Grey Matter

Roger said I have issues with absolutes.
And I completely agree with him.
My counselor agrees with him too.
I want everything to be black or white.
Red light or green light.
Right or wrong.
Left or right.
I don't deal well with grey.
I hate the inbetween.
You love me or you hate me.
You think I'm great or you think I'm awful.
Not both. Especially not both at the same time.

One of my many issues with my grief is that I want absolutes there too.
Probably linked back to my control issues I'm sure.
Stupid control issues.
I want to be angry or compassionate toward the other driver, but not both.
Especially at the same time.
But I am both.
At exactly the same time.

My counselor keeps reminding me that I can do more than one emotion at a time.
And emotions are not logical.
Grief emotions are especially not logical.
Yes grief is a process but the process is not logical either.
Again more grey area.
Emotions and grief are not a math equation where there is one answer at a time.
Which is unfortunate for me because I understand math.
I understand that A + B = C.
I can figure those things out.

Also people tell me I'm so strong.
Me? Strong?
Are you sure?
But I don't feel strong.
I feel weak.
I still cry a lot.
I don't cry in front of people.
But I cry a lot in the car.
And I cry a lot while writing these entries.
In my world of black and white this is not strong.

People tell me I'm doing so well.
But I don't feel like I'm doing well.
I'm just doing.

People tell me I'm extraordinary.
But I feel like I'm ordinary.
If not even less than subpar.
Cause I am not the ordinary me.
I'm fearful.
I'm forgetful.
I'm irritable.
I'm not happy go lucky.

I am not me.
I'm sad.
And I'm not hungry.
And I'm not sleepy.
And I can't concentrate.

This is all grey area to me.
Grey matter.
Not black.
Not white.
But a lovely shade of neutral grey.
And I don't like it.

"My wife"

Anyone who is just married knows the feeling the first time you hear the words "my wife" or "my husband."
Its weird.
Its odd.
It makes you feel all grown up.

I remember saying it on my honeymoon.
It was so strange.
Not to mention the whole no longer "Miss" thing.

I remember being in the hospital and for the first time, I was the center of attention.
Simply because I was his wife.
He was my husband.
No longer was he his mother's son, but he was my husband.
I was called "wife" so much in that week after the accident.
"Here is his wife."
"Are you his wife?"
"His wife needs to sign this"
"I'm looking for Mr. Jimenez's wife"
Wife wife wife.
It was everywhere.
It was a label I just wasn't quite even used to yet.
Especially for this scenario.
Especially given the new legal rights and the burdens of it.

I should have been though.
It should have been second nature to hear it.
Roger had been calling me his wife for a long time.
Much longer than we had been married.
Pretty much after we got engaged, he started calling me that.
Especially once we bought the house together.
He said it was easier to explain to people than saying "fiancee."
I want to say it was because he was excited about it.
Roger even mentioned before our wedding that he was really excited about being married to me. He loved our wedding and was excited about that but he was more excited about me being his wife.

Today I went to drop off the renewal lease to our rental house. [Thank God for that!!]
I ended up just hanging out with the renter, Mei, and her kids for a while.
Her oldest son thinks I'm the coolest.
As I sit here, I am covered in stickers. I also got a flower while I was there. I guess poor Xander has competition from a five year old.

The night before the accident, Roger had been at the rental house.
We were having some issues with water coming in through the walls and the carpets were soaked. The house needed to be sealed and painted.
Mei told me today that Roger just kept saying the term "my wife" and she just thought it was so cute.
She said she could tell he was excited about me.
He was truly in love with me.
She even told him "You don't have to say 'my wife', I know Star. We've met."
But she said just he kept saying it.

I'm so glad he was excited about me. That same night I was thinking how happy I was to be his wife. And how much I loved calling him "my husband."

However, its kinda weird now.
Legally, I'm no longer married.
We were divided by death.
Our marriage is done.
I still say "my husband" and I am still his wife.

The scary part for me is in the future.
How I will refer to him?
How will our friends refer to him?

Where will "my husband" go?
Where will "my wife" go?
Ugh.

Fear

Fear is a very powerful emotion.
Politicians use it.
Employers use it.
Some relationships use it.
Loads of people use it to manipulate others.

I am not generally a fearful person.
I will sing karoke in front of strangers.
I have traveled to Paris and Sydney alone.
I have roamed the streets of London at night alone.
I have jumped out of airplanes.
I have jumped off of platforms.
I am not scared of silence.
I am not afraid of being alone.
Well normally...

Last night I found myself sitting on the floor next to my bed.
Crying hysterically and uncontrollably shaking.

A month ago or so, I had the alarm activated in the house.
I just felt like people may profile my house like they did in that movie "Home Alone" (crazy comparison I know).
It has been a great safety net and it has given me an extra layer of comfort.

