Day 29

I wandered off a bit, I tried to start another blog that would be more public, shared with friends. With a bit less self reflection. Too much grief seems to freak people out, they start reminding you to look for the bright side, his spirit is with you, little angels dancing around you and bringing you joy. I think the meaning is: I don't know how to make you feel better and so your grief makes me sad too. Don't make me sad, please try to feel happy!

But over here, this feels better to carry on with as the journaling aspect. The occasional vents.

I realize, looking at the last post, that nothing has changed yet. I'm still caught at the bottom of that chasm of grief and I can't imagine that it will get better, at least not yet. Things change, of course, eventually, but it's hard to imagine it.

I have been reading, though. I've reread the Power of Now, which was so important to my husband when he read it. It makes me wonder how he put up with me. What a challenge I must have been to him, to his sense of calm, his no mind moments, his presence. I feel like I must have spent a lot of time dragging him back to unconsciousness, though I think he maintained well. He never gave up on me, he was always sure I'd find my way through the fog. I don't know if I'm ready to be in the present, yet. I recognize thoughts now, maybe that's a first step.

Going through Thich Nhat Hahn's No Death, No Fear, which carries on my quest for learning to be in this moment instead of the past or the future. Up next in the kindle queue is another book about mindful grieving.

Up after that... I can't imagine. I keep looking at old photos and crying more than ever. I find new, cute little things that I want to show him. I still do show him, I talk to him all the time, I say "look!" but it's not the same, it's not the same as hearing his voice, hearing his response, listening to him laugh. I can imagine those things, I can imagine how he'd react, but that's not really enough.

And I still have that profound sense of unreality. That absolute certainty that this is not real, the world around me is not the real world, that I'm somehow caught in a dream state, a hallucination, and if I fight hard enough I will wake up and find him beside me and all will be well. Sometimes it's terrifying how strongly I feel that, and it makes me wonder if I am beginning to lose my mind. I know he is dead, I know his ashes are in that urn that's sitting on the table in the living room. At the same time I know he's not gone, I know he's right here and he's just out of my field of view and I just can't quite figure out how to reach him. I know it to be true just as I know that if I walk into the kitchen I'll see the box of cereal I left out.

I envy those people who say they hear messages, see signs. Even if they are imagining those things, even if it's all self-delusion, it doesn't matter. I would love to have something to cling to.

Day 29. I still can't bear the thought of the world without you.

Am I Thankful?

Thanksgiving has arrived, and I see lots of people making note of what they are thankful for. For the past few years Jeff was at the very top of my list of things I was thankful for, I was so thankful that I had found the love of my life. I was thankful for our health, for our love, for the life that we were building. Everything was a blessing.

This year? To be perfectly honest, I don’t feel thankful. I do feel robbed, cheated, numb, angry, terrified, and heartbroken. Even through the pain I recognize that I have things to be very thankful for. I am not utterly alone, I have friends and family who are  supportive and loving. I may be having a hard time reaching out to take the help that people offer, but I will when I’m ready, and I know I’m surrounded by clouds of good thoughts and prayers. I’m thankful for those. I am thankful for all of my friends and family, even the ones I have only ever ‘met’ online. All of them are more important to me than they can probably imagine.

Today I’m also a little thankful that Jeff and I never really paid much attention to Thanksgiving, so I won’t really feel that I’m missing a big celebration, or even an intimate gathering. But Thanksgiving is only the beginning, I still have a month of festive holiday cheer to deal with.

The holiday season seems to start earlier each year. I was starting to see Christmas decor in stores before Halloween, but it will really be in full swing after Thursday. Fluffy blankets for everybody!I don’t know how I’m going to handle that. While we didn’t go all out decorating at home we had our little holiday things we enjoyed, and I always looked forward to Christmas.I looked forward to the decorations, and the colors. Jeff liked find a way to make presents for people, he thought they held a lot more meaning. I remember our first Christmas was spent trying to sew fluffy blankets for everyone. Okay, Jeff did most of the sewing, but I did cut the material. And every year we’d pick a night and drive around to look at Christmas lights, and mark the best ones on the GPS so we could remember them from year to year. It was the little things that I looked forward to so much. Big fancy celebrations didn’t mean a lot, it was the little touches that I will miss.

