Reflection on "Grey's Anatomy"

SPOILER ALERT: For those "Grey's Anatomy" fans, please read after you watch the season premiere.

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Maybe it is the student in me.

Maybe it is the widow in me.

Or maybe it is blogger in me.

But I decided after Thursday night's "Grey's Anatomy" episode, I wanted to write a reflection on that particular episode and its subject matter - the stages of grief.

A semi-honest look at grief.

Of course, it took me back a year.

And a month, and a day, and an hour.

It made me think of all the things I went through.

And all the things I am still going through.

One of the main character's dies in a tragic accident.

One of the beloved characters.

The nice guy.

The sweet guy.

Like my guy.

THE LACK OF BREATHING:

First thing that hit me (other than the obvious) was the way his ex-wife could not breathe after she realized he was dead.

After she realized it was truly him.

After she realized it was really happening.

I hated the not breathing.

I hated that feeling.

Not being able to catch my breathe.

The feeling so incapacitating that I could not even stand up straight.

The feeling that if I could just bend over in fetal position, I could catch my breathe or maybe just to curl up and die myself.

If I could just curl up tight enough...

The same feeling even occurred last month when we buried Roger.

THE DISBELIEF:

The next thing... the ability not to believe it is real.

It cannot be real.

It is still not real.

I constantly struggle with this.

I remembering seeing his body.

Watching his body die.

Watching his pink color leave his skin.

Watching his breathing stop.

And if I had not been there, I would struggle even more to know it was real.

It just cannot be that he died.

But I was there. I saw it. I felt it.

THE HUMOR:

As I watched the character's laugh at the burial, I had to smile.

Grace and I laughed at lot in the first few days.

The night after his funeral, a bunch of my friends and family sat in my kitchen and laughed.

We told stories.

We laughed at Roger.

We made fun of Roger.

But I think we had to laugh.

We had to have a sense of humor.

Maybe it is part of the not believing.

Maybe it is part of the survival instinct.

But I needed that laughing.

I still need that laughing.

And my dark sense of humor.

Then last month, we laughed some more as we buried him.

We looked at the pictures of Roger from the 90s.

The bad clothes, the glasses, the hair, the crazy posed pictures, his cheesy smile.

But I loved his cheesy smile and his past.

THE MEDICATIONS:

I was not a fan of taking meds.

I am still not a fan of taking meds for anything.

I never really have been.

But a few weeks after Roger's death, I needed something.

I was not sleeping.

I was very very anxious.

And paranoid.

Something had to be done.

My primary physician prescribed me an anti-anxiety med.

And it helped.

It helped get me back on track.

I never had to do anti-depressants thankfully.

But some griefers do. And nothing is wrong with that.

We all need help at points in our life.

It helped me focus.

It helped me sleep.

It helped get me to a point where I could really take care of myself.

And that is the purpose.

THE MANY FACES OF GRIEF:

Grief is not just tears.

Or sad faces.

It has many, many faces.

Sometimes it is anger at a stranger.

Sometimes it is anger at an employee at a theme park.

Or spending lots of money.

Or redecorating the house.

Or extreme exercising.

And as in the show, having lots of sex.

And grief does not go away.

It is part of me forever.

"JUST ONE MINUTE":

One of the characters during the episode said she just wanted to be happy again for just one minute.

In the first six months of my grieving, I just wanted to be happy.

Truly happy again.

And just for sixty seconds or so.

The first six months were so exhausting.

Emotionally.

Mentally.

Physically.

It was a struggle to move.

A struggle to enjoy myself.

And even when I did start to enjoy myself during those months, it was tinged with internal feelings of sadness.

But one day back in March, I felt good.

For a minute.

For an hour.

For a day.

For a week.

And then for a month.

And it was not so exhausting.

But there are still moments where my happiness is still jaded.

Still slightly tinged with blood.

Still slightly exhausting.

NOT CRYING:

At my first grief counseling, I did not cry.

I could not cry.

It was strange.

My husband had been dead a month and I did not cry a lot.

Did I love him enough?

Was something wrong with me?

No.

And no.

I was just in shock.

Denial.

Reality had not set in yet.

I was distracted still.

I was not letting myself feel.

But at the next visit.

A short week later.

I sobbed.

And I sobbed each week until May (at counseling).

I still sob.

And cry.

And weep.

I am not sure if it will ever stop.

Part of me does not want it too. I want to keep feeling.

Keep remembering.

If only it could be a little less obvious.

And maybe only when I was alone.

"YOU SURVIVED, GEORGE DIDN'T":

Oh, the lovely survivor's guilt.

In the episode, George jumped in front of a bus to save a strange girl.

And the strange girl is suffering from a bad case of survivor's guilt.

In my life, Roger and I were in the same car.

The same fucking car.

My injuries were survivable.

Roger's were not.

I survived. Roger did not.

I hated this.

Why me?

Why not him?

For me to get over this, I had to tell myself several things.

First, Roger would have stepped in front of a bus for me.

Second, it was random. I did not choose to survive and/or outlive Roger.

It just happened.

Along with survivor's guilt, I also had a very lovely case of post traumatic stress disorder.

My paranoia while driving or being in a car was very severe.

