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.

This Time Last Year - Part Four

I used to only post my blog entries on my MySpace page. Just out of curiosity, I went back to see what I posted one year ago today...back in the time when the grief was all-consuming and overwhelming. I still have moments (sometimes hours) of intense grief. I am getting pretty good at pulling myself out of that low place though. Or even not allowing myself to get too low in the first place. It tends to hit me out of the blue. Especially when I have too much free time on my hands.

When it does hit, I still can't believe this has all happened. And I definitely can't believe it happened over a year ago!

Another thing I'm getting good at is trying my best to turn a negative into a positive whenever possible. So, tonight, while going back and reading what I wrote one year ago...I am grateful that I am not still stuck in such a deep, dark place. And I am grateful knowing that, with the passage of more time...perhaps in ANOTHER year, I will be in an even better place.

I hope to never have to go back to feeling what I felt one year ago today. I honestly don't know how I survived it. I don't know if I could do it again. It was terribly lonely, terribly depressing and terribly painful.

For those who weren't able to read my older posts, I'm copying and pasting this one here...the words I wrote just shy of 2 weeks after his death and only 9 days after the funeral. It helps me to read it again because it proves to me how far I've come. Maybe you can see it too?

19,054 minutes

That's how long it's been since my Baby took his last breath. Over 19,000 minutes. You know, in recovery groups they have a saying... "One Day at a Time". Getting through the grief has been one minute at a time. When it hurts too bad, I just will myself to take one more breath. And then one more. Until the pain eases up enough where I don't have to remind myself to breathe.

I remember when I first brought him home from the hospital, on October 18th. I remember laying in bed next to him, unable to hold him the way I wanted to because of his pain. Unable to joke around and put my cold feet on his legs so he would jump. But I could put my hand on his. I would just touch his wedding ring and think back to the first time I placed it on his hand. I could put my hand over his heart and feel it beating. Such a strong heartbeat. It was hard for me to believe that those beats were numbered. Because he was so strong. And I could feel happy and secure just knowing that he was still here, lying next to me. And we could talk. And we tried to laugh. And we loved. We loved a deeper love than I ever thought possible.

I also cried. Silently, many times, because he did not like to see me upset. And I didn't want him to have to comfort me. He had enough to deal with -- physically, mentally and emotionally. I didn't want to burden him with worrying about me. Sometimes I asked him to please let me cry. After all, I loved him and my crying was just an expression of that love. I think he finally understood that.

Every time his health declined, I would quietly wish we could just go back in time...even one or two days back. I remember when his back was hurting. I wished we could back about a week before that. After all, we had just been to Cedar Point and he was fine walking around all day and he looked healthy and tan and happy. Then I remember being at the hospital and hearing the word cancer for the first time. After that, I wished we could go back to when his back was just hurting. Then two days later, when they confirmed the results of the biopsy and bone scan, I remember wishing we could go back one day...or even one minute...to when we knew he had cancer but had hope for a chance to fight it.

When he came home, he still felt healthy. He said, "If it weren't for the pain, I wouldn't feel sick at all." How quickly that all changed. I remember how he would call me early in the morning and tell me how he wished I would hurry home. I would come home and make him something to eat. He would eat a few bites and be finished. How I wished we could go back to the week before when he had a craving for Rally's or McDonald's and we would go out to lunch. I remember the first day he slept for all but two hours. I wished I could go back to the day before, when he would have me on my feet atleast once every five minutes to turn the fan on, turn the fan off, get him a drink, wash his back in the shower, help him into the bathroom, help him get dressed. I remember the last time he ate. On November 6th, he had a half a piece of toast. I wished we could go back five days. On November 1st, he ate filet mignon for dinner. I remember the day I realized he could no longer stay alone for 3 hours while I worked. I wished we could go back to the days when he would just call me and ask me to get home.

As he got sicker and sicker, I remember telling myself that no matter how bad it is, there will be a time real soon that I will be wishing we could go back to even the sickest times. That time arrived shortly after 1:25 PM on November 11th. Even though it was the most painful event of my life, I would go through those last minutes again in a heartbeat. Because atleast he was still here. I could still see him, touch him, talk to him, and kiss him. I know that is selfish. He would not want to go back to that. He didn't even like to look at pictures or watch old home movies during his sickness. It reminded him of what would never be again.

Every moment, every memory is so sharp and clear in my mind and my heart right now. I am so scared of forgetting. Not him...I could never forget him. I keep reminding myself how his voice sounded, how his snoring sounded, of his scent, of the feel of his touch, of the tender look in his eyes. I'm so scared I will forget, although I know these things are seared into my heart and soul. He is a part of me. He is all I've ever known. It has been me and him for all of my adult life. Always me and him. I spent over half of my years with him. And now I have to face what will most likely be many more years without him. Without him physically atleast. That is just too big for me to even think about. It's too overwhelming.

