Bad dream

I hate the dreams.

But at least in this one, I knew Roger was dead.

That is a good thing, right?

The backstory: 

I carry Roger's driver's license in my wallet.  

It rests behind mine.

It gives me comfort for it to be there.

Like he is with me.

I can see him whenever I want.  I can see how we took that silly motorcycle class together and we both have our motorcycle endorsement. 

I am not sure exactly when I got his license.

It was at some point during our days at the hospital.

But which day, I am not sure.  

I am not even sure which person gave it to me or how they gave it to me.

I have also had my purse stolen before.

It is violating.

It is annoying.

But for me the part that sucked the most was the non-replaceable things, not so much the money or cell phone or keys.

The things I will never be able to get back like my address book I had for years, my yearbook editor business cards from high school (yeah, I was a dork even back then), and pictures were much more devastating.

This morning I woke up very suddenly from a very bad dream.  I dreamt I was at a mall shopping with Holly and some other friends.  

Roger was dead.

I ran into a high school boyfriend.

We started chatting and catching up.

We decided to hang out.

It was late in the day.

We were all leaving the mall and I decided to ride with my old boyfriend to wherever the group is going next.

As we were walking out, a thief walked up and wanted my purse.

I was scared.

I was pissed.

"Oh no! Why now? Why me?"

I handed my purse to the old boyfriend and asked the thief if I could please keep some things like my phone. 

I ran to find Holly and the others.

The parking lot was full of thieves.  

All of them were trying to take the purses of those leaving the mall.  

The old boyfriend met back up with me.  

He had most of my purse.  

Except...

He let the thief take Roger's ID. 

He let him take Roger's memory cards.

The fucking thief took Roger's ID.  Evidence of his existence.

I started to cry.

"I will never get that back."

I screamed.

That is when I woke up.

I had to keep convincing myself that it was a dream.

Only a dream.

I still have Roger's ID.

But I will be removing it now.  

I will put it somewhere safe.   

Holly's Pajamas

At the accident scene, one of the first people I called was my friend, Holly.

I knew she would come and be with me.

I was terribly scared.

Beyond the word scared.    

I needed her.

And she did.

It was about 5:45 am or so when I called.

She and her husband, Scott, just grabbed the clothes they could find.

They came as quickly as they could to the hospital.  

We would laugh later that Scott and Holly matched each other.

We would laugh at how Scott almost passed out watching doctors dig in my arm.

We tried to find distraction in everything going on around us.

Trying not to think about what was really going on.

Not thinking about how my life was about to fall apart.  

Holly and Scott brought me home that night.

Sans car, sans husband.

Scott went back to their house to get some clothes.

But Holly stayed with me.

During the accident, all the windows in the car broke.

The windshield, the back windows, and every window in between.  

I was covered in glass.  Small shards of glass.

It was in my ears, in my mouth, down my back, in my hair, just absolutely everywhere.  

I needed to shower to try to get the glass off of me.

However, I could not get my arm wet due to my injury.

With one arm in a trash bag, I could not seem to wash my own hair to enough to get out the glass. 

I called for Holly.

She came to help me.

I lost my modesty instantly.  I no longer cared about being naked in front of someone.

My dear friend was basically in the shower with me (no, this is not some porn scene).  

She was being the best friend.

Afterwards she was soaked.

Scott was not back yet.  

So she asked for some pajamas to wear.  

I gave her a pair of some of my comfiest pajamas.  

She wore them pretty much every night she stayed with me.  

And even recently when she was here.

They are her designated pajamas.

So now when I wear them and I still do occasionally, I think of her.

And I smile.

I think of what a wonderful friend I have.

I think of how they are Holly's pajamas.

I am so honored to have you, Holly.

I am so glad we met and our friendship continues to grow.

I am so glad that you came to my rescue.  

And you continue to come to my rescue.  

I owe you so much.

I love you.

28

"When do you want your husband to die?"

Hmm, how about never or at least never while I am alive.

I know that is not how the organ transplant people asked me.

They were much more tactful.  Thankfully.

But it might as well been that. 

Same question, different words, same outcome.

How do you pick a day?

And a time of day?

This has to be a joke.

A week prior, I was planning what we would do for our six month wedding anniversary.  

Shortly after (I cannot remember when exactly as the days are jumbled) while I was in the shower, I saw the time.  

It was 28 after some hour.  

Roger's favorite number.  

I am not sure why it was (is?) his favorite number.

He told me once but I cannot recall now.

So... I picked August 28th.

There was nothing else to grasp at.  

Nothing else to try to make a decision with.

No other way to pick a day.

No one should have to make this decision. 

Now every 28th is just a reminder of how a favorite number can go terribly wrong.  

However, yesterday was a bit different in some ways.

And a bit the same in others.

The good news first.

In Florida, teachers have to take a General Knowledge Test to prove the ability to do algebra, geometry, statistics, reading comprehension, and writing skills.

It is suggested to take these exams before the junior year.

And in my case, before I forget all that fun stuff.

Yesterday was the only day available from March through August.  

Yesterday, the effing 28th.

Fine.

FINE!

So I studied all day Monday.

I took a zillion practice tests.  

On Tuesday, I showed up at the testing center.

They randomly assign you to a desk and I was assigned to lovely desk #28.

Ha.

Ha.

Ha.

And I did smile. 

How ironic.

Roger's favorite number.

Roger's dead day.

And even if it's psychological whether anything is lucky or not.

And even though it is not my lucky number.

I took it as good luck.

And I passed.

At least all the sections that could be scored immediately.  

I will know about the essay portion in about a month.

The bad news.

The really shitty bad news.

One of the twins born last week passed away yesterday.

Eight months after Roger.

He had some complications and did not survive.

He was only eight days old.

His twin brother is fine.  They are not identical so he did not have the same complication.

He came home today. (More good news but...)

But I just do not get it.

I do not understand.

How unfair.

And it is not like life is easy for this family.

And now this... 

C'mon... 

[See post below or click here if you would like to help out the family]

Also I find the 28th of each month has some apprehension for me.

I dread it.

How will I feel?  Will I be sad?  Will I have a bad day?

I try not to do major things that day.

However, my counselor has now suggested I plan a fun event for that day.

Even if it is as simple as seeing a movie or hanging out with a friend.

Just something to look forward to.

Not something to dread.

So on to next month... onto the next 28th.  

In memory of Ethan R. Meneses (4/20/09 - 4/28/09)

Reason #623,504 I Miss Roger

A few nights ago when I was pulling into my garage, I saw a visitor.

He was brown and black.

Long tail.

Wearing a mask.

I did not think much of it.  

I live near a swampy/marshy part of Orlando. 

I see deer, armadillos, bunnies, squirrels, and black racers on a pretty regular basis.

And now I can add a lovely raccoon to my list.

Only he is not lovely.

He is annoying.

He has decided that I have nice bugs in my yard.

He has decided that he will dig holes to get the nice bugs in my yard.

