Almost

Saturday night my heart almost stopped.
Mr. X and I were on our way to a friend's house to watch one of the Harry Potter movies.
We were on "the" road in a loaner car.
We had just passed the accident scene about five minutes before.
As we approached an on-ramp I saw quite a few cars needing to get onto the highway.
So I did what drivers are supposed to do.
I signaled.
I got into the left lane.

The SUV in the right lane just ahead of me decided to get into my lane.
No signal.
No looking.
Just over.
He was about a foot away from the passenger side door.
The side Mr. X was sitting.
I started honking my horn.
The driver started swerving all over the road.
I was torn between hitting my brakes even though there was a mini-van behind me.
Or driving off the side of the road.
Would I go across the median if I went off the road?
I had to slow down though or we were going to hit the SUV.
The van behind me thankfully saw the situation.
The driver went almost off the road as he saw my brake lights.
The SUV got back into the right lane.
And I tried to make sure not to lose control of the wheel.

It was all over in a matter of seconds.
No car hit another.
No one got hurt.
No one died.
But my heart was seriously racing.
In my mind, I could hear the crashing noise.
That unmistakable sound of metal bending and clashing.
And I was scared of losing Mr. X.

Mr. X offered to drive since I was shaken up.
He told me how well I did making quick decisions and handling the car.
Of course I did not take him up on the offer to drive.
No, I am strong.
I can do this.
But I used the excuse the car is a loaner.

I got away from the SUV as quickly as I could.
Unsafe drivers annoy me so much.
There is no way he looked before coming into my lane.
And no signal for a lane change on a major highway?!?

Please be aware when driving.
Please do not text and drive.
Be ten times more careful when you have other passengers in the car.
And obviously, do not drink and drive.
A car is such a heavy piece of equipment and can easily injure/kill others.

Trading Up

I adore MINI.
I got my first one in July 2005.  I had just moved back to Orlando and needed a car.
I had fallen in love with MINI back in 2000 when a friend and I snuck a peek at them after hours.
So in 2005, I drove off the lot in my first brand new car.
The sales team was awesome.
And in the last almost six years, I have had only a few problems here and there.
Nothing too bad.
Nothing like I see other car owners dealing with.
I highly recommend any MINI to anyone.
I always talk about them with a smile.

The only thing I did not like about my MINI Cooper S was the fact it only had two doors.
And then in September.
My oh my.
MINI heard my wishes and created a four door car.
I was excited.
Finally I could keep my MINI and have four doors.

I talked to my financial advisor back in December.

He gave me the green light.

But then I was scared.
In January, I was introduced to MINI Countryman.
And I fell in love.
But thought I better wait.

Then last night I dreamt about buying a new car.
This morning as I walked into the garage my car would not start.
I was honestly stunned.
I have never had any issues of my car not starting.
It has been such a dependable car.
I was not even sure what to do.
Where is the battery anyway?
Oh, in the luggage compartment by the way.
My battery lasted double the amount of time they normally do.

Mr. X followed me to the dealership since it is a specialized battery that only the dealership sells.
I trotted over to look at the new cars.
Mr. X laughed at me.
And after thinking about it, I decided to go ahead and buy a new car.
I worked the deal.
And then needed to come home to get the title of the Cooper S and a check.

On the way back to the dealership, I started to cry.
This small piece of my life has been constant for almost six years.
Before Roger.
Before being a bride.
Before being a homeowner.
Before being a wife.
Before being a widow.
And of course after all that.

Yes, it is a car.
Metal and plastic.
But it was there for me.
Without fail.
On my first meeting with Roger.
On our first date.
On our road trip to Virginia.
On our wedding day.
Even when I brought Roger home with me from the funeral home.
I loved that car.
I still love that car.
And I hope someone else loves her too.
She's awesome and she is dependable.
She will take them places they never dreamed.
And keep them safe.
And help them heal.

