Twenty minutes ago I walked through my door, dropped my bag, umbrella and keys on the floor, slowly and defeatedly walked to the couch and sat down. I have been sitting here sobbing ever since, still cloaked in my new coat, hat and scarf.
Tonight’s tears are different than usual, but familiar nonetheless. I feel defeated, the way I felt when I learned that cancer had won and that my Creejie was going to die and there was nothing I could do to stop it from happening.
I’m tired.
Remember, yesterday, when I said that the strangest things can stop me dead in my tracks? Well, I read today and it was really scary. I have been coming to work since the end of January and every day lots of people distract me, make me laugh and engage me, taking my mind off of Chris. That just happens. I get busy and become engrossed in what I’m doing and before I know it, the day is gone and I haven’t thought about him for hours. I have not felt much guilt over it since it is work and I am not really enjoying myself, anyway, so not thinking about Chris is not exactly due to the fact that I'm having enourmous amounts of fun.
Reading, today, was really scary because it was my first experience deciding to not think about Chris. I deliberately picked up my book, opened it, and escaped into a world of mystery and intrigue and I loved it. I do love it. It scares me, though. I’m saying good-bye, or starting to, anyway. My reluctance to do that surprises me. Whether I learn to say good-bye, or not, Chris is gone.
I want a hug from every man I have ever come into contact with. That’s how I feel right now. A hug would reallly sit well with me right about now. But, fuck it. Who cares? A hug from every man I have ever come into contact with could never make me feel better about never being able to hug Chris again, except for in my dreams sometimes.
I have said it before, this weather is going to do me in. The air is beginning to feel the same raw coldness as when Chris was dying. The year-one circle is coming to a close.
I walked home from the station in the cold rain, stepping on wet leaves, feeling the wind on my face and looking down my barren, seemingly uninhabited street. Every sight I see now is a sight I do not share with Chris. He has never seen what I saw tonight. The scene was downright poetic, the darkness, the trees wet with rain, the lack of color and the very mood of the evening. Somber as it may seem, I find it beautiful. Welcoming. I am on the threshold of darkness and I am not going to stop myself from walking into the deepest grief-scape.
There is a "through it". I know there is, and I'm going to get there if I have to walk through Chris' death over and over again.
If Chris was alive tonight, he would have listened to my rantings about the sights, the mood and the trees.
And he, for the umpteenth-hundredth time, would have called me a little fagot.
And I would have kissed him in a way I never kissed anyone else I have ever known.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
Mountains, Books and Grief
After work tonight, I wandered around the city. I had no destination in mind, I just felt like wandering. I was not really in the mood to go home, but there was also nowhere in particular I felt like being. On my way down Summer Street, toward Winter Street, I made a snap decision to wander up to the eighth floor of Filene’s and visit my former coworker and one of my favorite people in the world, Brian.
Brian and Joe, who was also there tonight, are the only two people left at Filene’s who were there when Chris and I got the news of his diagnosis. I remember asking the two of them, along with Rodney and Pete to come into a vacant office with me so I could let them know what was going on. I could barely spit out the words before I began crying, but I continued on to tell them that we had also become engaged on the way home that day in an effort to transform the day from “the day we got the diagnosis” into “the day we got engaged”. I needed to tell them and they were all so nice to me. I needed these four men so much during that time. Nobody in my entire life has ever made me laugh harder or more often than the four men in the Copy Club, as we called ourselves. We spent eight hours a day together, in close proximity to one another. Working with them was exactly like working in an improvisational theater group and I’m not sure I can ever really convey to them how much all of that laughter helped me through those horrid times.
After “playing” with Brian and Joe tonight, I walked with them to the Boston Common where the three of us went our separate ways, Brian to the red line, Joe to the green line and me through the common and the public garden. I still did not know where I was headed. I was just wandering aimlessly, enjoying the chill in the air and the gloomy beauty of the city. Somehow, I felt warmth inside of me.