Some of the holes are not big.

Just scratching the surface. No big deal.

However, tonight as I was taking a break from studying some biology for final exams, I saw a huge hole in my backyard. 

I started to panic.

Oh. My. God.

I freaked out.

At first I was not sure what kind of burrowing animal it was.

Was it dangerous?  Was it still in the hole?  

I walked over to the side of the yard were I had seen some litter and noticed two more holes.

One coming into the yard from under the fence and another near Roger's peace lilly (Figures it would go after Roger's plant.)

Fucking great.

This is not what I need.

I do not need a stupid burrowing animal to be digging around in my house and yard.

And why did my cats not go nuts when they saw some strange animal outside.  

This is not what I signed up for.

This is not what I meant when I wanted to own a home by 30.  So I guess I was also asking for a husband before 30 when I made that goal years go.  

I never wanted to do this kind of crap alone.

I do not want to do this crap alone now.

I want my husband.

I came back inside.

Started googling.

Do raccoons burrow in the ground?

That would be a yes.

And I found a nice picture of their foot prints.

Great...

I called our local government information line (If I do not have a husband at least I have them).

Nothing they can do.

The animal is in its "natural" habitat.  

"What can I do with the holes?"

"Just cover them back up."  

Okay.

I put on sneakers.

I do not need to get bit or rabies for that matter. 

I grabbed a shovel.

The really big one.

I figured I would hit it over the head if I had to.

I looked for footprints.  

Sure enough.  Matches the picture online.  

Fuck.

I started putting the dirt back into the hole from as far away as possible.

Patting it down as I went to see if anything tried to dig out.  

Nothing.

Whew.  

Holes covered.

Crisis averted (at least for now).

Now, I have nothing against a bug eating animal.  

I have nothing against living in harmony with animals.  I am pretty pro animals.  I realize living where I do means I will have to deal with animals from time to time.

And I am all for something that eats the bugs so they do not come in the house.  

But geez, the holes are huge.  

That raccoon was huge.

A year ago, if this had happened, Roger would have laughed at me as I screamed when I approached the hole.

He would have laughed at me as I freaked out. 

But he would have taken care of it.

He would have been the man of the house.

I do not want to be the man of the house.

I. Do. Not. Want. To!!!!

Now I am a pretty independent person.

I rarely depend on anyone.  I actually hate to and I am working on that but...

But this is the type of stuff I miss having my husband for.  

This is the type of stuff that is a "boy job" as I would tell Roger.

He was suppose to do the "boy jobs" and I was suppose to do the "girl jobs."

Dealing with wild animals is definitely a "boy job."

Being a widow sucks. 

His last birthday

Roger's birthday is August 7th.  

Three fucking weeks before he died.  

On his actual birthday, he took the day off from work.  

He got his hair cut.

Our hair stylist was happy.

He had been growing out for a while and it was just not working.

It was not a huge deal to me.

His hair, his head, not my deal.

Then I wanted to take him to dinner.

Of course, I did not want to drive like usual so I made him drive to his own birthday dinner even though he did not know where we were going.

I gave him directions as we were driving and he pretty much figured it out as we got close but I tried to be coy.   

I pretended he did not know still and would tell him which way to turn as he was turning.  

Even as we walked through Downtown Disney, I gave him a hard time for walking toward the right restaurant.

I loved our silliness together.  

I regret not taking more pictures.  

I have three pictures from that night.  

Three!!

Yeah, I did not know it would be his last birthday but geez.  

I have pictures from everything.

Loads of pictures.

They clutter every room in my house.

And I have three from his birthday dinner.  

The worst thing was I forgot to make him a cake.  

I forgot to make my husband a cake on his birthday.

He loved cake.

How could I forget?  

The worst part is I can never make it up to him.

I cannot give him a big cake for this birthday.

Or throw him a huge party for it.

Damn it!  Why?!?!

Why him?

Why right after his birthday?

Why only six months after we were married?  

I wanted more birthdays.

I wanted to give him more "husband" birthday cards.  

The Headaches

Here is where everyone starts to think I am crazy.

Insane.

Or just weird.

Or maybe all of the above.

I have had not told many people this.

I was/am afraid of people thinking I was/am weird, insane, or crazy.

I wish I would have said these things to Roger online versus in person so I would have "evidence" that this really happened.  And not that I made it up after the fact.

But I do not.

So here it goes...

The week of August 11th or so last year, I was having these headaches.

They were horrible.

They were intense.

They were like mini-migraines.

They were on the left side of my head.  

The same side as most of Roger's injuries.

The crazy thing was they only occurred about a mile from my house as I was entering our neighborhood.  

They would start about half a mile before and last until I got home.  This happened all that week.

It was awful.

It was weird.

I told Roger about them when I got home each day.

I also told him it felt like I was going to be in a car accident.  I felt like that is why I was having those headaches.

I told him it felt crazy to think those thoughts.

Roger told me I should go the other way home.  

But I told him I did not really want to.  

I cannot remember my reasoning why I did not want to.  

A few days later, I was going to the gym in the rain.

A 16 year old girl bumped my car when we suddenly stopped for a police siren and the roads were slick.

She barely tapped me.  I was not even sure if I had been hit till I saw her pull over.

There was no damage to either of our cars but she was a bit shaken up.

She had just learned how to drive a manual car and just was not sure how to stop that quick.

"Don't worry.  We are both fine.  Our cars are fine."

I gave her a hug and we went on our way.

Roger and I agreed that was the "accident" causing the headaches.

And the headaches did go away after that.  

The point is... 

Sometimes I wonder if my brain knew about the real accident that would be occurring the following week.  

Sometimes I wonder if the headaches were a sign.

It sounds crazy.

It sounds insane.

It sounds weird.

But even Einstein thought time was a human invention.

It was a way our heads organizing things.  

I mean, God knows no time.  

Not that I think I am God.

Not even close.

But maybe just maybe somewhere in my subconscious I knew.  

Maybe it was a warning.

Why only when I went home?  I don't know.  

Why me and not Roger?  I don't know.  

Was it real?  I don't know.

But it did happen.

And it was very weird. Very crazy.  Very insane.

"Cheers, Star"

I used to sign all my emails, notes, and cards as "Cheers, Star"

It started years ago.

Way before I went to Australia or England.

I cannot actually remember when it started.

It just kind of became part of me.

My signature of sorts.  

I liked it because it was friendly.

It was sweet.

And it was different than most people.

But after Roger died.

I could not use it.

It seemed too happy.

It seemed like I was happy.

It seemed like I was being fake.

So I just would not use it.

I refused.

I would sign things as just me.

Maybe with a hyphen.

Maybe not even at all.  

However, it has returned.

I find myself wishing people well.

I find myself "cheering" them again.

And I mean it.  

It is nice to have my signature back.

It feels good to have that part of me return.

It is such a simple thing but yet I like it.  

And I know it is all about the small steps moving forward.

