Birds of Change

I love weird, sad, odd movies.
And have for a long time.  Yes, I still see mainstream movies and I am not quite a movie snob but I will go to something where I am the only person in the theatre.
Netflix recommends categories like "Emotional Independent Father-Son Movies" and "Oscar Winning Dark Movies" and "Witty Dysfunctional Family Comedies".
And something I learned somewhere.
God knows where.
I heard or read that birds in movies symbolize change in the plot.
Sometimes good.
Sometimes bad.
But always a symbol of change.
And in these movies that I love, I see it.
Suddenly a scene to the sky with a flock of birds soaring through the sky.
And the movie turns.
I have a bird in my photography business logo for this reason.
Healing. New beginnings.

I have been debating a new tattoo for a while.
A bird has been one of the contenders.
Something I could see when I wanted.
Not so hidden away.
So I picked my foot.
And I picked birds.
This is what I did today.

And as I looked down at the bigger bird.
Completely unintentional, I saw my dad.
He was into our Cherokee heritage and loved eagles.
After it was all over.
And I was back in the car, the tears came.
I miss him so much.
I see him in the mirror and now I will see him everywhere I go.

#585

You were a dork.
I was hesitant.
I was scared.
I fought back against falling for you.
You were my best friend.
You were patient.
And kind.
Slowly I got close to you.
You kept pulling me closer.
I let you in.
My walls came down.
I loved you.
You loved me.
I believed in marriage.
I was happy.
I was settled.
My soul felt content.
And complete.

And slowly you died.
Six long, long days.
Then gone.
You left.
My heart split wide open.
Exposed.
I love you still.

My Gizmo

Gizmo.

Oh my Gizmo.

In the last few weeks, she had been super vocal.

Coming to the bedroom door in the early morning and begging to be let in.

Neither cat has done this in years.

Gizmo started following me absolutely everywhere. 

She wanted to be next to me all the time.

I knew something was wrong.

But I didn't want to know.

Not now.

Not as the one year mark of my dad's death approaches.

Not near Christmas.

Not ever.

But my poor Gizmo may have some kidney issues.

We must give her IV fluids for the weekend.

Then we will go back to the vet on Monday.

My cats have been with me through so much.

I do not even want to imagine my life without them.

Please be okay my Gizmo.

Please.

Never Ever

Never ever put me in a black box.
Never in a long black car.
Never ever ever buried underground.
I just cannot stand the thought.

Put me in the ocean.
Spread me over the land.
Keep me free.

"Always With You"

Like most people, Mr. X likes Harry Potter.

Both the books and the movie.

I, unlike most people, have never read the books.

Years ago, I watched the first and second movies but fell asleep during the second movie.

I have gone to Harry Potter land here in Orlando but mostly for Mr. X.

A friend of ours was hosting a Harry Potter night last weekend.

He was showing part I of the last movie at his home and then we were going to go see part II at a theatre.  

Now, I was mostly doing this for Mr. X.

And to have social time since I do not see this friend too often.

I was a bit nervous.

Would I be completely lost seeing the end of the series and not the middle?

However, the movie was done well enough that I could keep up relatively well.

Not to mention, I have heard many people talk about it enough times that I know a general idea of what has happened.

I did not expect for grief to come into play.

Yes, I had an idea that Harry died or something.

Yes, lots of other people had died too.

But lots people die in lots of movies.

That is not what got me.

What got me was his mother.

I used to tease Roger when we were not together for whatever reason.

As we were talking online or on the phone, I would say something like: 

"How do you know? You aren't here."

He had the same reply every time.

"I am always with you."

Sometimes he would follow up, "I just have to close my eyes and there you are."

Harry Potter's mother said something similar to him near the end after he died.

Something like:

"I will always be with you.  I have always been."

I started to cry.

Thank God for dark theatres.

It makes me tear up even now.

I am not sure if I truly believe Roger is always with me now.

It is hard for me to digest since I cannot always feel him.

And sometimes I wonder if I am making it up in my head when I do.  

But sometimes it does make me feel better.

August

Well, despite my best efforts and crankiness.
Despite all my wishing it would not happen.
August is here.

