He Has His Dad's Hands

I copied and pasted this from my old MySpace blog, which I started long before this one. I wanted a friend to be able to read this one so I'm reposting it here. It's amazing to me that I wrote this almost a year ago. Sometimes I like to read the old ones...to compare where I was at this time last year. It can make me sad to read my old stuff. But it also gives me strength. I've still got a lot of conflicting emotions I wrestle with. But I'm working through them. And I don't think I'm "lost" or broken or abnormal with my time-frame. To the contrary, actually. I think I'm dealing with it all in the most rational way possible. Not too fast, not too slow. Not avoiding the painful stuff, yet not dwelling in the misery. I'm finally confident that I'm doing it the right way for me. I still have so many doubts and worries. Sometimes I wonder if the patience and time it takes (to do it RIGHT) will be worth it in the end.

I hope so. And, My Friend, if you do read this...it's everything I wanted to say to you today when this topic came up. My mind has many deep thoughts. I just can't seem to get them to transfer into words that come out of my lips.


Tuesday, May 19, 2009

He has his Dad's hands When Adam was born, many people commented on his hands. They weren't freakish big but he had good-sized hands. That's one trait that he inherited from his Dad. Chuck didn't necessarily have what would be considered huge hands. But they were wide hands, man hands, strong hands. It's almost funny because he wasn't a "big" person. His personality was the laid-back, quiet type. He wasn't one to stand out in a crowd. He didn't appear nearly as physically strong as he actually was. But his hands told a story. For many years, his hands were always marked with scabs and scars. With dirt and grease that only time would fade away. He had hard-working-man hands. If you looked at his hands, you could tell that he deserved every penny that he ever earned. But his hands had a softer side, too. The hands that could repair a lawn mower, dig a trench, roof a house, fix anything on a car...those hands could also stroke my face, brush the hair out of a little girl's eyes, cradle a baby, gently wipe away a tear, be a perfect and permanent place for a cherished wedding band. His hands were so capable. Of anything. He could fix anything. A washing machine. A toilet. A car starter. A favorite broken toy. He could assemble anything. A bike. A desk. A crib. He could do laundry. Scrub a toilet. Do the dishes. Wash windows. Clean out the eavestroughs. He could cook like you wouldn't believe. A juicy steak. The best bacon cheeseburger you've ever tasted. One-of-a-kind breakfast potatoes with just the right combination of seasonings. Yes. His hands were so used and scarred. But his hands meant so much more than that. His hands provided security because of his strength. Playfulness with a pat on the butt as I walked by. A gentle touch to the face on the days I needed it the most. Obscene gestures to unfriendly neighbors. Bathing his sons after a long day in the sandbox. A paycheck with greasy fingerprints on it. While they may not have been the prettiest hands in the world, they were beautiful to me. Yeah, Adam has his Dad's hands. From the minute he was born. I've known that all along but I really watched him today. He needed to attempt to repair his Grandma's weed whacker. The handle broke off and the pull-cord retracted inside the casing. Chuck fixed it last year with a make-shift wooden handle. The knot let loose and we were faced with the same problem as before. I didn't watch Chuck fix it last year. I didn't even know that he did fix it. Adam didn't watch him either. But he was more than willing to give it a try. He went outside to start taking a few screws out of it. I think he presumed that it would be an easy job. It didn't matter if it was easy or hard though. He never doubted his ability. He got a little confused at times...talking out loud to me about it. (Which obviously did no good because I am in no way mechanically inclined.) Maybe he took it apart more than it needed to be. I mean, this thing was literally in pieces. I secretly wondered if it would ever even run again...let alone have the pull-cord repaired. As time went on and the pieces continued to multiply, Adam got more and more tools out of his Dad's toolbox to work on this task. (If you've been an avid reader, you know how much the shed and his tools mean to me.) For a short time, I wished I wouldn't have even asked him to attempt to repair it. He's got all of these tools out...Chuck's tools. Will they be put back in the place they belong? Shouldn't that toolbox be some sort of a shrine as to the way he spent so many years of his life? I even questioned Adam..."Why is that missing from this set? Do you remember what drawer you got that from? Will you make sure you put the tools away tonight and lock the shed?" Then I wanted to slap myself. These were his Dad's tools. Would his Dad want them to sit and collect dust? Would he want me to go out and buy new ones to actually use in order to preserve the ones we already have? No. He wouldn't. He would only ask that we take care of them, put them away, and put them in the right place when we are done. And, really...honestly, if those tools can't be in Chuck's hands, what better hands could they be in than his son's? I just want them to be taken care of and respected, I guess. After a little time, Adam did get the weed whacker fixed. With really no input from me or his Dad. (Confession time...at one point I did ask Chuck to lead Adam's mind in the right direction...to put the same thoughts in Adam's head as he would have had in his. I don't think that was even necessary though.) It wasn't necessary. Because Adam was born with his Dad's hands. Not just in appearance...but in his ability. In his inclination for all things mechanical. He came in the house after he finished and I took on an all-too-familiar role. I had the hand cleaner and an old rag to dry his hands ready for him. He washed his hands a few times and commented about how he couldn't get all of the grease off...how it would eventually wear off in time. One of the dogs sniffed his hands like crazy and I commented about how his hands smell like Dad's...grease and all. And at that moment, I had no doubt that his hands will some day bare the same types of marks and scars that a lifetime brings. They won't be identical to his Dad's because his hands will tell their own story. But I'm proud of Adam's capable hands. It's strange how a simple body part can be a link to the past and such a strong hope for the future. Yes, Adam has hands so similar to his Dads. When we are attracted to someone the hands aren't the first thing we look for. But maybe they should be. Because they do tell a story. And his was quite an awesome story. I miss those hands. 10:29 PM

