The Peace Lily

When Roger died, I asked for others not to buy me flowers but plants.
I could not handle more dead things laying around my house.
So I received a few plants.
Three are still living.
One small peace lily, a larger peace lily, and a vine.

The vine has been amazing.
It has grown a lot and has even bloomed a few times.
It sits in the kitchen where it fights with the blinds for light.
It is also a succulent so I do not have to worry if I forget to water it.
Which tends to happen.

The large peace lily is living yes but it has never been very healthy.
I guess it does not like its location.
The leaves are ragged edges all year long.
It has never bloomed again.
I am not sure if it has even grown much.
But it sits right outside the kitchen window and I stare at it wondering if I should move it or just let it be.

The small peace lily has waxed and waned.
A few times I thought it was going to die.
Sometimes it would not get watered.
But it always came back.
Last summer I even had to repot it.
So in a new pot and outside on the patio it went.
I figured if it died outside at least I wouldn't have to witness it in my kitchen.

This past weekend as I was walking by the windows to the patio I noticed something.
I walked out onto the patio and noticed two things.
Two blooms.
After four years, it has finally bloomed again.
Finally.

Maybe it is a sign.
Or maybe it is a sign that I needed.
Yes, I did the right thing by re-financing my house.
Yes, Mr. X is a good match and will be an excellent husband.
Yes, things will be good this time.

Grief Monster Winter 2011

I do not even know where to start.

I do not want to even go into everything.

So I won't.

But as I posted on facebook this morning, the grief monster has been back.

Now, this time he did not come alone.

He brought big scary accomplices like Paranoia.

During my life, I have said goodbye many times.

When in elementary school, pretty much the moment I considered someone my best friend, they'd move.

It happened over and over again. 

It almost felt like a guarantee.  

While consulting, it was pretty much a way of life.

I would spend six to eight months living in a city Monday through Thursday.

Only to be moved to a completely new location with new team, new clients, and new city.

It was fun to say the least but it was always sad to leave and say the dreaded goodbye.

Yes, people would say, "We'll keep in touch."

But for most, it was just another required statement with no backing.

So I learned to live in the moment.

I learned to almost keep myself at a distance.

I learned to say goodbye easily.

In 2005, I decided I was done with that non-static lifestyle.

I wanted real relationships.

I wanted a semi-normal routine.

I wanted a home and community.

So I moved back to Orlando.

One of my favorite cities to be in.

Three weeks ago grief and his friends made me scared and stressed.

Two weeks ago he made me paranoid about people I called friends shaking some of the very foundations of me.

And then last week made me nauseous with the loss of friendships.

A different sort of grief but similar feelings nonetheless.

Grief tried to make me doubt myself.

It dug deep into old wounds to reach fresh blood.  

In the last week or so, I have had trumpeters telling me all the positive things I am.

I am thankful for those who believe in me.

Thankful for those new and old friendships who have and are trying to defeat the voices of grief, paranoia, and non-truths.  

I will prevail.

I will be better for it all.
I will say goodbye.

And when the dust settles I will know the truth.

Defending Roger

Roger's Diploma on the office wall (camera phone photo)*

I cannot remember when I took Roger's diploma off the wall in the office.
But at some point I moved it into the office closet.
I had a plan for it.
Not a great plan though according to Mr. X.

Roger's diploma was professionally framed.
It was fairly expensive.
So I thought once I received my own diploma I would open up the back and take Roger's out then put mine in.
About a month ago, I received my diploma and one afternoon I decided to implement my plan.
Mr. X was home.
I told him I was going to go frame my diploma.
He followed me into the office as I took Roger's diploma out of the closet.
"What are you doing?!?"
"I am going to put my diploma in this frame."
"No you are not.  That is Roger's diploma."
"Yes, I am going to take his out and put mine in."
"And then what?"
I was not sure.
Mr. X continued to push for Roger's rights.
"That was a big accomplishment for him.  You should not take it out of the frame.  What will you do with the actual piece of paper? Put it away in a closet? Look at it every five years?"
I really did not think that far in advance.
Mr. X continued...
"We should have it on the wall."
"But where?"
"In here.  In the upstairs bedroom. On a wall. But somewhere, not in a closet"
I asked, "What about my diploma?"
"Just spend the money and get it framed."