This August is even a bigger deal for me.
On Sunday, Roger would be thirty-seven.
Thirty-seven years old!
It is so hard to fathom him so old.
Ironically, since he will never be actually.
I could not believe he was thirty-four when he died.
I wonder what he would look like now.
My plan for Sunday is to bake a cake for him.
With layers.
And probably chocolate.

Although I have been working like mad in my own classroom,
I am not officially employed until August 15th.
And I have been mostly unemployed since August of 2008.
Three years of not really having a boss, except for me.
Being only responsible to myself to go to school and do my best [4.0 GPA with three certifications might I add].
To create my own photography business.
But now I will have many bosses, responsibilities, and obligations.
I am nervous.
Mr. X says I am stressed.
He is probably right.
I like being good at a job.
I like being perfect at a job.

Then, the 28th...
Three years since he left.
Since he fucking died and left me.
It is still hard for me to believe.
Still moments where I have to pinch myself.
And pinch Mr. X.
Moments where I cannot believe he actually died and did not just leave me.
Moments where I cannot believe I can feel happiness again.

Gladly, August is only thirty-one days.
Thirty-one long days.

All in the Eyes

For the last couple of months, my eyes have been bothering me.
Nothing like pink eye or anything but just itching.
Dry.
Slightly light sensitive.
Slight mucus in the morning.
I was starting to get worried.
It was getting better but the light sensitivity was getting worse.
I could barely open my eyes while in the car especially during the day.

On Monday, I took myself to the eye doctor.
I had already tried a variety of things myself like removing my contacts for a few days.
Switching makeup.
Throwing away contacts.
Nothing was working.

The doctor asked me a variety of questions.
Looked at my vision which has not changed much.
Then he took some pictures of my eyes.

I know I look like my dad.
I know our eyes are very similar.
But when all I could see was my right and left eye by themselves.
Without the rest of my face.
All I could see was my dad.

His eye lashes.
His color.
His shape.

And then all I could see was his eyes the last time I saw him.
Closed with his eye lashes curled the way some women must try hard to have.
His body laying on a hard cold table.
His arms cold from being dead for most of the day and laying in a fridge.

I miss my dad.
I miss his laugh.
I miss his giggle.
His birthday is next week.
He would have been 52 on Thursday.

Never Say "Never"

Yesterday, for the first time of my life, I shot a gun.
I never thought I would.
I have been totally against guns my entire life.
But part of me wanted to know.

When my dad died in January, he shot himself.
He used a hunting rifle.
I inherited another one of his hunting rifles.
I asked a friend to teach me how to use it.

We arrived at his place yesterday afternoon.
I was fidgety.
I was nervous and scared.
Guns can kill people.
Guns do kill people, like my dad.

We went out to the back of my friends' property.
First he wanted to teach me how to use a handgun.
I put my hands in the cup-n-saucer position with a black gun pointing at the target.
The recoil was just as scary as pulling the trigger.
The casings fell to the ground one by one.

I pulled the trigger five times.
My dad pulled the trigger once.
I could not help to think about his suicide.
To think about him.
To remember seeing his blood on the ground.
Seeing his eyes black and blue.

I do not think this will be a new hobby of mine.
But... I have done it.
Once.
And of course, I wondered what Roger would say.

Graduation

Thankfully at the end of this semester I will be graduating.
I am very excited.
I am very glad.
But... sigh... it is slightly tinged with grief and sadness and other emotions.

First, I am slightly sad.
Even more than slightly.
Roger will not be able to see this.
My huge accomplishment.
Yeah, yeah heaven blah blah blah.
The fact is Roger is not physically at the ceremony to watch me.
Yes, I will have people there who I care about and love but not Roger.
Not. Roger.

Second, this is all because he is dead.
It is because he died and I have the chance to go to school full time.
Yes, I was in school prior to his death but not full time.
Not for a degree I wanted, just to have a degree.
Any degree.
But because he died, I got an opportunity.
To change careers.
To follow a dream.
To chase my passion.
To not return to my awful job.
Because two weeks beforehand we got life insurance.