Under Construction

Two days a week I have internship.
I chose this school on purpose but I did not think through the commute too well.
Roger's old house is off the same exit.
The crash site.
Yeah, it is on the commute as well.

I wrote about a long time ago about how the government put a sign up for me in his memory.
Strangely it was really far off the road.
I always wondered why.
People could not even see it was there.
It was upsetting.
I wanted it to remind not just me of the accident but also the other driver.

However, recently I think I may know why.
The road is starting to undergo construction.
So perhaps it will be closer to the road.

Because of all the construction, they have put up temporary barriers.
Part of me gets angry at those barriers.
Why could they not have been there two years ago?!
I have these visions of how different that morning would have been.
Perhaps we would have seen a SUV hitting the barrier.
But it would not have affected me.
It would not have affected Roger.  

But there were no barriers that morning.
Nothing to stop the destruction.

The Greatest Fear

During my freshman year of college, the university had a big campaign against rape.

They told us how one out of four girls would be raped before Thanksgiving break.

And most likely by someone they knew.

I was scared.

It was my greatest fear.

It was easily a possibility.

I had mace on my key chain.

I did not walk the mile to my car at night alone.

When going out with guy friends, I made sure to keep my wits about me.

I used the buddy system with my roommate.

The fear carried through with me.

I check my car before I get in it.

When I am alone at night, I keep my eyes and ears alert.

I notice people around me.

If someone looks creepy, I try to describe what they look like in my head.

And thankfully, knock on wood, I have not been raped.

But no one told me nor did I really think it was plausible that I would become a widow.

That Roger and I would not make it to our first wedding anniversary because of death.

No warning speech by wedding officials.

No precautions to take.

No what to do if steps.  

Because it does not happen.

Widows are old.

Widows have adult children.

There are not many things that cause me fear.

Fear does not take over as an emotion for me.

But the morning of the accident, the fear was tangible. 

My heart was sinking.

I was praying.

Fear was so intense.  

Now I have still have a fear of rape but I have a new greatest fear.

I fear that I will have to deal with widow-ness again.

I fear more absolutely terrible unfair things may happen to me in my life.  

I fear losing friends in car accidents or freak events.  

I try to push down the fears out of my consciousness.

But it is still there. 

Still there. 

No Bananas

On Friday morning, Mr. X and I started out on a road trip together.
I am not sure what I was thinking when I planned this trip.
A Friday morning.
In August.
Muggy humid August.
Slightly early in the morning.
Near the death anniversary.

The eeriness started early.
My stomach started to turn.
Mr. X told me he had put some bananas near my purse to eat in the car.

My excitement started to melt away.
Panic set in.  My smile disappeared.
Mr. X asked me what was wrong.
"No bananas in the car please."
"Why?"
"Just because."
"Because why? You hate the smell?  We can't throw away the peel right away? What?"
It took me a few minutes but I simply stated "Too similar."

Two years ago, I ate my banana in the car about fifteen minutes before the accident.
Roger never got to eat his banana.  It was in my bag.
I did not want Mr. X to miss his.

The similarities of the day kept going.
Getting the cats ready.
Division of chores.
Mr. X packing the car.
Mr. X driving.
Making fun of my music.
Cars getting close.

I had to remind myself of the differences.
We were not flying.
We were not driving the same roads.
We were not going to the same destination.
Mr. X is not Roger.  

Sigh... fifteen more days of August.

The Road

Way back I loved that road.
Before the accident.
Before it was my dreaded long everyday route to work.

I loved its gentle (Florida) hills.
I loved the 70 mph speed limit that I could do slightly higher on.
I loved the slight curves of the road.

The wildlife I would encounter is amazing.
Eagles soar above it.
The road crosses Lake Jessup so alligators swim below it.
And next to it.
As the sun comes up is just gorgeous.
Nests of these hawks sit on top of light poles.

The maintained landscaping and the natural Florida flora are beautiful.
Sand pines and long leaf pines.
Forget me nots.
Tall palm trees.
Short sebal palms.