I was very nervous.

Very anxious.

And it leaked over into other parts of my life.

Suddenly everything that could happen would happen.

My sense of order had been completely disturbed.

It has mostly returned to normal.

I am a bit more paranoid than I was eighteen months ago but I am a much better passenger these days and driver.

At least I hope so.

DEATH IS NOT THE ONLY FORM OF GRIEF:

It is just not the death that hurts me.

It is the change in plans.

The change in goals.

The change in daily routine.

The loss of friends.

The complete overhaul of my life on the turn of a dime.

Or in my case on the overcorrection turn of one stupid driver with bald tires and wet roads and damp grass.

THE HEALING:

It hurts unbelievably.

It hurts so bad just to even breathe.

But I have to hold on to (and I have experienced this) that one day it will not hurt this much.

It will not hurt so bad.

So intensely.

But it will never go away.

It cannot be controlled and it is the acceptance of that fact that is one of the first steps of healing (in my humble opinion, at this moment).

I have to keep remembering that I will never be past it.

It will always be a little painful.

I will move forward but I will not forget.

I will not get over it but will be able to let it be.

So... even though I cried a lot during this episode.

And I could relate a lot.

It was a good episode.

The writers did a decent job at this one.

And I will be watching the rest of the season.

It Takes a Village...

... to complete some house projects.

Roger was one of those guys who thought he could build it better and cheaper.

We would walk through Pier One or some other home furniture store and he would say to me, "Oh, I could built that."

"Yes dear."

"Hey, take a picture of that. I want to make one of those."

"Yes dear." [I carried a point-n-shoot camera in my purse at all times during those days.]

And he did do pretty well with carpentry projects.

He designed his workshop area in the garage.

With his peg board.

A work table.

Simple, yes. But it was cool to me.

I thought he was awesome at it.

I probably should have told him more often how awesome I thought he was.

I was proud.

Last summer, Roger decided it would be cool to set up the aquarium he inherited from his dad.

I agreed since it might be neat to have some fish.

At least entertaining to watch the cats interact with it.

It would be his domain but I said "cool" nonetheless.

He started looking for an aquarium stand.

He looked online.

We went to pet stores.

We went to furniture stores.

Everything was expensive if it was halfway decent and the cheap stuff just looked shoddy.

So... in true Roger form he said to me one day "I could just build one."

I gave him a funny look and agreed.

"Please make sure it can hold the weight of the water."

Like normal, he started researching and designing.

He created an excel spreadsheet of course.

I do not think he could do a project without one.

He came up with the dimensions.

The required wood.

How it would need to be cut at the store to fit into the Acura.

And finally the design.

I was proud.

But this was his project I told him.

He had to do it all.

But I did help him a little.

Very little.

As he started he would tease me about how I would be staining it.

"Nope, this is your project. You will stain it."

He would tease me more.

For his birthday last year, I bought him a sander.

An orbital sander.

One to use on the aquarium stand.

He used it once.

One late night last August, Roger was sawing and working but then most of the noise stopped.

I nervously opened the door to the garage to make sure he was okay.

He was fine but he had taken the whole thing apart.

It was not perfect. He was starting over.

I helped him to get it squared off (although it turned out not so square in the end).

The project started to experience some scope creep.

"Wouldn't it be cool if there was a shelf to pull out while you were working on the aquarium to hold your tools or whatever at hip level."

"Hmm, sure."

"Oh, and I added this shelf underneath for storage."

"Okay... whatever you want."

The night I returned home from the hospital for the last time, I noticed that stupid aquarium stand.

Sitting in pieces in his work area.

All by itself.

"What the fuck do I do with that now?"

I did not want to scrap it.

I could not just let it go.

It was an original design.

But I know pretty much nothing about carpentry.

It made me sick to look at it.

I started to hate it but yet I wanted it finished.

In the last year, many friends have touched this piece of furniture.

Sean T. Javier. Joanne. Chris. Scott. Stacy. Fernando. Aaron. Sean N. Tom. My Dad.

And yes, I ended up staining the stupid thing.

And then the last person to touch it - Mr. X.

For my birthday, Mr. X said he would complete it.

He would take it the last mile.

He took it apart after seeing some of my handy work and staining.

He decided to re-stain it the right way.

And he fixed it all.

And today, on the anniversary of my first date with Roger, it is done.

The stupid haunting thing is done.

I will move it into my family room in the next few days.

I will use it and remember my darling husband.

But there will be no aquarium.

I have not decided on the aquarium stand's exact use but I am okay with that.

If nothing else, it will be a reminder on how I am loved.

I am loved by a village.

Thank you, Roger.

It is better than any other aquarium stand like you said it would be.

Not cheaper however. But that is okay. I love the stupid thing.

Thank you to everyone who touched it and helped me with it.

Thank you to Mr. X.

But This is the Second One...

WARNING: I AM RAMBLING AND VENTING...

I had my first birthday without Roger a mere six weeks after he passed away.

I went to dinner with friends.

I was sad.

And as a small birthday dessert was brought to me near the end of my day tears filled my eyes.

But it was not as bad as I thought it would be.

Like I would learn about most holidays and anniversaries and birthdays (except the one year death anniversary), it was mild.