I don't think my brain is letting the many broken pieces of my heart accept that right now. I can say the words and think the thoughts...but if I were to accept that at this point in time, I think the pain would be so deep that it would literally kill me. I feel bad even writing all of this down. I could write it down in a private journal but I choose to write it here. I don't do it to worry anyone, I don't do it to show everyone that I am grieving even if I put on a happy face, I definitely don't do it to bring anyone else down. It is just what I need to do to try to begin to heal. I hate the thought of healing. Right now I don't WANT to heal. But I know that is a goal I need to work toward. For our sons. For me. These things I write are at the very front of my thoughts and feelings. This is my way of getting them out. So I'm not going to worry what reading this will do to anyone else. If it is too upsetting for someone, they can choose not to read it. I'm just glad I have this one way of sharing with others because I sure can't do it by talking.

I love you Chuck Roach. And I miss you terribly. But I'm sure you already know that, don't you?

Phoenix

From ezinearticles.com:

Mythology says that the Phoenix is a creature that rises from its own ashes after burning down. The name itself originated from the Greek word for "red", the universal color of fire. Being the bird of fire, Phoenix can be aptly used to symbolize a person's inner fire and zest for life. The Phoenix bird epitomizes the rebirth and resurrection from the ashes. You can use this symbol if you have had a tough patch in life and successfully overcame it.

For the past year, I've been considering getting some sort of a memorial tattoo and I wanted to have it done on a meaningful date. I could never quite figure out what design I wanted or where I would want it placed on my body. Since it is permanent, I chose to let every significant date in the past year slip by without getting my tattoo. After all, I would rather do nothing than do something that I would regret every day for the rest of my life.

For the first 9 months or so after Chuck died, all I did was allow myself to grieve. I kept almost everything in my home, in my head, in my heart and in my life the exact same as it always was. I'm glad I did it that way. There was no getting around the grief. It definitely is something that takes time. Lots and lots of time.

But for the last few months, I started to become restless. I started to really want to be able to tuck away some of my grief and start reinvesting in life again. I simply got plain old tired of living in misery and looking forward to nothing.

So I pushed myself. I've had the encouragement of others through it all. But it was me who had to make the decision to move forward in the healing process. It wasn't easy. Some things were less difficult than others. But none of it was easy. From removing my wedding ring, to packing away his belongings, to dating, to feeling okay about laughing and enjoying things again. Or simply changing my day-to-day actions and thoughts. I would take a big step forward and then be still for awhile to process and chart my progress. Once I adjusted to my most recent step forward, I knew it was time to move on to the next difficult task. Even in those times it appeared I was at a stand still, I was still doing my grief work.

A couple of months ago, I really started looking at how far I've come. I went back and read a lot of things I wrote in the beginning. That proved especially helpful during those times I was sure I hadn't made any progress at all. That's when I started feeling better. That's when I realized that I will not only survive, but that I will most definitely be okay...or even better than okay.

That's the moment I decided I didn't want a traditional memorial tattoo. I wanted something to symbolize my experience as a whole. My past, present and future. My survival. My strength. My courage. My ability to rise above one of the worst possible experiences.

That, to me, is what a Phoenix symbolizes.

I began searching online for Phoenix pictures and designs. After viewing literally hundreds of them one really stood out to me every time I looked at it. I knew right then and there that the version of a Phoenix that most symbolized my experience would look something like that.

So, without further ado, here is how I spent my evening yesterday...on the one year anniversary of Chuck's death:


















(It's on my upper back...and it's not nearly as big as the picture makes it look. But it's much more beautiful than the picture portrays it. And, yes, it is a unique design. It's based on a picture I found online but it was drawn exclusively for me.)

If you know me at all, you know that I have always been a poor decision maker. It's gotten even worse in the last year. But this was all me. That's one reason I told very few people about my plans. I didn't want any outside influence. I chose the design. I went in the tattoo shop and talked to my artist about what I wanted. I picked the date. And everything just felt right.

I did ask Chris to go with me to my appointment. I didn't need him there to "hold my hand" through the process. It was just an experience I wanted to share with him. I was never really even nervous. I did have a few minutes of excited nervousness before we got there. But I was never really scared or unsure nervous.

When my artist showed me the drawing, I absolutely couldn't wait to get it done. I knew the moment I looked at it that I would love it. Chris even told me that out of all the people he's gone with to get their first tattoo, he's never seen someone so confident about it. I had no doubts whatsoever.

I won't lie and say it wasn't painful. But I earned that tattoo. After everything I've gone through in the past year to earn it, this was by far the least painful aspect of it. This might sound strange but every time that needle pierced my skin, I felt more and more liberated. It was as if the pain of the procedure released so much of the built up tension in my body. To me, it felt like some sort of a ceremonial release of the pain and sadness.

After it was finished I was in awe of its beauty. I felt proud of myself. Not only proud that I took this step on my own, but proud of the strength I've had to persevere. Like the legendary Phoenix, I am reinventing myself and renewing my life. I am rising from the ashes.