It was a relaxing drive for me.
Especially while living on this side of Orlando.
It was a main mode of transportation at certain points of my life.
And I loved it.

But that changed after I had to drive more than half its length to get to a job I detested.
And after one of the worst weeks of my life, I hated the road down to the gravel.
I hated to be on it.
I hated to drive on it.
I hated to even think of it.

This past Friday night I was driving back from a friend's house.
Who happens to live off this road.
It was late.
My drive home included about about twenty minutes on this road.
Across the lake.
Up the gentle hills.
Around the curves.
Not many people were on the road.
I was playing a mix CD I made for myself.
The volume was way up.
And an old feeling started to find its way into my consciousness.
I found myself loving this road.
Enjoying the road.
Again.

Fear

Recently I have been scared.
Actually, I guess more like paranoid.

As the weather has warmed up, and summer is officially here.
As August creeps closer.
I keep thinking someone is going to die.
Someone I love.
Someone I care about.
Someone close to me.

And not in a normal way.
In a car accident specifically.
There is blood usually.

I do not feel paralyzed by this fear but if someone is late.
Or I do not hear from a friend.
It is my first thought.
They are dead.

I am especially scared of Mr. X dying again.
Ugh...

Our First Trip

Travel is super important to me.
I love to travel and explore new places and new cultures.
I have not been able to do it as much recently but I do love it.
Love. It.

I knew one thing Mr. X and I would have to do together before moving onto the next step of our relationship was... travel together.
I am picky about my traveling partners.
In the past, I traveled a lot alone just to avoid a traveling partner and related issues.
Paris. Sydney. London. San Diego.
I like to do what I like to do on a trip.
When in a serious relationship, traveling together can make it or break it for me.
So this was an important step.

My nerves and PTSD started to rear its head.
A trip.
A highway to the airport.
In a car.
Just like the trip to the airport with my mother, I was super anxious.
However I was in the driver seat.
And I thought maybe the situation would be reversed.
I had visions of me bleeding from the head and Mr. X looking at me from the side of the car.
But we arrived at the airport safe and sound.

We flew together.
We had fun together on the plane.
We were a team.

The weekend went well.
No other PTSD effects.
No fighting.
Lovely traveling together.
A good travel partner indeed.

Frightened

Yesterday morning, my mother left my house after a visit.
Her flight left at 6:30am.

I woke up at 4:45am.
I grabbed some clothes.
Roger's old workout pants.
Roger's UCF t-shirt.
As I went to put on some shoes, the first pair was the same ones I had on that day.
I could not even put one toe in.

We needed to leave about 5:00am.
It was humid and warm.
Kevin drove.
I was in the passenger seat, again.
I had my entire purse.
Strapped into the seatbelt with me.
I kept my flip-flops on.
My hands clasped tightly together.

I scanned the road intensely.
I watched for any wild animals that may jump into the road.
Watched for cars coming the opposite direction.
Watched the cars behind me.

We came upon an accident.
Some stupid drunk asshole who lost control of their car drove off the side of the road.
Fire trucks and an ambulance were cleaning up the mess.

We got to our first turn.
A car behind us sped through a completely red light.
Not a yellow light.
Not a red light that just turned red.
A red light.
Do people really just drive like this?
With no regard for others?

I could not talk.
Things were too similar.
I was so frightened.
Frightened by the possibilities.
Frightened by the stupidity of others.
Frightened by laws that do not protect me.
Frightened by the corruption of the world.

Another Holiday Blow...

Since I decided to spend Christmas Day here in Orlando, I wanted to go to Miami today.
I had a plan.
I was excited to see my Miami family.

But first I did not sleep well last night.
Lots of odd dreams.
So my plan was delayed.
I slept in about two hours.

Last week, when my car was in for service, they told me I needed new tires.
And a brake flush.
And some other weird thing done.
But nothing was very urgent.
Cool.