Last night I went to sleep around 2am and of course set the alarm on.
At 3:27am, I wake up to the blaring sound of the alarm going off.
OMG. OMG. OMG.
At first I think its the fire alarm. [I have been thinking about the fire alarm quite frequently wondering how I would get both cats out alive by myself. I actually even had this thought again right before I went to bed. They don't sleep in my room and I keep the door closed.]
I quickly grapped some clothing.
I realize its the intruder alarm.
I crouch onto the floor near my bed.
I know the alarm company is probably about to call.
They do.
They tell me something is wrong with the back door.
OMG. OMG.
I have been forgetting to lock this door.
I start to cry.
The lady asks if I want to go check while she is on the phone with me.
"No way! I'm too scared."
The lady on the phone asks me if I want the police to come.
YES! YES! YES!
She says okay and hangs up.
I sit there crying hysterically watching the clock, listening for footsteps, and watching my bedroom door for the next ten minutes.
Nothing.
No police.
Nada.
The alarm stops squealing.
"Great, they've cut the wire"
I call the alarm company back.
Still quite hysterical.
I'm shaking.
I'm rocking myself back and forth on the floor.
Tony, the alarm guy, says he will stay on the phone with me until the police arrive. Oh good. Poor guy though for having to deal with me.
Fifteen minutes go by.
I ask if he can check where the police are.
He calls the police dispatcher.
No ETA.
I can't stop crying.
I can't stop shaking.

Poor Tony is trying to calm me.
"If it was someone, they are probably gone. They heard the alarm and they left"
"If they were robbing you, you would hear more noise."
"It probably was just the weather since Florida is especially cold tonight"
"Do you hear anyone?"
"I don't think so but I'm not sure"
If Roger were alive, this would not be an issue. He would have already searched the house and we would be back to sleep.
I am still crying. I tell him about Roger.
"Do you want me to call your emergency contacts?"
"No, the police are coming, right?"
"Yes, the police are coming"
He continues to try to make conversation with this lump of a person that I have become.
He tries to talk to me about where I am from. How long I have lived in Orlando. Do I go to Disney a lot. I am afraid to talk to loud. What if they hear me. Not to mention the fact I can't really talk through the hysterics.
My poor cats.
Are they okay? Is the door open and they have escaped? I can't bear to loose them right now. Would a burglar hurt them?
I couldn't even crack the door to check for them.
I just know this burglar is sitting on the couch waiting for me to come out of my room.
"Can you please call the police again?"
Tony does. Still no ETA.
For ninety minutes, I sit and wait. I cry. I shake. I can barely move.
I'm ready to slide under my bed at any sound.
My poor poor cats.

Finally the cop arrives.
He searches the outside of the house.
He comes inside and with him I see there is nothing wrong with the door.
It must just be the stupid cold weather.

This isn't me.
I am brave.
I am strong.
How have I become so weak? So fearful?
I have crazy thoughts and fears now.
So scared that I couldn't even move to check on my poor cats.

I don't like this new fearful me.
I don't like her at all.

Cereal Lover

Ask anyone who knew me before and ask them what my favorite dinner is and they would probably say cereal.
All kinds but especially super sweet unhealthy ones.
Like Captain Crunch or Fruit Loops or Frosted Flakes.
I could eat them everyday all day.
As a joke, we even had cereal on our Target wedding registry.

On the days Roger wasn't going to be home for dinner, I made cereal for dinner.
If he was just going to be late, I'd beg him that we should have cereal.
On weekends, as much as I wanted to make waffles or eggs, I made cereal for breakfast.
I adored it.
It was comforting.
It was easy.
It was good.

Best thing - Roger did too.
How lucky was I to find the one person in the entire world that loved cereal as much as me.
So I wasn't being a bad wife when I "made" cereal for dinner.
I was enjoying one of my favorite things with my wonderful husband who loved my favorite thing too.

Now there were some issues.
Sometimes I did make him sit on the other couch.
Roger liked his cereal most of the time without milk.
And then he'd pick the noisest cereals ever.
And for some reason, he was a really loud chewer.
And he would say I had Indian tracker ears to hear him that he wasn't really being that loud.
I also think he hid this fact from me until we were engaged.
I do not remember ever hearing him while we were dating and eating cereal together.
Or any food for that matter.
He trapped me.

But now...
No cereal for me.
The thought of cereal makes me so queasy.
Even writing this entry, I want to vomit.
I will only eat it when there is no other option.
Even going hungry is almost better than eating cereal now.
And I never want seconds like before.

And the oatmeal I used to eat at work, the thought again makes me want to throw up.
I can't even phathom trying to eat it.
I almost feel my gag reflex even now.

This is so strange to me. I guess there is some association going on here. I wish I could love it again. Of course, I wish I could love it with Roger even more.

Funny thing about widows

Yes, its not expected to be 27 years old and a widow.
I understand this. Believe me I do.
Or to be 28 years old now and a widow.
Yes, its not normal. Is wasn't my plan at all.
Its not what people think of when the word "widow" comes to mind.
What do they picture?
An old lady who is grey, short hair, wearing modest clothing.
Is that me?
No, not really.

Well, good news is I got one of my policies for Roger.
Funny thing is... all of the pictures in the guide book.
Front picture is lady I described above.
The humorousness begins there.