I'm Going to Miss How Bad This Has Felt

I've been doing well lately. Especially if you were to sit back and observe my life. Sure, I have the typical every day problems and irritations that we all face in life. But I'm sure most people who know me would agree that I seem to have turned a corner in the last few months.

Maybe it appears as if the simple passage of time was all I needed.

But let me tell you, it hasn't been as easy as it appears. It wasn't effortless. It has taken quite a bit of perseverance and will on my part. It has been something that I've actually had to work towards and strive for.

I've changed. A lot. And I've struggled with that. I've struggled between remaining the same person I was on the last day Chuck was here with me, the me that he knew so intimately, and at the same time having the desire to better myself, to explore new things, and to open up my mind and my heart to new possibilities. I often wonder if he would've wanted me to stay the same. Most of the time, I believe he would have. Because that's what he loved. He might not agree with some of my new interests or attitudes. If he were just meeting me for the first time right now, he might not find himself interested or attracted to me at all.

But I'm here and he's not. I'm not taking "advantage" of that fact. I'm adapting to reality. I'm attempting to make the best of a truly awful situation.

And I'm proud of the way I'm handling it so far. It HAS been way more difficult than anyone sees. Nobody sees the struggle that goes on in my head and my heart. Nobody has a clue how difficult it was in the beginning to sit in a classroom full of people and worry about losing my composure in front of everyone. Or how I (still) sometimes can be driving down the road and, for no particular reason, burst into tears. Nobody knows that when I first started dating Chris, I would sometimes leave his house and apologize to Chuck all the way home for feeling love in my heart for another man. Or how I would go to the cemetery and wonder if Chuck even still wants me to visit anymore? Nobody realizes that I can be fine for weeks or months at a time, yet I will have several days in a row where all I can do is keep replaying those final minutes in my head over and over again.

It's an internal struggle that I have to be keenly aware of all the time. I have to stay on top of it because it has the ability to completely destroy me and all that I'm working towards.