I instantly felt like a new woman. I am proud. I am capable. I am strong.

I am alive.

This Time Last Year - Part Three

November 11th, 2008...the last sunrise he would live through.

Not that he saw it. Not that he was even aware of it.

But he was still breathing. His heart was still beating. I could look at him. I could talk to him. I could take care of him. He was alive.

November 11th is also my Grandpa's birthday. When it's my time, I hope I don't die on a family member or friend's birthday. I didn't want Chuck to die on Grandpa's birthday. (Well, I didn't want him to die AT ALL.) But if he had to, why on Grandpa's birthday?

But...

When it got to that point, I secretly hoped that he would die that day. Because the next day, November 12th, was my niece's 18th birthday. And that would have been even more awful. It's bad enough that her birthday weekend...Friday night and all day Saturday...was spent at Chuck's funeral. That kinda puts a damper on a birthday celebration. Especially one of the big years.

So, if I am forced to look at the bright side, I'm glad he chose(?) to die on the 11th instead of the 12th.

And I'm pretty sure Grandpa would agree with me.

So, this is it. Today is the day.

The anticipation and anxiety has been building for several weeks now. I've been saying all along that the days I anticipate being horrible usually pass by considerably smooth, while the ones I think will be a piece of cake are sometimes surprisingly difficult.

So far, that has held true for the last couple of days.

Today, on THE actual day, I feel relatively calm. Yesterday, especially last night, was another story. It was a little rough. I woke up in a good mood. I remained in a good mood for the first several hours of the day. I had a hair appointment at 11:00. (Why in the world did I schedule that appointment at that specific time? Around the time he declined so rapidly?) I made it through that appointment without freaking out. I came home and accomplished some things and still managed to keep my spirits up. But every now and then, totally out of the blue, I would just break down and start sobbing. Sobbing in a way I haven't since the first couple of months. It took me totally by surprise.

Then it started getting dark out...

That's when I realized that I couldn't sit in this house all night, alone except for the kids in their bedrooms, in silence. Alone with my thoughts. And those memories of what was going on in this room last year at this time. It was too much. I just couldn't stay here. So I stayed at a friend's house. I didn't need to talk. I just needed to be near someone and away from this house for those overnight hours. And I slept like a baby. (Thank you, Friend.)

My mind will go through a million and one thoughts today. But I'm doing okay. I really am. Even though it's a significant date, it's just another day that he's been gone. It's kinda like your birthday. You are not really another YEAR older on your birthday, even though the number of your age changes. You are just another day older than you were the day before.

So, today, I will think of past memories with fondness. But I will also think about the future. I'm sure I will still have some of those terrible thoughts...of sickness and dying. After all, that was the worst thing I've ever seen in my life. But that happens on "regular" days, too. I'm sure I will visit the cemetery for a few minutes. But I do that quite frequently already, too.

And at 1:25 PM, I will take a few minutes to be silent. I will remember him with love and respect. I will remember how much courage and strength he showed...right through to the very end. I will honor his memory and the memories of the life we created together.

And then I will make a conscious decision to continue on living. Never forgetting. Living a good life doesn't mean I have to forget. It means I won't let grief, sadness and pain hold me back. I intend to flip those things into something positive. Those things have made me more compassionate...but they've also made me stronger and more determined.

No, I don't have to forget. I will incorporate every aspect of the last 20 years into my future in as positive of a way as possible. Smiling because it happened...instead of crying because it's over.

His cancer isn't going to kill both of us. I won't let it. And he wouldn't have wanted it to steal the rest of my life away from me. If he would've had the choice, he would have sacrificed his life in order for me to live the rest of mine. I know that without a doubt.

So enjoying every little thing that life has to offer isn't forgetting him. It's honoring him. What a shame it would be to waste the lessons I've learned from him...from his life...and especially from his death.

I'll never forget you, Chuck. And, I know. I can hear you now. You might be a little pissed that your picture is in the paper...again! And I know you think it was a waste of money. ;) But I guess I didn't want anyone else to forget either.

I made you two promises on this day one year ago. I promised you that we would be okay. And I promised I would make you proud. I hope I've done just that so far. I've certainly been trying. And I'll never stop.

I'm going to live a (God-willing) long, full and happy life. For me. For our boys. And also for you...in your honor. I know you wouldn't want it any other way.

I'll always miss you. I'll always love you. But I think I'm gonna be okay. After all, I promised.

This Time Last Year - Part Two

November 10th, 2008...his last full day alive...started out pretty much the same as every day of the previous week or so. I mean, he seemed to get a little sicker each day. But I still went to work (worrying and rushing to get home, of course) and the kids still went to school...with a heavy heart and a lump in their throat, I'm sure. But it was, by all accounts, a routine morning. A routine that had become our normal for weeks.

While I had known in my heart by then that he only had a matter of days left, death didn't seem imminent...not on that morning.