Third, I just feel a lot of emotion about finally finishing.
It feels like so long.  I graduated high school in 1998.  I followed a lot of different paths.
It has been my goal for so long and I felt so subpar compared to my friends.
Compared to myself with all that potential that I had while graduating high school.
I was in the top 6% of my class.  I was 24th.  People expected me to go to college.
Most of my friends all have degrees and even though I had a career making great money, I did not have my piece of paper.
And finally, finally I will have my piece of paper.
I will be worth something on paper to other people.

I know it will be an emotional, maybe even grief, day for me.
And maybe it is just hitting me now because it is February.
Because Roger is more on my mind right now than he has been.
It is my wedding anniversary month.
My third one alone.

Sigh...

Ashes, Ashes

All week long I have had the little nursery rhyme "Ring around the rosie" stuck in my head.
Only one line though: "Ashes, ashes, we all fall down."
Mostly just the first two words.

Roger's ashes took over a week to get back.
So after my father's funeral, when the car was being unloaded, I never expected one of my dad's friends to hand me my dad.
My dad in a box.

"Whoa, he is ready already?"
"Yep, the funeral home did it yesterday on site."
"Ohh..."

My dad wanted to be spread over the property where they lived.
Where he died.
I was thinking we would all come back and do that part.
But my dad's wife wanted to do it on that day.
While we were altogether.
Like right away.
"Oh, okay."

But first, we needed to set aside some of the ashes for my sister and my dad's stepdaughter to keep.
So as we were carrying my dad outside in the freezing cold, I asked someone to grab a spoon.
A plastic spoon.
And ziplocs.
I was about to scoop my father up with a spoon.
And distribute him into snack size bags.
Great...

My dad's wife asked if the three of us would share this task of spreading the ashes.
Now, in the movies, it seems so fantastic and simple and holy.
In the movies, people open the container and the ashes just simply fly away in the wind.
But I knew that was false.
I knew that even though the wind was abundant and very, very cold that my father would just not take to the wind.
I knew that if I tried that he would just fall in one huge clump on the ground.
One giant pile of grey ashes on the white snow.

I asked the other two who wanted to start.
I was still holding the plastic spoon.
My sister said I could start.
So the first place I sprinkled was his place of death.
It seemed appropriate.
A few spoonfuls there.
Interestingly enough the ashes sank into the snow.
As we walked, a path of ashes followed us.

Scoop and drop. Scoop and drop. Scoop and drop.
"Does anyone else want to do this?"
"No, you are good at it. You can keep doing it."
Great.  Let me add that to my resume.
"Other Skills: spreading human ash remains with a spoon."

We continued along the path to my dad's garden.
Then, in what can only happen to me, the wind shifted.
My dad flew into my face.
All over my jacket.
All over my scarf.
And I noticed later, he made it onto my jeans.
I tried to cough and not inhale but I am pretty sure I inhaled my father.
I immediately thought of this.
Trying not to laugh was hard.
I could almost hear my dad laughing.

Spreading the ashes of a whole human takes what seems like a long time when it is done with a spoon.
And being me, I tried to find a pattern.
So as we entered his long gone garden from this past summer I went row by row.
Scoop here.  Scoop there.  A little here. A little more there.
Up and down the rows until I was out of ashes.

I took the white plastic spoon and dropped it into the box.
Closed the lid and placed it into my father's lookout over his hill.
The place he probably spent his last morning alive and many other days beforehand.

My coat and scarf went to the dry cleaner's this week.
I feel like my dad will always be a part of me.
Hell, I inhaled him.
But I could not keep my winter coat with his ashes.
It will probably be a long time where I do not think of my dad when I wear my coat or my scarf or those jeans.
And thankfully living in Florida, I do not have to wear those things often.
Except the jeans.
One of my favorite pairs.
Great...

When I die, just dump me into the ocean.
No spoon necessary.

Roger's Email

I am not sure why I did this.
I am not sure why I did this now after the last week or so.
But I opened Roger's email today as I was on the computer in the office for a different matter.
Mostly for curiousity I clicked on it.