Instead of paying the high dealership price, I decided to go to another popular auto service place near the mall.
I called them first.
I asked if they had my tires.
Yep.
For $400 cheaper.
Perfect.
I planned to go this morning.
Before my trip to Miami.

So after I woke up from crappy sleep, I made my way to the mall.
I walked in ready to hand over my keys for a couple of hours.
I planned on seeing a movie.
Relaxing before the four hour drive.

Then the stupid day went south.
They do not carry my tires.
They cannot order my tires.
They cannot do the weird thing I need done without buying the parts from the dealership.
And they do not think I should drive to Miami on those tires.
Crapola!!

So I came back home.
Unpacked my car.
Unpacked my bag.
And cried.

It is just not fair.
And I so do not do well when plans like this change.
So now I am alone.
Day after Christmas and I am alone.

August 22, 2008

It is about 6:00 am.

It is still slightly dark.

The paramedics arrived a few minutes ago.

They divided up and people are working on Roger.

But he is stuck in the car.

I wish they would just concentrate on him and leave me till later.

But later I find out that I am in a semi-serious condition as well.

Since my neck was hurting and I can barely move it, the paramedics put me in a neck brace.

And on a wooden backboard.

Shards of glass are still in my mouth.

And in my hair.

And all over my body.

The combination of the board, my head, and the glass on the back of my head is pressing into my scalp. I am trying to wiggle just a little to be more comfortable.

But of course the paramedics keep telling me to stop moving.

It is raining.

The rain is getting into my eyes.

It is also wetting my hair.

I can smell the relaxer chemical from the night before.

I am crying.

I want to know about Roger but no one will say anything.

Michelle, the paramedic assigned to me, tells me I have been in a serious accident.

As they start to lift me, they start to lose their grip.

They almost drop me.

The board is wet now and I am heavy.

I try to not think about falling off the board.

And into the ground.

They finally get me onto the stretcher.

And into the ambulance.

My left arm is hurting and bleeding.

My right knee is hurting.

I think I broke both.

But I cannot see them.

I am starting to hyperventilate.

My blood pressure is high.

Michelle is trying to calm me.

She is rubbing my head just slightly.

The ride is really bumpy.

I hope cars are moving out of the way.

Michelle tells me that she has to cut off my clothes.

I am upset.

I love these jeans.

I just bought this shirt.

And it is a Victoria Secret bra.

She leaves on my underwear.

I have been in a serious accident...

Flooded, Part 2

I have driven alone to Miami quite a bit now.

Only once or twice before his death and now it is becoming a regular thing.

But there are still a lot of memories attached to the many trips down the turnpike with Roger.

And almost every time I do it, especially when alone, I cannot help but have memories flood me.

The first time I came with Roger was for his sister's birthday get together.

I was meeting his family for the first time too.

At least a preview of his family.

I met his mom and sister.

Some cousins.

A few aunts and uncles.

It was also the first time Roger told me he loved me.

As we pulled into his mom's driveway.

We had been fighting.

I was annoyed.

And I was annoyed that I was annoyed before meeting his family.

So he turned to me and said something he had said to me a hundred times before to make me smile: "You know I like you" in his sweet please-forgive-me voice.

I gave him the you-have-got-to-be-kidding-if-you-think-that-will-work-now look.

He tried again.

"You know I love you."

I smiled.

I had to smile.

I had told those three little words to him four months previously but insisted that he could not say it back to me just because.

But it had to be in the right moment.

That was the right moment.

Another time we hit a huge raccoon on the way down.

I was horrified.

It cost us $2500 in damage to the car upon our return.

Plus the cost of duct tape to make it the rest of the way down.

There were many pit stops along the way.

Usually at Fort Pierce, the half way point.

We would get snacks and something to drink.

Stretch our legs.

And once we got 50 brochures for various tourist attractions for our wedding guests' out of town bags.

It was a game to get the correct amount without looking like we were hoarders and without actually standing there counting.

Although we did return those that were over the fifty mark.

