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.