Tolerable.

Survivable.

This year is my second birthday without him.

And for some reason it is blowing.

I feel severely grumpy.

I am not sleeping.

And I just am very sad about this one.

Grief is starting to put his hands around my neck to suffocate me.

I am not sure why I am so sad.

And depressed.

I feel really stressed about it.

About the week.

About school.

About my birthday.

I feel like it will not be my birthday.

It is not the same.

So I just want to skip it and postpone it till next week.

When less things are going on.

And then I was pushed more into my slight depression by a couple of comments over the weekend.

The main one was during a conversation about how people only associate with people who are in the same stage of life as themselves.

So married people hang out with other married people.

Single people hang out with other single people.

And people with children hang out with other people with children.

But I am not really in any of those categories.

My single friends still associate me as being married.

My married friends associate me with being single.

And of course I have no kids to be with the people with kids group.

And I am really starting to feel it.

Yes, I have Mr. X so you would think people would invite me to things that other couples are invited to but that is not really the case.

Maybe they don't like Mr. X?

And my single friends do not seem to invite me to things either.

Why? I am not sure.

So I am in this sort of limbo state.

And I suddenly feel very alone.

People do not know where to categorize me.

And it hurts.

It hurts to think people will move on with their lives.

Moving into a new stage without me.

Yeah, grief sucks...

And it is sucking the life out of my birthday...

And I am so not looking forward to this birthday.

Without him.

Slight Meltdown

It has been a while since I had a truly public meltdown.

The more recent meltdowns have been at home.

In front of Mr. X.

In front of friends.

But strangers, I have been lucky for a while.

Until yesterday...

Roger handled all of the dry cleaning.

We both hated ironing and he liked his shirts pressed.

Plus for some reason, he had more "Dry clean only" clothing than I did.

So it was his "job."

After he died, like everything else, it became my job.

I do not really remember what I had to drop off but I guess when I did (because I certainly do not remember this) I spewed everything to her.

All the details.

I was in my "tell everyone" phase of grieving.

She was shocked like most people.

She was sad.

She remembered him.

And she said the typical thing "But he was so young."

[And there will be a whole other entry about how many times I have heard that...]

I think I have been maybe twice to the dry cleaner since that day.

And certainly not in a while.

Yesterday, I needed to drop some things off while Mr. X waited in the car.

I told him she would probably make me cry.

So I was hoping and slightly praying that she would not remember me.

That perhaps I would be confused with all her other customers in our neighborhood.

As I dropped off my items she asked me, "How are you?" in a very pleasant voice.

"Good," I replied hoping this was just the generic "How are you?" question that normal adults ask each other in greeting.

"How is everything going?"

"Good," as I started to think "Uh oh, she may know 'who' I am."

"How did court go?"

Wow, I must have told her a lot. And fuck, she does remember me.

"Not good. He got off free."

She was repulsed.

As most people are.

She then told me what I already know but it is so nice to hear:

"Your husband was such a nice guy. I remember him. He was a great customer."

I started to tear up.

Okay, I have to get out of here soon.

She asked if I would marry again.

"Of course I will."

"Good. You are too young and he would not want you to be alone and sad."

I made it out of there without crying in front of her.

Mr. X was waiting in the car.

He asked me how it went.

I started to cry.

It is just nice to hear others talk about Roger.

About how much they loved him.

How much they miss him.

But I was determined to stop crying as we were about to go to the grocery store.

I was not going to cry there. Again.

So I was good at first.

But then, as always something popped up.

That stupid "I Will Remember You" by Amy Grant.

That song gets me every time.

I love that song really.

But I kept it under control.

At least to most people.

The tears came harder as we returned to the car to go back to my house.

I seriously thought I would not still be affected this much by things.

I thought the meltdowns would stop.

At least in public.

Boy was I wrong.

Ghosts in the Closet

Most of my paranoia has calmed down.

Thankfully.

I am no longer scared of my house alarm not being set at night. If I forget, I am not freaked out like I was before.

I am no longer too worried about someone lurking in my garage.

It is a huge improvement.

So now I have new worries.

Now I worry about things like will I have enough life insurance money to survive on a teacher's salary and keep this huge house?

Will I be able to find a job after school?

What will it be like to go to the next funeral?

What will I be like in my next car accident?

Will I be a good teacher?

Will I like my job?

What will it be like if I am a widow again?

Somewhat normal worries.

Sort of.

And then one still somewhat strange fear.

I am hoping I am not alone in this one but...

I have a deep fear that I will see Roger's ghost.

At night, when I cannot look out onto the dark patio where I left his bloody clothes after the accident. I am afraid of seeing him standing there.

I am afraid I will see his ghost sitting in his-turned-my office.

Or perhaps when I turn on the lights to enter my bedroom for the night.

Or in the garage.

Or even on the toilet in the middle of the night.

It is a weird fear/paranoia.

I do not necessarily "feel" his spirit with me when I have these fears/feelings.

And it makes me wonder if I need more counseling.

It has not come to the point where I will not walk into said area of the house, but I do feel my heart start to race just a bit.

My eyes try to get as big as they can to absorb as much in the room as possible.

So I will not be caught off guard.