I started to tear up.
Mr. X was defending Roger.
Two of them against one of me.
So I gave in.
And agreed to take my diploma to Michael's to have it framed as well.
But then another thought...

"What about our kids?" I asked.
"What about them? They will know Roger. Would you not tell them about him?"
And Mr. X is right. It is not like my house is completely Roger-free.
There is a picture near our bedroom.
Roger's clock in our office.
A few pictures in the office.
More pictures in the workout room.
A trunk full of Roger related items upstairs in a closet.
So he is still here in ways.
And I am really not sure how or when I would tell my children about Roger.
When they ask?
Or as they visit Abuela's house?
And how do I explain death to them?
I guess we'll figure it out as we go but I could not help and think of how to explain this person Mommy was married to before Daddy.

Today I received my diploma back.
So on the wall it went.
And Mr. X hung Roger's as well.

*I purposefully blurred out Roger's formal name and inserted "Roger's name".

PTSD

I am not sure if I have divulged some early things that happened on this blog.
If I have, it was a long time ago.
And perhaps newer readers have not read this or know this.
But I had/have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder aka PTSD.
I was diagnosed with depression, PTSD, and a good deal of survivor's guilt during counseling when Roger first died.
Mostly from the accident.
But from also watching Roger die.
And me not dying.

Now it is way, way better that it was in the beginning.
But...
I still have nightmares.
And daymares.
I still have images stuck in my head that I will never be able to get rid of.
And I have exaggerated reactions to things that others may think are minor.
Such as when I had my accident a few weeks ago.
That frozen fear where I could not move and had irrational fear.
I still jump and get very angry when other cars get close to the car especially if I am not driving.
Sometimes I have to be reminded by others that the world is not ending. (Thank you, Holly & Candice!)
But it still comes out.
And from what I understand, it is something that will lessen but never go completely away.
But I can sleep most nights with or without an alarm on.  [Except this morning when I thought someone was breaking in even though logically I knew a burglar would not park in front of my house & would not set the alarm to their car.]
I can walk around the neighborhood alone.
And I can drive without too much fear most of the time. [Although I so try hard to schedule things where I have to drive during non-rush hours. Less cars, less chance of an accident.]

Today, while driving, I heard a lady describing PTSD to the host on NPR.
She described it so perfectly.
I am paraphrasing here but...
She said, "It is like having a black blanket thrown over your head.  You are paranoid of everything. You feel like there is a dark cloud overhead. Everything is going to go wrong and you cannot stop it.  You are out of control of your world.  There is a fog over you."
Yes!
Exactly!
Now, I do not feel like that extreme most of the time.  But there are definitely days where I feel like people are against me.
Even my best friends.
Where I feel so out of control of my life, my emotions, and my everything.

Decisions can be so overwhelming for me.
That is not so new for me.
But now I fear what is behind my decisions.
I made a decision that accident day too.
I decided not to say anything about the route Roger was taking to the airport.
I decided to say something about his speed.
I decided when he was to die.
Now, what if I decide wrong?  What if my decision leads to disaster?
I do remind myself that most likely not, but sometimes that reasonable voice gets drowned out.

Sometimes...

"We've Got Time"

I just watched "Moonlight Mile" for probably the third or fourth time.
The first time I watched it was way before Roger died.
And I have seen it since.
But I did not cry last time I watched it.
This time, I did.
A lot.
But I think I needed a good cry.

And for whatever reason it reminded me of when Roger and I first started dating.
I had just stopped my consulting job about a week before we met.
During consulting, I traveled Monday through Thursday every week.
So I had a life in whatever city I happened to be working in and a life at home.
Two very separate worlds in which I lived.
And it was hard to have friends.
To date.
To go to the dentist.
And to do many of the day-to-day activities.
So I would cram as much as I could into my weeekends.

When Roger and I first started dating, we saw each other at least one night of the weekend and about two nights during the week.
And I tried to cram as much into the time we were together as possible.
Roger kept saying, "We've got time. Just relax."
I was trying.