To be nice of course.

Another time we were coming back to Orlando on the turnpike.

Roger had eaten at one of his cousin's house right before we left.

Roger did not eat pork.

His cousins' food was flavored with pork.

We stopped at each service plaza along the way.

About every forty to sixty miles for the entire two hundred and fifty miles back home.

Not to mention some gas stations and pharmacies before and after getting on the turnpike.

I could not help and giggle each time we stopped.

"Again?"

"Umm, yeah. I gotta go."

Followed up with a "I feel better now" comment.

Roger also liked to talk on these trips.

And he would blame me for missing his exit or getting lost.

"Was that 869?"

"I dunno."

"Dammit, you made me miss it."

"How? By listening to you?"

"Yeah" as he would smile.

The times I did not come with him, he would call me.

We would talk for hours.

And sometimes a fight on the phone would lead to me not talking to him for hours.

Memories.

Lots and lots of memories.

It is weird to make this drive alone.

Flooded.

Movement

[On Friday morning], right after the accident, the police would not even tell me if Roger was breathing.

The refusal to answer me was terrifying.

Were they not telling me because they knew it was bad?

The answer was yes I discovered later.

He was barely breathing.

They noted on the police report as "possible fatality".

Even later I found out they had reported it as such even on the news.

The first time I learned anything about Roger's prognosis officially was a few hours after the accident.

After the public.

The trauma surgeon was blunt.

He told me it was not good.

He read off a list of injuries that I cannot even remember in totality.

But it was bad nonetheless.

Worse than I imagined.

My hope was sinking.

I wailed.

I begged for his wedding band.

I needed it.

I needed it right away.

The resident attending to my arm went to find more answers.

The computer system was down.

It was hard for her to get more information for me.

She looked at his CT scans.

She came back with a little hope.

Enough to feed me something.

I was able to breathe again for a few moments.

I was able to find some humor.

Just a little hope.

Later that day, maybe minutes from then or maybe hours I am not sure, I saw him for the first time.

He was so swollen.

He looked as though he had gained fifty pounds.

I gasped.

His skin was tight.

His hands were cold.

I knew it was not good.

But then later that day, I noticed he was moving a bit.

At first, I thought it was my imagination.

I was seeing what I wanted to see.

What I needed to see.

On Saturday morning, the movement was a little more.

He was moving his right shoulder just a bit.

Raising it up a few centimeters.

More hope.

On Sunday, someone else saw it.

Without me pointing it out.

More hope.

I was reading more and more about brain injury.

More about how people had recovered.

How they went on to lead mostly normal lives.

People who had been in car accidents.

People who had been in comas.

More hope.

The doctors wanted to fix his humerus on Monday.

As his wife of only six months, I had to sign consent forms.

I had to sign I knew the risks of surgery.

I had to talk to the surgeons.

But they were doing surgery.

Roger was stable enough to go through surgery.

Grace went back to Miami to take care of some things.

Everything was looking up.

Roger was strong.

More hope.

Monday morning.

The surgery went okay.

The orthopedic surgeon had done his best.

It was the worst break of the head of the humerus he had ever seen.

It was in a million little pieces.

Roger would need a hip replacement and one every fifteen years for the rest of his life.

He would never run.

He would never do martial arts again.

He had also fixed his elbow.

There was a plate in his arm.

Roger would never be able to lift more than ten pounds with that arm.

But the surgeon said it had to mean something that we were standing in the hall talking about this surgery.

Post op.

A little more hope of his survival.

A little less hope of his quality of life.

But later on Monday, the movement stopped.

He was not in any pain despite the surgeries.

He was not pulling away when his finger was pricked for testing his blood sugar.

His shoulder was not moving.

His hand was not griping mine.

Less hope.

I wept.

My body was heavier.

I noticed the difference in Roger.

Something was wrong.

I barely slept.

Tuesday morning, the neurologist insisted on seeing me.

He had talked to me via phone every other day.