I decided to wander up Newbury Street and then jump on the green line at Auditorium Station, ride back into downtown and then out toward Malden,when it occurred to me that Back Bay Station was right around the corner. The realization made me very happy. I had overlooked that side of the orange line and almost dragged out my commute home by another forty minutes.
About and hour and a half passed before I realized what tonight’s purpose was going to be. I realized that I was nearing the Boston Public Library and remembered that I am on their most wanted list for a $5.00 debt I incurred many months ago when I held onto a book called, “Bobos in Paradise”, the book Chris was reading at his time of death. When I realized the book was due, I brought it to the library, but found that I could not let it go. I explained to the librarian that my husband had passed away and asked if I could check the book back out under my own library card. She shared with me that she also had a family member die of cancer and did me the service of checking out the book in my name. I tried to read it, but all I could do was wonder and imagine what Chris might have been thinking as he read through the pages of the book. Eventually, I placed the novel in a drawer where I thought I would keep it for myself forever.
One day, I woke up and realized it was time to return the book. Chris would not have approved of me keeping a library book. I know he would have wanted that book to be available to all of the other people who would have wanted to read it and who have since read it. It was right to return it. It was right to let it go. It will always be at the library if I ever feel the need to see it, again.
So, tonight I visited the library, once again, and settled my debt. In doing so, I freed myself to borrow books again.
Since Chris died, I have found that the strangest things have become roadblocks for me. Things I never would have thought could be so petrifying have stopped me dead in my tracks, scaring me immobile. Reading had become one of those things. Enjoying a novel is an activity that has become synonymous with disrespecting and dishonoring my husband. How can I enjoy a novel when he is no longer on this earth? What right do I have to enjoy the fine art of escapism? Why do I deserve to escape out of my own mind and body into somebody else’s life when Chris didn’t have that luxury? Until tonight, I had been immobilized by guilt associated with reading a book. How can something so seemingly unrelated to Chris’ death keep me imprisoned for so long? The mind is a very powerful and amazing place.
I knew as soon as I saw the library in the distance tonight that I was about to dislodge another large piece of grief from the wall. As I stated, I paid my debt. I then headed straight for the detective mysteries where I chose and checked out four books. I am no longer frozen in my inability to escape. I am still very afraid and anxiety ridden if I realize that a period of time has passed where I have not thought about or cried for Chris. Time is the only thing that will make those feelings subside, if they ever do.
I believe that today’s giant step forward is a direct result of my recent accomplishment, targeting, creating the opportunity and following through with my plan to sing in front of the orchestra. I proved a lot to myself by embarking upon that task and seeing it through to completion.
Today, over coffee and conversation with Nancy, a very good friend of mine who lost both parents to cancer, I formulated the reason that I now feel capable of setting goals I am passionate about and achieving those goals. Singing is pure passion for me. Performance is pure passion. In a way, each time I surround myself in my passion, I am giving myself a hug, holding onto myself, comforting myself and telling myself that everything is going to be okay now. I did that for Chris for fourteen months and when his life finally came to a close, I could do and feel nothing, only a cold numbness.
Almost nine months have passed since that awful day and I am just beginning to feel that the time has come for me to be hugged, held and cared for. Every time I achieve a goal, hugged is exactly how I feel. I can do it myself for now. I have never been the type of woman who needs a man to give me those things. I’m quite self-sufficient. Now is not the right time, anyway. It’s still too soon. What I have learned over the past nine months and what I continue to teach myself on a daily basis is that I am much, much stronger than I have ever been before and than I ever thought I could be.
I can climb mountains. I can read books. I can overcome grief.