God only knows what will happen if this does occur.

And I am not sure why it would scare me to see his ghost.

I just do not feel ready to see his ghost.

Because that would mean that yes he is really dead.

Gone.

And the ghost would be some sort of proof.

Ugh... why am I so insane?

Another Birthday...

Yes, it is my birthday next week.

A week from tomorrow.

And I realize it is not a big deal for most people.

I realize for most it is just another day.

And I realize this is not a "big" one like 21 or 30 or 40.

I will only be 29. Not a big deal to anyone but me.

But for me, it has really never been just another ordinary day.

Not just a day to get through.

For me, it is the one day no one can take away.

The government can control a lot of things like taxes and a billion death forms to be completed, but they cannot take away my birthday.

Even when I die, it will still be my birthday.

I may have to work or go to school or whatever, but it is still my birthday.

It is the one day of every year that is mine.

And as much as I am looking forward to spending some time with some friends.

Something will be missing.

Someone will be missing.

Last year, I had a birthday gift from Roger.

A bit belated in the sense that I did not find it until a few weeks later, but Roger gave me a gift even six weeks after he died.

And this year there will be nothing.

Not even he himself will be there.

And it hurts.

For the first time in four years, there will be no gift from Roger.

I know I should "grow up" and be an adult.

Just do what every one else does and just let the day be a regular day.

But I cannot.

And knowing my best friend.

My husband.

The person who gave some of the best gifts will be missing.

It hurts that on this special day of mine.

My very special one day per year, he will not be part of it.

So yeah, the government cannot my birthday away.

But death can take away the important people.

The people who would make it special.

Who make it fun.

Well, here goes another "day" in the grief history of Star...

Human Cloning

Mr. X and I are both science minded individuals.

So our breakfast conversations can be quite nerdy.

Yesterday morning, we started talking about cloning.

He had read a story about some new experiments with it.

We were sharing our thoughts about the subject.

I would like to assume everyone thinks about this to some degree.

I would like to assume everyone who has lost someone dreams of this.

I would like to assume every widow lusts about this.

Because I definitely think about it.

I wonder what if.

If I could.

If I should.

If I would.

Of course it would really just be a reproduction of his cells.

Of his DNA.

It would not be him.

I know this.

But I have no children to remember him by.

I have no remaining genetic evidence that he ever existed in my life.

All I have is a tattoo on my back and a disgusting scar on my arm.

And the scar reminds me more of the other driver.

That asshole who took away my husband and his genetic evidence.

But it would be nice to have a little Roger 2.

Part of him to carry on with me.

Part of him to look up and me and for me to look down at him.

I know this new boy would be different.

I know he would not be the same.

He would not have the same experiences.

Perhaps not even the same exact personality.

And perhaps even some health problems due to the cloning process, but....

I would do it.

I would clone him if I could.

I would do it with all the risks.

I would do it knowing that it would not be the same.

I know without a doubt that I would do it.

Just to have a little part of him back.

Just something.

The Maestro

Like almost every widow/widower I know, I question every part of my faith.

Heaven. Hell. Angels. God. Satan. Afterlife. Ghosts.

Amazingly to some, I do still believe in God but I do not think He is not at all who/what I thought He is.

Or what was explained to me since birth.

But something far beyond our comprehension and understanding.

And my definition of heaven and what it looks like? I am not so sure.

What happens to our souls when we die? I am really not sure.

And what I wonder about a lot is if Roger's soul/energy/whatever is still with me.

Is still on earth somewhere.

Can still influence things.

If he can play the maestro at all in what happens to me.

Roger promised to always take care of me when he gave me that savings bond.

In our wedding, we did this special part of the ceremony called the arras.

And like I mentioned the other day, he promised to always be here with me.

And some weird part of me thinks he is still around somewhere helping things get done the way they are suppose to in order to take care of me.

His energy.

His ghost.

His whatever.

Two side but related stories-

First, last September, a friend of mine was talking to me at my house.

I was talking about (even just a few weeks from his death) how I was scared of having to go through the dating process again.

How could I be so lucky again? I had an amazing husband and best friend.

Would I have to wait years and years again? I dated a lot of crappy people before Roger.

She is a spiritual person and stated that she thought Roger would find me someone and bring to me another person to be with me.

That Roger would take care of me.

Even from beyond.

Second, earlier this year, one evening I longed to be held on my couch as I watched television laying down.

I prayed to be held.

To lean up against someone with their arms around me.

To feel their warmth behind me.

To be gently kissed.

I cried.

I felt so incredibly alone.

So very alone.

An emptiness that I cannot even find words to fully describe.

Last night, Mr. X was over.

We were watching one of my favorite movies.

I got up to get something to drink.

When I returned, he was laying down on the couch.

He gestured for me to lay down next to him.

So as we laid there with his body heating my back and his arms wrapped around me, I started to relax.

And then I started to cry.

And cry.

And cry.

And then sob.

Was it Roger still providing for me?

Playing maestro so that I got what I needed.

Is he still here?

Helping prayers get answered.

Whoever the maestro may be, I am thankful.

I am thankful that someone is taking care of me.

Just not sure who.

Or what. Just some maestro I am sure.