This year I find myself dreading the season and the imagery of happy family gatherings, festive songs, good will and holiday cheer. While everyone else decks their halls and enjoys the Christmas music I’m still suspended in that strange, heavy fog where I feel like I’m not connected to this world, where it’s all still so surreal that there’s no way it’s actually happening and I want to scream for someone to please just wake me up. Where I look at a photo and cry for a half hour, and repeat that several times a day. Did you know that if you cry constantly you begin to feel like you’ve developed a permanent sinus congestion headache? You do.

I remember in years past I’d occasionally hear about someone who lost a loved one near the holiday, and I always felt awful for them. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like.  Now that I am facing it I can’t imagine how I will make it through the month. This will be a month of discovery as I try to work through this and find coping strategies. I’m not sure what they’ll be, Perhaps I’ll pester people on Facebook. Read. I found my art pencils so maybe I’ll attempt to draw, or at least doodle. (Hopefully the self portrait with an artichoke doodle from two posts ago will not be the pinnacle of my artistic endeavors).

I’m still taking each day on a moment by moment basis, and I am thankful that people are allowing me the time to work through this and allowing me to feel what I need to feel. And I am thankful that they are sending me their good thoughts and love and light.

In turn, my wish for all of my friends and family is for a wonderful Thanksgiving. Thank you for being here for me.

(cross posted from Kything NaturesZen)

What Would Jeffrey Do

I've spent a lot of my life being worried, anxious, and afraid of the future. Most of it, really. It comes in part from my mother, I’m sure, she was a chronic worrier, so I grew up always afraid of what could go wrong.

Jeff, on the other hand, was the calmest, least worried person I've ever known. His goal in life was to live each day as if it was the only important moment, just focusing on life in the present. Not long before we met he’d read the book “The Power of Now” by Eckhart Tolle and it profoundly impacted the way he would come to view the world, and the philosophy of his life. It is the foundation of his belief that one needs to live in the present moment, that dwelling on things that happened in the past, and worrying over what might happen in the future, served no purpose except to possibly keep you unhappy.

Although everyday anxieties and worry can slip into almost anyone’s thoughts, Jeff really did his best to dismiss them. He worked for a long time to keep that constant mental dialog that many of us have, at bay. He often said his moment of clarity, the moment when he realized he could silence the mind chatter, came when he was on his motorcycle. Being on the bike required him to always be aware of his surroundings, to be completely and totally present in each moment and not allow himself to be distracted by anything. Once he realized it was possible to silence the chatter he began to apply it when he was not on the bike, and gradually he was able to feel the same peace in everyday life.

His advice to me was to not let myself get caught up in my thoughts, to not listen to that negative voice in my head that always told me I couldn't do something, or reminded me of past mistakes, or began constructing endless scenarios about what could go wrong in the future and why I was sure it would be awful. Whenever those thoughts come up, he said, just notice them. Notice the thought, maybe remark to yourself, “That’s very interesting,” and then just let it pass. When I started to dwell on a thought he said imagine that as I hear it over and over in my head that it gradually begins to trail off. The words start to fade out, the volume just reduces to a hum and gradually disappears. I’m still trying to incorporate this into my life, now more than ever. He was always confident I could do that, and I was always confident I couldn't. I would get so frustrated when he’d put these suggestions out there, I’d tell him I could never do it, I can’t be calm, I’ll never be at peace and free of my negative mindset. I’m still skeptical, but I’m going to try again, really try, to understand how he approached this.