This day he wanted to see me.

In person.

The CT was bad.

Roger was in a vegetative state.

Roger would always be in a vegetative state.

My husband was gone.

Hope was dead.

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.

How Am I Doing?

So as I approach the next big day, Roger's burial, I am being asked "How are you doing?"

Sigh...

How am I doing?

Man, I wish I knew a simple one word answer to that.

I am weepy again.

I cry randomly.

I cry at things that do not require tears.

I cry more than appropriate at things.

Memories are flooding my memory.

Roger is constantly on my mind.

Almost every guy I talk about is now named Roger in any stories I tell.

The replay of the accident is strong again.

The images.

The feelings.

The questions of why and how.

The analyzing of the scene.

The anger of the driver.

Does he realize what this weekend is?

Does he even care?

And then there is a sense of dread.

Followed by a sense of "let's just get this done."

I want this month over.

I want the burial to be over.

I just want to be done.

Can I just fast forward through the part where I watch them place dirt on my husband's ashes?

The thinking.

The wondering of was Roger a dream?

The wondering of is this a really bad nightmare?

The thoughts of fate.

The thoughts of God's plan.

I still have such an amazing support system.

I have lots of friends keeping me in their prayers.

In their thoughts.

And I sincerely appreciate it.

Do not stop now.

So I do not know how I am really doing.

I am keeping myself busy.

I have traveled every weekend this month.

I am seeing movies each week.

I am reading.

I am volunteering.

I am working on projects around the house.

I am cooking.

I ask for positive vibes for this weekend.

Anything.

Thanks.

P is for Paranoia

Paranoia is part of the widow condition.

If widowhood was a disease, it would be listed as one of the symptoms.

I can see the infomercial now.

"Do you have lack of appetite, insomnia, loneliness, depression, and paranoia?..."

My paranoia has definitely lessened in the last eleven months.

I can sleep if I forget to set the house alarm.

I do not think everyone is out to get me (as much).

I do not everything is going to die all the time (as much).

But... this morning, I felt some paranoia coming on.

I am trying to fight it.

I am trying to remind myself that most things are going to be fine.

I am going to be fine.

Everything is going to be fine.

Relax, Star. Relax.

This morning Mr. X went on to a family reunion out of town.

The first bout of paranoia came this morning as I took him to the airport to drop him off.

Same damn road. Different direction. Different airport.

But still. Driving in a car going to the airport.

With a guy I care about.

The road does not have barriers in all sections of the road.

So people can still cross the median going 65mph.

But I was driving. Not him.

This is not the same situation I kept reminding myself.

The chances are slim.

I have driven on this road many times when nothing happened.

And of course, nothing happened this morning unusual.

The second bout of paranoia is just the whole flying thing.

On a plane.

Yes planes do not crash very often.

Planes are much safer than cars.

I am sure everything will be fine.

Everything will be fine.

I will be fine.

Then there is just general paranoia about him being safe.

From cars.

From freak accidents.

From bugs.

From weird things.

And there would be no way for me to help him. [Yes, I am a bit of a control freak.]

Would someone remember to call me?

And this is the less paranoia than before.

This is my paranoia waning.

I know it will continue to wane.

And I know there is nothing I can do if something happens to him.

But I cannot help but be slightly scared.

Scared that I like him a lot and I do not want anything to happen to him.

Scared I will lose him like I did Roger.

Suddenly.

From a freak moment.

Please please please do not let him die.

Please please let my paranoia continue to fade.

The Jeep

This entry has been rolling around in my head for months. 

Pun somewhat intended.   

And for some reason, I have not been able to get it out of my head and into words.  

At least not adequate words.  

Back years before me, Roger bought a Jeep Wrangler when he got a bonus at work back in 2001. 

He loved that Jeep.  It was one of his dream cars.

It was a lovely shade of dark blue with a soft top.  

He loved the way girls flirted with him while he was driving around.

"the girls... were totally checking me out" he says in the journal I found after he died.