Brian and Joe, who was also there tonight, are the only two people left at Filene’s who were there when Chris and I got the news of his diagnosis. I remember asking the two of them, along with Rodney and Pete to come into a vacant office with me so I could let them know what was going on. I could barely spit out the words before I began crying, but I continued on to tell them that we had also become engaged on the way home that day in an effort to transform the day from “the day we got the diagnosis” into “the day we got engaged”. I needed to tell them and they were all so nice to me. I needed these four men so much during that time. Nobody in my entire life has ever made me laugh harder or more often than the four men in the Copy Club, as we called ourselves. We spent eight hours a day together, in close proximity to one another. Working with them was exactly like working in an improvisational theater group and I’m not sure I can ever really convey to them how much all of that laughter helped me through those horrid times.
After “playing” with Brian and Joe tonight, I walked with them to the Boston Common where the three of us went our separate ways, Brian to the red line, Joe to the green line and me through the common and the public garden. I still did not know where I was headed. I was just wandering aimlessly, enjoying the chill in the air and the gloomy beauty of the city. Somehow, I felt warmth inside of me.
I decided to wander up Newbury Street and then jump on the green line at Auditorium Station, ride back into downtown and then out toward Malden,when it occurred to me that Back Bay Station was right around the corner. The realization made me very happy. I had overlooked that side of the orange line and almost dragged out my commute home by another forty minutes.
About and hour and a half passed before I realized what tonight’s purpose was going to be. I realized that I was nearing the Boston Public Library and remembered that I am on their most wanted list for a $5.00 debt I incurred many months ago when I held onto a book called, “Bobos in Paradise”, the book Chris was reading at his time of death. When I realized the book was due, I brought it to the library, but found that I could not let it go. I explained to the librarian that my husband had passed away and asked if I could check the book back out under my own library card. She shared with me that she also had a family member die of cancer and did me the service of checking out the book in my name. I tried to read it, but all I could do was wonder and imagine what Chris might have been thinking as he read through the pages of the book. Eventually, I placed the novel in a drawer where I thought I would keep it for myself forever.
One day, I woke up and realized it was time to return the book. Chris would not have approved of me keeping a library book. I know he would have wanted that book to be available to all of the other people who would have wanted to read it and who have since read it. It was right to return it. It was right to let it go. It will always be at the library if I ever feel the need to see it, again.
So, tonight I visited the library, once again, and settled my debt. In doing so, I freed myself to borrow books again.
Since Chris died, I have found that the strangest things have become roadblocks for me. Things I never would have thought could be so petrifying have stopped me dead in my tracks, scaring me immobile. Reading had become one of those things. Enjoying a novel is an activity that has become synonymous with disrespecting and dishonoring my husband. How can I enjoy a novel when he is no longer on this earth? What right do I have to enjoy the fine art of escapism? Why do I deserve to escape out of my own mind and body into somebody else’s life when Chris didn’t have that luxury? Until tonight, I had been immobilized by guilt associated with reading a book. How can something so seemingly unrelated to Chris’ death keep me imprisoned for so long? The mind is a very powerful and amazing place.
I knew as soon as I saw the library in the distance tonight that I was about to dislodge another large piece of grief from the wall. As I stated, I paid my debt. I then headed straight for the detective mysteries where I chose and checked out four books. I am no longer frozen in my inability to escape. I am still very afraid and anxiety ridden if I realize that a period of time has passed where I have not thought about or cried for Chris. Time is the only thing that will make those feelings subside, if they ever do.
I believe that today’s giant step forward is a direct result of my recent accomplishment, targeting, creating the opportunity and following through with my plan to sing in front of the orchestra. I proved a lot to myself by embarking upon that task and seeing it through to completion.
Today, over coffee and conversation with Nancy, a very good friend of mine who lost both parents to cancer, I formulated the reason that I now feel capable of setting goals I am passionate about and achieving those goals. Singing is pure passion for me. Performance is pure passion. In a way, each time I surround myself in my passion, I am giving myself a hug, holding onto myself, comforting myself and telling myself that everything is going to be okay now. I did that for Chris for fourteen months and when his life finally came to a close, I could do and feel nothing, only a cold numbness.