For now I’m re-reading The Power of Now, partially because I couldn't quite absorb it when I first tried, several years ago. Over the years Jeff had drifted away from talking about it as much, and he didn't follow Tolle’s further books all that closely, but the basic concept of the Power of Now remained a central part of his life. Perhaps I’m ready to absorb the message now, and even if not I’m finding that as I reread it brings me a  little closer to the way Jeff regarded the universe.

Whenever I would complain that I’d never be able to get rid of my negative mind chatter and find that same calm he would tell me, only half jokingly, to ask myself What Would Jeffrey Do?  He said we’ll write a book about this one day. Maybe I still will, if I can manage to make his calmness a part of my own life.  So what would Jeff do?  I honestly have no idea how he would be reacting if the situation had been reversed, if he were in my place now. But I am going to do my best to follow the example I think he would have set.

Sobbing Over Artichokes

So in the past three weeks I have ventured out of the house a few times, mostly if I need to go to the store or need to take something to someone. I never know at the beginning of the day if I’m going to accomplish anything, most mornings find me crawling back into bed and hiding for a few hours. Today started off much like that but I finally managed to rouse myself enough to make a trip to the grocery.

It’s funny where you find the grief triggers. I've accepted that just about everything is going to set me off at home, from moving something that belonged to him to seeing his handwriting on a scrap of paper to looking at the movies he still had in his Netflix queue. I listened to some old voice mails today and was unable to function for a long time. What I didn’t expect today was to have the grocery store do me in. Yet there I was, standing in the produce section and looking to see if they had any artichokes, and feeling my stomach begin to knot up.

I was never an artichoke fan, but my husband absolutely loved them. It became a standard thing when I did the shopping, cruise the produce, check the artichokes, and if they looked suitable I would always grab a couple for him to enjoy during the week. For a second my instinct was to grab one, even though I’d never eat it. Then I wanted to cry because they represented another thing he would never enjoy again. It all went downhill from there, everything in the store that he enjoyed became a new trigger for me. I managed to avoid shopping in tears, but I did exit with a bag of crullers that I didn't really need. I've already eaten most of those, by the way. I’m not proud.

I think the triggers are going to be the hardest thing to deal with, and I’m realizing that we shared so many interests and activities that I’m going to find them everywhere. I’m nowhere near the stage where I can imagine enjoying things that we once shared, or smiling at a memory instead of bursting into tears. So often I feel like I’m not only grieving the loss of his presence in my life, I feel like I’m grieving every time I think of things he won’t get a chance to do, projects that will forever be a dream, plans he was making to help out friends… and I scream at the universe because it is so unfair that he was taken away when he could have done so many more things in life.

I know my feelings, all of them, have been experienced by everyone who has lost someone they loved dearly, and I have been assured that in time, I will begin to emerge from the worst of it and find a path to healing. On day 22 that path still seems to be a long way away from me, but I will do my best to be confident that I will find my way to it when I’m ready.

(cross posted from Kything NaturesZen)

Time

I’m wondering if every Friday evening I’m going to be marking time by what I was doing on November 1, and remembering how until almost nine o’clock at night it was all okay, the world made sense, life held promise, and I could still put my arms around my husband and hold him and know that we would be together forever.

I haven’t cleared my phone history, so I know exactly when I called 911. It was 8:54pm. 8:54 when things suddenly became so terrifying that I knew he needed help. 8:54pm when I began to have the first flares of panic as I worried about what would happen and the world began to crumble around me.

Sometimes time seems to stand still, but as I look back on that night it feels like it moved at breakneck speed. The paramedics arrived, gave him oxygen, everything seemed to be improving. He was having a lot of trouble moving without getting out of breath, but they got him into the ambulance and he was stable. He was talking with them, giving them the information they needed. He was still stable and talking as he entered the ER, it wasn't until after they brought him in that his heart stopped. Because I’d have had no way to get home I chose to follow the ambulance in my car instead of riding along. I regret that deeply, I regret that I wasn't able to sit with him and spend his last alert moments holding his hand, trying to lend him energy, just being with him. I feel like I abandoned him, and I will always wonder if my presence would have made any difference. Or maybe I just grieve for myself, that I didn't have the chance to hear his voice one more time, that I couldn't kiss him on the cheek and embed that in my memory. That I couldn't hear him tell me he was going to be fine, he was always fine, he could overcome anything. What if I had just went with him... These are things I realize I can never know, but I will always ask myself those what if questions.