When he would go away for a weekend to visit his family in Miami or to a martial art event, I was sad.
More time away.
And yes, absence makes the heart grow fonder but I wanted to see him.
Spend time with him.
I was almost frantic to see him.
And Roger's response was always the same.
"We've got time. We have years."

But we didn't.
We didn't have much time at all.
We only had less than three years.
Just like the characters in the movie.
Two years and eleven months.

It's the Small Things

At this point in my grief, it is the small, seemingly meaningless things that get me.

After Roger and I got married, with a little bit of hesitation on my part, we combined checking accounts.
Now we did the system of ours, yours, and mine.
Ours was to be the household stuff and the majority of our money.
But each of us would have our own small checking account that we would deposit a smaller amount from each paycheck.
That way neither could complain about a shiny new purse or a new martial arts toy.
And added bonus, if we bought a gift for one another, the evidence was not readily available.
It took me till about June 2008, four months after the wedding, to get up the courage to have most of my paycheck and all the small details taken care of to have "our" checking account.
It was one of Roger's old accounts that had great benefits.
The account was originally from the days when First Union was around.
This was hard for me.  I had been on my own since I was 17.
Almost ten years at this point.
Now my money was our money.

After Roger died, I took his name off the account (due to the fact his death was after a car accident). Slowly over the last three years, Wachovia and now Wells Fargo changed the terms so much that even old accounts, like Roger's, are not as efficient.
So I need to close it.  And I am trying.

It is a small thing.
A meaningless thing.
It is just a checking account.
Come. On.
But it was ours.
And way before that, it was his.
And now, its another thing that is disappearing that was part of him.
That belonged to him.
So I have been dragging my feet.
I have not been very aggressive in getting this done.
I opened a new account before Christmas.
And yet it is March almost April.
Now, I have been busy but there is part of me that is dreading pulling the plug, again.

Sigh...
It is the small things.

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.

Bad Widow

I threw something away.
It was ugly now.
My hate for it was growing.

But I feel like a bad widow for throwing this thing away.
Maybe even like I am a bad bride.

I threw away my bouquet this week.

The roommate moved out a month ago. (Thank God!!)
So Roger's stuff closet was available again.
As I moved my wedding planning book, my wedding albums, and some other things, I saw it again.
My bouquet.

I have never liked the way it dried.
The blue and white hydrangeas were beautiful at the wedding.
They were hideous after the wedding.
During drying process, the petals withered.
The colors looked awful.
The stems shrunk.
I hated it.

But after Roger died, I felt like I had to hold on to it.
Like it was required.
Part of some weird widow code.

So I broke the code.
I threw it in the trash.
Mr. X was shocked "Is that your bouquet?"
"Yep."

Sigh...

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...

Two Relationships

Supa Fresh has a blog page on facebook.

She gives a thought or question of the day then asks for others' thoughts.

I sometimes respond and sometimes just read the responses.

As usual, the responses vary with each question.  

A while back she asked about our experiences with our first contact with a new dating partner.  

For myself, I have never felt guilt about being with Mr. X or the few other gentlemen I dated.  

I have never felt like I was cheating.

I have never felt like Roger was angry with me for falling in love again.  

However, recently, I have noticed perhaps why.

Not on a conscious level.  

Not often.

Not always.

Not even fifty percent of the time.

Only a very slight amount of the time, I feel like I am still in a relationship with Roger.

I have found myself doing things because Roger would want me to.  

Or because he liked a certain thing.

Or because he liked something a certain way.

For example, a few weeks ago there was a turtle in the driveway behind my house.  

I knew it was more than likely the turtle would get run over at some point during the day.

Roger loved turtles.

I love animals too but this was a turtle.

Turtles were Roger's thing more than mine

I had to save him.  

For Roger.

Mostly.

Then, a few months ago, a friend of Mr. X was splitting from his wife.  

He was setting up his own apartment and did not have much stuff.

I decided to give him a few Coke glasses and an old kitchen table of Roger's.  

A table Roger loved.

A table I did not like much.

Roger redid the seats with upholstery he picked. 

The friend got back with his wife and God only knows what he did with the table.

Or the other things.

And it makes my heart sink.