It amazes me how long junk email will continue long after you have died.
When I was a little girl, I decided to send away for catalogs and I called every 800 number I could come across.
I got so many free samples, coupons, and catalogs for everything.
But eventually the catalogs stop coming.
It usually took about a year.
If a person did not order in that amount of time, I suppose the companies felt the benefit was not worth the expense.
With junk email however, I guess the expense is so little that even two and a half years after Roger's death, he still gets all his TGI Fridays and Borders coupons and at least a thousand other emails every six months or so.

But what I should not have done was look in the "Out" box. 
I do love reading his old emails to me.
To hear his voice.
To see his usual "Its all good" response.
But it makes me sad.
It makes me teary eyed.

I found one email from August 3, 2008 sent to a person asking a question about Habitat for Humanity.
He referred to me as "my wife".
I so loved being his wife.
I hate being a widow.

Sigh...

Forgetting

My dad & me - Easter 1981

Maybe I needed a new dose of grief to remind me of how far I have come in the last 2.5 years.
I am mostly okay during the day.
I can get through life and joke and smile.
I can do the tasks I need to do.
Much different than the first week with Roger's death of course.
But my dad was not part of my everyday routine.

It is at night.
When the world starts to shut down.
It is when I am not busy.
It is when I pass by the picture of my dad holding me as a baby that has been in my kitchen for a while now.
I was about six and half months old and my dad was about to turn twenty-two.
In this picture, like in most of my memories, my dad is smiling.  Maybe even laughing.
I can still hear his laugh almost giggle.

On Tuesday, I just wanted to call my dad.
Tell him this horrible nightmare I had.
He would tell me I was being silly.
Nothing like that would ever happen.
But it did.
A week ago today.
Three Kings Day will never be the same for me.
The official end of the Christmas season will always be a bit tainted.
Sigh...

Thirty

My daddy and me - May 2007

A few weeks ago when I was re-learning earth science for one of my certifications, I learned this term called constructive interference.

Basically, it is when two similar waves are in the same medium the waves combine into a bigger wave.

On Thursday afternoon, a new wave came.

My dad unexpectedly passed away.

I have been debating whether to write how he died but since this grief is a bit different, I will reveal.

Thursday morning, my dad committed suicide.  

He was not old.

He was not sick.

He was not in an accident.

He decided for himself the day he would die.

It was selfish and I am angry.

But I am also very very sad.

It is very unlike him.

I have other family members who threaten suicide like they are ordering dinner.  

But not my daddy.

Nope. 

He was happy go lucky.

He was always smiling and laughing.  

We did not have the closest relationship.

My parents separated and later divorced when I was four.  

It was a tremulous divorce to say the least.

My mother hated my father and she was not afraid to tell us.  

But when I was in my early twenties I realized it was not him.  

He did love me.  He did care about what I did.

I could call him and truly talk to him.  Not just a surface conversation.

The day I changed my last name.  I called my daddy.  

When Roger died, my daddy drove from Virginia to Florida to help me.  To be with me.

He was himself and talked with my friends.

He helped clean out my garage and organize Roger's tools.  

My daddy and I look alike.

We act alike.  

I am my father's daughter. Proudly.

When I look in the mirror, I see my daddy.  I have for years.

But now it is painful.

I forgot how all of this feels in the beginning.

How my body is heavier.

How I just feel low and blue.

How my attention starts to drift after just a few minutes.  

I thought I was feeling a bit better until I came back to my home in Florida.

Back to reality.

For the first time since Thursday afternoon, I am alone.

And I certainly feel it.  

I know this will be different. 

My daddy was not a part of my everyday life.  However, my heart is still broken.

I feel even more of every feeling for his wife.

I hate she has to start on this journey.  

Join the club no one wants to join.

I wondered how old I would be when one of my parents passed away.
Thirty.

PSA: Drugs Are Not Bad

My family has some history of addiction.
And I know there is some evidence that having the ability to be addicted to substances is genetic.
So... when Roger first died, I made a pledge not to drink until I felt more stable.
My first drink post Roger was at my first wedding.  Three months after Roger's death.
Again, it was just a few drinks and not to the point of drunkenness.
I still kept a close look at my drinking for a long while post-death.

I was also on anti-anxiety medication and I knew the drug interactions for that.
I saw them first hand back in 1999.
Seizures and death.
I watched my ex-boyfriend's mother die two days before Christmas as he had to decide to take her off life support.
Valium + alcohol = death.