He enjoyed making out with dates up against that Jeep too.  

"It was cool leaning up against the Jeep and having her in front of me...mmmm"

Before Roger and I started officially dating, I remember being impressed by the Jeep.

It was a sexy car.

I had previously dated a guy who had a Jeep.

I knew the appeal.

On our first weekend away together, Roger was going to be attending a kickboxing class.  

I went along to enjoy the time away.  

During the day he would be at class and I would relax hanging around Cape Coral.

As we were driving to the hotel, Roger tells me that he will be leaving me his precious Jeep during the day.

"What?! I do not want to drive your car.  I have never driven your car.  I do not know how to drive the Jeep."

"It will be fine.  I trust you."

It was crazy to be trusted with his Jeep.

The thing he loved.

After Roger and I got engaged, we picked out my ring together.

Since I had proposed to him, he did not have a ring for me already.  

This was always the way he wanted to do things anyway although I wanted to be surprised.

So he got his way.

Lovely compromise.

About a week after I was wearing the ring, Roger shocked me.

He told me something drastic.

He wanted to sell his Jeep.

The Jeep he loved so much.

His dream car.

I was touched.

I was in shock.

I could not believe he would do that for me.

The Jeep of all things.

I cried.

I did not want to be that girl.

The girl who insisted on the guy changing his core person for her.

I did not want it to seem that was why he sold the Jeep.

But he said he wanted to sell it.  

It was not necessary anymore.  

He had his dream girl.

Double Punch

First punch of the day:

This week has been absolutely awful as far as the weather goes.

It has been raining all day everyday since Monday.  

Which is a lot like a very eventful week last August. 

The week of the accident.

That week, Tropical Storm Fay was coming back and forth across Florida.  

I called it a baby hurricane.

Roger told me I was crazy and it was nothing like a hurricane.

"People don't die from tropical storms."

Ha, yeah right.  People sure as hell do die from tropical storms aka baby hurricanes.  

Specifically Roger.  

Specifically when combined with stupid asshole drivers and a baby hurricane.

That week I called in to work one morning after listening how the rain and wind were going to be picking up.

I heard on the radio that Tuesday morning: "Do not leave your home unless absolutely necessary."

As much as I would have loved to believe that I was absolutely necessary in order for my job to get done and the world to revolve, I knew my work was not any where truly close to be indispensable. (Which now I am positive since they have been going on quite okay without me.)

So I turned around and went home.

I took a vacation day instead.

In hindsight, I am grateful.  Yes, Roger was working from home but we were still home together. 

And my company sent everyone home at lunch.

All that week there was flooding in our neighborhood.  

Rain was falling in sheets much like now.  

Thursday night, it took me an extra forty-five minutes to get home.

I tried to complain about how hard it was to get home for me.

As Roger stood in front of me soaked, I tried to say my way home was super worse.

He had run some errands before our impending trip.  

He had to get cat food in the rain.

He had to visit the renters and the leaky house in the rain.

He had to get gas in the rain.

Fine, he had a harder time getting home.  

Yes dear, you were right.  I was wrong.

Driving in this weather always makes me a little anxious.  Especially on similar or the same roads.

I look to see if anyone is coming across the median.

If water is coming away from their tires (like I can actually see that...).

If anyone gets too close to my car.

If anyone looks like they are about to hydroplane.  

And I just cannot help think about the similarities.  

Second punch:

While driving in this rain, I needed to follow up with my doctor.

General check up on my arm, my bruises, my mental health, appetite, sleeping, etc.

As I sat in the exam room, I thought about the first visit I came there.

It was about a month from the wedding.

Roger and I made a deal before the wedding.

I would get a tetanus shot and he would get a flu shot.

I remember telling my doctor about that.

In that same room.  

Telling him about our upcoming wedding and honeymoon.  

I was so excited.

About the wedding/honeymoon.  Not the tetanus shot.

But a deal is a deal.  