By the time they brought me into the ER they knew it was too late, they’d sent a Chaplain and a nurse to prepare me, and I know they were just bringing me in so I could be there at the end, with him. He was unconscious by then, but they still worked furiously on him. I've never been so terrified in my life, I felt like i was outside myself, but I didn't fall apart. I held his hand tight, I kept rubbing his right leg because I could reach him, and I needed to do something. I wanted him to know i was there, even though I couldn't tell. I wonder if he knew I was holding his hand as they tried to restart his heart, I wonder if some part of him heard me talking to him, telling him how much I loved him. People who have had near-death experiences talk about seeing themselves in the ER, observing what’s going on. I wonder, did he see me there, with him? Could he feel how much I loved him?

Three weeks have passed. It still feels I just spoke to him a moment ago, and the entire event still feels like it has to be a dream. Someday, maybe, I will stop marking the days by how much time has passed, and maybe the feeling that it is unreal won’t be as strong. For now, though, I look at the clock and all I can think is that three weeks ago, at this moment, there was still joy in my life.

(cross posted from Kything NaturesZen)

It's Not Just a Down, It's a Bottomless Chasm

I've had other widows tell me that it can get a little worse before it gets better. It is getting worse for me lately, and I think that is because the initial utter shock has worn off. Yet the unreality has not, in fact it seems even more unreal now than it did in that first week. It's harder than ever to accept that he is dead, and I don't know why.

The first week, even the first two weeks, I think I was still able to maintain a distance from all of it. I was so numb I couldn't think of anything, I knew he was gone but for some reason it wasn't fully registered in my brain. It's the same now, but the loss feels a thousand times worse lately. I look at his photos and have a meltdown. I look at his things and do the same. Tonight I looked at the products that had been sitting on the Amazon wishlist, one that we shared, and began sobbing uncontrollably because he will never be able to sit down and read the how-to books he'd marked, or learn the new programming tricks, or get that cool tea maker he was researching.

It seems that now half the time I cry for my loss, and the other half I cry because he can never experience these things, and because the people who knew him will never be able to interact with him again.

Sometimes I've asked myself what would he have done, if the situation were reversed and I'd been the one to go suddenly and without warning? We'd mentioned it a few times, casually, and he was always pretty adamant that he'd expect me to go on and do great things. I told him, no, I'm going with you. If you go first, I'm going with you, and he'd shake his head. He wanted me to be independent and strong. I'd like to think that if he were here, in place of me, he would be carrying on with a much calmer demeanor. He'd carry on with our plans, he'd live life to the fullest. That was what I'd have wanted him to do.

I don't know why I find it so profoundly difficult to contemplate that my life will go on.

I spent time at a bookstore tonight, recharging myself and looking for texts that might be helpful. In the past few days I've been building my reading list, the first of which was one of the books that was transformative in my hub's life: The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle. I had read it when we first met because it was a tremendously important book to him, but it didn't click with me as he would have liked. Lately, though, I feel a need to reread this and hope to begin to have a better understanding of how my husband could maintain his calm, his quiet mind, his feeling of peace. I feel like it will draw me closer to him, and maybe it will ease my mind somewhat as well.

19 Days, my love. I miss you.

16 Days

I haven't paid a lot of attention to the "stages of grief" idea. I know everyone reacts to something like this in their own way, and I'm still early in this, but I think I am deep within a stage of guilt and regret right now.