I feel like I was disappointing Roger.  

Same thing happened on Thursday morning.  

I had a lot of extra household items from Mr. X moving in.

Some his, some mine, and some Roger's.  

I called Amvets to come pick up the stuff.

This young guy came who just basically threw everything into the back of the truck.

My stomach was in a knot. 

I have to remind myself that I am not in a relationship with Roger anymore.

This does not happen often.

But just a sliver of the time.  

Just a slip into old habits, I guess.

  

Just for a moment.  

Thirty

This year I will be thirty.
I do not care about the actual age.
I do not feel old in most ways.
I do not feel like thirty is the end like some people may.

But there is this weird feeling down deep.
A bit of sadness.
Not for losing my youth.
For losing the life I thought I would had by now.
For losing the plans I had set into action.
For doing things the right way but yet still feeling like I failed.
So a bit of sadness mixed with a bit of personal failure.

I used to say I did not want to be thirty and divorced.
I accomplished that I suppose.
I guess I should have said I did not want to be thirty, divorced and/or widowed.
I would have been fine to have been single till thirty.
Not this.
Not this at all.

I feel like I did not meet my own goals.
I am still in school.
I do not have a bachelors, only an associates.
I am in the middle of a major career change.
I am (mostly) single, at least in the IRS definition.
I have not been out of the country in so long.
(The islands of the Bahamas do not count when I live ninety miles away).
The website Roger was helping me with two years ago is still sitting on the old computer.
My photography is still very amateur.

The last few days I have been in a bit of a funk.
With a slight depression coming on.
I feel like I am being left behind in the life train.
Yesterday I was speaking to a good friend who is also a widow when she commanded me to be kind to myself.
She told me to look at all the things I have accomplished.
It is just so hard right now.
It is so hard to look beyond the big gaping hole.

The First Time

I have debated writing this entry a long time.

My family reads my blog.

Roger's family read my blog.

But so do other widows.

So do other widows who are new to the "club".

So fair warning... this may be TMI.

Before I met Roger, I dated. A lot.

I liked dating for the most part.

Yes, there were heartaches.

Yes, there were some times where I just wanted to be in a relationship, but for the most part, it was fun just dating.

Then in December 2004, I decided I wanted a real life boyfriend.

Someone to hang out with on the weekends.

Someone to go on vacation with.

Someone to cuddle with.

Someone to have sex with on a regular basis.

I was living in New York City at the time with a consulting job.

I traveled every week for four days.

I loved the concept of my job but I was sick of the traveling routine.

In one city for part of the week, in another city for the rest of the week.

It was a great lifestyle for dating.

But not for boyfriend life.

So in January 2005, I started looking for a new non-traveling job in NYC.

I tried for about four months. Nothing.

My consulting job had a database of all the clients.

I decided to use my resources and look up the clients in Orlando area.

Moving back to Orlando would be easy with a friend base already in place and I knew I loved Orlando.

I moved back. And I started trying to date more seriously in August.

I met Roger at a time when I was dating two other guys.

But by November Roger won my heart.

On my wedding day, I was so nervous.

Not about how the day would go. I hired great vendors that I trusted for that.

But that I would be with the same man for the rest of my life.

"Forever" as my old friend Nick would say.

I would be having sex with the same guy for the rest of my life!!

I felt on the verge of vomiting all day until the ceremony.

But of course afterwards, I was happy with my decision.

Roger was good to me.

After I realized Roger was going to die on me, I thought about how I was going to have sex with a new person someday.

I was in the elevator at the hospital with some very close friends when I exclaimed, "My 'number' is going to go up again!"

Crapola!

Last April, I was longing to be touched.

Not just a hug from a friend.

But T.O.U.C.H.E.D touched.

But I was also so nervous.

Would I feel guilty?

Would I feel like I was betraying my vows?

Betraying Roger?

Before I started dating again, I consulted some of my peers who had gone before me.

Supa and Crash were emailed.

"Did you feel guilty the first time you had sex?"

Both replied no.

"Okay, I can do this."

So last May, I did "it."

I had to make all the first moves.

This guy I was dating was nervous about offending me.

About moving too fast.