A couple of months ago, I made a conscious decision to let go of my friend, Grief. That's the main reason I haven't been writing here that often. Grief has been there by my side all along. My constant companion. It's been hard to let it go. It's always hard to say goodbye to a friend...even a bad one. Maybe this song can explain it better than me:

Damn This Feeling
by Hayden

I have been wrestling with the thought of it all
since you left me out in the cold last fall
I wake up lonely and go to bed the same way
people they call me just to make sure I'm O.K.

But I think I'm healing, damn this feeling
I have been reeling, since last season
It's the one thing I had left
from everything i'd kept
I'm going to miss how bad this has felt.

Women adored me for the sad look in my eyes
and now they ignore me for getting on with my life

'Cause I think i'm healing, damn this feeling
I have been reeling since last season
It's the one thing I had left
from everything I'd kept
I'm going to miss how bad this has felt
How bad this has felt
How bad this has felt

Leaves they are falling, just as I let go of you
winter is calling, and I have no memories to lose

I will always grieve. There is no way around that...and I don't think I would feel right if I could choose to get rid of it. But everything in my life doesn't revolve around grief anymore.

The human spirit is quite resilient. Almost a year and a half ago, I was sure my life was over. But I'm getting that fire back. My vitality. My zest for life. I'm opening my eyes again and I can't believe what I see when I allow myself. I look at the world with amazement. At the possibilities. I can see all of the opportunities, all of the wonderful experiences just waiting for me to explore. It truly is like having a brand new life ahead of me.

If I'd had a choice...well, I didn't. So there is no point in going there.

It's a delicate balance...holding on to my love for Chuck and all of my memories of him, yet looking forward to all the future might hold...without him in it. I think I'm finding the perfect middle ground. I'm finally figuring out that balance. I still waver too far one way or the other at times. But those times I am in that perfect place, it feels so peaceful.

So I'm making the most of life these days. I may always struggle with that underlying guilt. But I won't give into it. Because I DID learn so much from this whole experience. I definitely learned the true meaning behind that old saying...

"Life is a journey, not a destination."

I'm going to enjoy every moment of the journey...just in case I never make it to my destination.

But still, sometimes, "I'm going to miss how bad this has felt."

The Time Warp

I can't get that stupid song out of my head tonight. That one from The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

"Let's do the time warp again..."

I know. It's really stupid. But that comes to mind every instance this whole freaky, crazy time thing comes up in my mind.

There is one thing I have to admit. As complicated and confusing and up-and-down this whole grief thing has been, this time perception phenomenon has been a constant. Since day one. It has never changed and I am starting to wonder if it ever will.

I've been plugging away at life. Moving along at a steady pace. I still have those days I feel pretty down. But they are getting better...or at least easier to handle. Even expected. And I'm okay with that. I've accepted the fact that those days will happen. Hell, they happen to everyone.

Let's face it. I will never be the me I was 447 days ago. Never. No matter how hard I try, I can't have something that terrible happen and not let it change me. I've come to terms with that, for the most part. On a good day, I can even say that I've done pretty well at embracing this huge turn-around in my life. I'm making the best of a bad, awful, traumatic, terrible, and unnatural situation. I might not be the most graceful in my efforts. But I have put forth a tremendous effort to live as normal a life as possible.

But, still....

I get those moments. It hits me with the force of what I would imagine it must feel like to be hit by a train. Or it feels like that terrible nightmare...when you wake up relieved that it was only a nightmare...only to realize that your dream IS your reality.

I've been really preoccupied with school (which has proven to be a very nice, though stressful, distraction for me). And then the weekend came. I still had homework to think about. I still haven't even attempted to dig into that never-ending "to do" list I've talked about. But it just hit me out of the blue.

"Oh my God. What has happened? He's REALLY and TRULY gone. He's dead. He died. He got sick and he died. He will never be here on this earth, in my home, in my life...ever again."

Here I have been, going about my business. This business called "Life". Worried about bills. Going to school. Trying to do a good job at work. Struggling with the stress of raising teenagers. Grocery shopping. Car trouble. Normal every day stuff. And I have reacted to all of it as most people do. Car broke down? Man, this is a BAD day. Sick again? God, this really sucks.