Almost nine months have passed since that awful day and I am just beginning to feel that the time has come for me to be hugged, held and cared for. Every time I achieve a goal, hugged is exactly how I feel. I can do it myself for now. I have never been the type of woman who needs a man to give me those things. I’m quite self-sufficient. Now is not the right time, anyway. It’s still too soon. What I have learned over the past nine months and what I continue to teach myself on a daily basis is that I am much, much stronger than I have ever been before and than I ever thought I could be.
I can climb mountains. I can read books. I can overcome grief.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
Shattering Reflections
The other night, at my voice lesson, I was vocalizing and staring into the circular mirror hanging on my vocal coach’s wall in front of the piano. The lighting, playing off of the mirror and reflecting from the mirror, back out into the room, back into the mirror, back out into the room and so forth caused me to ponder the similarities between a mirror’s image, the two worlds (inside the mirror and outside the mirror) and my experiences of the past two years.
The back side of a looking glass is not much to look at. A mirror’s backside holds no reflection, only a dark gray, dull and scary, forboding coat of darkness.
Alternatively, the reflector’s face is brilliant, shiny and filled with endless possibilities and limitless places to travel within one’s own imagination.
The contrast in the two sides caused me to relate to the two sides of grief.
An idea to sing with Northeastern University’s symphony orchestra was born in my mind back on May 9th, 2005, one of my most horrible grief-days, ever. In the midst of my anguish, I put a dream of mine into action. Despite my inability to control my nervous system and my tear ducts, I sat up, powered up my computer searched for his name and e-mailed my thought to the conductor. He answered me pretty quickly, stating that he had never thought about having a singer front the orchestra and invited me to come to his office and sing for him. I didn’t expect it, but the possibility lifted me up that day. That day held the first indication for me that I could still dream, that I could still enjoy my passion and that dreaming and feeding my passion are two of the most important things in my life. Whenever I am engaged in either or both activities, my grief is non-existent. My passion is my safe-haven, a peaceful, hopeful hiatus away from the grief that still, very much, holds me in it’s relentless grip.
Thinking back, what srikes me is the frame of mind I was in when my idea was born. I had been pondering death and the thought of how easy it is to die, if one chooses to. I was quite distraught that day, having packed up Chris’ clothes in the midst of quitting my anti-depressant, taking two days off of work to nurse a head cold and laryngitis and writhing in pain on the couch from my monthly curse. All of that pain and sadness cloaking me in a dark, hopeless nightmare and yet I somehow found a moment to dream.
When I equate my grief and the past two years to a mirror, what I’m trying to describe is how being trapped inside a mirror, seems similar to what I imagine being trapped under the ice of a frozen-over pond would feel like. The underside of the ice is cold, dark, wet and lonely. The ice is thick and even though the other side is visible, it’s not so easy to get there. In some cases, getting to the other side simply is not possible. However, there could be a way out. There could be many ways out. One thing for sure is that doing nothing and sinking to the bottom of the mucky myre will not bring a person to the other side of the ice. On the other hand, fighting, kicking, picking away at the ice and screaming are all ways to gain freedom. Trying these things when giving up seems so much easier is extremely difficult. I have chosen to free myself. I chose to free myself very early on. I experienced a moment of grief before I knew that I wanted out of it as quickly as possible.
Creating this opportunity for myself and putting my dream into action has had a profound effect on me. I can chip away at my grief and bring myself past it.
The rush I got from singing with the entire orchestra was immeasurable and my grief was dwarfed by comparison.
The concert was this afernoon. I nailed the high G that I worked up to for the past two weeks. I enaged the audience and invited them to sing along with the orchestra and me.
I did it. I dreamed, created an opportunity, worked hard and honestly to give my best performance and then gave that performance to my audience. I broke through the ice-mirror today, shattering the barrier and sending shards of glass and ice flying in all directions. In my mind’s eye, I traveled outside the mirror’s reflection, back into my real world, a world of long ago, before love, before husbands and before cancer and death reared their ugly heads.