Baby steps at a time.  

So cheers!

Unsettled

A majority of my friends are married.

A few of them have kids.

And most of them are done with school.  

In looking at my life, I did things a bit backwards.

Life in reverse.

But not in the way that most people use that phrase.

I did not have kids before marriage or anything.

But I did have a high paying job first, then I got married, then I quit my job, then went back to school full-time, and eventually will have a low/lower paying job.  

The other day one of my friends was talking about how she was glad to be in the post college days.

And I just smiled to myself.

I am back in my college days.

I am back to being single and in my college days.

I am unsettled.

Most things in my life are unknown right now as far as the future goes.

As far as my plans go.

I do not know where I will be working in five years.

I do not know if/who I will be dating in five years.

Five years from now is very much up in the air.

I almost feel like the 23/24 year old girl I was when I lived in New York.

I find myself wearing short shorts again and cute skirts.

I feel myself not liking my business casual clothes.

I want to go out.

I want to stay up late.

I am drinking more.

It almost feels like I have time traveled to a different place.

To a different me.

It is almost as if all the work I did to be a settled person was in vain.

All the time, Roger put into making me less commitment phobic is gone.

All of his patience, a waste.

But probably not, because I do still want to be settled again someday.

I do want to be a wife again someday.

But in the mean time, I feel miles away from that girl I knew a year ago.

She is back in the car.

She is upstairs in the jar.  

She is in hibernation.  

God, I Just Need to Spoon

Today is the 23rd... 

Or at least it was a few minutes ago.  

The stupid wedding anniversary.

My stupid wedding anniversary.  

I hate the 23rd.

It is painful.

It sucks.

It drains me.

Even when I do not realize it.

Like today.

I remember the days were I counted down to the 23rd.  

I could not wait for it to be here.

I even had a countdown.  

Now I dread it.

Every month.

Each. And. Every. Month.

Today was fine.

Not a huge deal.

Until I realized I am/was cranky.

Until I realized I am/was weepy.

Until I realized I felt flustered.

And all I want.

All I really really want is to be held.

To feel the warmth of a man surrounding me.  

Wrapped around me.  

The comfort.

The feeling is so strong.

The urge is so consuming. 

I just want to cry in someone's arms.  

Nice strong warm arms.  

I feel so alone today.  

In a midst of friends, I feel alone.  

My Award aka "Why-the-hell-was-I-there?" Thing

I did not tell many people that I was getting an award today for the blog.  

I was not quite sure what it was for.  

And it was just from my school.  

A few months ago, one of my professors asked our class if anyone did any community service related events or activities.

No one responded.

So being the person I am, I said "Well, I do this blog that has about 150 readers a day.  It helps me but I think and have been told it helps other people including other widows."

She told me to send her some more information and the link to the blog.

So I did.

Last week I got an invitation for an awards ceremony.

It did not say much more than that.

Something about student activities award.

I called the RSVP number and asked why I was being invited.

"Oh, you were nominated by an instructor...."

Oh, okay.  It was sort of making sense.

I was slightly excited.

I was thinking "Wow, my first award for the blog."  

I got dressed up this morning.

I did my hair.

I was prepared to be late to my afternoon class.

I rushed over to school.

Found one of the few cherished spots left after early birds had arrived.

Went into the designated room.

This should have been my first sign of things to come - no organization whatsoever.

"Do I need to check in?"

No one answered me.

I spotted a lady with a clipboard.

Not at the front of the room or anything.

I checked in.

I sat down near the front of the room.

I knew no one.  

But they all knew each other somehow.

Okay. No big deal.  

I rarely feel too awkward in those situations.

Opening remarks.

Seemed more normal.

I started to relax.

Then a one man band started.

Neat touch.

He started passing out things.

Things he wants us to wear.

Top hats for the guys.

White and black feather boas for the girls.

He passed out plastic noise makers for us.

Interesting...

He wanted us to sing along and shake our noise makers.

I did.

I tried to go with the flow.

Then he formed a conga line.

Yes, a conga line.

At an awards ceremony.

What the hell is going on!

I participated.

Strange but okay.

We were seated back and the awards started.

This group was called.

That group was called.

Then the other.

The other.

The other.

And a picture slideshow.

Okay... Where did I fit in again?

More of the crazy one man band guy.

This time we were asked to judge dance partners that volunteered from the audience.

Okay...

They won some weird stuffed penguins.

What the hell...

More awards for everyone else.

Awards for the staff.

Awards for some lady who was leaving. 

Presents for the lady who was leaving.

"Okay.  Now let's go to the reception in building three."

Wait! What the hell?!?

As the mass exited, I went over to an authoritative looking person.

I asked, "Look my name is in this program and I got this invitation last week.  My name was not called and I am not really sure why I am here."

"Oh, you must have been nominated by an instructor."

"Yes, I believe that is the case but my name was still not called and the others seemed more club related.  My instructor nominated me because I write a blog for young widows..."

"Oh, I am sorry for your loss.  If you would like to start a club, we would really love to have you.  George, can she have one of the awards?"

Still confused, I took my prize.

Wow...

First, I have several issues with this whole experience.

More than several.

I actually hope and pray that I am the only one on campus that belongs to this "club."

I can not image there is a lot of people like me on such a small campus.

No one wants to be in my club.

No one signs up for this one.

"Join now! It is the young widows club. What a fun club! Must have had your spouse die and be in school."

Second, even if my instructor nominated me, why was my name not called?

I sat there waiting.

And waiting.

While some really annoying girl hooted for each and every name called.

Right into my ear.  

I missed part of my favorite class for this.

Third, why were we wearing feather boas?  

And top hats?

Well, there it is.  An award winning blog... What kind of award? Still not sure.  

At least in a few weeks this story will be funny.  

For now it is annoying.

Living Alone Continued

When I first met Roger, he was so messy.

I was a bit disgusted at first.

What a bachelor.

I asked/strongly suggested we have a cleaning lady when I moved in since I was not his mother and would not be cleaning up after him.

But before that time...

He left tons of things on his coffee table.

Empty glasses.

Papers.

Books.

Trash.

Pens.

Pencils.

It was annoying.

His clean clothes were piled on the bed in the guest room.

A huge pile.  A huge ever growing pile.  

He would just dump them on the bed after emptying the dryer.

And then instead of getting dressed in his room, he got dressed in the guest bedroom.

In his kitchen, a collection of dishes were always piling up.

The dishes in the dishwasher were clean but instead of putting them away, he would just get new dishes from there.

In his family room, a pile of various shoes.

Boots.

Sneakers.

Dress shoes.

And also socks.

Lots and lots of socks.

The other day I was looking around at my house.

And this is what I saw...

Coffee table was littered with school books.

And CDs.

A cable for my camera.

Receipts.

Notes on receipts.

Pictures.

Articles for school.

Two glasses from the previous day.

In the kitchen, the dishwasher was half empty but the sink was full of dishes.