Until about 11:00 AM.

He had experienced some agitation on and off for days. He also slept a lot. And he hadn't eaten anything in at least a couple of days. But I could always seem to calm him down when he got restless. When I would talk to him, he could somewhat focus on me, even if it were only for a minute or two.

But something changed at 11:00 AM last November 10th.

There was no calming him. He was struggling. Physically? Emotionally? Both? I'll never know. All I know is that I couldn't calm him and I got scared. No, scared isn't the word. I got frantic. I tried everything. Pain medicine. Talking to him. Rubbing his hand. More pain medicine. Running my fingers over his hair. Softly playing our wedding song in the background.

But, still, there was no calming him.

So I called for his nurse. I think she was there in less than an hour. But it felt like it took about 5 hours. Even if she couldn't do anything for him, I knew I would feel better to NOT be alone with him. I needed reassurance. I needed her to tell me what to do for him. (What I really needed at that time was a miracle but I knew that would never come.) I needed someone to just be here and take over for a little while. Maybe I just needed her to confirm what I already knew.

I'd never been through anything like that in my life. It was worry, fear, sadness. It was a sense of disbelief that this was really happening. It was absolute torture.

It's indescribable.

It's also what I still see many times when I close my eyes to sleep. It's the one thing I would give anything to forget.

No, I'd never experienced anything like that before in my 37 years. And I hope I never have to again.

This Time Last Year - Part One

Approximately one year ago today, I started telling people that Chuck was going downhill...and fast. "I think we're looking at days, not weeks."

The response was always one of surprise.

After all, only 6 days earlier, we ran errands together. He was in pain and didn't get out of the car on many of the stops we made. But he was functioning. He was alert. He was eating. He was awake.

I kept many of the receipts from that day. October 30, 2008.

We went to the junkyard to buy a mirror for my mom's van. He came home and installed it for her...that was the last car repair he ever did. He had a craving for Rally's french fries and a chocolate shake so we stopped there...that was his last fast-food meal. We went to the dollar store for some odds and ends...he made sure to buy the dogs some treats, as he always did. He bought some "Marvel Mystery Oil" stuff for one of the cars. (I still have it. I have no idea what it's for or what to do with it.) We bought a small wastebasket that he could keep next to his side of the bed. We also went to the auto parts store to buy a bulb for the car headlight...a simple fix, right? If you know what you're doing (he did) and if you felt well enough to get under the hood of the car (he didn't). He tried though. He got frustrated so he tried to explain to me what to do. I just couldn't get it in there right. I mean, I never figured I would need to know how to do those things. He got even more frustrated at me but didn't want me to go in and ask one of the employees for help. So I got back in the car and cried. That was our last argument...ever...in the parking lot of Advance Auto Parts.

We both knew that he wouldn't be able to do too many things in the days and weeks to come. But neither of us knew that would be the last day he would ever get into a car. (And we sure didn't think he would die a mere 12 days later.)

I saved the receipt from the next day when I went to the grocery store...alone. I noted on it that this was "the first time he admitted that he just wasn't up to running to the store with me". I bought some things that he had a craving for. He never even attempted to eat most of them. (I really do have to finish cleaning out my freezer...some of those things are still in there!)

Now, here it is, one year and 6 days after his final outing. On November 5, 2008 he wasn't doing much of anything anymore...except sleeping. He was still eating sporadically. But barely. I knew it was getting close at that point. I remained relatively calm though. I had to. I went into full-swing caregiver mode. There was no time for fear, worry or sadness. (Except for when I was alone at work or in the shower.) But in front of him? No way. Not even while he was sleeping.

And this is about the time that he woke up because I was tearing through the bedroom in search of a misplaced photo. The one he requested to be buried with. It was my senior picture that I gave him when we first started dating. I had written on the back of it. He carried it in his wallet for many years but had taken it out because it was getting so worn. When he woke up, I looked at him. I was crying and I said, "I can't find it, Chuck. I can't find the picture." One simple wish that he had...and I couldn't fulfill it. (I ended up placing a duplicate of that picture in his casket with a new note written on the back...it still wasn't the same though.)

As a side note, I still haven't found that picture. I hope it shows up someday.

When I look back on "this time last year" now, I feel sick to my stomach. I feel like I would have felt then...if I would've had the opportunity. I couldn't have cared for him if I had given in to this feeling.

I really just want to get past this next week or so. The next few days of thinking how much sicker he got with each passing day "this time last year".

And then November 10, 2008...when I couldn't get his restlessness to settle down...the day I frantically called his nurse out around 11:00 AM and she started talking to him to calm him down. He was out of it but couldn't hold still. She quietly told me that it would probably happen some time tonight. She started giving him the "talk". "It's okay, Chuck. Jodi is here. Right by your side. She's taking such good care of you. But you can start to let go now. It's okay to go whenever you're ready, Chuck. Jodi and the boys will be okay." He began to calm down a bit after she said those things to him. That's the day his breathing started getting that ugly rattle. The day his nurse put the oxygen back on him and he didn't fight it or complain about it. The day I had to make phone calls to tell everyone he probably wouldn't live to see tomorrow.