For my reading pleasure, they included some testimonials from others "like" me.
The closest person in age is 21 years my senior.
But they all love their TCA.
They also included some stories about other people who "understand" what I'm going through.
One lady was married for 45 years.
I wish and beg that I could have been married 45 years.
Or even one year. But of course I'd beg for five if I had one.
Another man, surprise, surprise, was in his 50s.
Man, I'm so glad these people are like me.

Yeah, I have lots in common with those people.
Let me count the ways...
Hmm, one.
We all had spouses that died.
Two.
We all life insurance.
Hmmm, that is about where the similarities stop.

I know I'm in the minority here.
But come on marketing department, a little sensitivity would be nice.

And I thought this was a humorous job title - Delivering the Promise Specialist.
Just imagine that conversation at a cocktail party.
"What do you do, Dan?"
"I am a Delivering the Promise Specialist"
"Oh yeah, for 28 year old widows?"
"Oh no, just old folks."

Rings Schmings

So many rings in my house and in my life.
I have my engagement ring.
My wedding ring.
Roger's wedding ring.
Lots of fake rings.
Not to mention all the mental rings and loops that I do inside my head.

My engagement ring and wedding ring I adore.
I can't imagine not wearing them.
I vowed I'd wear them for the rest of our lives.
I realize that "our lives" is over but how can I not.
They are just beautiful.
They were my gift.
My engagement ring a promise of marriage.
My wedding ring a promise of forever.

I had to move them to my right hand.
They were falling off my left hand.
Feels a little weird not to have them there.
Not to see them there.
But I kept seeing people stare at my left hand (of course lots of people just stare at me to try to observe me I think).
And it got annoying.
And I guess that's where widow's are "suppose" to wear them, right?
Divorcees and widows I think.
Now they are starting to slide around on that finger.
If you want to loose a lot of weight, try the lose-your-husband diet.
It works wonders on cravings and remembering to eat.

I had been wearing Roger's wedding ring on my left thumb.
That boy had small fingers and I have/had fat fingers.
I loved seeing it there on my hand.
When we were in the ER, I kept asking for it.
I just had to have it with me.
It made me feel safe.
It made me feel like it was one of the last things I had of him.
I am not sure what to do with it and I wasn't sure how long I should/could wear it.
Yesterday, as I was bent over, it fell off.
My heart sank.
"Yes dear. I'll put it away."
I do have it tattooed on me now. So its always there.
Now, it will sit on my nightstand till I truly figure out what to do with it again.

Before the Halloween party, I was looking through drawers trying to organize them.
Yes, a bit OCD but I had noticed a lot of junk in the drawers and I felt like some of my drawers were really out of whack.
In one of the three junk drawers, I found these cupcake plastic rings.
The rings that cake decorators put on top for children to put on their hands after they finish their cupcakes.
I don't remember when Roger gave me these rings.
I know it was very early on in our relationship.
He gave me two.
And I kept them of course.
And at midnight the other night in the midst of organizing, I saw them.
Red rings with a rainbow on top.
In a drawer with the rubber bands, chip clips, and sharpie.
And I can't throw them away.
Probably a 2 cent ring (if that) and I can't throw it away.

I also have one of these threatening engagement rings in my car.
(Roger threatened many times to propose as I have mentioned.)
It is from when we were in an aracade in Daytona I think.
Roger got a bunch of tickets from playing a game and got me a ring.
It looks like one of those friendship bracelets from middle school.
Its bright neon yellow.
Roger had one too cause I wasn't wearing that thing by myself.
I keep in in my car and again, now I'm not sure what to do with it.

And of course there are the rings and loops I do about everything.
Running around and around the accident.
The hospital experience.
The death experience.
Do I do the right things?
Did I ask the right questions?
Was there anything at all that could have changed to make the outcome different?

All these rings...

Our Halloween Party

Roger and I did two parties a year.
One for my favorite holiday - July 4th.
And one for Roger's - Halloween.
I like Halloween as well but still adore July 4th.

Our July 4th party this year was pretty cool.
We had lots of friends over and front row seats to the everlasting fireworks show.
I remember Roger even got hit in the eye from debris.
Yeah, that caution tape was there for a good reason.
Maybe we shouldn't have crossed it.

Today is our Halloween party.
Back in late July early August we had started planning what day and what we were going to be.
Roger wanted to be Greatest American Hero and I wanted to be Wonder Woman.
We had picked today as the date since we wouldn't have to compete with the downtown going crowd.

After Roger's death, it was depressing to think I'd be spending his favorite holiday alone (among all the other depressing feelings).
I didn't think I could go through with the party.
This party along with so many other small plans we had were gone.
However, I kept thinking, he would love for me to decorate the house.
He would love to have people come over.
He would want me to have our party.
So I am.
All my friends have got together and helped me plan a terrific party.
I decided since Roger turned out to be a superhero, in his honor I asked everyone to come up with a superhero costume.
We have so many good treats due to all our wonderful friends.
And there are so many cool decorations.
I know he'd be excited about them.

It is bittersweet.
There are just some things that are his duties to do.
Clean the coolers. Clean the chairs.
Do the spider webs outside.
Do all the decor outside.
And I hate doing his things.

But I am determined to have fun tonight.
Celebrate my wonderful husband.
And be his Wonder Woman.