I had pulled things out of the dishwasher instead of putting them away.

And loading the dishwasher?

Yeah... still needed to happen.

Near the sofa, a huge growing collection of shoes.

Two pairs of flip flops (I love Florida weather).

My wedding shoes which I still wear.

Another pair of dress shoes.

And of course, a pair of sneakers.

No socks for me though.

In my bedroom, clean clothes gathered at the bench at the end of the bed.

Others were still on the drying rack waiting to be put away.  

Oh my...

How disgusting of me.

How gross.

What a bachelorette.

I hope this is only temporary.

360 Degrees

Back in March when we went to court the second time, I got a few more perspectives on the accident.

I was able to hear the testimonies of the cops who were behind and in front of us.

Since I did not get the decision I wanted, at least I walked away with that.

Knowing just a few more facts.

A few more things to add to what happened since there is a lapse of my own memory.

Some benefit of a shitty court system.

First, I learned Roger was never conscious.  

This had been weighing on me a lot.

What if I was sitting twenty-five feet away during his last conscious moments. 

What if I missed those last few moments.

What if he asked for me.

But I did not.

His last few moments were us chit chatting.

Moments before.

Second, I learned our car did a 360 degree turn.

This makes sense to me.

Where his car (because remember it was not him driving that day, ugh) hit our car was just in front of the driver's side door.

And I was very confused as to what direction we were pointing.  

For a few moments in the height of my confusion, I thought we may have been pushed into the southbound lanes.  

The cops kept asking me to point where we had come from and I could not.

I just kept saying we were driving northbound.  

Usually when people talk about a completely different change, they use the phrase "180 degree turn" but I sort of feel like for me it was that 360 degree turn.

In that 360 degree turn, my entire life changed.

Yes, I am still mostly the same person.

But it was like I went in the revolving door as one person and somehow came out different on the other side.  

I know another widow who is experiencing a similar feeling, so I do not feel completely abnormal.  And if I am, then I am not alone.

And now I have been through another revolving door.  

Grief has done all kinds of crazy things to my person.

I am not longer shy.

Not at all.

It is a crazy sensation for me.

I was a very shy child.  

Then grew a bit out of it thanks to my friend Igor when I lived in NYC.

And in NYC, I could not be shy.

But now, please.

I will say anything to people.

I have this crazy self-esteem.

It almost oozes from my skin.

And it kind of reminds me of Roger.

And on the eighth month anniversary of the day I lost my best friend, some parts of me are grateful for the changes.  

I hate what caused them.  More than anything.

But I kind of like the aftermath of me.

Some Cool Camping Pictures

Ormond/Flagler Beach

Nearby River

Road to the camp site

Old tree near our campsite

New Adventures

Camper Star

I am a planner by nature.

It is part of my control issues.

It is part of the reason this whole situation is super hard for me.  

I hate losing control over things.

Hate it!!

And Roger and I were good at making plans together as in he let me make plans.

We made plans about the next year, the next five years, and the next ten years.

They were about vacations, home improvements, self improvements, etc.

It was fun.

We would joke when each of us brought up some new cool thing we wanted to do "Is that on the five year plan or next year plan?"

In all that planning, we wanted to do lots of things together.

A new theme/water park opened last year, I really wanted to go.

We wanted to go to Africa.

We wanted to volunteer more.

We wanted to go camping.

We wanted to paint the rooms of the house.

We wanted, we wanted, we wanted.

Loads of dreams.  Loads of dreams together.

And the kind of cool thing is I am doing things.

I am doing things I have not ever done.

I am doing things I have not done in a long time.

And it feels fun.

It feels good.

But I cannot help but feel a little pang in my side.

This past weekend, I went camping.

I have not been since I was in high school.

As in twelve years probably.

It was fun.

I enjoyed myself a lot.

We went canoeing.

We drank beer.

I got to hang out with some people I did not know too well.

It was fabulous.

But...

I found myself in those lovely I-have-to-wear-shoes camp showers thinking "Man, this would have been fun with Roger."

Ugh.

The weekend before I went to the new theme/water park.

It was great too.

I had a blast.

It was a very nontraditional way to spend Easter Sunday but it was great.

My Easter dinner was cookout food.

It was yummy.

And honestly, I cannot remember what we did for Easter last year.

But again, part of me was a bit sad thinking Roger never got to go.

Next on my ever growing list is I am hoping to go tubing down one of our local springs.  

I want to go skydiving again.

I want to go to the beach again.

I want to travel more.

I want to do the floors in the house.

And I know I will do a lot if not all the things we were planning and more.

But I wonder how long the slight pang in my side lasts.

I wonder when I will not think about the things he is missing.  

The things he will never get to do.

And I do not feel guilt about doing these things.

Not at all.

Or at least it does not feel like guilt to me. 

But still how long before it is about me.

Till it is all about living for me. 

But I will not stop living.

I will not let that stupid asshole driver ruin my life anymore than he already has.  

To new adventures!

I Paid a Man to Touch Me Today

My widow friend Supa referred to this term called "skin hunger".
And I have been suffering.
I so want to be touched.
I need to be touched.
For more than just a quick embrace.
For more than just a hello or goodbye hug.
I want to be held.
I want my hair to be stroked.
I want to be touched.
Touched. Touched. Touched!

Tomorrow, it will be eight months since I have had sex with someone.
Yeah, too much information I know but...
The desire is so strong.

Part of my issue, I think, is touch is my primary love language.
Gary Chapman wrote several books about the five love languages.
It is a great book and I am a classic touch person.
I am also very tactile.
I touch almost everything around me all the time.
In a store, I will touch a shirt or pair of pants before I even look at the price.
If I am walking down the street and see an interesting building, I touch it.
When picking out our cats, I wanted soft fluffy fur.
Touch drives me.

So now that I have had my toucher ripped from me, I am suffering.
Perhaps I just want to feel those feelings again.
To feel good about me.
To feel loved.

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine held my hand a few moments and kissed me on the forehead a couple of times.
And it felt so unbelievably nice.
Even if he did it just to be nice.
Even if it was quick.
Even though it was completely platonic.

So today, I just had to be touched.
I could not take it another moment.
So I went to a massage place.
It was calling out to me as I passed it.
I asked for a male therapist.
And for $39, he gave me a wonderful massage.

Yeah, it was not the romantic touching I really desire but it was human contact of the male persuasion.
It was fantastic.
And although he was only doing his job, I enjoyed every moment of the warmth of his hands.
And he massaged my ass.
My ass! I know has not been touched in eight months.

Sigh. Soon I know. It is only a matter of time.

Sometimes

Sometimes I have this weird half daydream half fantasy where the accident never occurred.
And I can see us waking up on Saturday, August 23rd together.
Our six month anniversary.
Not Roger never waking up and not me waking up with Holly next to me.
Not that I am ungrateful to Holly.
She was fabulous for not letting me be alone.
And I am very very thankful for that.