To me, I just wanted it out of the way.

I wanted to know yes or no about feeling guilty.

I wanted to know if I could enjoy sex again.

Could I feel?

Could I feel good?

For me, I did not feel guilty at all.

I did not feel I was cheating on my husband.

I did not cry which I severely feared I would.

I could feel again.

I try not to think about Roger's reaction to this whole ordeal as if he is somewhere watching over me.

That is just weird to think of anyway.

But I know Roger would not want me to be sad forever.

Roger would not want me to be alone forever.

He loved me. He would want me to be happy and be loved.

My Tuesday Afternoons

In my school program, I have to complete so many observation hours.

Usually it is fifteen hours per class.

This semester I have two classes that require them.

So a total of thirty hours for the semester.

It may not sound like much but of course most of them do not start right away due to red tape like fingerprinting and background checks.

Most must be completed by early April.

And the school teachers are hard to get set up with unless there is a connection already.

Do not even get me started on the lack of communication between me and the school teachers.

One of my professors gave the class a deal at the beginning of the semester.

We could volunteer with her friend's son instead of in a school.

We would be going to the child's home and working with him for an hour each week.

In exchange, we would not have to do the normal observation hours and we would not have to complete the weekly homework assignments.

Perfect, right?

Except this sixteen year old child is not normal.

He has a severe case of cerebral palsy.

I signed up.

Supposedly he is at age level developmentally but he is unable to communicate except for some grunting and some head movements.

He has a computer to communicate with his family but he does not use it during our sessions.

This boy can be lifted easily by one person he is so small.

His muscles have atrophied severely.

He is wheelchair bound.

He spastically moves his head, eyes, arms, and legs.

A group of four of us help him do some physical therapy exercises in order to help him belly crawl at the end of the hour.

Belly crawling may sound easy but we have to first warm up his hands.

Then deep pressure points on his upper extremities.

Then warm up his arms.

Helping him flip-over multiple times.

Then we use infrared on his legs.

Unlock his lower extremities.

Then in the last ten minutes or so, we help him crawl.

Maybe twice if he does well.

And sometimes maybe half.

Most days it takes the entire ten minutes to crawl about three feet.

It is an hour a week.

It is exhausting for me.

Mentally.

Physically.

And emotionally.

Yesterday, I realized something.

Roger would have never even been half as functional as this kid.

Roger would have been exhausting.

And it would not be an hour a week.

It would have been 168 hours a week.

I look at this child's mother.

She is tired.

She is stressed.

She is aging way faster than she should.

Her entire life is her son.

She tries to be positive and gives so much to him.

But he requires constant care.

That could have been me...

Except as a wife, not a mother.

And as crazy and dark and horrible as this sounds, I am grateful.

Grateful that this is my life.

Yes, I would love Roger to still be alive and well.

But I do not know if I could have been that strong.

This mother strong.

I do not know if I could have dedicated my entire being to the lifestyle of a caregiver.

When Roger was dying, I wanted him to survive.

But he didn't.

And despite the worst week of my life, I lead a mostly normal life.

Thank you...

Backyard Update

Last month I wrote about my plants.

I was so depressed looking at my backyard.

I cried as I realized everything was dying from the extreme cold and the bitter winds.

It was awful.

A couple weeks ago my doorbell rang.

It was my yard guy.

He said almost everything was dead.

He asked if he could cut everything back.

He said things may come back.

Or maybe not.

"Sure" I said as my stomach dropped.

With the time change, Florida also changes the water restrictions.

So tonight I was outside changing the sprinkler system.

I looked back where the banana trees used to be and I saw the first picture.

It was depressing once again.

I wanted to cry again.

I grabbed some fertilizer for the other plants.

As I was sprinkling the small pellets around, I noticed something else.

The second picture.

I got closer.

And I noticed something.

Something amazing.

I have some baby banana trees coming up.

Yes, the old ones are gone and dead.

But there are new ones for me to take care of.

I probably will not have bananas for a while but I have banana trees!

I have banana trees!!!

Some of the other "dead" things are coming back to life as well.

Some new sprouts here and there.

Some new life peaking out from underneath the old dead leaves.