While my loss and my grief is always there...always a part of me, it's not the first thing I think about every waking moment.

But I hate it when that realization and the gravity of it hits me. I've known it all along. I've known it, rationally, every minute of the last 447 days. Just when I think I've gotten so far with the acceptance factor, that thought hits me. And then I wonder if, even though I've allowed my brain to acknowledge it, maybe I haven't allowed my heart to accept it? How do you allow your heart to be okay with that anyways? Is it even possible? Or better yet, would you want to be able to wholly accept it?

Now I know what the phrase "it hit me like a ton of bricks" really means. I've been hit with that same ton of bricks over and over. Yet it shocks me and hurts me every time. You would think I could prepare for it. That it would get easier with time. But it still gets me.

This past weekend that same ton of bricks fell on me. I think it started when I had to see a doctor last week for my third bout with strep throat. I got the typical lecture on smoking and how bad it is for me. I expected it. All smokers expect it when they go to the doctor. She was a very nice lady but she wouldn't back off. I finally had to come out and say it. "I know smoking is bad for me. Believe me. I KNOW! I watched my husband die last year, I mean in 2008, from lung cancer that was most likely caused by smoking."

That's when it really hit. It is now 2010. November 11, 2009 marked the one year "anniversary?" (I need a better word for that) of his death. But it made me stop in my tracks. I have gone through a complete one-year calendar without him. 2009 was a year that he never saw. As 2010 will be.

And it's been over a year.

Where did the time go? It feels like he was just here a couple of months ago. At the same time, it's been forever since I touched him. Since I heard his voice. Sometimes it feels as if the little things that I knew so intimately about him are fading. Other times, I can remember every little detail with such clarity.

I can't believe he's been gone almost 15 months.

It makes me wonder if this time-issue is going to get worse in another year...in 5 years...in 10. I don't want him to become just another distant memory. How could he?

The further I get away from the all-consuming grief, the more I worry about losing his memory. I know I will never forget. To stay in that raw grief means that he is front and center in my mind at all times. To hold on to the grief means that he is still very much a part of my life.

He will always be larger than life in my heart. He will always be a part of me. But I guess I'm just scared to let it go. I'm scared to start feeling better. I'm scared that, with each new day that passes, with any amount of healing that takes place...well, he will just become some distant memory. And I don't want that.

Holding on to it, forcing myself to feel the intense pain every day, will only make me miserable. It will make the rest of my life meaningless. I can't survive like that. I can't go back to that dark, dark place. I just can't do it.

But I don't want to let go. I don't want to get better. But I want to get better.

People say it all the time. "I'm torn." I am truly torn. Let go, hold on, let go, hold on, let go, hold on. I can't do both at once. I guess it's a gradual process.

But I truly do want to be able to let go.

And I don't ever want to quit holding on.

Conflicts and Birthdays and Random Thoughts

I know it's been awhile. It's not that I haven't felt anything or thought anything in these past few weeks. It's just that either I can't, or don't have the energy needed, to put those thoughts and feelings into words. And even if I did, the things I would write would probably worry a few people that I've finally done it...I've finally gone off the deep end.

I've always been the level-headed type of person. I analyze everything. I can think of a rational explanation for ANYTHING. But this? I haven't quite been able to figure it out yet.

Believe me, I question it myself sometimes. My sanity, that is.

I'm sad. I miss him. I'm in disbelief...still. But when the reality of it does sink in for a few minutes, I get incredibly sad. Then I have moments, or even days, where I feel incredibly happy and hopeful for the future. During those moments, I can't help but think (and feel terribly guilty at the same time) about how I would have never had these opportunities if, well, you know....

And then I feel everything in between those two extremes.

Nobody in my life has a clue as to how unstable my moods feel. How I feel like I'm either on the summit of an insurmountable hill or I'm in the darkest valley that ever existed.