But Roger and I are together.
And I am uber excited that it is our six month anniversary.
I wake Roger up and say "Do you know what day it is?"
And he says "Of course. It is six months from the best day of my life."
Or if he wanted to be funny he would give some other weird answer like "Saturday, the day you woke me up earlier than I wanted to be."

And we are in a big comfy bed.
The room is decorated like most bed and breakfasts.
Flowers on the bed.
Wallpaper on the walls.
A fireplace on the right side of the bed.
A quilt hanging nearby.

Roger is sleepy.
He just wants to go back to sleep.
But I want to go do something.
"Let's go eat breakfast."
And he will grumble back at me.

But then, I have to come back to reality.
I have to face that did not happen.
That will never happen.
I will never wake up next to him.
He will never wake up next to me.

But what does get me through the day is that someday I will wake up next to someone else.
Not a cat.
Not Gizmo.
Not Gadget.
But a real human being of the male gender.

The Court System Failed Me

I know I wrote about the first time we went to court.

I do not think I wrote about the second time we went.

After the charges were dismissed the first time, the witnesses asked for the case to be reheard since not all of them had received a subpoena and they did not get to testify.

And since, the asshole's defense lawyer asked me, "How do you know this man was the driver? Did you see him driving the car?"

"Well no, I did not.  It was 5:30 in the morning" stupid bastard of a lawyer.

And in the moment, I did not care about the other driver as much as I cared about the man I loved who was not responding to me.  I cared about getting out of the car.

I cared about making sure we were going to live.

Why didn't your client make sure we were going to live?

Unfortunately/fortunately, the people who did see him get out of the car and driving the car were two cops.  And for their reasons, they could not make it the first court hearing.

And for whatever fucked up reasons, the judge decided the second hearing did not matter at all.

So the charges are still dismissed.

This fucked up asshole is still driving.

He is still on the roads.

The same roads as me.

He is probably even driving a new car.

Even if it is just new to him.

But me.

I used the money from my portion of settlement to live for the first few months until the insurance money came in.

I used Roger's portion to pay off credit cards from the estate, hospital bills, lawyer fees, and CPA fees.  

I am not raking in the dough from this accident.

Au contraire.  

I am dealing with a murderer who lives in the same town as me.

I am dealing with the loss of a spouse.

I am dealing with my own physical injuries.

I am dealing with a grief process.

I am dealing with post traumatic stress syndrome.

I am dealing with being a personal representative which is not fun.

I am dealing with letters from vultures offering me money for the estate.

And some people say to me, in order to try to make me feel better, "Oh he has to live with the guilt of murdering someone everyday."

Really?  That jerk feels guilt?

I highly doubt it.

I bet he does not feel any guilt.

If he did, he would have paid the tickets and never fought them.

He would have not sat behind me in court the first time talking about how his tires were not bald.

He would have tried in some way to talk to me and express his remorse.

But no.

He does not feel guilt.

He is going along with his life.

He is probably even celebrating.

The worse part is how invalidating it feels.

Like Roger was nothing.

Like I am nothing.

Like I am not protected by the government.

No, only assholes are protected by the government.

Not me.

So go on with your life you fucking scum.  

Go on and enjoy your family.

Enjoy your wife.

Enjoy your new car.

And Karma, I wish you existed.  I really do wish but I know you do not.

Sanibel Island

This is one my regrets.  

I had kind of forgot about it until the other day when a blog I follow mentioned she had gone there.

And of course, like other random emotions and memories, thoughts with a tad bit of guilt emerged.

Some guilt that I had already dwelled on a bit before.

Last summer, Roger's mom wanted to go on a family vacation.

And although I was trying to plan it, I just could not find an ideal time, an ideal place, and an ideal price.  

And we put it off.

Like I tell everyone else who comes to me with their guilt regarding some aspect dealing with Roger, we did not know.

No one knew we would be in a serious accident.

No one knew Roger would die.

No one knew the future.

But still... the feelings are there.

I cannot give myself the same hall pass I give to everyone else.

I cannot remember the last time Roger saw his mom.

I think it was May last year before Mother's Day.

I do not think we even went down for Grace's birthday, Roger's, or his mom's.  

It was not uncommon for us to go months with a trip to Miami or for his family not to make a trip up to Orlando.  

It was not common however for us to miss so many birthdays with them.

We thought we had tons of time.

We thought we had years.

I remember Roger coming to me.

Telling me of his mother's wish.

Telling me how much she wanted to have a family vacation with her children and me.

She wanted a beach weekend.

She wanted to go to Naples or Fort Myers or Sanibel Island.

The same place they vacationed as a family when Roger was growing up.

We postponed it.

"Perhaps September when things calm down for us."

"Wait till we have a little bit more money."

Wait wait wait... and yet she did not get what she wanted.

We waited too long.

And part of me blames myself.

Sigh.

Lost Love

My very sweet and kind cleaning lady and friend gave me a book to read back in December.  [Thank you Shelly!]

And my habit of watching TV late at night until I fell sleep kept me from reading it during my usual reading time until recently.  

I finished it today and of course I was afraid this would happen.

And it did.

I cried.

I cried a lot.

So many things touched me.

I love the concept of heaven it presented.  

Especially since I do not find comfort in the pearly gates and streets of gold version.

The book is "the five people you meet in heaven" by Mitch Albom.  

I have seen this book in airports for years during my consulting days.

I never picked it up.

I judged it by its cover.

Something I am not supposed to do but I did anyway.

And then Shelly brought it to me in December.

I was a little scared to read it.

Would it be a sappy book?

Or a over the top Christianity book?

Or too sad?

Or too unrealistic?

But I started it anyway.  

Of course, many parts spoke to me.

And of course I really enjoyed the book.

The premise is in the title so I will not go into it in detail but the main character's fourth person is his wife who died when she was young.  

And during his life, the main character really never recovers.

He mourns for the rest of his life.

I do not see myself as the type that will mourn forever.

I know and everyone knows I will always remember Roger.

I will remember our three years together.

I will carry Roger with me everywhere I go.

Geez, now that sounds sappy.

She probably did it for her.  She probably did not even realize that I would be reading this book one day when she did this.

But Shelly highlighted a quote in the book that I want to share. 

A part of the book that I will try to keep with me.

"Lost love is still love... It takes a different form, that's all. You can't see their smile or bring them food or tousle their hair or move them around a dance floor. But when those senses weaken, another heightens. Memory.  Memory becomes your partner. You nurture it. You hold it. You dance with it.  Life has to end.  Love doesn't."

I also know that I will always love Roger.  Always.  Even when I get upset that he died on me.

He did not consciously leave me.

God knows, I could have kept him "alive" for longer if I chose.  

But I knew letting him go was real love.

And our love will not end.  Only Roger's life did.  

My Injuries

Sometimes people ask about my injuries from the accident.

And most times I feel silly talking about my injuries.

In comparison to losing Roger's life, my injuries seem insignificant.