Hope.

Surviving despite the conditions.

Renewal.

New life.

"The Best"

I cannot utter the words "the best" with Mr. X.

I certainly cannot say "You are the best boyfriend ever."

Or even more simply "You are the best."

I just can't.

It feels like I am violating something.

Like I am violating Roger's status on things.

Neither of them were/are better than the other person.

They are very different.

They meet different needs of mine.

They have different personalities.

In some ways Mr. X is the best at things.

In other ways Roger was the best.

But yet I cannot say "the best" to Mr. X.

I do not think I believe in the "best" anymore.

Only "best right now" and that just sounds silly.

Mr. X is not a replacement so making him the new best is just weird too.

So no "best" coming from me for now.

Just "awesome" and "fantastic" and "wonderful" and "great".

"Peace" Lilly

When Roger died, I got flowers and plants.

Which was nice and I realize people do not really know what to do, so giving plants and flowers is what they do.

But the flowers died.

And I do not have a green thumb.

Now I am down to two plants from that week.

One small peace lilly in the kitchen that hates me and will never bloom.

And one plant also in the kitchen that is actually kinda cool but it never blooms either.

But it is semi-healthy.

The latest round of plant deaths actually happened a few weeks ago.

Maybe a month ago now; time sucks.

Florida had about a week of below freezing weather.

I covered all the plants I could with bed sheets.

I had no idea what else to do.

I covered Roger's banana trees, the crotons, and some other random plants.

After the first morning, I realized I made a grave mistake.

I forgot the peace lilly plant outside my kitchen window someone gave me.

It hated me too for the last eighteen months.

It never bloomed and would always have some leaves turning brown constantly reminding me of Roger's death. Maybe I should have planted it somewhere else.

That first morning it looked awful.

Like I had murdered the damn thing.

I wanted to cry.

I tried covering it up the next few nights of miserable cold.

It did not help.

The plant is pretty much dead.

I see a few specks of green on the main stem but I do not know what to do know.

The crotons are dead.

All their leaves dropped off.

Damn them!

The banana trees... I am not sure.

I know for sure that some of them are completely gone.

But there are a few specks of green on a few of them too.

They really make me sad. I cried as I heard the wind ripping through the dead leaves.

Roger loved those trees.

We even moved them from the old house to our new home.

And now I pretty much have killed them too.

Even his aloe plants look like they are sick.

I am hoping they survive me.

I have no idea what to do to help possibly save these sick plants.

But why can't they live?

Why do they have to die too?

Why do they have to be so much work?

Ugh...

I Have to Fight This Feeling

I have to fight the feeling that people do things because they pity me.

Or worse, do not do things because they pity me.

Is a friend afraid to say they hate me?

That they do not want to be my friend anymore?

Maybe say yes to a personal time but then never follow-through because it is too hard to cancel?

I am afraid my friends only stay my friends because of grief.

That they do not want to push me over the edge.

That they do not want to cause me any more pain.

Then I wonder:

Do people get tired of my Roger stories?

Do people get tired of me bringing up widowhood?

Do people get tired of me blaming things on grief?

So then I almost try to stop talking about all the bad stuff.

To make others more comfortable.

Because I feel sorry for them for having to stay my friend.

I feel pity for them!

I am so afraid of people not saying things to me because they do not want to upset me.

Not telling me how they truly feel.

And I fight this feeling over and over again.

I am not sure how to stop this paranoia.

But it is driving me crazy.

To me, Roger's death is still very fresh.

Yes, as I wrote earlier, time has passed but it does not mean grief is over.

A lesson I have had to learn over and over again.

My request for my friends and family, please be honest with me.

Do not pity me.

Please, please do not pity me.

I Didn't...

As many know, the day of the accident, Roger and I were on our way to the airport.

We were going to visit Virginia for my ten year high school reunion.

I was excited.

I was excited to say I was married and happy.

I was excited to say I had a good job with good money.

I was excited to say we had a nice house.

I was excited to see people I had not seen in nine to ten years.

The night before we left, I went to bed early.

I was tired from work and I wanted to be well rested for our trip.

Roger stayed up for a little while.

He was gearing up his iPod.