To Tell or Not to Tell

When I first became a widow, (which makes it sound like a choice or a cool club to join - which is it neither) I told everyone.

The guy at the MINI dealership.

The lady at the dry cleaners.

The girl at the jewelry store.

If someone was in front of me, I told them.

I could not say it enough.

Perhaps because I was trying to convince myself.

Perhaps because I just needed to get it off my chest.

But then there was a line in the sand somewhere.

I am not sure when I crossed it.

Now, I do not tell anyone.

I try to avoid it.

If I do not have to tell someone, I will not udder the words.

Mr. X's family does not know although I plan to tell them eventually.

The friends I have met in the last couple of months do not know.

And when it almost does come up, I get nervous.

Extremely nervous.

My heart starts to race.

I want to quickly change the subject.

I was talking to my twin, Nicolle, about it and we both agree it gives people a chance to know us.

The real us.

Not the stereotype they believe it is.

Not to be afraid of us.

It gives us a chance not to have people freak out on us.

It gives us a chance not to breakdown in front of others.

The funny/weird thing is, I almost want people to read it on my facebook page when they befriend me.

I almost want to send an introductory message: "Please read my info page before further communication. I will be happy to answer any questions you may have afterwards."

I am okay with "telling" them that way.

I am okay with talking about it in person after they know.

But saying the words "My husband died" or "I am a widow" or anything along those lines, please do not make me.

Please, please do not make me.

Today I was in class sitting next to my young naive friend.

We noticed a teaching assistant had broken her foot.

We started talking about breaking bones.

And without thinking, I mentioned I had seen my arm bones when I was in the car accident last year.

She asked, "Where you scared?"

"Yes, very."

I did not mention why I was scared.

Yes, it was scary and weird and crazy to see the bones of my arm.

But that was not really why I was scared.

I was scared because my husband was unconscious and the police would not tell me anything about him.

However, I could not tell her the rest of this story.

The complete reason I was scared.

And as I sat there I was afraid of where the conversation was going to go.

I quickly stopped the conversation.

Tried to switch the subject.

And I survived another day without telling her.

It is strange to have this 180 degree turn.

To want to hide my widow-ness.

Maybe I want to deny it.

Run away from it.

Pretend it is not true anymore.

Pretend it does not apply to me.

The Unattainable Promise

This is a bit of a repeat.

But I am still struggling with it.

A lot.

Especially lately, again.

So I am blogging about it.

Again.

Roger used to promise me he would never leave me.

I would have some wacked dreams about losing him.

I would not be able to find him.

He would be missing.

Gone.

Maybe in a forrest.

Maybe in a maze.

I would wake up in a panic.

I would find him in bed and slip over next to him.

Touch him.

Hold him.

Make sure he was still there.

And sometimes I would tease him in the morning when I woke up with stories about how he was leaving me.

During day light hours, I would tease him when he left to go to the gym or to the grocery store or wherever.

"Don't leave me!" I would playfully pout.

"I would never leave you."

And he meant it.

I know he would not have chosen to leave me.

But then he did.

He left me.

He died.

Lately, Mr. X started making this promise.

Promising me he will not leave me.

Without me provoking him.

Maybe he can promise not to break up with me.

Maybe he can promise not to decidedly not leave me.

But he cannot promise me he will never leave me.

He cannot promise he will never die.

Because one thing is for sure.

Everyone dies.

Everyone breaks that promise.

Everyone.

Overwhelmed

Maybe it is the fact my house feels untidy.

Maybe it is the fact I need to clean the fence.

Maybe it is the fact I need to powerwash the patio.

Maybe it is the fact I need to laundry.

And buy groceries.

And call an electrician.

And clean the gutters.

And call my health insurance people.

And read about ten chapters for school.

And work on a team project.

And find a new landscaper.

And pay some bills.

And take the cats to the vet.

And get ready for a 5K when my ankle still hurts.

And...

Top that with some grief bubbling up.

And all that leads to I am overwhelmed.

Very overwhelmed.

And I feel sort of trapped by it.

Like there is just so much to do and no way for me to get it all done.

Alone.

There is not anyone to really help me unless I ask them for help.

And yes, people will help me get caught up but then it will just happen again.

And yes, people offer all the time but I do not want to inconvenience them.

I still hate asking for favors.

I still hate feeling like I need help.

And I hate this feeling that I do not have my partner.

No one to truly help me get through all the "lovely" activities in maintaining a home and living life.

Someone to even vent to.

Or just pick up where I leave off.

And yes, Mr. X has offered but that is not fair to him either.

Why should he have to help me?

And a lot of people feel like their duty is off.

[Not everyone let me point out. I still have an amazing support system.]

I made it through a year.

So I must be okay now, right?

Wrong.

I am not "okay" yet.

I am not sure if I will ever be okay 100% of the time again.

At least not anytime soon.

It seems like lately I have done a lot more thinking.

Remembering stories.

Going back over the accident in my head.

I am not crying too much about it.

Just thinking.

Maybe because my birthday is coming up?

And I know there will not be a birthday present from Roger posthumously like last year.

And our first date anniversary is two weeks.

Ugh...

So here I am.

Being overwhelmed...

Very overwhelmed.