Then November 10th turned into November 11th. An all night vigil by his side. Caring for him. Loving him. Kissing the top of his head. Drugging him up as much as possible to get him to just be still for more than 10 minutes at a time. (No amount of drugs worked.) Wetting his lips. Wiping the blood away that kept coming out of the right side of his nose. Helping him use the urinal whenever he felt the urge. Attempting to change his bedding whenever he didn't make it in time. Talking to him. Telling him, over and over, that it's okay to go. Fighting off the urge to beg him to just go already...to stop fighting the inevitable...to stop suffering.

For God's sake, I just wanted him to be able to be still and find some peace. He never got that until his final 10 or 20 minutes. The suffering and agitation (it's called terminal restlessness) was absolutely heart-wrenching to watch. That and the "death rattle"...his breathing...are two aspects of the nightmarish final 26 hours I will never forget.

I remember being afraid to take a shower. Or to doze off for 30 minutes. There was no way I wasn't going to be there...holding his hand. I was so worried that I wouldn't be able to tell when that moment would arrive.

There was no mistaking it. Things changed with him all of a sudden...and I knew instantly.

To be continued.....

Fooling Myself?

I don't think I'm "fooling" myself into thinking that all is well and okay in "Jodi-Land".

But I have been doing pretty good lately...in the grand scheme of things, anyways. If I look back to 9 months, 6 months, even 3 months ago? Things are so much better in my world today.

But sometimes things still hurt. Not as often. But it still hurts.

Some days. Some nights. Some of them hurt worse than others.

When that happens (when ANYTHING happens) I tend to analyze the shit out of it. I need to know who, what, when, where, how, and why. WHY is tonight different...or worse...than others? I mean, I really have been doing better lately. So how did this sneak up on me?

I know the answer. It's just the nature of the beast. I know that even the most stable, level-headed person in the world would experience these ups and downs. No matter how much I want to fight it. No matter how much I want it to just be over with. No matter how much I don't want to feel it anymore...ever again. (I can't go back to that intense pain of the first weeks and months...I don't think I could survive it now.)

It's the way it happens. And there isn't a damn thing I can do about it. I let it run its course. And then I continue on with life. With MY life. I couldn't control what was happening a year ago. I couldn't change it then. So I definitely can't change it now.

These are the times I guess I just need to roll with it. Accept it. In a strange way, I need to embrace it...in order to heal grief, you DO have to embrace the pain. You almost have to be friends with it. You simply have to deal with it.

Simply? Well, there is nothing simple about it. It is complicated. But it's a simple concept...IF...if you're not the one dealing with it. That's how I'm dealing with it lately. From a rational, intellectual standpoint. That's so much easier. Because the emotional side of it really sucks.

I "know" how to deal with it. I'm a reader. I'm a researcher. Basically, I've done my homework. Along with some extra credit points thrown in for good measure. I know (rationally) that every stupid little thought or feeling I have is quite normal. I know what to expect. I know that it will hit me when I least expect it. I know not to take the good times for granted. I know they won't last forever. I know that, even during my worst days, I will persevere. I will survive. I will even thrive...more than I ever expected.

But it can still knock me to the ground...on my knees...when I least expect it.

It does really suck. And I'm tired. I'm tired of dealing with it. I'm tired of being kicked and knocked down. Especially when I start to feel like I'm making some progress. When I'm finally able to envision a life...a future. For me. For the boys.

I've been very hopeful lately. Do I dare admit that I've even had many, many moments of optimism? I mean, you get the hand you're dealt. What else can you do except play it out?

I don't want to sound as if I feel that my life, my future, my outlook are all shitty...or second-best now. That's not the case at all. As a matter of fact, I'm probably more optimistic about my future (the second half of my life) than I have been in quite awhile now. Sometimes...many times...I even get excited about the possibilities that lie ahead of me. I absolutely have to find the positive in this situation. I have to.

If I can't do that? Well, what's the point then?

This has been lingering and festering in me for a couple of weeks. I knew it would happen. I expected it. I would've been shocked if I didn't experience these feelings at this point in time.

Everyone. And I mean EVERYONE is aware of the time-frame. The date. The "Anniversary". We all know it's looming overhead...like some dark storm cloud. You can see it. You can feel it. You know it's there. You're just waiting for it to bust the F#%* open. You've got your umbrella ready. But you're not quite sure if that umbrella will be enough to protect you through this storm that threatens you.

Okay.

Nothing has happened to make me feel this way tonight. Not a single event anyways. But it IS that time of year. The holidays are coming. Chris' Mom is really sick...with Hospice involved.

Things can be really bad right now. Or I can look at the positive.

There is some positive.

Number One...I'm breathing. I'm alive.