Minute. Small.  Silly.

I feel like I am whining if I talk about them.

But unfortunately, my injuries stare at me every day.

The physical ones I mean.

And overall I am recovered.

Probably as much as I will be.

And really they are not a big deal to most people.

Some people do not notice them.

At least that is what they say.

The first picture is my right knee.

The day of the accident I thought it was broken.

But after many very uncomfortable x-rays of my leg being twisted into unnatural positions, it was determined it was only severely bruised.

However, the "only" bruise is permanent.

My doctor thinks it may fade in time but for now it is there.

I know most people do not notice it, but I do.

Every time I wear shorts or a skirt. There. It. Is.

No more beautiful legs.

No more perfect legs.

Roger and I both loved my legs before.

And I sort of still love them but it just annoys me to look them too closely.

The other side of the knee still has the loss of feeling on the outer layer of skin.  

It cannot be seen but while I drive, I cannot feel my leg touching the console.

It is quite an unusual feeling.

My doctor says it may return at some point but at least a year before I can even expect to feel it.

My left knee looks normal.

But its not normal feeling.   

I have huge knots just under the skin.  

Again, effects of permanent bruising and scar tissue built up.  

Sigh.

And when my two knees come together in certain positions... Oh my.  Pain. Pain. Pain.  

Then there is my wrist.

I miss my normal arm.

Along with my "normal" life.

In the accident, my tendon was partially severed.

As far as I can tell the tendon has healed and I can now put weight on it. 

Yay for push ups again!

But the scar, still there...

I put Mederma on it for several months after the accident and now it is just waiting time.

It is no longer swollen and the skin no longer puckers but I still see it.

Every day.

Every day all day long.

I have the same view as in the picture when I am looking at it normally but if I turn my arm just slightly, I see how the scar continues along the side of my arm.  

I do not have feeling on the top skin of the scar.

But the hair is finally laying down correctly.  

Mostly.  At least when I just look at it quickly and do not examine it closely.

I think the scar will fade.

Oh how I hope it will fade.  

Those are my remaining physical injuries.

I cannot really photograph the mental ones but they are healing slowly too.

Nor can I photograph the emotional ones.  

All in time.

All in time.

Butterflies

The fluttering of wings.

Chills that run down my spine.

Warmth that goes up my body.

Roger caused this.

And I can still feel them.

All I have to do is remember the first time we kissed.

And the feeling returns.

We had been teasing each other for a few weeks about kissing. As friends of course.

I proclaimed I was a great kisser.

Roger said he was a great kisser.

I argued that I was better and I could give him some lessons.  

Of course if I wanted to give him lessons.

If he was nice to me then I would offer him my kissing lesson services.

On November 14, 2005, I found my lips next to his.

Finally we were kissing each other.  

And it was so nice.

It was like magic.

It was what the movies talked about.

It was what songs sung about.

It was real.  

  

The first day of course will always hold a special place in my heart.

I will never forget it.

It was the turning point for Roger and me.

The next day of course I wanted to kiss him again.  

I wanted to kiss him so badly.

It was all I could think about.

I remember telling a work friend about the kiss.

About Roger.

About everything.

And since we were having a mandatory fun day at SeaWorld, he told me to go.  

To go get some more of that wonderfulness.

So I did.

I knew Roger would be home.

I knew I had a few hours before he needed to go to his evening class. Which he never made it to. Oh, the sacrafices he made for me.

I drove there as soon as I could.

And kissed him lots more.  

The absolute best part is it still causes butterflies.

Three and half years later, I still feel the fluttering, the chills, the warmth.

Even though the man is gone, the feeling remains.

Love my life

This is going to sound weird.

This is going to be a shocker.

This is going to be going against the grain of what my entries are normally, but....

I looked around today and for a split instant I thought:

I love my life.

Yep, I, Star, love my sometimes-insane-sad-unfair life.

Yes, I miss Roger every day and every minute of my life. 

Every. Single. Second.  

And I always think of him in everything.  I do not say it much.  But I do.

I can always relate something someone says or does or that I do to him. But I refrain for saying everything that comes out of my head.

At least most of the time.

But I so wish he could be here.

I wish he could be enjoying his life right now.

I wish he could be enjoying the sun.

I wish he could be enjoying me.

As Sunday comes to a close, I think this past weekend has been so much fun. 

Real fun.

Real live fun.

I have such great friends.

And I have inherited some of Roger's friends which is so fun.

Not that they were not my friends as well before but they have not gone away.

They are still here.  

They still love me.

They look out for me.

And they will still help me.

And my friends... oh, I just love them.

I am so lucky. Yes, I just used me and lucky in the same sentence.  And I meant it.

Despite the shitty things that have happened to me in the last year (and oh my God I am getting close to the one year mark), they still help me have the best time that I can.

And they are happy for me when I am happy.

It is such a relief.  

Sometimes I have this little bit of fear they will not know what to do with me when I am happy. 

What to do with me when I scream "Boobies" as we take a group photo at a bar.

What to do with me as I flirt with a boy that is not Roger.

What to do with me as I talk about yet one more yummy guy I saw.

But they are still here.

They are helping me.

Guiding me.

Helping me move one inch at a time a little further.  

Maybe a centimeter at a time.  

But still here.

Still at my side.

Rebirth

I love the feeling of spring.

The grass is turning green again.

The trees have leaves again.

Baby animals are appearing like bunnies.

Birds are back to chirping.  

It seems there is an energy around that is so contagious.  

And I think it has infected me.

I feel like I have been rebirthed.

I feel this girl inside me who is young.

And happy.  

And free.

I mean I was so sad for so long.  

A good six and half months.

I need this happiness.

I need this freedom.

I need to feel young and fun.  

I have found myself dressing nice again.

And getting compliments on it.

Wearing makeup.

And not being afraid that I will cry through it.  

Doing my hair.

Which is especially cool since I have been having my hair chemically straighten for a while now.

Since the night before the accident actually.

And it just looks so much better than my natural hair state.  

My grief counselor even asked me to start thinking what I still need from her.  

And I cannot really think of anything but I do like that it is part of my new normal.

My new routine.  I like having that hour to say anything.  To have someone look at the words I am choosing and help me navigate my new normal.

She feels I am capable of doing this thing called life on my own now.  

I am ready to be birthed into the real world.

Ready to re-enter the atmosphere.

Of course, I am not so sure.  

I am scared.

Like the baby bird flying on its own for the first time.

What if I fall?  

What if I can't do this on my own yet?  

It has only been seven and half months.  

But spring makes me feel like I can do anything.

Sort of.

"My boyfriend, Roger"

"My boyfriend, Roger" sounds so weird.  

So strange.

So unbelievable.

The other day when I recorded my proposal story I had to say those words. 

I had to look at those words on my speech.  

I had to stare at them on my note cards. 

I could not believe it.

Roger as my boyfriend?

I have not had a "boyfriend" in so long.

