried how to make everyone happy, just those who needed it most.

            “Uncle” Pete Zonsius was the custodian for St John Brebeuf Catholic School in Niles when I was a student there.  In our minds, he was the one who ran the place; sure we had nuns as principals who we would be respectfully fearful of, while trying to push the limits.  But when Scott Dugan took a marker, drew all over the boys bathroom, and Pete was storming down the hallway looking for the culprit, we sat at our desks shivering, praying “Please God, don’t let Pete ask me if I know who did this”.  Pete got us to pray more than any priest or nun could.

Pete also had a gentle touch and was the guy who we would go to if our tooth was loose.  Have a loose tooth? Raise your hand, go see Pete, and come back with a bloody napkin and a hand full of candy.  He outdid the tooth fairy every time; you would curse the day you lost a tooth on a weekend.

When you reached 8^th grade, all the boys knew that this was the year where Uncle Pete would come bounding into a classroom – a trait I see he was still doing at the age of 83 – and point to five or six boys and we would get to leave class and set up Flanagan Hall for Bingo or a weekend event.   Looking back, I’m sure the teachers were not pleased that kids were being pulled out with no notice and gone for an hour or two, but not a one would raise an objection.

As the year went on, Pete would eventually find a set of boys he liked more than others and would use them on a consistent basis.  We all knew this and we tried our best to fall into favor so we could keep missing classes.  Pete figured out Survivor 20 years before TV executives knew this was compelling viewing.   One day, I was standing next to George Martin and we both had our hands in our pockets waiting to be told what to do.  I happen to see something on the floor and bent down to pick it up.  When I stood up, there was Pete glaring at George, “You have nothing to do but put your hands in your pockets? Go back to your classroom and waste someone else’s time.  You, set up those chairs under the window.”  I never put my hands in pocket again when working for Pete.

After school was over, he would ask just one or two boys to work during the summer.  I was lucky enough to be asked, and at the age of 13, had my first job: cutting lawns, waxing floors, washing windows, changing light bulbs, and even cleaning out clogged sinks in the convent – which was adjacent to the school.  Uncle Pete was tough, but a fair boss.  He didn’t have time for silliness, there were just too many items on the ‘To Do’ list which seem to grow longer and longer as the summer went on.

Once the summer was over and school started, I would run home from Notre Dame and get to SJB just in time for school to let out and begin sweeping the floors.  I worked for Uncle Pete for about three years, and I left, I walked out thinking I would probably never see Pete or SJB again.  Life was beginning to open up for me, and this part of it was over and done with.

Seventeen years later, when my wife and I were weighing the choices of where to send Haley to school.  We chose St. John Brebeuf because of the strong sense of community.  Uncle Pete was no longer the custodian.  I heard he was doing some charity work now, but didn’t know much else.  Later in the school year, my wife Lisa was pregnant with our third child and was battling breast cancer – a fight she would lose four months after our daughter was born.   Pete must have heard the news of Lisa’s illness through the grapevine and thus the day Haley came home with two fistfuls of candy.  Even though Pete was no longer an official employee of the school, I had something there that was going to make sure Haley was doing okay.

            After Lisa passed, people were more than generous with my kids and clothes were donated by the bagful.  I got in touch with Pete and he mentioned that he drops food and clothes to the West side of Chicago to people in need.  I gave him all the extra clothes my kids couldn’t use or grew out of and he asked me if I wanted to ride along to help pass them out.

            I drop off my daughter at school and drive around the back to the church parking lot, there’s Uncle Pete loading the van with food and clothes.  He has some trouble walking, but uses no walking aids. He is wearing his traditional blue cap that is a cross between a baseball cap and a hunting cap. He has on his blue pants, blue button up shirt, and his light blue spring jacket. A hearing aid hangs out of his ear connected to a device like an iPod, making him look more stylish than he ever intended. Old age has brought his height down to about 5 foot 8.  His teeth have been replaced with dentures which you constantly see because he is always smiling.  

           “Good Morning Matt, you ready to make some stops?  It’s cold today, hope you dressed warmly,” he says, grinning to himself as he knows that I’m 40 years younger than him but I’ll still struggle to keep up with his energy.   After all, I was spending a day with Pete.  Not exactly like spending a day with Mary Poppins.  We weren’t going to be popping through chalkboard pictures, no imaginary horse races through the park.

A day with Pete was a little grittier; a day with Pete was driving by a house surrounded by a broken fence and windows that doesn’t close all the way - allowing the curtains to hang out and blow in the wind.  On the steps that lead to that house, sits a man staring off into the sky, half in this world, half wishing for one of less pain.  A day with Pete was stopping in front of this house and getting out and handing that man a box of food.  A day with Pete was me later asking him how he knows that man and Pete responding, “I was making my rounds one day and saw him sitting there, I offered him a box of food and found out he has two kids and is taking care of his mother, I’ve been bringing him food for three years.  That was spending a day Pete.