Number Two...The kids are healthy. I'm healthy.

Number Three...I've got an opportunity to make the rest of my life whatever I want it to be. I can do anything. I can be anything. It's a big world out there.

There are many more positives. I don't have it in me to even go there tonight.

2 weeks from today marks "The Day".

And I have to decide...soon...what I want to say for the one year memorial posting in the newspaper. That should be an easy task.

So why can't I figure it out? Why is it so difficult?

I hope I haven't been fooling myself all along...but sometimes I wonder...

Views From the "Other" Side

I wrote this 5 days ago, on October 15th. I wanted to wait to post it out of respect for Chris and his family. He has a couple of friends and acquaintances who might read this so I wanted to give him time to tell them himself...

This was a hard blow. 3 days before the one year mark that we made that "final drive home". If you had told me last year on October 15th that I would be taking Chuck home to just wait to die 3 days from now? I would've said you are f#*%ing crazy.

If you would've said to me last October 15th that, in a year from now, not only would my husband be dead...but I would be emotionally invested in another man and his impending loss? Then you would've been certifiably insane in my book.

But this is life...and death. And sometimes things don't always go as planned.

Wow.

I've realized for the last several weeks that these next few dates were coming up.

October 16th...our trip to our 3rd (and final) Emergency Room. Trying to desperately find answers. Hearing the dreaded "C" word for the first time. The first REAL sense of fear.

October 18th...after a terrible day the day before, with all of the intrusive and uncomfortable testing and a bout with pneumonia. Bad fever, cold chills, sweating, dangerously high pulse rate. That was such a scary night. But he began feeling better the next morning after being loaded up with IV antibiotics. A small sense of hope.

Then the visit from the oncologist that stole that hope right from our hands in an instant.

Then, finally, that long, long drive home from the hospital. That drive where I was taking him home to just wait to die. The Death Drive.

I knew those dates were coming. I didn't know they would be on my heels this quickly. But here they are, looming overhead. The realization came to me some time this afternoon that tomorrow marks the date of the beginning of the final leg of his journey.

And then.....

Wow.

It's almost too surreal.

A little background first. The man I've been seeing, the one I've become very fond of, the one I have grown to care about so very much, Chris.....his Mom has been battling cancer for awhile now. At least for the better part of this year. She has gone through surgery, chemo, and I think radiation. All of the typical cancer treatments. As far as I can tell, she has had her ups and downs. One moment...hopeful. The next moment...full of despair. And probably every imaginable emotion in between.

She just finished her last round of chemo a couple of weeks ago. She hasn't been willing to throw in the towel yet. She even had a goal to gain her strength back and get back to work as a teacher by November 1st.

She got admitted back into the hospital a couple of days ago. I think they have all begun to give in to the idea that this won't be cured. But there has still been hope. Even if it is a very small amount of hope...at least that's something, right?

I just got word that she is coming home from the hospital tonight. For the last time. There is nothing more that can be done to help her. Without knowing the details, it sounds like it won't be long.

And it breaks my heart. For her. For him. For his brothers and sister. Her grandchildren. For the whole family. Her friends. For her students...and former students. Her co-workers. For everyone whose lives have been touched by this woman.

I haven't lost a parent. (And she is the last parent they have left.) But I know how heartbreaking that drive home from the hospital is. I know what the short-term future is going to be like for this family. I know that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach. I know the gut-wrenching sobs that hit you out of the blue but you have to hold in until you're alone. I know the panic. The sadness. The pleading with God. The not knowing when. (That's got to be the worst.) Okay, maybe the helplessness and hopelessness are the absolute worst. That need that you HAVE to do something, ANYTHING, yet there is nothing you can do. The absolute worst desperation of your life.

To Chris and the rest of your family...I'm here. Whatever it is that you need that I'm capable of giving. And I know. I really do know. And, most of all, I'm sorry. I'm so very, very, incredibly sorry. Thank you for giving me the privilege of meeting your Mom. Even though it was only just one time, that meant the world to me. It was so important to me. I mean, I just had to meet the woman who was responsible for raising four kids into such loving, positive adults and close-knit, fun-loving siblings. That's an amazing legacy and a true testament to her character.

Man, I absolutely hate this. I hate for anyone to have to endure this. Especially now...after experiencing it myself.

I think I am beginning to understand how my loved ones felt for us. Wanting to do anything in their power to take the pain away, yet feeling almost as hopeless and helpless as we did...because there was nothing anyone could do.

This whole set of circumstances brings so many things flooding back into my head and into my heart. Maybe that's why it hurts so much. A mixture of seeing someone I admire and care about so much hurting...and the way it brings my own recent history back to the forefront.

