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.

Meeting the Family

Last week I was super nervous about the weekend visit to Miami to have Mr. X meet Roger's family.
Mostly concerned about those closest to Roger including his mother.
Anxiety was also met with excitement.
I cannot even describe the feeling of home when I visit my given family in Miami.
My heart feels filled.
I am surrounded by people who love me and care about me.
And we all loved Roger.
That feeling is the best medicine in the world for heartache.

So combining my life and love of Mr. X with my Miami family was very important to me.
I know it is not a traditional family of marriage and extended family but I do not want to give up my Miami family for anything.
Life is complicated.
Family is complicated.
But this family is one gift from Roger I hope to never lose to traditional family standards.
No matter what people may think or say or gossip about.

So as we pulled into the driveway, my heart started to beat faster.
I thought, "Here we go!"
Worlds colliding!

The first night was at first emotional.
Roger's mom was overwhelmed.
She started to get a headache from her nerves.
Mr. X conversed with her in her limited English but she did laugh some and was her silly self as usual.
But we needed backup fast.
I called Roger's aunt, "Can we come visit?"
"Sure, come on over."

After four glasses of wine, introductions to Roger's cousins, aunt, and uncle, everything was good.
Mr. X, as usual, quickly adapted to the new situation.
He made the family laugh.  He laughed at their jokes.  He participated in their sarcasm.
Comments were made to me that they liked him.
Of course, one cousin had to make "the" speech:
"Take care of her.  She is our family.  She is our cousin for life."

Second day, we did errands with Grace, Roger's sister, and jokingly Grace and Mr. X alternated with "I like you", "I used to like you", and "I don't like you."
Roger's mom was impressed with Mr. X's Cuban coffee and love of Cuban sandwiches.
"Are you sure you aren't Cuban?"

That night Roger's aunt made me his favorite meal-marinated turkey meat with potatoes and rice.
It is so yummy.
And I was craving it bad.
It was delicious as usual and I got to share Roger's favorite food with Mr. X.

Third day was filled with a big family event.
Most of the family was coming to Roger's aunt's house for lunch.
Mr. X met a lot of Roger's cousins and aunts and all the little children that ran around.
He helped set up the event (lunch with that many people is always an event) and break down.
People were impressed.  "He helps!"
When we were leaving, Roger's mom, sister, cousin, and myself were in the car.
Mr. X was still chatting with people inside.
I had to chuckle.
He had known some of them for a few hours and at most some of them for forty-eight hours.
Yet he was still inside giving hugs and talking.

Overall the visit was a success.
We both were invited to come back anytime.
Worlds colliding went well.
Thankfully.

Sigh... some relief.

18

During one of my grief sessions, my counselor asked me who I was before.
Before I was a bride.
Before I was a newlywed.
Before I was a widow.
She asked about things I enjoyed before.

It was a hard question.
At that point, it had been a long time that I did not have any of those titles.
We were engaged for fifteen months.
Married for six.
And I had been widowed for about six months.

I started to talk about photography.
How I loved taking photos.
How I always had a point-n-shoot camera in my purse for years and years.
My smile started to appear.
She encouraged me to pick my camera back up.
To start finding things to enjoy again.

Photography relaxes me.
It makes me smile.
To capture a bit of beauty in a strange new way or a true smile of a child or the expanding belly of a pregnant belly.

The past few weeks I have been struggling so much.
Sadness is been sweeping over me.
Loneliness is sitting on my shoulders.

I wanted to take some beautiful photos this past weekend.
While on a tiny vacation, I wanted to find some things to capture.
Things to photograph.
But... disappointment is all I found.
While Mr. X and I explored Charleston, rain poured from the sky for two of our three days.
I saw tons of things to take photos of but I could not risk all the rain.

Sigh...

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.

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.

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.

Going Back

Some of my last memories of Roger alive happened between July 4th and August 21st.
Obviously.
However, as each day of this six week period clicks by, I have some memories associated with so many different things.
Certain dates. Certain places.
Everywhere.

Two weeks before the accident, with another couple, we went to their beach condo.
We celebrated Roger's 34th birthday. His last.
We joked that I "made" him a cake from the local grocery store. With layers.
We watched some of the summer Olympics.
We learned another couple of friends were engaged.
We went to the beach.
We hang by the pool.
We had lunch at this famous deli.
We went to a seafood restaurant.
We played board games.

Some times when I remember images of Roger, I see him in this condo.
Sitting at the bar while he looked at his cake.
Looking at me as I take his picture.

For two years, I have not been back.
I knew this would be a hard first "task" to check off the list.