About ten years ago, I met a lady who was recently divorced.
She had lived the perfect life, or so she thought.
Six years after her wedding, her husband confessed to cheating most of their marriage.
I later found out she was on Paxil.
I was shocked.
She was smart. She seemed so well put together.  She was a pharmacist so she knew the risks.
But she also knew she was in a situation and needed help.
I had never known someone who was on medications for depression.

The week Roger was dying, I only took the medication for my arm infection and some Benadryl to help me sleep.
But I believed I did not need drugs.
I was strong. I was tough.  I was offended by the thought of having to take drugs.

When I visited my own physician after Roger's death, he insisted on anti-anxiety medications.
I was not sleeping.  I could barely finish a thought.  I was extremely paranoid.
I needed help.
I stayed on them for a few months along with my counseling.

Drugs are not bad!  Again for emphasis, drugs are not bad nor the enemy.
Most of my friends and family have not experienced the pain and situation I have been through at my age.
Those people who think a widow or widower should go without drugs, especially during the first year or so need to keep their damn mouth shut.  It does not mean the person is less of a human for needing help.
Those who think a divorcee should go without drugs, especially during the first year, should go to hell.
Sometimes, people need help.
Asking for help makes us strong.

Drugs are there to help.
Yes, they have side effects.
Every single drug has side effects but they are worth the risk when someone is struggling to get through.
So I say lay off to those who feel they can judge.
Those who need the drugs, feel free.  Be responsible and take care of yourself.
Drugs are not bad.

The Recycling Nazi

With affection, I have been deemed the recycling nazi.
And I tried to think back if this was part of widow-ness or part of me historically.
Fortunately/unfortunately I think it was part of me way before even Roger entered the picture.

I think it started in NYC.
NYC residents are required to recycle.
And we recycled everything under the threat of a fine.

But... after Roger died.
Yes, it did become even more of an obsession.
As a control freak who just had the world ripped out from under me and I felt I was spinning out of control, I needed something I could be in the driver's seat of since death was not an option.
So what could I control?
Recycling! [And choosing whether to eat or not, mostly not.]

Yes, I am still a bit obsessed.
My friends and family are even still a bit scared of me.
Recently, I found out some good friends hid some styrofoam containers from me last New Year's Eve when their catered dinner came in individual dinner portions.
"Do not let Star go in the garage."
Another friend confessed she thinks of me as she brushes her teeth and lets the water continually run.
Others have told stories where as they were recycling, reusing, or reducing they thought "Star would be proud of me."
I laugh mostly.
It is nice that perhaps I am influencing people's thinking about recycling and such.
But I really hope I do not terrorize people to the point they are afraid of me.
That is not my intention.
I am just a control freak who deeply believes in the three R's.
So I apologize to those have felt my wrath as the recycling nazi.

Flashing Back

I am not sure if the flashbacks will ever go away completely.
They certainly are not as raw but still linked with emotion for me.
Sometimes they came out of left field but sometimes they are linked to just a trigger to remind me.

On Saturday night, Mr. X and I went to have dinner with his parents.
We had a nice dinner and then sat down to watch a movie together.
"The Family Stone" was on regular TV and I was the only one who had seen it.
I like the movie as I think it is pretty humorous at times.
I also knew there was sad ending to the movie.

The tears came.
And came.
And came.
Thankfully no one, except Mr. X, could see my face.

At one point in the movie, the oldest daughter lays down with her mother as she is napping.  She wraps her arms around her.
As Roger was being pulled off life support I just wanted to crawl up into the bed with him.
Especially once they pronounced officially gone.
I wanted to wrap my arms around him.  Pull him close to me.
But I couldn't.
Because he was donating his organs, because I was donating his organs, he had only a few minutes before we had to let him go.
Or at least it felt like a few minutes at the time and to me.

At another point, the husband's face as he crawled into bed with his wife truly expressed my feelings.
After I knew Roger was going to die, crawling into bed was painful.
Knowing he would never come home to me.
Knowing he would never crawl into bed with me.
I remember those moments so vividly.
Memories are linked to emotions and emotions were certainly high.