I wasn't prepared to have cancer or illness or death or any of those nasty things invade my life again so soon. Although it hasn't been in as big of a way as it could've been, that's exactly what has happened. Chris has been there for me in so many ways. He has enjoyed my bright, happy times. He has watched me grow and take steps toward healing and make tremendous strides. All while being my biggest cheerleader along the way. ("Team Jodi"!!!) He has also been there through my many, very low points. As he still is. Making sense out of the senseless things. Calming me when I needed it. Giving me a shoulder (literally) to cry on. Assuring me that I'm not "crazy" as I question my sanity. Setting boundaries when I need them the most. Helping me to learn to stand on my own two feet.

Yeah...I don't think I would be as far as I am today if it weren't for his strength and support.

It is a huge risk to open your heart to love. You are risking being hurt again. No matter what this brings up for me though, it is worth it. He is worth it.

So I am determined to be there in any way I can. I am strong enough to share the burden. While I can't share it equally because I'm in a very distant position and still brand new (an outsider) to this family, I am willing to take on any of it that I can. I have become a much more compassionate person because of my recent experiences. For that, I am grateful.

I just want to do the right things. I want to say the right things.

Thank you to all of you who made your best attempts to help our family through the roughest moments. Even the most unsure and feeble attempts at support didn't go unnoticed. I've finally gotten a better appreciation of how very hard it was for you.

Thank you.

To Chris' Mom (even though she will never read this) thank you for raising such a compassionate, happy, loving, caring and positive son.

And, to you Chris, thank you for all that you've done for me. I'm here.

I'm always here.

Happy Birthday to Me

Damn.

I didn't know my birthday would bring so many mixed emotions.

I'm going to Chicago tomorrow. I've never been there before. I really haven't been much of anywhere...at least not in the last 20 years.

I'm so excited about it. I just know I'm going to have a great time.

For the last few days, I've been feeling anxious. I know it all has to do with that "this-time-last-year" syndrome. I knew I wanted/needed to visit the cemetery on my birthday.

But I will be in Chicago on my birthday.

So I went today. In the rain. And the gloom.

I sat in the car most of the time. I talked to him. I cried. I told him how I remembered last year's birthday. I remembered how he promised me that "next year's birthday will be better...I promise".

He was right.

It will be better.

Just not in the way I assumed when the conversation took place.

I apologized to him that this year's birthday will be better. I recognized the fact that I will be 38 years old tomorrow. An age that he will never know me as. I told him that I could feel his Happy Birthday wishes to me.

I wouldn't be going to Chicago tomorrow if he hadn't died. But he did. He died. And I'm going to Chicago tomorrow morning. With another man. A man I am beginning to love very much.

And it confuses me.

But I visited the cemetery and I got it out of my system...

For now.

Now I feel a little bit of release. And freedom. Freedom to have a good time and enjoy every single moment of this weekend.

I'm allowed.

It's okay.

I'm still alive.

And I intend to make the most out of every moment of this life...this new life.

I'm sorry he's not here. I'm sorry for him...for me...for the kids...for his family...for my family. But there isn't a damn thing I can do to change that fact.

Instead of feeling sorry, guilty, or plain old sad...I'm going to appreciate the fact that I have this opportunity. That I can go and put my grief aside for the next 48 hours. That I'm not spending this birthday all alone and depressed.

It's definitely bittersweet.

It's just another one of those "firsts".

Thank God those firsts are almost over with.

An Unfamiliar Path

I went to the park again today. I walked 4 miles on a trail I have never been on before.

Maybe it was just my perspective or my frame of mind today (which is more positive than it has been lately...thank God). Or maybe I'm just becoming fond of great analogies (you know who you are!) ;) But I couldn't help but apply several things I observed to what has been going on in my life over the past year.

It began when I got to the trail head. I had to make a choice which way I wanted to go.

Shortly after I began my walk, I noticed a huge uprooted tree. I couldn't help but think this is exactly what happened to life-as-I-knew-it on October 18th, 2008. My life, my home, my family, my world. Everything was uprooted. Nothing would ever be the same again.

I continued on. I came to a point a couple miles in that was kind of hilly. I went down a somewhat steep hill with great ease and speed. When I reached the bottom, it curved. I could tell that, right after that curve, I would then have to go back uphill. So I tried to keep my momentum going so as to make the uphill part a bit easier. It worked until I got about halfway up. I slowed down and even struggled a bit...but I made it back up to the top.

That is how I've been figuratively living. Ups and downs. Gaining speed. Struggling. Finding strength when I need it most.

My path eventually took me to a different type of environment. To a more even path. A prettier path. This is what I saw ahead of me. Although I had never walked this path before, it was clear where I was headed. I didn't know what was ahead of the bend in the path but I figured it was safe to assume that the path would continue on until I reached the end.

At that point, I had no clue how far I'd gone or how much further I had to go. All I could do was keep walking forward. But I had surely made progress. So I turned around to look at where I had just come from. To see that I have, indeed, been moving forward.