I was looking through older photos of us from a couple of years ago when we had lost weight, were feeling great, and had high hopes of going into the future fit and healthy and active. The one goal we both had at the time was to be at our goal weights before we turned 50, because the last thing we wanted to do was let our health get so bad that we wouldn't even live to see 50. And we were doing so good... then one day we both fell off the diet wagon, we began to reward ourselves for our hard work, we started back on our old plans, and the weight came back. All of it, for me, and at least 75% of it for my husband. 

The past few months we'd both felt ashamed of ourselves for that. We noticed the burden the weight was putting on us, the achy joints, the extra effort required to get out of a chair, the lack of desire to go anywhere that required walking around. We were right on the verge of getting back on our plans and losing that weight once and for all. We were recommitted. Health was in our future.

Then, of course, what we had always feared came to pass. He was three months shy of turning 50. 

Now all I can ask myself is, what if we'd kept on track? What if we'd just followed through with our fitness plans and stayed active? Would it have headed this off? Would it have made him strong enough to fight through? And I feel as though it's my fault, because I never even tried to insist we stick to our diet, I was just as happy to go along with the idea of a weekly pint of ice cream. I never resisted, I watched both of us grow larger and I didn't do anything. I'm not sure I will ever get over feeling as though I am partially responsible for this, and if only I'd been better, if only I'd had enough willpower to carry both of us through.

If only I'd have forced him to go to the doctor the second he said he felt bad. 

If only I'd done something. Anything.

I suspect this is a common reaction and it's something I will never know the answers to. I don't know exactly what caused my husband's heart attack, he had never been diagnosed with any cardiac problems whatsoever. I can ask myself question after question about what I could have done to prevent this but I will never know if it were possible.

If only.

Little random realizations

It just occurred to me that the first time I met my husband in person, the first time I ever saw him and talked to him, we decided to go to Chipotle for our dinner.

On the day he passed, that afternoon, a few hours before the world ended, he had me run out to get carry out from Chipotle.

I don't know why that suddenly struck me... that this will now forever be associated with the first and last days that he was physically a part of my life.

Day 13

Another day, another mix of semi functional busy-ness, and total inactivity.  Bless all my friends who keep telling me I don't need to do anything, I wish that were true. Unfortunately I can't spend the rest of the year in total inactivity, plopped on the couch, ignoring any responsibility.  I'd like to, but eventually I'll have to do something.

I'm finding that my moods are fluctuating wildly... For a few moments I am wildly optimistic: I'm going to survive this! I'm going to go forward and do the things that we always dreamed of! I am going to write that book he told me we needed to write... I am going to follow through on things, be confident, be focused, grounded, centered... I am going to be the woman he always knew I could be!

Then I look at at a photo, or open a new card, and all the optimism vanishes in a puff of grief. I can't do it. I can't go on. If I don't have my husband to share these things with what's the point in doing them at all? If he's not physically here to give me feedback, to encourage me or join me in my activities, why even bother?

There has to be a balance in there somewhere. I'm not ready to find it yet, but maybe the idea that I'm even considering there might be something else for me to do in life is a good thing, even if that hope only lasts for a few seconds at a time.

I will let the grief continue on it's own terms, for now.

And another thing

All of the people telling me my husband is with me in spirit, or he's always there in my memories, or he's in Heaven watching over me, and say they hope that comforts me.

You know, I appreciate the sentiment, and I really do appreciate that you are all trying to comfort me, and say something that will be helpful and healing and kind. And I will always graciously accept the thought and thank you for it and mean it. I really and truly do feel thankful for you, for any words you have for me at this time. Thank you.

But really? That is not in the least comforting. Not even a little. I know this is grief speaking, and it probably makes me grumpy and angry. (Well yes, for sure it does.) Yes, he's with me in spirit. Yes, his memory is always with me. I don't want to sit here with memories, I want to sit here with my husband. I want to put my arms around him, I want to cuddle up next to him, I want to kiss him on the cheek or feel him come up behind me and wrap me up in a big hug. Yes, he will always be a part of me, but knowing that doesn't fill the void that his physical presence left. It doesn't make my stomach stop hurting, it doesn't help me feel comforted in the face of panic attacks and convulsive sobbing.