Uncle Pete lived his life like when he was my boss.  His ‘To Do’ list of people who needed assistance kept getting longer as his life went on, and he didn’t have time to nonsense – or sometimes permission.  He had God’s work to do.  In his mind, he had only one person to answer to, and Pete possessed a drive that got him out of bed every morning and drove through the worst parts of town distributing donations.  And he did this in a city that does not sit at 78 degrees and sunny every day.   

Uncle Pete.  Thank you for letting me be a part of what you do.  Thank you for letting those who knew you, observe what it is to give to the world more than you take from it.  Thank you for showing me, that even though my life has given me challenges I never thought I would be able to handle, that this is still a world of hope and kindness.  That as long as we are on this Earth, there is still a “To Do” list that needs to be addressed.

I know right now you are not thrilled with me talking about you.  When we would get out of the van after dropping off boxes of supplies around the poorest parts of town, you would always say to me, “Now remember Matt, we keep this between us, nobody likes a big mouth.”  I know Pete, and I’m sorry.  But today people need to know your ministry, and may those touched by your story, continue to help those who you liked to help most, those who needed it most.     

Okay...okay... I know I'm far from what our society considers "old". I'm 26...and was 21 when Michael was killed. He was 22 when he died. But I can't help but despise each year that passes without him. I remember when I surpassed him in age...and before I knew it had lived 2, 3, 4 years more then he had. I look at the photos and see the new wrinkles and lines that he never saw. I look at the photos and know that one day I will look far different than what I looked like when he was alive. But as much as I despise old father time...and the wrinkles that come along with it...I love knowing I have them from the smiles I've been able to have since his passing...the "are you serious!?" faces I've made to those that were unaware of my situation...the squinting lines from all the moments I shed the layers of grief and loss from my being.   As Brandy Carlile sang her song "My Story": All of these lines across my face Tell you the story of who I am So many stories of where I've been And how I got to where I am   So I'll embrace the lines....the story....the ability to create the crinkles that he never could.....and the stories I will continue to create with each new one.

Disillusionment? Or Enlightenment?

One of my best friends was admitted unexpectedly to the hospital Friday-before-last.  His mysterious symptoms were baffling a week’s worth of doctors enough to trigger admittance orders.  Over the phone (just minutes after his wife sent out the bat signal via Facebook), she described to me the symptoms.  With my medical-doctorate-degree-in-training, I immediately assessed the situation as “OH CRAP!” and cleared my schedule.  Of course my thoughts slid right down that slippery slope.  The quick slide to crisis felt comfortable, like coming home.  (And it makes me sad to realize that.)

When Maggie was first diagnosed, we spent (if I recall) 14 consecutive days in the hospital.  Over the next two years, we spent another 12 more days, giving me more experience there than I’d prefer.  My weeks spent as an guest in a place designed for examinations, not comfort, trained me for survival in a less-than-friendly, sterile climate.  I knew what my friend and my friend’s wife were in for and what would best prepare them for their time.  So I packed a hospital kit, both for the patient and his wife.

The trip to the hospital was easy.  The turn into the hospital parking lot was not so easy.  Then autopilot took over: push the little parking ticket button, in through the emergency entrance, through the secret door to the main hospital, through the winding halls to the back elevators….  Inside the elevator I pressed ‘5.’  But I looked hard at the ‘7’ button.  The 7th floor at Seton is the cancer floor, sort of.  Turn left off the elevators and you head to the baby wing.  Turn right, and you head to the cancer wing.  Life and death sharing a floor – life’s bookends, yet again.  (Back during our initial stay, I spent many an elevator ride feigning smiles and pulling punches while trying very hard not to punch at all.)

My visit with my friend was short and sweet.  I remember all too clearly both how nice it was to get a visit but also how awkward an extended visit would turn.  Multiple short visits were the key.  And food.  Always bring food.  So I brought Taco Deli breakfast tacos.  Everyone, including the nursing staff, was happy about Taco Deli. (Pro tip: Always bring extra flowers, candy and food for the staff.  A happy staff makes for a better hospital visit.)

My friend was released after two days with a green light and a nice bill to pay.

Not that long ago while things were pretty darn bad for Maggie and me, my grandmother told me she was sad that I was learning about things I shouldn’t have to know about for a long time.  I’ve often wondered if, because I’ve seen how things can end, my perspective has been negatively affected, or at least had some of the magic rubbed off.  Will I ever again be able to innocently approach life with giggles and stars in my eyes?  Will the mystery of love and life charm my heart again?  Or will I be a “been there, done that” person who slides quickly into comfort with how quickly life can end?  Or am I free now to jump in and be fully immersed in what life has to offer, knowing that I've survived the unthinkable and that my fear of death has been forever vanquished?

My friend, the one who was in the hospital a few days ago, the one for whom I was imagining the worst outcomes, is currently traveling around Italy with his wife and another couple.  They left two days after he was released from the hospital.  The pictures they are posting on Facebook are amazing.  (The picture for this post is one of their pictures from their trip.)