My arm looks great per my doctor.  

The streak coming away from the scar is the nerves healing.

My bruises will always have those weird bumps aka scar tissue in them.

He gave me some photography equipment advice since he also has this hobby.  

Then I talked to him about my upcoming trip in December to Africa.  

And as I was reviewing the CDC recommendations with him, I read an interesting line that stung a bit like a bee.

And made me gasp.

"Car crashes are a leading cause of injury among travelers. Protect yourself from these injuries..."

Yeah, car crashes are not my best friend.  

So I may not die from malaria, hepatitis A, or typhoid but a car crash.  

Is there a vaccine against car crashes?  

Because that is the one I want.

For me and for everyone I know.  

For some reason, I always cry around my doctor.

I guess it is a sign that I feel comfortable and safe there.

He is such a caring doctor and he just lets me talk.

Sigh...

"There is only one reason for those signs...

... and for that I am very sorry."

On Monday, the highway memorial marker (aka "Drive Safely" sign) that I wrote about previously was placed.
I am glad it is there.
I really am.
Despite how much it hurts to look at it, I am glad it is there.

Today I went to visit the sign.
I wanted to see it.
I wanted to touch it.
I had to see it.
I had to touch it.
I had to make sure it was real.
I needed more physical evidence that it really happened.
It all really happened.
That I am not dreaming.

I saw it very briefly Monday afternoon but I could not stop due to traffic.
So I went today after school.
Of course, I could not see it at first so I just parked the car on the side of the highway where I kind of thought I saw it yesterday.
Probably about half a mile from the actual accident scene.
A highway patrol officer saw my car and saw me walking so he pulled over to talk to me.
He asked if my car was broken down.
"Hi. No, I am just trying to find my husband's sign. They placed it yesterday."
(And I completely forgot to refer to him as "sir.")
"What sign?"
"The 'Drive Safely' sign."
"Oh. (pause) There is only one reason for those signs and for that I am very sorry."
He told me to be careful as I looked for it and drove off.

As he pulled back onto the highway, I could tell exactly where it was.
I saw his brake lights come on as he passed it.
Then I saw it.
I ran toward it. I had to get there fast.
I wanted to run my hands over his name.

And I did.
And then I just stood there.
Tears started to fall.
"Fuck you! Fuck you for leaving me. How dare you die."
Man, I miss him so much.
Why...

I have driven passed this spot many times since August.
I always look as I pass.
But I had not been standing there at that spot since August when they drove me away in an ambulance.
It was weird to be there.

I started flashing back.
I could see the our car.
I could remember the ground.
The sandy ground.
I could see the green exit sign.
I could see the other jerk/bastard/asshole.
I could see the lack of barriers coming from the opposite direction.
I could feel the glass in my mouth.
Yep, this was the spot.

It is the spot where everything changed.
And now there is a "X" to mark it.

Car Organ Donation

A while ago, I wrote about how I see that stupid Acura RSX everywhere.  

A car that is not even made new anymore.  

A car that was discontinued in 2006.

It still happens almost every single day but I took someone's advice and if I start to see it I look away.

But they are everywhere.

School.

Stores.

Home.

Just driving around.

And sometimes it seems they follow me around.

Well, a few weeks ago, a friend of mine who drives one [yes, I have a friend who drives one and I am not even counting hers when I see it] needed a new seatbelt system.

Her husband mentioned getting one from a junk yard.

I started thinking about that a few days ago.

Roger donated his organs to help save five people's lives.  

Why wouldn't his car do the same?

He took good care of his car so there would be lots of parts available on the passenger side.  

I do not think much of the engine could be salvaged but I could be wrong.

I probably am wrong especially with my very limited car knowledge.  

So maybe that is why there are suddenly like five million more Acuras on the road.

Maybe they all needed parts and Roger's car helped save them.

Maybe that is why I find them parked in front of me.

Maybe that is why I find them cutting me off in traffic.

Maybe just maybe.