This past weekend, Mr. X and I were invited to the condo to hang out with a friend who moved away a few months ago and was visiting.
I started to get anxious Friday during the day.
Friday night I started to have trouble breathing.
I could not sleep.
Crap.

Saturday morning, Mr. X and I rode down the same roads.
I rode quietly in the car.
Memories started to rush in and cloud my head.
The tears started to fall.
I did not want to be sad girl.  No. No. No.
I wanted to be happy and see my friends.
I forced the tears to stop.

As we entered the condo, it smelled the same as (almost) two years ago.
The furniture is the same.
Decor is the same.
He sat over there on the love seat.
He took a nap on that sofa.
He played charades over near the bar.
Roger. Roger. Roger.
My eyes started to well up but I forced myself to stop.
No crying!!
I tried not to look deeply into anyone's eyes.
I tried to smile.
I tried not to think.
I tried not to remember.

Part of me just wanted to curl up in these spaces with these memories, alone.
Try to remember every detail.
Try to savor each memory.

But instead I put on my happy girl mask.
As long as I can keep it in place the better.
At least for the next few weeks.

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.

"You Don't Fit"

This past weekend I went to visit NYC.

I lived there for three years five years ago.

I loved it.

It was a dream fulfilled for me.

It was a great time of my life.

Great yummy food.

Diverse people.

Awesome public transportation.

Fantastic culture.

But I hated the cold winters.

I hated wearing a thick coat for months at a time.

I hated how expensive housing was.

I hated dating city guys.

I still enjoy visiting and try to do it once per year.

Last year, I had a meltdown before going so I did not make it.

In 2008, we had the wedding and then Roger died and thus I did not make it.

On this visit, I was overwhelmed with memories.

Memories of my life before Roger existed.

Before I was a widow.

A time when I was just free.

They were everywhere and connected to everything.

I felt a little out of place while I was in NYC.

I felt like I did not quite fit like I used to.

Not like I was a tourist but just different.

I quickly adjusted to NYC culture and small spaces.

I adjusted to the price of things.

To having cash instead of a debit card.

To eating fabulous food and drinking without having to drive.

But I felt off (and cold and wet due to crappy weather).

And then I had two separate friends at separate times say the worst things to me.

"You are not NYC material anymore."

"You could not do NYC again."

"You just don't fit."

Which is mostly true.

I left because I wanted to have a real house, routine, and find a real relationship.

I probably would have stayed at the time if I would have found a non-traveling job but I could not after searching for three months so off to Florida I went.

But I hate to be told I could not do something.

I am a bit stubborn.

After all I have been through, I can do pretty much anything I think.

I made it in NYC before. If I did it once, I could do it again.

But I do like my life in Florida.

I like having ample space.

I like having my friends here.

I like having Mr. X.

So I will visit once per year.

And later in life, if things change, perhaps I will do it again.

Because I can.

The Suitcase

As I have mentioned (many times), Roger and I were on our way to the airport when the accident occurred.

On our way to my high school reunion.

So our suitcases were packed.

They were in the back of the car.

The fire department had to remove the roof to get Roger out of the car.

The police searched through our stuff.

They said it was because they were looking for valuables.

For our protection.

Yeah right... I am glad that protected my 80G iPod so well that I never got it back.

In their rush of "helping" us, they messed up Roger's suitcase.

The one I bought him to match mine as a semi-joke for Christmas one year.

So we could travel together.

So we could easily spot our suitcases.

Plus he said he liked mine.

The police broke the zipper on the front pocket of the moss green suitcase.

They tore a big hole on the other front pocket.

It also had a spot of rust on the front from sitting under the replaced removed roof.

And it was dirty.

Probably even moldy.

But I kept it anyway.

I put it with all the other suitcases.

Upstairs.

Tomorrow, I have a roommate moving in.

Upstairs.

So the suitcases needed to be moved.

Hence I decided I needed to reexamine my decision to keep it.

Will I ever use it again? No.

Can it even be repaired? Maybe.

Would I repair it? Probably not.

I asked Mr. X to help me make the decision.

Since emotionally I was blinded.

Since I could not make a logical decision.

He looked at me.

He said I should keep it if I want.

He said it was up to me.

I begged him to help me.

To help me think about this logically.

The zipper could be repaired yes.

The hole was pretty severe, however.

And I have several other suitcases of similar size.

So I put it out to the curb.

I let the garbage men take it away.

It only reminded me of the accident when I saw it.

Not our honeymoon.

Not the trip to Arizona.

None of the good memories.

Only the worst.