I Couldn't Help But...

... to feel my grief yesterday.

I know all of America lost yesterday.

I know all of America grieved yesterday.

But even eight years ago, I felt an ache for the widows and widowers on that day.

Yesterday, I felt it even more.

Yesterday, I thought about how those men and women must have felt to watch on television and not be able to do something as their spouses died.

As their spouse never returned home.

As they had to keep moving forward day in and day out.

And because of yesterday, my own grief was been a little more pronounced.

First, my anatomy class.

I knew this would happen eventually.

But I just did not think about it happening so soon.

My professor showed us a CT.

A CT of the brain.

He talked about how hematomas of the brain show up really well on CT.

How they are quick and cheap.

Ugh.

Yes, they do show the bruising and brain damage.

Yes, even I fucking saw it on the CT.

As I stared at the CT of the brain, I thought about Roger's.

How it looked.

How there was no space between the two hemispheres of his brain.

How there were no "wrinkles" on his brain.

How there was no space between his skull and his brain.

How completely fucked his brain was.

And as I passed the over two thousand flags stuck into a field of campus, I could not help but think about Roger.

How there are so many other women and men who also feel the same pain as me.

Young and recently married.

Then my physics professor said something that made tears want to fall.

"Every day is precious and every life is precious."

Ugh.

The tears did not fall thankfully.

So did not have to explain to the young naive girl sitting next to me why this simple thought resonated like a gong in my chest.

But it is so true.

I think about all the times I had to fight my job to keep my work and life balanced.

I remember how much I did enjoy having Roger in my life.

My prayer for everyone who has not suffered a loss like mine to remember.

Remember 9/11 if not for America or the war on terrorism but for the women and men like me.

The ones who lost their partners and their plans and their life as they knew it in an instant.

Remember that we only have this moment.

Just this one.

As America starts to get further and further from the actual 9/11 I hope people do not forget the ones who were left behind.

The ones who have to think about that day forever.

Please enjoy your loved ones.

Please remember life is short.

Life is unexpected.

And nothing is more important than family and friends.

Nothing.

I Couldn't Help But...

... to feel my grief yesterday.

I know all of America lost yesterday.

I know all of America grieved yesterday.

But even eight years ago, I felt an ache for the widows and widowers on that day.

Yesterday, I felt it even more.

Yesterday, I thought about how those men and women must have felt to watch on television and not be able to do something as their spouses died.

As their spouse never returned home.

As they had to keep moving forward day in and day out.

And because of yesterday, my own grief was been a little more pronounced.

First, my anatomy class.

I knew this would happen eventually.

But I just did not think about it happening so soon.

My professor showed us a CT.

A CT of the brain.

He talked about how hematomas of the brain show up really well on CT.

How they are quick and cheap.

Ugh.

Yes, they do show the bruising and brain damage.

Yes, even I fucking saw it on the CT.

As I stared at the CT of the brain, I thought about Roger's.

How it looked.

How there was no space between the two hemispheres of his brain.

How there were no "wrinkles" on his brain.

How there was no space between his skull and his brain.

How completely fucked his brain was.

And as I passed the over two thousand flags stuck into a field of campus, I could not help but think about Roger.

How there are so many other women and men who also feel the same pain as me.

Young and recently married.

Then my physics professor said something that made tears want to fall.

"Every day is precious and every life is precious."

Ugh.

The tears did not fall thankfully.

So did not have to explain to the young naive girl sitting next to me why this simple thought resonated like a gong in my chest.

But it is so true.

I think about all the times I had to fight my job to keep my work and life balanced.

I remember how much I did enjoy having Roger in my life.

My prayer for everyone who has not suffered a loss like mine to remember.

Remember 9/11 if not for America or the war on terrorism but for the women and men like me.

The ones who lost their partners and their plans and their life as they knew it in an instant.

Remember that we only have this moment.

Just this one.

As America starts to get further and further from the actual 9/11 I hope people do not forget the ones who were left behind.

The ones who have to think about that day forever.

Please enjoy your loved ones.

Please remember life is short.

Life is unexpected.

And nothing is more important than family and friends.

Nothing.

Happy Birthday Blog

Except I am two days late.

Or if I look at its conception, five months late.

But I really did not start blogging until last September.

When I realized I needed to journal.

When I realized I could not answer the many phone calls or emails about how I was doing.

I could not repeat that I felt like crap even one more time.

And I am ever so grateful for this blog.

It has helped heal me.

It has helped me meet fellow widows and widowers who support me always.

And it has helped my family and friends keep in touch with me.

My goal was to write every day.

I did not meet that goal.

Especially once I went back to school and especially in the last six weeks or so with traveling and school.

But I came pretty close.

And I am pretty proud of myself for not giving up on it.

For blogging on days even when I felt I had nothing to say.

Even though I always had more than just a few words to say.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for the comments.

Thank you for the emails.

Thank you for being there for me in all the ways strangers can be.

For this next year, I will try to keep blogging.

I will try to explain all the feelings that go along with this mysterious thing called grief.

I will try to explain all the feelings that go along with moving forward.

Because I believe nothing is better than first hand experience to help others.

And I do hope that in some small way I have helped others.