Is this what the rest of my life will be like? Will I always have these extremes? Sure, the lows have come with a little less frequency and they don't last as long as they used to. But I would rather that things stabilized a bit more...become more "balanced" ;) ...

I wish the intensity would soften. I wish the change in between the two could become more gradual. I can handle the time-frame....the amount of time that each mood sticks around. I can adjust to that. After all, I can remind myself (and truly believe) that better days will come again. What I can't handle is the fact that I only have mere minutes of warning that my mood is changing. I can tell when it's going to spike and I can also tell when it's going to rapidly drop.

I'm tired of feeling so excited about something (like starting college) one minute, and then the next minute thinking, "What's the F'ing point?" I hate feeling so conflicted. How can I allow myself to get so excited about something that wouldn't have happened if the worst hadn't happened? But it did...so I do.

And then I feel guilty.

I also feel guilty that this...my life...all of these writings...all of my thoughts...have become about Me and My Life now...instead of his life and how much I miss him. I feel guilty because that feels so damn selfish.

And I haven't found a damn thing I can do to change it or prevent it. Or to soften the blow. All I can do is keep plugging along...forging forward. I can only enjoy the ups and fake-it-till-I-make-it through the lows. And I always do...I always make it through to the other side.

Maybe after these few months are over, it will get easier. That's what I've been hoping for since day one. But this time of year sucks...and it will always suck.

D-day anniversaries. Diagnosis day. Death day.

Thanksgiving.

Christmas.

His Birthday. (Happy Birthday tomorrow, Baby!)

New Years.

Valentine's Day?

Just winter, in general.

All I have to do is get past all of those days and I will get a break.

Until our anniversary.

Until Father's Day.

Until the lake.

Until Monday.

Until the 3rd Wednesday of the month.

Until the 5th of Never.

You get my point....

I'm just trying to make myself feel better here.

Tomorrow will be a brand new day. Oh yeah, but tomorrow is his birthday...

Happy 54th, Chuck. Too young.

But it's still a brand new day. A day that can be anything any one of us chooses to make of it.

But it's your birthday.

It's your birthday. Yet you won't ever get any older.

You were 52.

That's way too young to die. Way too young.

And I'm only 38. Too young to be dealing with this.

But I am. And I will.

For the rest of my life.

Tis The Season

My Christmas tree is up and decorated.

Big deal, right?

Well this year it is a big deal. It's the Christmas tree that almost wasn't. Putting up the tree has always been my favorite part of the holiday...even as a teenager. But it takes a lot of energy (which I sometimes still sorely lack) to drag the boxes out of the attic, decorate and then put those same boxes back up in the attic until it's time to do the reverse in a few weeks to put it all back away for another year. And, after all, the boys will likely be getting mostly money instead of a bunch of gifts this year so what is the point of a tree if there will be nothing under it on Christmas morning?

I assumed the boys didn't care whether or not we had a tree. They usually don't even express interest in helping decorate it. But they brought up the subject over the weekend. They wanted a Christmas tree. I figured any tree would do...as long as we had one. So I asked them if they still wanted to go back to the same tree farm we've went to almost every year for the past 16 years to cut one down...or if they thought we should just go to the parking lot up the street and buy a pre-cut tree. Without hesitation, they opted to go to the tree farm.

They chose to do what we have always done. They chose tradition. Our family tradition.

My heart wasn't really in it this time but it went okay. We had okay weather. We found an okay tree. We had an okay day.

I managed to get the tree up in the stand and watered that evening. That's ALL I did. When the kids were in school the next morning, I decided I could at least get the lights on the damn thing. And maybe some garland. I figured I would put the ornaments on it later in the week.

I have never been a Scrooge when it comes to Christmas. Not even last year. I might have been walking around in a daze last year, but I certainly wasn't grumpy. But, wow, this year? I'm glad I was alone when I put the lights and garland on the tree. It seems like all I did was complain. I kept saying to myself, "Well, that doesn't look right...but who cares? I don't even want to do this. I don't care what it looks like." But I still fussed with it until I got it looking halfway decent.