And I don't even know how I feel about the afterlife concept. I know my husband didn't believe in it at all. His goal to live each day as completely as he could was based in his belief that this life is all you get, once it ends that's that, so to speak, so you should make the best of the time you have on Earth.

I'd love to think he's gone on to a new experience. I'd love to think he's waiting for me and one day I'll join him. My pagan / spiritual / eclectic new agey world view really wants to hold on to the belief that a person does have a 'soul' and that the essence of being goes on after physical death. But it's unknowable. I can see now, more than ever, why people need to be comforted by religious beliefs. Hell, I can see why people go to psychics and try to make contact with the other side... it's too hard to let go. You want there to be some tiny little spark of hope that life is eternal and your loved one is there, that their consciousness is there, the awareness and personality is still there, just in different form. You want to know that you will be reunited with them. The alternative is unbearable.

Today was just another bad day. Filed for his Social Security death benefit, (just the single payment, I am too young to receive spouse benefits) then I came home, crawled under his bathrobe, and have spent most of the time I wasn't trying to sleep crying or eating cookies.

Still the well wishers send me their prayers, and their hope that I'm doing okay. Maybe someday I will be. Not yet.

Twelve mornings

How did I get so lucky?

That was a thing we would ask each other. How did I get so lucky? How did I manage to keep you? How is it that I am lucky enough that you love me? Me, with all my insecurities, my self esteem issues, my constant worrying and doubt... how did I get so lucky?

And he told me that he was the lucky one, that he felt lucky that I loved him. And we both meant it, I know.

I still can't believe that I had such good fortune, I still can't believe how blessed I was. But right now, in this moment, I don't feel at all lucky.

I made it through the memorial, but it was definitely not a comforting turning point. If anything I feel loss even more deeply now. We are on day 12. Twelve mornings I've woken up without him. It's getting harder, I think, with each morning. Harder to imagine that he's not here, harder to get through they day. Harder to accept that it's real, he's really not coming home. I am doing my best to keep myself busy and as long as I can do something that requires all of my attention I am okay for a few minutes. But then my attention drifts, and I fall apart again.

More errands to do today. Up early for that, but I have a feeling as soon as that finishes up I'll just spend the afternoon bundled up in his robe.

And evenings too

Wow this has been a rough day.

Photos collected for the memorial, so ready for that in that I have gathered the needed materials together. Emotionally? Oh hell no. I am not even a tiny bit ready. I can't let my mind fall quiet for even five minutes without starting to cry.

I want to shout at him today. He always told me that he always thought he was in my life to help me learn to be confident and assertive and follow my dreams. This was not the way to go about it! He was supposed to help me at my side, not force me into action under the worst circumstances I could have ever imagined.

The things that will never be done are the hardest things for me to think about. Not just the things that we won't do together, but the little plans that were just for himself that he can never try out, and the things he would have done for his friends, his coworkers, people we meet along the way... He was always doing things. He was always trying to go the extra mile, above and beyond... a few months ago his boss told him he was always "going to eleven" (You remember the Spinal Tap scene, right?) He decided that was his way to do things in life. He was always going to go to eleven, he liked to try to do a little something extra for everyone.  Now all of those things are left undone.

It's not just that I feel my personal loss, it's like I feel the loss for everyone who was ever connected to him.

Day 8: Mornings.

I never used to rise early. Husband was an early riser, he was always up by 9 at the latest, even if he had nowhere to go. He always wished I would get up early with him, but I was never a morning person and just couldn't get myself awake. Every day this past week I've woke up by 7 or so. I wonder why I couldn't have done this in the past? I feel like I wasted so much time sleeping that I missed out on extra time with my husband, and I feel awful.

And then there are the very well meaning folks who are telling me how strong I am being. I know they mean well, I love them for caring, but I am not strong. I am not even a little strong. I feel like I'm obligated to put on a brave front now, so I won't disappoint everybody. Sometimes, once a day or so, I think about how I will do my best to go on and make him proud of me, in his memory. But the rest of the day I just want to close my eyes and never wake up again.