For like two and half years.

Two. And. Half. Years.

Roger was my fiance for sixteen months.

He was my regular living husband for six months and five days.

He has been my dead husband for seven and half months.  

The funny thing is how long it took him to be my boyfriend.

I would not call him boyfriend for months after we started dating.

I think it took about four months or so.

It would take another two months before I would say the words "I love you."

He actually said the word "girlfriend" way before I did.

And by accident.

I was taking a shower at his house and he was standing in the bathroom chatting with me.

We commonly would come into the bathroom while the other were showering.

When I intruded on his shower time, he had no other distractions from what I was saying.

Plus I got to see him naked.

That was an added bonus.

For him, I think he would just get so excited about one thing or another, sometimes just me, and he would come in to talk to me.

I think he liked seeing me naked too.  I hope he liked seeing me naked.

This particular time, he was telling me some story about work and he said, "My girlfriend does..."

"What did you just call me?"

He stumbled over his words, "Uh, hmm, well, ya know, girlfriend."

"Oh, who is this girlfriend person?"

"You, silly!"

"Oh, I did not realize I was your girlfriend" in my very best sarcastic voice.

Last summer, even after we were married, he once slipped and referred to himself as my boyfriend.

I laughed.

He tried to dig himself out of an imaginary hole.  

I did not care.

I loved us when he was my boyfriend.

I loved us when he was my fiance.

I loved us when he was my husband (dead or alive).

The crazy weird thing is Roger has now been my dead husband for so much longer than alive.

I have referred to him as "my husband" more in the last seven and half months than I did when he was alive.  And not just because it is a longer period of time.  Just because I have had to explain things a lot more.  

I rarely called him "husband"while he was alive without giggling.  It sounded so strange.

So I just kept "dear".

Just like my new name.

Just like how a year ago I started this blog one day while at work when I was bored.  

Never thinking it would have the purpose it does now.  

I even came up with the title then.

Not knowing the meaning it would have.  

Honestly, I was shocked I was married.

Me.

I had a husband.

No longer just dating.

But married.

All that has changed now.

I am back to square one.  

Waiting

There are some things I did not read in my grief literature.

Somethings I was not prepared for.

Some very important things were left out.  

Some things I have discovered on my own and I have asked other widows I know about but there is not a lot of information on this very important subject.

Simply put it is the lack of sex.

The lack of physical affection.

The lack of kissing.

The lack of holding hands.

The lack of being held and touched.

And when a widow does not get those things for a long period of time, there is a strong desire that starts to well up.  

It starts to take over.

It is really hard to deal with.

Remember that episode of Seinfeld when Elaine does not have sex for a while?

Well, that is happening to me.

The desires are taking over my thinking.

Ugh... Oh well.  

So is life.  

I know this too is normal.

Permanently Recorded

One of our engagement photos taken by Scoobie.  

A few weeks ago, my speech teacher approached me with a favor.

She asked if I would record my proposal story on video for her to use in future classes.

Like recorded on video and preserved forever. And ever.

Whoa, I barely got through that speech the first time.

But it has been two months since I did it.

And I am doing much better these days when February was really rough. 

Really really rough. Thank God it was a short month.

And the cherry on top was my professor offered to let me get out of one of my class speeches so of course I said sure.  

I figured I would find out a way somehow to get through the speech.

So today, it was done.

I dressed up.

I did my make up.

I blow dried hair (those people who know me know this is a huge deal).

I went to the production studio.

Re-read through my speech.

Touched it up a bit.

And I am happy to say I got through it.

With a smile at the end.

And I only had to do it once.

Maybe it was the camera watching.

Maybe it was because I am doing better.  

Maybe it was because I can focus on the happiness of that day and our life rather than the sadness of him gone.

The crazy part was the production crew was stunned.

They were listening and were feeling the good feeling about how I proposed to Roger.

They thought they were listening to a girl telling a cute sappy story.

Then I came to the part where I say how he died.  

They just sat there.

They even forget to fade to black.  

The director guy came out of the back to talk to me.

He just kept saying "wow."

And my speech teacher being just great said "Yeah, and she is doing really well too."

Because I am doing well.

I am making it through each day.

Yes, I still have sad moments.

I still cry every day even if just a few drops.

But I am doing better.  

Miracle Diet Part 2

I have been losing weight since our wedding.  

It was very slow at first.  

I lost five pounds between February and August.

Then between August and now, I have lost thirty.

It feels great.

No matter the fucked up reason, it feels great to be thinner.

To look at myself in the mirror and see a difference.

I know Roger would be proud of his sexy wife.

Compare the pics on the slideshow on the right to the one on this entry.  

The weight difference is really apparent in my face.

I am proud of myself.

I may not be able to control my life, but I can control my weight.

I can control what I eat.

I can control what I do not eat.

I can control what I look like.

It is a slightly expensive endeavor though.

I have to keep buying new clothes.

Today I bought my goal size.  

It is a bit tight but I will shrink into it.  

It is a skirt and my legs look awesome too.

Perhaps I should go another size smaller.

Maybe...

Some of my friends are thankful.

I keep giving clothes away to them.

Although part of me is scared to give away these clothes.

Part of me is scared to be fat again.  

I still want to lose eight to ten more pounds.

I want to look super hot.

I want to look irresistible.  

Part of it is related to having to start dating again.

At least in the future.

I know that I will need and want to be really cute again.

And I know I was cute before all of this.

Roger and I thought I was at least.

It is just part of me wants to look the absolute best.

To feel my absolute best.

To be able to walk into a room and people turn.

To have guys begging me for a date.

At least this whole "situation" has some benefit.

Still don't remember...

It is beyond frustrating having a moment of your life disappear.

I remember almost everything.

I can recall things from when I was three and four.

I can recall names of ex-girlfriends of my friends even when they cannot.  

So to have even just sixty seconds completely gone is making me insane.  

I thought perhaps if I sat inside a similar car maybe something would come back.  

Maybe just being in the same car and repositioning myself I would remember just a little more.

Maybe remember his shirt.

Remember if I said something.

Remember if he said anything.

I still do not know his last words.

Maybe remember what happened from impact through my current memory of getting out of the car.

Today, I got a chance to sit in a friend's car.

I sat there.

And I sat there.

And nothing.

I repositioned myself.

Took off my shoes.

Tried to remember.

Anything.

Something.

I started to get upset.

At me.

At the world.

And the cool part about everything, my guy friends came over to rescue me.

Because I probably would have just sat there all night.

But they came over and opened the door.

They made sure I was okay.

And I am okay.

But I still do not remember a damn thing... 

"Single"

Sigh...

I made big steps today.

Big steps for me.

Big steps for the facebook world.

I changed my marital status to single.

Wow.

It was hard.

Why?

It is just a stupid webpage.

It is just a stupid social networking site.

Do people even care?

Do people even really pay attention to me?

It is not like people did not know my "status".