There is beauty and love outside of the mirror and as long as it takes, I’m going to combat my grief with my passion until my evenings are no longer filled with tears and guilt.
The back side of a looking glass is not much to look at. A mirror’s backside holds no reflection, only a dark gray, dull and scary, forboding coat of darkness.
Alternatively, the reflector’s face is brilliant, shiny and filled with endless possibilities and limitless places to travel within one’s own imagination.
The contrast in the two sides caused me to relate to the two sides of grief.
An idea to sing with Northeastern University’s symphony orchestra was born in my mind back on May 9th, 2005, one of my most horrible grief-days, ever. In the midst of my anguish, I put a dream of mine into action. Despite my inability to control my nervous system and my tear ducts, I sat up, powered up my computer searched for his name and e-mailed my thought to the conductor. He answered me pretty quickly, stating that he had never thought about having a singer front the orchestra and invited me to come to his office and sing for him. I didn’t expect it, but the possibility lifted me up that day. That day held the first indication for me that I could still dream, that I could still enjoy my passion and that dreaming and feeding my passion are two of the most important things in my life. Whenever I am engaged in either or both activities, my grief is non-existent. My passion is my safe-haven, a peaceful, hopeful hiatus away from the grief that still, very much, holds me in it’s relentless grip.
Thinking back, what srikes me is the frame of mind I was in when my idea was born. I had been pondering death and the thought of how easy it is to die, if one chooses to. I was quite distraught that day, having packed up Chris’ clothes in the midst of quitting my anti-depressant, taking two days off of work to nurse a head cold and laryngitis and writhing in pain on the couch from my monthly curse. All of that pain and sadness cloaking me in a dark, hopeless nightmare and yet I somehow found a moment to dream.
When I equate my grief and the past two years to a mirror, what I’m trying to describe is how being trapped inside a mirror, seems similar to what I imagine being trapped under the ice of a frozen-over pond would feel like. The underside of the ice is cold, dark, wet and lonely. The ice is thick and even though the other side is visible, it’s not so easy to get there. In some cases, getting to the other side simply is not possible. However, there could be a way out. There could be many ways out. One thing for sure is that doing nothing and sinking to the bottom of the mucky myre will not bring a person to the other side of the ice. On the other hand, fighting, kicking, picking away at the ice and screaming are all ways to gain freedom. Trying these things when giving up seems so much easier is extremely difficult. I have chosen to free myself. I chose to free myself very early on. I experienced a moment of grief before I knew that I wanted out of it as quickly as possible.
Creating this opportunity for myself and putting my dream into action has had a profound effect on me. I can chip away at my grief and bring myself past it.
The rush I got from singing with the entire orchestra was immeasurable and my grief was dwarfed by comparison.
The concert was this afernoon. I nailed the high G that I worked up to for the past two weeks. I enaged the audience and invited them to sing along with the orchestra and me.
I did it. I dreamed, created an opportunity, worked hard and honestly to give my best performance and then gave that performance to my audience. I broke through the ice-mirror today, shattering the barrier and sending shards of glass and ice flying in all directions. In my mind’s eye, I traveled outside the mirror’s reflection, back into my real world, a world of long ago, before love, before husbands and before cancer and death reared their ugly heads.
There is beauty and love outside of the mirror and as long as it takes, I’m going to combat my grief with my passion until my evenings are no longer filled with tears and guilt.
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
I Don't Know
I can't stop crying. I don't think I'm ready to meet another guy, yet.
I can't do it.
And every time I think of one being in my kitchen, I choke to near death on my own panic.
And on images of Creej.
I can't do it.
And every time I think of one being in my kitchen, I choke to near death on my own panic.