When I finally got the lights and garland on, I noticed something. My mood had gradually shifted. I decided I would even put the ornaments on that day and get it all finished. After the tree was finished I realized that maybe I am getting a little bit of holiday spirit in me. I didn't put out all of my holiday decorations but I did put a few more things around the house than I planned on. And I made the decision that I'm going to bake cookies this year. I even began writing out my shopping list.

I figured this Christmas would be more difficult than last year. While that still holds true, it's different than I imagined. It just reinforced what I've been saying all along. You can never be sure how different things are going to affect you. And nothing ever ends up being the way you planned or prepared for. I don't think that will ever change.

I talked to a very good friend about that earlier this morning. She is going into her 7th holiday season since losing her dear son. She mentioned the fact that this has been a particularly difficult Christmas for her so far. (Not that any of them have been Easy.) I responded that I'm starting to realize that it will be a guessing game every year as to how it will affect me. Some years will be pretty good, some years will be pure torture and some years will fall somewhere in the middle. The tricky part is not having a clue ahead of time until it actually gets here. I wanted her to tell me I'm wrong. I wanted her to tell me that it gets progressively better every year. That there is a consistent upswing on the grief curve. But she couldn't do that. She could only confirm what I already know.

I hate that she has had to suffer such an unimaginable loss...but I'm so grateful to have a friend who has traveled this journey a few steps ahead of me. We can talk about things that others might not understand. We can cry over things that others may consider trivial. We can joke about things that others might consider insensitive or taboo or just downright morbid. We can understand each other...sometimes without even finishing a thought. And sometimes with just a look.

And hopefully we can continue to lift each other up. And motivate each other. The boys weren't my only motivation for getting a tree this year. My friend also wasn't going to get a Christmas tree. The topic came up a few times in recent weeks. But she ended up giving in and getting one which definitely helped motivate me to do the same.

After all, this could be Adam's last Christmas at home for quite some time. So on Christmas morning, even if there are only two envelopes containing cash on the tree...even if there isn't a single gift under the tree...well, it will still be Christmas. I will be grateful for the time with the boys. I will be grateful for my entire family.

I'm glad we put up a Christmas tree.

I'm glad my friend is putting up a Christmas tree.

On a day that is centered around love and family, her and I (and countless others) will always remember those we have lost...just as it is on every other day of the year. But it's also important to celebrate what and who we still have in our lives.

Sometimes it just takes a dear friend to remind us. Thank you, My Friend.

Happy 18th...My First Pride & Joy

It wouldn't really be fair to write about Brandon's first day of high school without writing about the next big significant event in Adam's life, would it?

Adam was 16 when his Dad died.

Today he turned 18.

Granted, he was almost 17 when Chuck passed away.

Honestly, I don't even REMEMBER Adam's birthday last year.

I don't remember how or why or with whom or where I spent my time this time last year. I really don't remember much of anything. Think about a foggy morning. The fog eventually clears and then you can see all of the familiar things. I'm kind of in that phase of the fog clearing.

But then you experience another foggy morning and you forgot just how difficult it was. You may have driven through the fog many, many mornings before. But you still forget just how scary it is to navigate...

And just how strange it feels...to be in a familiar place, on a familiar street...yet your nerves are still heightened because it feels like you are on uncharted territory. Think of those very dark and foggy mornings when you just KNOW there is a traffic light up ahead...but no matter how hard you squint, you can't make out the color.

It is very, VERY scary.

Anyways, Adam turned 18 today. Bittersweet, for sure. I mean, I have friends who have been saddened by the fact that their kid turned 18. I understand that. Then again (if you know the troubles I've had with that kid!) you would understand my sense of relief. Either way...I was determined that this day would be just like any other birthday.

And, it was...

In the noticeable manner.

I went to the store to buy him a card...but I took just a little more time REALLY reading them this year.

I went to the bank to withdraw some cash to slip into the card...but I took just a little more out than normal. (This IS one of the big birthdays, right???)