Day 7, part 2

And so the cards, the book, the memorial candle, and the DVD are all ready for the service. They had so many choices for the books and cards, some of which may not vary much from place to place because I recognized the designs from other funerals. I went with a plain book, I don't think my husband would have been too excited to have a floral theme, and certainly not the default dove launching into flight. Besides, does anyone sit down and go back through the books after a funeral? I have a few for parents or grandparents and I don't think I ever looked in them again after the service.

People expect to have them, though. It's important for them to leave their condolences. I wish it were all electronic though. Signing a tablet would be much nicer. That has to be right around the corner, if it's not a thing yet.

So. I fell into a billion pieces watching the dvd, as happens when I have been looking at photos already. For some reason today it was a lot worse, though. Is it because I keep looking at the date and thinking: exactly one week ago at this time my life still made sense. Everything was still okay. I could still snuggle up against my husband. He could still reassure me that he just felt a little off but he was sure he was fine.

Meanwhile I am trying to watch my regrets. I have too many... why didn't I pressure him into going to the ER the moment he said he felt off? Why didn't I ride in the ambulance with him? Oh, that one is killing me right now. If only I'd done that I could have held his hand a little longer. We could have shared an "I love you" one more time.

Tonight I will drown my regrets in donuts, I think. After a week of barely eating I think it's time for comfort food.

7 Days

It has almost been a full week. On one hand time seemed to stop, on the other I don't know how this much has already passed. I feel like I was just sitting there with him. I can close my eyes and feeling his arms around me, and snuggling against him.

I looked through so many pictures. The ones I've kept on my phone, the ones that I had saved. And videos, too, little short clips we sent each other. I wonder how long it takes before I can look at any of it and smile instead of falling apart. I wonder when the time comes that I will find an appetite, instead of trying to eat something every day only because I know I'm supposed to. How long before I stop feeling physically awful.

Today I pick up the memorial package, the guestbook, the remembrance cards, the urn, although I have not yet received his ashes, the urn will be his proxy at the memorial. I have two days to try to prepare myself for that as much as I can.

I keep telling everyone I'm doing okay, I'm hanging in there. Am I? I'm not even sure.

A Love Story

I had never dated much in my life. I didn't have friends who were inclined to fix me up, I was overweight, insecure, and far too shy to consider putting myself into the dating pool. I dated briefly in college, and a few times afterwards, but for the most part I spent my twenties and thirties on my own. I was mostly content with my life. I had a nice apartment, I worked with good people, I had my little pastimes to keep me busy. I often thought about how I wished I could share my life with someone, but I was just too afraid of trying to get out to meet people. When online dating services began to advertise heavily I'm not sure why I thought I'd give it a try, but I signed up, just for giggles. I didn't really expect much.

I didn't get contacted often, and I was a bit hesitant to try to initiate contact with anyone, so in the first couple months I exchanged emails with only a couple of people. I had one date with a very nice guy, but we just didn't seem to hit it off, and it didn't seem worthwhile to continue to pay for a service when I wasn't meeting anyone. I decided to let my subscription run out. It was kind of a fun experiment, but it didn't seem too promising. Before it was ready to expire I changed my profile a few more times, and I remember the last header I wrote: "Maiden seeks Knight, shining armor optional." Yes, a bit cheesy, but I wanted to make sure my profile was as goofy as I was so there would be no surprises later. Shortly after that I got an email from Jeff.

It took me a couple days to respond to him because at the time I was busy with the terribly important business of cleaning my living room to make way for a new sofa, but as soon as we started emailing we just seemed to hit it off. He didn't just write a few lines, he sent long thoughtful letters, he talked about his outlook on life and things he wanted to do. He was both fascinating and a little intimidating, he seemed far more spiritual, focused, and self confident than me. But, on the other hand, I remember one of the emails, after we’d compared some of our personality quirks, he commented that “We have the same bad habits!”