And on images of Creej.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
You will find great courage. (in bed)
Right before bed last night, I sat down in front of my collage of pictures of Chris and sobbed, embracing it as a not-even-close replacement of the person whose images it reflects. I didn't care.
One of the pictures is an almost-life-size close up of just Creej's face. I leaned in for a kiss and lingered, my lips touching his, just as they used to. I could feel the softness of them, the fullness (he had beautiful full lips) and for a second, I opened my eyes and saw his looking into mine, once again. It was such a wonderful fantasy.
I know my behavior seems crazy, but with my beautiful friends, family, and therapist on my side reminding me that absoutley anything I do or feel is normal and that these actions and emotions are the very shape of grief, I can continue to make my healthy trek through the abyss. I'm not alone.
I awoke, partially, in the middle of the night and he was asleep next to me. My recollection of the dream is vague, but I do remember the feeling of a long lost memory that rolling over was not an option because he was there. I fell back into slumber with that old familar feeling of security I once had.
I can still feel the effects from last night's dream. I feel warm, cared about and held.
Moments like that remind me that I am held. Chris' love lives on within me and is the reason that I'm able to forge ahead. He still loves me and that love, as in life, continues to provide me an endless supply of courage.
I love you so much, Creej.
One of the pictures is an almost-life-size close up of just Creej's face. I leaned in for a kiss and lingered, my lips touching his, just as they used to. I could feel the softness of them, the fullness (he had beautiful full lips) and for a second, I opened my eyes and saw his looking into mine, once again. It was such a wonderful fantasy.
I know my behavior seems crazy, but with my beautiful friends, family, and therapist on my side reminding me that absoutley anything I do or feel is normal and that these actions and emotions are the very shape of grief, I can continue to make my healthy trek through the abyss. I'm not alone.
I awoke, partially, in the middle of the night and he was asleep next to me. My recollection of the dream is vague, but I do remember the feeling of a long lost memory that rolling over was not an option because he was there. I fell back into slumber with that old familar feeling of security I once had.
I can still feel the effects from last night's dream. I feel warm, cared about and held.
Moments like that remind me that I am held. Chris' love lives on within me and is the reason that I'm able to forge ahead. He still loves me and that love, as in life, continues to provide me an endless supply of courage.
I love you so much, Creej.
Friday, October 14, 2005
Bonnie's Bytes
Bonnie, Chris' mum, my beloved mother-in-law has been taking a writing class as part of her healing process. Each week she, along with a group of other grieving partents, write about their thoughts and feelings pertaining to the loss of their children.
In Bonnie's last class, the instructor asked everyone to close their eyes. She walked around and dropped a potato in each of the parents' hands.
Bonnie's thoughts had a particularly profound effect on me and she was kind enough to let me post them here:
In the beginning. . .hmmm
Potatoes. . .
Earth
Renewal
Sustinence
Life
Spring comes again
Reborn
Cycle of Life
Circle of Life
In the beginning, Chris' death was personal, it was unfair, it was wrong, it was unimaginable.
Those feelings are receding a bit. Coming to the front is a sense that Chris and our family are part of the circle of life which includes birth and, sadly, death. Is this what "they" mean by making peace, acceptance, softening of the pain?
My friend told me on Sunday about how a woman who lost a son went to the Buddha and asked him to help. He told her he would but first she must do something for him. Bring him some mustard seed from a family who has never lost a loved one.
There it is again, acceptance, the circle of life, the mystery of life and death.
Am I making progress or is it just the extra 10 mg of Paxil my doctor prescribed?
Thank you, Bonnie.
Shneed
In Bonnie's last class, the instructor asked everyone to close their eyes. She walked around and dropped a potato in each of the parents' hands.
Bonnie's thoughts had a particularly profound effect on me and she was kind enough to let me post them here:
In the beginning. . .hmmm
Potatoes. . .
Earth
Renewal
Sustinence
Life
Spring comes again
Reborn
Cycle of Life
Circle of Life
In the beginning, Chris' death was personal, it was unfair, it was wrong, it was unimaginable.