At the end of the movie, you see the entire family for their first Christmas without their mom.
Although my first set of holidays were not too bad, my second set hurt a lot.
I was no longer numb.
Emotions were at the surface.
Roger was truly dead the second set of holidays.
The first set he was just not here.

I do not know why I am surprised at how weepy I became.
From the outside, I want to laugh at myself.
Did I really think grief was done with me?
Did I really think I would not think of Roger as the holiday season madly approaches?
At least this year, it does not feel like a boiling pot of water ready to come over the top of the pot.
This year, at least so far, it feels like a few bubbles coming to the surface sporadically.
It reminds me of the sulfur springs in St. Lucia.

Sigh.

Sweet Relief

On Wednesday I got my will signed.
And it feels strange to have it done at thirty when most people are enjoying married life and kids and trips with their husbands and wives.
But at the same time I feel a bit relieved.

Roger died interstate.
Meaning he did not have a will.
I had to figure out where things went.
Who got what.
What to do with his motorcycle.
What to do with his gym equipment.
What to do with his prized possessions.

For the last two years, I was always afraid of my death.
Not for the normal reasons.
But for all the things that would happen afterwards.
Scared of who would be in control by default since I did not have children or a husband.
It was a constant thought.

But now I feel like I can die in peace of sorts.
At least who I want will be in control.
They can make the decisions.
And since sometimes it feels like we share a brain, I know things will be okay.
They will be able to figure it out.

For everyone who reads my blog:

• Get a will especially if you have kids.
• Get life insurance especially if you have a spouse and/or kids.  
• Make sure someone knows what to do with your organs.
• Make sure someone knows what to do with your body.

Decisions

A few weeks ago, I was having dinner with some widow friends.
The three of us are all young, under thirty at the time.
All of our men died suddenly at young ages.
None of us have children.

We talked about how I have a place to put my anger.
A name even.
A face.
Someone to direct all the voices and shouting and mean thoughts.
Which is "nice" I think.
Their persons' deaths were not a result of an accident.
Or homicide.
Or even self inflicted.
Random heart issues.

And tonight as I tried to go to sleep (note the post time), I started thinking that they did not have to decide.
I had to make a decision.
I had to decide the time.
And the date.
I chose this day.
I had to chose the day my husband would die.
Forty-seven months after our first meeting, I chose his death day.
Three weeks after his birthday.

I hate that feeling.
Hate. Hate. Hate.

The Check-Ins

First, thanks to all the people who have been emailing, facebooking, calling, and texting this week.
Unfortunately/fortunately this week I have been mostly fine.
Like most holidays and anniversaries during this journey it has been the time before the actual event that have been bad.
School started on Monday.
Thus I have been super distracted this week.
Super busy.
I cannot think about Saturday coming much.
And I feel mostly okay about Saturday.

In reality, the month before this week has been completely emotionally draining and hard for me.
Grief has been almost constant under my mask.
In reality, I needed these comments and love before this week.
I needed people to come over and be with me and hug me.

And I should have asked.
I should have been a bit more demanding.
But I still struggle with asking for help, even from Mr. X.
I still struggle admitting that I cannot do this alone.
And most people have their lives.
They are busy with work, family, and other friends.
I do not want to burden others with my grief.
With my struggles.

So I do it alone and struggle.
And then I feel bad when people expect me to sad this week.
Because right now, I do not feel exceptionally sad.
Not like I did earlier this month and during the end of July.

One Big Day Down, Twenty Days to Go

August should be a nice month.
School is completed for a few weeks.
I get some traveling done.
Sounds perfect...

But instead I just distract myself through the thirty-one days.
Become super weepy.
Find it hard to breathe.
Think logically.
Or plan.

I just want to wake up when August is over.
I hate this month.
Hate. Hate. Hate.

I survived Saturday with a dear friend's baby shower in a different city.
Followed by a cook out with some of her dearest friends.
These friends are so friendly and sweet and accepting and fabulous.
As night took hold I spent part of the evening in the North Carolina air talking to one of her friends who happens to be a psychiatrist.
It was nice to talk to someone.
To remember.

Thanks to those who emailed or called.