So here is to another year of this crazy ride.

Why Do I...

... cry at the drop of a hat.

Especially around Mr. X.

I know it is because I am comfortable around him.

He makes me feel safe.

[And maybe it is because sometimes he knows what I am thinking and when I am thinking.

It is quite scary.]

But yesterday I made a big decision.

I told Mr. X about it.

I had been venting to him about it for a few days.

And it is a decision that was stinging me as I made it.

And I did not cry about it till I was safe in bed and Mr. X told me it was okay to cry.

He told me how he was there to listen and he knew how much this decision was hurting me.

And so I did cry.

Almost instantly as he said it.

So I decided...

I am not going to Africa like I planned.

Like we planned.

Like Roger and I planned.

Like we had planned many, many things in our lives that got all fucked up.

The amount of things that have been fucked up just keeps going.

First and mostly, like 90%, it is a money thing.

Last week I spent almost $1,000 on car repairs.

I must have a car so I had to spend the money.

Not to mention how much money I have already spent this year traveling.

Sometimes planned travel.

Sometimes not so planned travel.

But there is a dark second reason as well.

I am stubborn.

I am very stubborn.

Someone tells me I cannot do something and it makes me even more determined to do it.

Even more so, when things or events try to interrupt my plans, it makes me more determined to keep to the plan.

Just keep to the plan. [Although, I am working on this character trait/flaw.]

I still wanted to go to Africa because that was the plan.

Because I am stubborn and that was the plan and that is what I was going to do.

Stupid death was going to stop me?

Losing my husband was going to stop me?

Losing my traveling partner was going to stop me?

Losing my income was going to stop me?

No way.

Not me.

Not this girl.

Nothing was going to stand in my way.

But this is not exactly the Africa trip we were planning.

This was a "revenge on death" trip to Africa.

This was a "revenge on life giving me shit" trip to Africa.

This was a "I can do anything and nothing will stop me" trip to Africa.

But that is not how I want to do this.

I want an African trip to be about seeing another continent.

About visiting my wonderful friend Andrea and her fantastic kids.

About seeing unusual cultures and animals.

And if I am completely honest with myself, I do not want to travel almost half way across the world alone.

A trip like Africa is meant to be shared.

So I will go to Africa.

I will go loads of places.

I will meet lots of people.

I will make my mark on the world.

But I will do it in the right time in the right mindset and in the right way.

I know Roger would agree with me.

Especially when it comes to budgeting.

He was so great at saving.

So I will save my money.

The money his death provided for me.

And I will clear my head.

And I will go to Africa someday.

I will touch a lion.

I will see African villages.

And unfortunately, I will still cry.

But...

I will give myself a break.

I will let myself be less stubborn.

I will let myself be less on a plan.

I will love me.

I will love my life.

Because that is what Roger taught me.

Save my money, live my life, and not be so planned.

The Virtual World

The other day I found this article about the virtual world.

And what happens to our virtual lives after we die.

Or really what does not happen to our virtual lives after we die.

Roger was always online.

But usually just on email and IM.

It was a nice part of our relationship actually.

I still cherish the emails and IMs.

Roger never had a facebook.

And he only had myspace after I finally convinced him to join.

He was excited about it for about a month.

Then he was bored with it.

He barely updated it.

I had to remind him to update his relationship status after we were engaged and then after we were married.

I was able to break into his main email account.

Which I plan to keep for a while.

And his myspace.

But not his AOL email.

And now a year after his death, I am not sure what to do about the myspace.

Sometimes I log into it.

Look at his wall.

See if anyone has sent him a message.

But now...

It has been over a year.

What do I do with it now?

Do I keep it up?

For how long?

A part of me thinks it might be creepy for others to still be his online friend.

I know I feel weird when I have to forward something from his email to mine.

But then it feels so final for me to take it down.

So much like the last step.

Like he is really really gone.

And then part of me feels like what if someone wants to know.

Some ex-girlfriend or high school classmate.

It gives me a way to explain to them.

A way without having to actually talk to them.

Or say the actual words.

But I know, if I am honest with myself, it is really the first reason.

It is the finality.

It is the closing of a part of him.

A part of his life.

He still exists on some level if he is on myspace.

His virtual life.

When does he die virtually?

The Tiger

Roger had two tattoos.

One on each of his upper arms.

One was a lion.

One was a tiger.

Roger was a leo astrology-wise and loved big cats.

The lion tattoo was really cool.

It was his first one.

The detail was amazing.

The tiger one was okay.

Not great.

The detail was blah.

The color was starting to fade.

Now, Roger and I saw a lot of movies together.

We lived fairly close and I have always enjoyed going to the movie theatre.

And in late 2007/early 2008, we saw the preview for "10000 BC".

For a few short seconds, we saw the face of a sabertooth tiger.

Roger shot me a look.

"What?" I whispered.

"I like that!"

The next morning Roger explained that he wanted to modify his tiger tattoo.

"To?"

"I want it to look more like that sabertooth tiger."

"Okay. Whatever you want dear."

So he found the image he liked and I found a black sharpie marker.

We marked up his arm in how the existing tiger could be made into this new cooler tiger.

Roger was excited.

He put his shirt back on.