Those feelings are receding a bit. Coming to the front is a sense that Chris and our family are part of the circle of life which includes birth and, sadly, death. Is this what "they" mean by making peace, acceptance, softening of the pain?
My friend told me on Sunday about how a woman who lost a son went to the Buddha and asked him to help. He told her he would but first she must do something for him. Bring him some mustard seed from a family who has never lost a loved one.
There it is again, acceptance, the circle of life, the mystery of life and death.
Am I making progress or is it just the extra 10 mg of Paxil my doctor prescribed?
Thank you, Bonnie.
Shneed
It's Friday night and I can stay in if I want to.
I had a really good evening, tonight. I came home and immediately practiced singing. It’s important that I spend the next couple of weeks on the song I’ll be singing with the university symphony orchestra. It’s not in my key so I really have to stretch my upper register to make sure I have all of the notes and that I can sing them with ease and lightness. I’m very excited about this.
So I sang and then I cooked dinner, which, most days feels unfamiliar. I don’t cook daily meals too much. I can cook big stuff, like spaghetti sauce or a giant pot of chicken soup; stuff I eat and then freeze in lots of containers for later dinners and lunches.
I liked cooking for Chris. He was a guy who got excited about presentation. I loved that. I learned from him the importance of choosing exciting colored vegetables to go with the color bread and whatever the main dish would be. I always dreamed up some sort of creative garnish to place atop the entree: a parsely twig, an orange slice, a flower, basically whatever I could find in the apartment that I knew would impress him. It was a sort of a fun little competition we would take turns having, trying to out-do each other with ideas.
I still remember the first time Chris cooked for me. It was very early in our relationship and when he invited me over for dinner, I thought it was very weird. Nobody had ever done that for me before. I was shy, but I went anyway. He cooked salmon, which I had never had before and around the fish on the plate, he placed various colored peppers, summer squash and zucchini. It was beautiful and when I reacted to it with surprise and delight, he became so happy. His face lit up. He was proud.
We talked that night. After dinner we moved into the living room and Chis lit a candle. There was no music and the TV wasn’t on. The only sound was the sound of the two of us talking to each other. That was weird to me, too. I commented on the silence and Chris said, “I like it quiet.” We talked a lot that night. We talked about our fears, our lives, our families and just regular everyday stuff. Then I left. It’s so strange to me that I ever used to leave. I can’t really remember what it was like before I knew him through and through, before we submitted our hearts to one another. Strange.
I happened upon a new television show tonight quite by coincidence. It’s called “Ghost Whisperer” and it stars Jennifer Love-Hewitt. She plays a medium who is visited by spirits who need help. Tonight’s show, strangely enough, was about a young woman grieving the loss of her fiance. The spirit of her fiance would not let her go. He stayed with her and made his presence known in very sweet, loving ways: a touch, a stroke, a feeling. She grew to need him around in order to feel comfort and he was unwilling to cross over and set her free. Together, they were holding on to each other, preventing each other from moving on.
The man’s heart had been donated when he died and was now beating in the chest of another man who had it transplanted in place of his own unhealthy heart which had caused him many, many years of illness. This man was very sad and lonely. After a lifetime of sickness, he did not know how to live a healthy life and be happy. The medium introduced him to the young widow and they sat and even though they talked only for a few moments, they felt an instant connection.
The medium tried to convince the fiance that he had to let go of the young woman and he decided to leave it up to her. If she told him to go, he would.
The show culminated with his spirt channelling through the medium telling his widow that he loved her very much and wanted to be with her all of the time. She could feel his presence and told him that she couldn’t go on without him, that she couldn’t do it without him. They were both face to face, though she couldn’t see him, and he kept stroking her face, her hands, her hair.
Finally the medium asked her if she liked the man she introduced her to. The widow started to talk about how she felt as though she knew him and although they talked about children for only a moment, she now felt as though she could return to her job as a school teacher.