And then I went home. I needed to sign my name on the card and slip the ca$h inside. Then...it hit me. Something I've been considering all along. Something I just KNEW I had to do. I sat down and wrote Adam a letter to slip in to his card along side the cash.

A letter...about his birth, my fears, my hopes, my love for him. The pride I have in the fact that he is my son. And about how grateful I am to have him in my life.

Adam got home when no one was here. He had a little time to read the card and letter while he was alone and could really concentrate on it.

And do you know what happened when I got home? For the first time EVER...Adam took it upon himself to thank me for the card. He didn't mention the money. He didn't mention the note. But he thanked me. And I know he was grateful to hear all of those things I always WANT to say to him but I just never do.

But the last paragraph in the note? Maybe that's what he was really thanking me for.

I had to mention his Dad. I had to tell Adam that, even though he didn't say it often, Chuck was proud to have him as a son. Even when they butted heads. Even when they acted so much alike that they couldn't get along. Even when one or the other turned away from a loving gesture.

Chuck was always proud to have Adam as a son. Adam needed to hear that.

I shared with him how I think his Dad is still here, somehow, in spirit...and still feeling pride.

Especially when he sees this next journey Adam is about to embark on. Instead of going out for a relaxing birthday dinner, Adam chose to spend his time at the Marine Recruiters office. He texted Brandon and said that this physical conditioning is much more important than a meal.

He's strong.

He's determined.

He's my son.

He's my Baby Boy.

And I'm so proud of him.....

And so is his Dad.

Happy 18th Birthday, Adam. I love you.

And I feel so proud and privileged to be your Mom.

Happy Thanksgiving

For the past 6 months or so I've thought about the holidays. I've said all along that I believe this year will be more difficult than last year. Looking back, I have no clue how I not only survived the holidays, but I managed to do most of the normal things associated with that time of year. I guess I was on some sort of autopilot mode.

As Thanksgiving got closer and closer this year, I began to feel more anxiety. But once the one year anniversary passed I started feeling better. Along with my new tattoo, I gained a sense of strength, confidence and resolve. I somehow knew that I was going to end up being okay after all. That allowed me to push aside the anxiety about the holidays.

No matter how much I've told myself that I will breeze through the next month...no matter how determined I am to enjoy this time of year...no matter how satisfied I am with the life I'm living now...

...well, it still sneaks up on me.

It creeps in...a little at a time. And then it just builds and builds. It sits there within you. It puts a knot in your stomach, tears just behind your eyes, and an ache in your heart. Ignoring it, while impossible to do indefinitely, doesn't make it go away. I'm just thankful I can usually control the times I choose to ignore it, and the times I choose to face it head on.

While delivering papers this morning, one of my customers met me at the door. He's an elderly man whose wife just died 3 days after the one year anniversary of Chuck's death. (Chuck used to be his paper carrier so he's aware of my situation.) She was 86 years old and hasn't been well for quite some time. This was the first time I've seen Mr. Finch since he lost his beloved wife of 63 years. I told him how sorry I was for his loss. He thanked me. We chatted for a minute about what happened to her. And then he said, "Well, I guess both you and I...." He broke down in tears and couldn't finish his sentence. But I knew. I knew what he felt. It makes me feel awful to see anyone cry, especially an elderly person. And it also made me remember the raw pain. Especially on a day like Thanksgiving. At that point, I couldn't ignore it any longer. I allowed those tears just behind my eyes to make it to the surface.

That encounter left me feeling very sad for several minutes. But then something happened. I started realizing how much I do have to be thankful for today...and every day. I'm thankful for my kids, my health, my home. I'm thankful I have a job. That I can still plan for the future. I'm thankful for all that I've had...and for all that is still yet to come. I'm thankful for my friends. I'm thankful that I'm still capable of opening up my heart to another.

And I'm extremely thankful that I'm not in the same place emotionally that I was this time last year. In that terrible and dark place that Mr. Finch is in right now.

Happy Thanksgiving everybody.