Side note:

Roger and I had an agreement before our honeymoon.

A bit of a compromise.

Roger wanted us to get a tetanus shot in case of injury in St. Lucia.

And I wanted us to get a flu shot before the wedding.

So I got my tetanus shot.

And...

Later this day, Roger and I were on our way out to run some errands.

We passed the minute clinic at our local CVS.

"Hey, we should go get your flu shot," I suggested.

"Okay."

We happily trotted into the CVS.

Headed toward the back.

We sat down into the waiting area to be seen.

I went into the exam room with Roger.

Roger explained our compromise to the nurse.

She smiled at us and our excitement about our wedding and honeymoon.

The nurse raised Roger's sleeve.

She gave us a strange look.

She started to smile and tried not to laugh.

I started to laugh.

It hit me why she was smiling.

There still on his upper arm where my black markings making his existing tattoo into a sabertooth tiger.

She did not say much but I could see Roger's silly mischievous smile appear.

I wonder what that nurse thought of us.

I wonder what she thought of this strange couple.

Roger and I laughed in the car at ourselves.

The tiger never had the chance to be modified...

Unmarriedness

My fellow widow blogger, Supa, recently wrote an entry about some of the issues about suddenly being unmarried and a parent.

One day I was married.

The next day I was unmarried.

I was not a parent.

We did not really have a chance to even take on that adventure.

And most days I am okay if not slightly relieved at that fact.

Other days I am sad that I do not have any DNA evidence that Roger ever existed in my life.

No one to look up at me and for me to see Roger staring back at me.

People used to ask me if I felt different after we got married.

And my answer was always an enthusiastic yes.

I definitely felt different.

Even though we lived together before marriage, I felt very different.

I felt like I had a teammate.

I could relax because I was not alone.

Someone who had made a vow to always be that teammate (death do us part).

As someone who is a very independent person, I finally had someone I could truly depend on.

Not that I did not feel like Roger was not my teammate before we were married.

But until that ring was on his finger, he could have walked away.

He could have said "Sorry, can't do this" on a piece of paper and left me [and this did happen to me in a previous relationship and I wonder why I have issues].

But once we were married, I could relax.

He really was going to be there for me.

He wore prove on his left finger.

He made a promise.

Now that promise sits in a wooden box.

And nothing reminds me of my unmarriedness more than house maintenance, home projects, or car troubles.

And on the first day of a new month, the month I have been living for the past four and a half weeks, I was deeply reminded that I am no longer married.

No longer part of a team.

Stupid car troubles.

My car has been very reliable for the past four years.

I have wholeheartedly recommended this car to many people.

And I still do really (at least until I see the bill for these repairs).

But yesterday when the heat gauge started to go into no man's land, I started to panic.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Not now.

Not today.

Not to me.

A phone call to the dealership even furthered my isolation from Roger.

"You should tow it in immediately."

"I have class tomorrow. I do not have any other car or way to get around."

What I was thinking and wanted to say: "If my husband was still alive, he could help me but since he is dead I cannot just do things like this. I have to work out all kinds of logistics to get this done. And I am jobless at the moment."

I lost my teammate.

I lost my male counterpart who knows what to do in these kinds of situations.

I lost my husband.

Now, not to discount Mr. X at all.

He has been great with the whole car situation.

But it is not the same.

He is going to tote me around the next couple of days and has been checking up on me when I go from point A to point B.

He knows a bit about cars so he has given me a few tips.

But it is not the same.

It is so not the same.

I cannot really explain how it is different between a dedicated boyfriend and a husband, but it is.

It just is.

Maybe it is Mr. X does not have to do this things.

He is doing things, which is great and I am grateful.

I really am.

And not that husbands have to do whatever their wives want but there is a bit of obligation to help out the wife.

To take care of her and she to take care of him.

There is a priority given to the wife.

There is not really a priority to a girlfriend.

I actually feel guilty having Mr. X help me so much.

For taking time to help me and give up some of his own time.

So as I stressed about this stupid car trouble last night, I started to cry (and now unfortunately).

Why did Roger have to leave me alone?

Just as I was getting used to not being alone.

To not being so independent.

And to actually letting someone else help me without feeling guilty, he left.

My unmarriedness is amplified in times like this.

Like when a raccoon started invading my yard (and still does).

Like when I had to learn how to use a drill.

Like when I had to get my tires rotated myself the first time.

Like when I have to budget money.

Like when I have to make decisions about a landscaper.

And there is not a damn thing I can do about it.

Like Supa said in her post, I did not choose this.

I am not a divorcee (thankfully).

I am a widow.

Single because of someone else's choices.

Unmarried.

Finally...

Finally, finally, finally.

I can feel a little bit lighter.

It is September.

Thank God! Thank God! Thank God!

It is September.

I made it to September.

But like most people know, the grief does not end now.

There is still no grief cure.

I still find myself sad at moments.

I still find myself remembering random stories and random memories.

Still sitting in disbelief.

Still sitting on the side of the road waiting for the ambulance.

The year has changed me.

The year has left me different.

More patient in some ways.

More accepting myself in some ways.

And life keeps moving forward.

Tugging me along.

One part of me looking back.

One part of me looking forward.