So the suitcase is gone.

Gone...

"How Was Your Thanksgiving?"

This week I have been inundated with this question: "How was your Thanksgiving?"

What I cannot figure out is what people mean.

Are they asking how was MY Thanksgiving?

As in, was it hard for me? Did I do okay? Did I survive?

Was I sad?

Or...

Is it another one of those general greeting questions like "How are you?"

I want to say, "Good."

Because it was good.

I enjoyed myself.

I enjoyed seeing family and spending time with Grace.

And I really loved seeing all the babies and kids.

Such innocence and energy.

But it was a means of survival really.

It was still very very hard.

Remembering why I was not making the turkey.

Remembering why I was not in Orlando.

Looking at who was missing.

I want to say "I survived."

Just because I had a fun time and I smiled and I laughed does not mean I was not thinking about Roger.

Thinking about my empty roasting pan.

Wondering about the many, many "what ifs".

Upon my return to Orlando, I have been flooded with more reminders of what I do not have.

Many of my friends have celebrated or are celebrating their new family traditions with their mostly new husbands.

One friend just posted pictures of her first married Thanksgiving.

And her first Christmas tree.

Many people think that in grief, there is only one loss-the spouse.

But there is loss after loss after loss.

It continues forever.

Widows and widowers only learn how to cope and how to hide.

So I will say my Thanksgiving was good.

Because it was.

But it was also a reminder.

A reminder of everything that I have lost.

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.

Traditions

When I was a little girl, Thanksgiving was celebrated at my grandparents house.

Then my grandparents started to die off.

And so did Thanksgiving traditions.

Then I moved away, and Thanksgiving had even less tradition for me.

I celebrated with various people through the years.

Chicago, New York, Orlando.

But I rarely went back home.

When Roger and I started officially dated, it was only a few weeks before Thanksgiving.

Although we called each other, I celebrated with an old friend from New York and her family in West Florida.

Roger celebrated with his sister and mom here in Orlando.

That was their tradition.

His mom and sister would travel to Orlando.

Roger would make the turkey.

Other people from his family would come to his house.

He was the tradition for Thanksgiving.

By the following Thanksgiving, we were engaged.

Roger cooked the turkey.

I helped with the sides.

I was excited.

It was time for a new tradition.

Thanksgiving was ours.

I was happy.

It felt perfect.

The following year, Thanksgiving 2007, I bought the roasting pan for the turkey.

I convinced Roger it was a good investment.

Instead of buying the disposable aluminum turkey pans, we would have a real pan.

It was on sale and in seven to eight Thanksgivings it would have paid for itself.

We were being green.

We had his cousin and his wife over for Thanksgiving.

And their four girls.

And Roger's sister and his mom.

And Roger and me.

In the new house.

Roger's mom prayed for little pitter patter of feet.

Not just of the cats.

But Thanksgiving is not at my house anymore.

Not last year.

Not this year.

The pan was used just the one time.

One fucking time.

No one comes to my house for Thanksgiving anymore.

I had a Thanksgiving tradition.

Had.

Now I am back to being a nomad.

Trying to figure out where I will be for this holiday.

Or the next.

Trying to find my place again.

I feel tradition-less again.

Crap...

Why Do I...

... cry at the drop of a hat.

Especially around Mr. X.

I know it is because I am comfortable around him.

He makes me feel safe.

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

It is quite scary.]

But yesterday I made a big decision.

I told Mr. X about it.

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

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

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

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

And so I did cry.

Almost instantly as he said it.

So I decided...

I am not going to Africa like I planned.

Like we planned.

Like Roger and I planned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes planned travel.

Sometimes not so planned travel.

But there is a dark second reason as well.

I am stubborn.

I am very stubborn.

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid death was going to stop me?

Losing my husband was going to stop me?

Losing my traveling partner was going to stop me?

Losing my income was going to stop me?

No way.

Not me.

Not this girl.

Nothing was going to stand in my way.

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

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

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

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

But that is not how I want to do this.

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

About visiting my wonderful friend Andrea and her fantastic kids.

About seeing unusual cultures and animals.

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

A trip like Africa is meant to be shared.

So I will go to Africa.

I will go loads of places.

I will meet lots of people.

I will make my mark on the world.

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

I know Roger would agree with me.

Especially when it comes to budgeting.

He was so great at saving.

So I will save my money.

The money his death provided for me.

And I will clear my head.

And I will go to Africa someday.

I will touch a lion.

I will see African villages.

And unfortunately, I will still cry.

But...

I will give myself a break.

I will let myself be less stubborn.