It is not like people were checking to see.

"Has she changed her marital status yet? Nope, not today. Maybe tomorrow."

No.

It is just me.

It is just something inside my head.

I had it set to "it's complicated" because that is how I truly felt.

I did not feel single.

I still feel sorta married.

But technically I am not.

And I do not really want to be.

But I felt it was the right step.  

A step in moving forward even if inches at a time.

Maybe just a centimeter.  

He finally got 'em

I did not really feel like going today.

I RSVP-ed yes so I felt like I had to go.  

Plus they gave me a personal escort around campus so...

I went to the eternal knight ceremony at Roger's university this afternoon.

And now of course, I am glad I did.

It was a really nice ceremony.

And I was not the worst one crying.  

Thankfully.

When I first walked in though, I was almost knocked down.

"Ava Maria" which is one of my favorite songs was being played.

I sang it in high school.

Had it played at our wedding as the mothers walked in.

Had it played at Roger's funeral.

And here it is again.

Deep deep breaths.

The school provided an escort for each family to help me find everything.

Which was great.

She sat with me.

Talked with me about every day stuff.

Kept me distracted.

And I found myself thinking "Wow, under other circumstances I would like to be friends with this girl."

She was around my age and we just clicked.

The ceremony officially opened with bagpipes.

I wanted to laugh very inappropriately.

I kept it to a smile.

Roger wanted bagpipes at our wedding.

I had to explain to him that it might be weird to do all these Cuban traditions and add another culture on top of that when neither of us is really Scottish.  

But today, he finally got his damn bagpipes.

It was a nice ceremony.

They read each name, rang a big fancy bell, and announced each person an eternal knight.

Roger is a knight forever.

He would love that.

It reminds me of a painting in the formal living room.

There is a knight standing next to a damsel on a horse.

Hmm.

My knight in shining armor.  

With his damn bagpipes.  

So unexpected

Yes, I am yet again surprised when grief blindsides me.  

I guess it is my wanting to control everything.

And not being able to control even myself is really annoying.

And frustrating.

But it is just more unbelievable than anything.

How can I not even be able to control me.

What can I control?

I am working on self acceptance but hey, most women do not really do that until they are in their 30s anyway so I have two years.  

Oh geez, I hope it does not take that long to accept grief as a permanent resident in my little head.

Please do not let it take that long.

Today I was getting some much needed exercise.

I was getting stressed out by some things and could not find much relieve.

So I thought maybe getting fresh air after a Florida afternoon storm was the perfect choice.

And it was for most of the walk.

Until...

I realized I was wearing the same pants as the week after the accident.

After the accident, I was wearing Roger's work out pants.  All my cool clothes were stuck in the car since it was a crime scene.  

Really because they were waiting to see if Roger died or not so it could be called a homicide.

Wow, homicide means murdered and that means my husband was murdered.

My husband did not just die, he was murdered.  Fuck.

Sometimes it really takes months for things to sink in.

  

He had like five zillion pairs of workout gear.

I had just made him get rid of about ten pairs because they were too small or too short.  

I still wear them now because boy workout pants have pockets.  

Girl workout pants are supposed to be sexy or something silly so they do not have pockets.

But I need pockets for my keys and phone.  

Because a little bit of paranoia tells me I may need keys for self defense and the phone to dial 911 for the boogeymen of the world. 

I do not need to look sexy right now.

Some men might argue that I still look sexy wearing boys pants but...

In the ambulance to the hospital, they cut off all my clothes.

My favorite perfect fitting jeans, cut.

My brand new cute t-shirt, cut.

My $40 Victoria's Secret bra, cut.

All cut straight up the middle.

And I was worried about that.  

I even slightly complained to the paramedic.

Because I truly could not comprehend the fact that my husband may be dying.

But I could comprehend losing a cute outfit.

My dear friend Scott went to my house and stole some of my clothes for me.

Stole because he said he felt like he was breaking into my house.

I did not have keys to the house on my keychain.

Why would I carry keys?

They took up extra space in my purse.

Roger had keys.

I did not need keys.

I gave Scott the garage code and directions on where to find my clothing.

I did forget to tell him to grab shoes.  

In the midst of getting out of the car, I only put on one flip flop.  

But Scott being super smart grabbed shoes for me.  

He even grabbed a bra which I also forgot to tell him.

He also gave me options with different things to wear.  

I was impressed.  I still am.

Again, I have great guy friends.  

The next days I wore only Roger's workout pants.

It was a way to be near him.

It was because I did not have to make a huge decision about what to wear.

It was because they were clean.

It was because they were not locked (locked, ha! The roof of our car was gone) in our car in some unknown location.

These particular pants have buttons all down the legs.

Roger would wear them and do this impressive "I can take my pants off in one big motion" thing.

The problem I had all that day was they kept coming undone.

And the buttons clinked all day while I was walking.  

Clink clink clink.

Here I come.

Everyone had a sense of humor at that point still.

People would tease me about showing a little too much leg if the buttons came undone.

I would laugh.

I would re-button the pants.

Today as I heard the clink clink clink, I started to cry.

I was instantly back at Roger's bedside.

Listening to the ventilator.

Sitting in the hospital waiting room.

Being forced to eat something.

Really?  Crying? Here?  

Yep, thankfully the little crying spell was over before I ran into a non-speaking to me neighbor. 

Ugh.

Maybe one day I'll accept grief for grief.

No motivation

I cannot tell if it is stress.

Or grief.

Or iron deficiency.

Or something else.

Or all of the above.

But I have no energy.

No motivation.

I cannot get off my ass to get anything beyond just normal daily chores done.

And even those take forever.

I have an aloe plant that desperately needs to be planted.

It cries out to me everyday.

But I just cannot get the motivation and/or energy to get a shovel, dig a hole, and put it in the ground.

I have two plants that are dead.

Like brown dead.

Roger planted them before he died.

Before the accident.

I really need to throw them out.  

I need to just dig them up and throw them out.

The best thing is that I could take above aloe and put it in the whole but...

Then there is the aquarium stand.

I got the second coat of stain on it.

But it is still not ready to come into the house.

It needs a third coat.

And it is not that hard to do.

It is fairly simple but again no energy.

No motivation.  

I need a new air conditioning filter.

I need to figure out the front yard landscaping.

I need to do homework for class.

Nope. 

Not getting done.

I am just getting by with the bare minimum.

I empty the dishwasher when there are no spoons left.  

I am even resorting to using Roger's spoons.

And I hate those spoons.

The trash gets taken out when it is absolutely full.

The things in the fridge that need to be thrown out are still in there.  

It is so frustrating to me to feel this way.

I want to be productive.

I want to check things off the list.

I am hoping this passes.

It is just hard to do everything myself.

It is hard knowing I am the only one to get things done.

It is a bit overwhelming.  

So things are piling up.

Maybe if things get dirty enough...

Or plants are dead enough... 

Oh well.

At least I have a widow card that fits.