That's when I noticed the contrast in the shady and the sunny areas of this path. When I found myself in the sunny parts, it was so bright that I needed my sunglasses. But in the shade? It felt almost eerie at times. It could be so dark even though I knew that the sun was shining brightly somewhere up above. I can't tell you how many times I've felt that contrast in my life lately. And it can change in the blink of an eye...many times throughout a day.

Well, I rounded that curve and found that I had company! I wasn't completely alone after all. (It was kind of funny...that little deer was no more than 7 or 8 feet away from me when I saw it and it scared the shit out of me at first. LOL)

A little further along, I came upon a bench. A place to sit and rest for awhile if one was too tired to continue on. Or if you just wanted to sit and reflect on your surroundings...on where you've been and where you're going next. Notice how this bench was in a bright, sunny spot.

And then another bench. In one of the darker, more somber spots on this path. Sometimes you might want to sit and reflect in those darker places too. Maybe especially in those places. After all, it is the less sunny areas that tend to make you feel more sluggish and tired and more in need of rest.

You truly do have to pay attention to where you walk on this path. If you veer off to the side in either direction, you may stumble into a small ditch.

Other parts of the same trail were free of hazards like rocks and tree roots sticking out of the ground. Luckily, that seemed to happen when my attention needed to be focused somewhere other than where each step would land. Such as when danger lurked precariously overhead. (I swear, all it would take is a strong breeze and that thing was coming down!)

Along the way, there are plenty of directional markers...just to let you know that, yes, you are still on the correct trail, which way you need to go next, and that if you just continue to trudge along, you will eventually get to your destination.



















Sometimes, there are even reminders of how far you've come.



















I also discovered that sometimes you can come across a pleasant little surprise...something that you never even knew was there when you began your journey.



















Today's walk was good for me. (And I'm discovering that I really enjoy this walking in the park thing!) It reminded me that, although I don't know what lies ahead of me around all of the twists and turns, I have an idea of the general direction I'm headed. I've found that there are helpful reminders scattered about when I'm not sure which way to go. I've learned that, even when I'm in a valley, I can always make it back up to the top. I've learned that it's okay to trip sometimes...as long as I don't fall completely down. (And even if I do fall...it's okay as long as I pick myself back up.) I've realized that I'm never truly alone. And that it's okay to sit still and rest for awhile if I need to...as long as I don't stay in one spot too long.

I've learned that, while I do have a destination in mind, it's so important to be present where you are at on your journey right this very moment.

I'm trying to be present and enjoy and embrace every little detail. Even when I'm sitting on that shady bench for a little while.

A Walk in the Park

I've had a few down days this week. Yesterday morning I got to the point where I just needed to get out of the house and do something different. I needed to break out of the routine of just sitting here bummed out and not getting anything accomplished.

So I decided to go to the park and take a walk.

No big deal. Just a simple walk. I didn't think it would change my mood much but I was willing to give it a try. So I set off with just my thoughts and my music playing in my earphones. (Music is one thing I don't think I would want to live without...it's that important to me!)

To be surrounded by nothing but nature can be breathtaking. Sometimes I just stopped and looked up. Way up.

Standing in the midst of those tall trees reminded me what a big world this is...and how small we all really are!

I had a nice walk. A nice 3-mile walk. I felt my heart pumping the blood through my body. I felt the fresh air going deep into my lungs. I felt alive. I felt good.

As I neared the end of my walk, I came upon the small shelter house I had sat in the very first time I ever visited this particular park. It was about 20 summers ago. At that point in time, Chuck and I were nurturing our brand new relationship. He couldn't wait to introduce me to this park...he had been there many times before.

So I stood there and looked at that little building for a couple of minutes and reminisced as I listened to this song:




I Believe ~ Diamond Rio

Every now and then soft as breath upon my skin
I feel you come back again
And its like you haven't been gone a moment from my side
Like the tears were never cried
Like the hands of time are holding you and me
And with all my heart I'm sure we're closer than we ever were
I don't have to hear or see, I've got all the proof I need
There are more than angels watching over me
I believe, I believe

That when you die your life goes on
It doesn't end here when you're gone
Every soul is filled with light
It never ends and if I'm right
Our love can even reach across eternity
I believe, I believe

Forever, you're a part of me
Forever, in the heart of me
And I'll hold you even longer if I can
The people who don't see the most
Say that I believe in ghosts
And if that makes me crazy, then I am
cause I believe
There are more than angels watching over me
I believe, I believe

I got a little sad. A little teary-eyed. And then I saw something out of the corner of my eye.






















2 small deer.

And that made me smile.

That gave me some peace.

I was then able to turn back around and look at that small building and remember my very first trip to that park. And I was able to smile about it instead of feeling sad. I was able to continue walking past that building with my head high and my shoulders straight. With a purpose in my step, a slight smile on my face, and gratitude and love in my heart.

I've read about this concept in many grief books and I could never quite understand what they meant when they said you know you are beginning to heal when memories make you smile instead of cry.

I get it now.

It doesn't mean that memories will never again make me sad...

But it's a start.