I will let myself be less on a plan.

I will love me.

I will love my life.

Because that is what Roger taught me.

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

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.

No More Guilt

A couple of months ago, I wrote about the first birthday.

I decided then to go to the Paradise Island, Bahamas for his birthday.

Specifically to Atlantis.

I was feeling a lot of guilt about not going to Atlantis for our honeymoon.

A lot of guilt.

I felt like I had robbed Roger of his ideal honeymoon.

I felt like I had robbed him of something he really looked forward to doing for a long time.

I felt like a horrible wife.

A bridezilla who wanted her way.

And yes, I know I was not any of those things.

But the guilt was very heavy.

Now I feel a bit absolved from that guilt.

At least that one.

I know now Atlantis was not the "perfect" honeymoon spot.

It was not our perfect honeymoon spot.

There were kids.

There were families.

There were teens and babies.

It was expensive.

It had bad service.

It had mediocre food.

I would have been disappointed.

(And I was a bit disappointed.)

Roger would have had to dealt with my disappointment.

And I would have probably felt an even crazier guilt.

And maybe even some regret that we went to Atlantis had a bad time and did not get to have a perfect honeymoon.

But our honeymoon was nice.

It was more than nice.

It was perfect for us.

It was relaxing.

It was romantic.

It was the Caribbean.

And it was far away.

Now, the birthday weekend itself was exactly what I needed.

I accomplished a set of goals for the weekend.

First, it was relaxing.

The water was great.

The pools were nice.

The sun was awesome.

My travel partner, my twin, Nicolle, was great.

We celebrated our husbands.

We celebrated our accomplishments over the last month or so.

Second, I took on the water slides.

This was one of the primary reasons Roger wanted to go here.

The boy loved water slides.

It had one of the largest water slides (in the Caribbean?).

It is called the Leap of Faith, a seven story plunge into a shark infested pool (riders are not in the pool but go through the pool in a safe acrylic tube).

And both Nicolle and I took our turns down the slide.

Yes, we screamed but if we can survive this "situation", we could and did survive a measly water slide.

And like most of the holidays and anniversaries I have experienced thus far, it was not as bad as I expected.

I am starting to learn this lesson slowly.

It is the before and after that sucks the breathe away.

I only cried once during the actual birthday.

I thought a lot.

I remembered a lot.

I walked down memory lane a lot.

Nicolle and I asked each other silly questions.

We compared notes on dating, wedding planning, (short) marriages, and widow-ness.

In that way, it was a great vacation.

In most ways, it was a great vacation.

It was what I needed.

It did answer a lot of questions.

And thankfully, no more guilt.

"You Have All the Time in the World"

I hear "You have all the time in the world" a lot.

Especially when talking about getting school finished.

Working.

Dating.

Traveling.

Living.

Over and over again.

But how do people know I have all this said time.

I thought I had all the time in the world to spend with Roger.

Roger thought he had all the time in the world.

But he did not.

He ran out of time.

What if I run out of time?

Life is short.

Life is too damn short.

Roger used to say the same thing to me about having loads of time.

When we first started officially dating and I started to really fall for him, he was really busy.

He was going to school, working full time, and then he was out of town on the weekends.

So for about six weeks, I barely saw him.

I was annoyed.

I was very annoyed.

Roger kept saying, "Don't worry. We will see each other soon. We have our whole lives to spend with each other."

Of course he said this way before we were even talking about marriage.

Or at least before I was thinking of marriage.

He was already threatening to propose at that point.

But we did not have our whole lives.

We only had three years together.

We were only married six very short months of those three years.

And he died one random day.

He was not sick.

He did not have cancer.

He was strong and healthy.

So, how do people know that I have all this time?

How can they be so sure?

Did they know Roger was going to die?

Did they know and not tell me?

I think not.

No one knew.

And yet everyone keeps telling me how much time I have.

Ugh.

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...

Stupid Aquarium

Taken Summer 07. Roger always sat in the back with his mom and I sat in the front with his sister.  He looked so hot in this picture.  

Sitting next to the aquarium. This proves to me how much weight I have truly lost.  

I am still in Miami.

And it has been a truly relaxing weekend and just time away from everything.

I have been doing a lot of reading, surfing the internet, and just true nothingness. 

I love it.

It was more needed than I realized.  It is amazing how being around family helps me.  

I am lucky to have married into this family.

Tonight, I went to dinner with some aunts, uncles, cousins, my mother-in-law, and sister-in-law.

I have been craving Thai food for about a month or so now.  

Maybe longer.

So we decide to go to this place I have been to before.