I loved exchanging emails, but it seemed right to move onto talking on the phone after about a week. I loved his voice, I always loved his voice. We talked often, then after two weeks we decided to meet at a local bookstore in the coffee shop.

When I got there I found this guy sitting at the table with a small vase of flowers. I hadn't expected flowers, I thought it was really sweet. Apparently he’d told the girl working at the counter that this was a first date, and he was a little nervous about meeting me, so she was watching with amusement while we sat there and talked. And we talked, we talked for at least three hours before we moved out of the coffee shop and into the bookstore to wander around. The afternoon meeting turned into an early dinner, then we each drove to a nearby park and strolled around till evening. I remember standing by my car, playing with my keys as we wound up the date. I was still nervous, I wasn't sure how I felt, I was a little afraid it wouldn't work out and I'd hurt, or maybe I was afraid it would work out and I had no idea if I could handle that.. but even with all my anxiety I knew I wanted to see him again.

Fortunately I didn't let all the doubts get the best of me and we kept talking, and kept meeting, and found more in common every time we talked. It was a month later when he went off to a convention for a few days, and I had a sudden realization that I was in love with him, head over heels, and I couldn't wait for him to get back. I kept leaving him little voice mails, and pinned his picture up in my cubicle. I think I amused my coworkers, who kept up with my romance and heartily approved of Jeff.

We moved along quickly, I suppose, compared to some couples. We’d met in person for the first time on July 10, and we were engaged on my birthday in November. We got married the following June. It was perfect. On the anniversary of our first date, a few weeks after our wedding, we decided to recreate our first date. The clerk at the bookstore was still there, and recognized Jeff. She was delighted to hear that we'd just gotten married, and thought it was so romantic.

All of my time with him was like that. I fell in love with him every day, and we were still learning about each other and finding new things that we loved in common. I don't think we went more than a few hours without saying "I love you!" and meaning it from the bottom of our hearts. He was my knight in shining armor, my soul mate, the partner I'd waited for my entire life. I know I am still speaking from a place of deep grief, but I honestly can't imagine ever sharing my life with anyone again. I will never be that comfortable with another person.

For the first few days I was wishing that I had dozed off and fallen into a nightmare, that none of it had really happened, and if I just wished hard enough I'd wake up and all would be well. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I was just fortunate enough to have my dream come true for eight beautiful years. I hope he felt the same way.

This Space

I lost my husband six days ago, to an unexpected heart attack.He was 49, not an age where you typically have begun to worry that something might happen. Not an age where you have put any plans in place. I was still envisioning us growing old happily, and becoming one of those cute elderly couples who are always active and doing fun things together.

There were so many things that we had dreamed about. Jeff was always making plans, he was always looking up things, trying to learn something new, researching some project he wanted to work on. If a friend or colleague expressed an interest in some topic he would start researching it for them, and try to send them helpful info and whatever he could find to get them started. He would always go above and beyond to help out. For the past few days as I look through the notes he wrote to himself I keep seeing ideas jotted down, spontaneous thoughts he was trying to record in voice notes.

Life has a way of not doing what we expect, and this was certainly not something I had imagined I'd face for many years. Now and then, if we saw a TV show or a movie that dealt with the topic, we'd comment on what would happen if one of us died. I couldn't even think about it. The idea was so deeply terrifying to me that I didn't want to imagine it. He would comment that he hoped I'd go on and do the things we always talked about doing, he always believed that I'd move beyond my worries and anxieties and self doubt and blossom into a strong, confident person.

Now that the worst has come to pass, I don't know what will happen. It is still too soon to know how I'll feel, to know if I can survive. Soon I'll have to face the future, the job search, the fear that I'll not be able to pay bills or hold on to the house. The future is deeply terrifying.

For now I am just going to wrap myself up in memories, and listen to his voice, and try to believe, even if it's just for a few more days, that everything will turn out okay.