Downloading songs. Navigating all the features.

I had given it to him on his birthday.

He had not used it yet.

He never used it.

I remember when he came to bed.

I smiled at him.

I was very sleepy.

I rolled over to my side of the bed and went to sleep.

I didn't snuggle with him.

Like most couples, we would snuggle before we went to sleep.

Only for about five to ten minutes.

Then one or both of us would roll over to our respective sides and then go to sleep.

But that night.

I didn't.

We had a million other nights ahead of us.

Something Roger had reminded me of continuously through a relationship.

"It is okay if we do not to , we have time dear."

"Yes dear."

But we didn't have time.

At most we had around 1,000 potential nights together.

And on this last night, I didn't snuggle with him.

It really bothers me.

I have to continuously tell myself that I didn't know.

I did not know it would be the last night.

But it does not help that feeling.

The feeling that I missed an opportunity.

Among so many...

I didn't.

He Cried

For the last couple of days, I have been stuck thinking about our wedding.

And one moment in particular that keeps coming back to me over and over.

Roger's father died three and half years before I met Roger.

From a car accident ironically.

Six years before our wedding.

Six and half years before Roger was murdered by a stupid driver.

From everything anyone has ever told me, Roger's dad was an amazing guy.

I wish I could have met him.

I wish I could have known him.

Roger loved his dad.

He admired him.

He talked about him often.

And he missed him.

A lot.

For Christmas before our wedding, I gave Roger cufflinks with a locket feature.

I took a picture of Roger's dad and put it inside of each.

Roger's dad may not have been able to be physically present at our wedding, but he at least would be by Roger's sides.

Roger did not react much when I gave him the cufflinks.

It seemed my gift was a dud.

I was a little disappointed in my gift giving ability.

On our wedding day, Roger wore his dad's watch.

It did not work.

But Roger wore it anyway.

He also wore my gift.

Roger asked our wedding photographer to take pictures of him wearing the watch and of the cufflinks.

So he did like the cufflinks.

He was showing them off even.

I knew Roger felt the missing part of his day.

But he did not mention it.

I could feel it.

I felt saddened Roger's father was not there.

The most important day of his life and his father was not there in a physical sense.

Then came the best man's toast.

A toast to the missing man.

Roger started to cry (as did most of the guests).

And there was nothing I could do but rub his leg.

I was trying to be the best wife I could.

Everyone raised their glass.

Roger raised his Heineken, his father's favorite drink.

He cried.

Only the second time I ever saw him cry.

Once happy.

Once sad.

This moment runs through my head a lot lately.

Almost two years later and I cry when I think of his tears.

How he cried.

Chutes and Ladders

Yes, I am dating.

Yes, I am in school.

Yes, I feel good for the most part at least a good majority of the time.

Yes, life moves forward.

That is life fortunately/unfortunately.

But some days I cannot help but feel like I am in a bad game of chutes and ladders.

Instead of enjoying married life, I slid back single-hood and now I have climbed back to dating life.

Instead Roger and I decorating my home together and planning parties, I am planning without him.

I am barely maintaining my home and only with the help of others.

And although Roger and I did not plan to have children for five years initially, I was thinking right before his death about maybe reconsidering when I was thirty.

To make a (semi) final decision about to be or not to be.

I did not get a chance to talk to him about it.

To be or not to be was decided for me.

And now, I will be thirty in a year.

And I am not where I ever imagined.

Ever.

And especially where I thought I would be at almost thirty.

A few days ago, the wife of one of Roger's coworkers had a baby.

Roger really liked this coworker.

He talked about the potential he saw in him.

He talked about what a nice guy he was.

He talked about hanging out with him outside of work.

He talked about how he could see himself in him.

And in the day and age of facebook, I saw pictures of this new family.

A picture of his wife.

A picture of the baby.

And one picture that I cannot get out of my head.

This coworker and the his new baby.

His first child.

Tears were in his eyes.

And then in mine.

I can only imagine what kind of father Roger would have been.

I can only imagine the look of pride on his face.

And as I stared at the picture on my computer screen, I could see the same face on Roger.

The potential tears in his eyes.

Sigh... I hate this...