They have a little bit of Japanese and Thai.  

I was excited.

I was finally getting Thai food.

The last time we ate here was two years ago.

With Roger.

Of course. (pictures above)

I was fine outside the restaurant.

I was not having any issues.

And I was not expecting what happened next.  

Funny how grief works.

But we sat down.

I looked over to my right and I could see the table we sat at last time.

The beautiful aquarium with the coy fish.

I could see all of us laughing.

Having a good time.  

I could see us together.

I could see what he ordered.

I remembered him enjoying his food.

The more I looked at the aquarium, the more I was falling apart.

Fuck.  Not now.

I started fighting off tears.

I had to leave the table.

Tears started to stream down my face.

I had to go to the bathroom just to breathe.

Breathe in. Breathe out.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.

I ran my hands under the cold water for a few minutes.

I dampened a paper towel and patted down my face.

"I can do this.  I am going to walk back out there.  And not look at the aquarium."

The rest of the dinner was fine.

But I could not help but remember how much he liked Thai.

Honestly, I kind of forgot until we were there.

At the end of the meal, the owner brought us Thai donuts.

One of Roger's favorites.

Deep breaths.  

Deep deep breaths.  

Roger just loved these things.

Sigh.

Damn it!

I feel wobbly

Today, I woke up and was getting ready to fly to New York City.

But somehow, tonight I am going to sleep in Miami.

Not exactly my plan for the day.

I even got to surprise my mother-in-law.

My only excuse for this huge change in plans is I am a widow.  

I can control very little.

Including my emotions.

Including what city I wake up in.

It started last night.

Or maybe it started on the way back from Seattle.

I am not sure.

I just started feeling out of sorts.

I read John Grogan's memoir on the way back from Seattle and it just hit home a lot.

I was bawling on the plane as the author talked about his own struggle with taking his father off life support.  I had no idea the book was going to end that way.

Thankfully the middle seat next to me was empty and the guy in the aisle was paying little attention to me.

Or at least he pretended not to see me.  

For which I am grateful.

Yesterday, I could not get myself in the mood to pack for or get ready to go to New York.

I had no energy.  No motivation.

I was feeling pretty low so I bought a cupcake as my dinner from a local bakery to see if that would make me feel better.

Nope.

It just made me feel fat and have a sugar overload.  

And then there was some stress.

It was silly.

Normal people would not have been stressed about it.

I would not even been stressed out about it a year ago.

It was all about getting into my friend's apartment in New York.

She could leave the apartment key under the mat but I would still have to wait for someone to come out to open the building.

Or I could come to her office which I did not know where it was, pick up the key, and then figure out how to get back to her apartment with my luggage.

Or I could find something else to do for three to four hours with my luggage in tow while she was at work.

I could not seem to make a decision.

None of the options seemed to work for me.

I was getting completely stressed out.

I was feeling sick with stress.  

"Ok, going on an exciting trip like this is not suppose to be stressful. Especially for something this silly."

So I decided not to go.

In somewhat of a haste but I immediately felt less stressed.  

But my bags were packed.

I had only been about forty minutes from leaving my house for the airport.

And I hate unpacking.

So about twenty minutes later, I decided to head to Miami.

After last week, I wanted to see Matthew.

I felt like I would feel better and less stressed if I saw sweet Matthew.

I also was feeling a bit guilty about not seeing my mother-in-law for her first mother's day without Roger.

As I was getting ready to leave for Miami, I noticed something else was different.

Something simple and silly.

The guy who mows my yard had asked me during the week what to do about some bushes that were dying in my backyard.

Stupid bushes.

Stupid stupid bushes.

Roger planted them last summer after relocating them from the front yard.

They never really took.

I think he took too long to replant them.  Damn him.

They have been dying for the last eight months.

Slowly but surely turning brown.  Damn them.

"Just pull them up. I do not think they are going to make it."

Which if I am honest with myself, they never really looked like they were going to make it.

Even right after Roger planted them.

As I looked into my backyard this morning, I noticed they were gone.

The landscaper did what I asked him.

It is not like he did it without my permission.

Damn it, it was even my idea.

But I started to cry.

The bushes were gone.

They were just bushes.

They were dead bushes.

But it is just another thing that disproves Roger's existence.

They are gone.  Just like him.

So today I feel more wobbly.

Like one big wind and I will fall over.

One big push and I will fall apart.

Seeing Matthew for the first time and holding him for a good two hours did help.

And I felt like I was in the right place being here with my family.  I feel like I need them and maybe they need me.

But I still feel like I am going through another cycle of grief.

One of many.