The fiance, at that point, realized that he had to let go in order for his widow to move forward. She begged him to stay but in the end, he realized that he had to let her go, for her and for him, that she couldn’t love a dead man the way he needed her to and that he couldn’t love her the way she needed him to.
Out of the eternal love he felt for her and even though she fell apart, crying uncontrollably and begging him to stay with her, he crossed over, leaving her to get on with her life.
It was my life being played for me before my eyes on the television. I felt everything that this her character felt. There wasn’t dry eye in the house.
Tonight, Jennifer Love-Hewitt helped me heal. Not many people can say that and mean it. And wherever Chris’ sweet, sweet soul is tonight, I’m sure it’s vomiting.
Shneed
So I sang and then I cooked dinner, which, most days feels unfamiliar. I don’t cook daily meals too much. I can cook big stuff, like spaghetti sauce or a giant pot of chicken soup; stuff I eat and then freeze in lots of containers for later dinners and lunches.
I liked cooking for Chris. He was a guy who got excited about presentation. I loved that. I learned from him the importance of choosing exciting colored vegetables to go with the color bread and whatever the main dish would be. I always dreamed up some sort of creative garnish to place atop the entree: a parsely twig, an orange slice, a flower, basically whatever I could find in the apartment that I knew would impress him. It was a sort of a fun little competition we would take turns having, trying to out-do each other with ideas.
I still remember the first time Chris cooked for me. It was very early in our relationship and when he invited me over for dinner, I thought it was very weird. Nobody had ever done that for me before. I was shy, but I went anyway. He cooked salmon, which I had never had before and around the fish on the plate, he placed various colored peppers, summer squash and zucchini. It was beautiful and when I reacted to it with surprise and delight, he became so happy. His face lit up. He was proud.
We talked that night. After dinner we moved into the living room and Chis lit a candle. There was no music and the TV wasn’t on. The only sound was the sound of the two of us talking to each other. That was weird to me, too. I commented on the silence and Chris said, “I like it quiet.” We talked a lot that night. We talked about our fears, our lives, our families and just regular everyday stuff. Then I left. It’s so strange to me that I ever used to leave. I can’t really remember what it was like before I knew him through and through, before we submitted our hearts to one another. Strange.
I happened upon a new television show tonight quite by coincidence. It’s called “Ghost Whisperer” and it stars Jennifer Love-Hewitt. She plays a medium who is visited by spirits who need help. Tonight’s show, strangely enough, was about a young woman grieving the loss of her fiance. The spirit of her fiance would not let her go. He stayed with her and made his presence known in very sweet, loving ways: a touch, a stroke, a feeling. She grew to need him around in order to feel comfort and he was unwilling to cross over and set her free. Together, they were holding on to each other, preventing each other from moving on.
The man’s heart had been donated when he died and was now beating in the chest of another man who had it transplanted in place of his own unhealthy heart which had caused him many, many years of illness. This man was very sad and lonely. After a lifetime of sickness, he did not know how to live a healthy life and be happy. The medium introduced him to the young widow and they sat and even though they talked only for a few moments, they felt an instant connection.
The medium tried to convince the fiance that he had to let go of the young woman and he decided to leave it up to her. If she told him to go, he would.
The show culminated with his spirt channelling through the medium telling his widow that he loved her very much and wanted to be with her all of the time. She could feel his presence and told him that she couldn’t go on without him, that she couldn’t do it without him. They were both face to face, though she couldn’t see him, and he kept stroking her face, her hands, her hair.
Finally the medium asked her if she liked the man she introduced her to. The widow started to talk about how she felt as though she knew him and although they talked about children for only a moment, she now felt as though she could return to her job as a school teacher.
The fiance, at that point, realized that he had to let go in order for his widow to move forward. She begged him to stay but in the end, he realized that he had to let her go, for her and for him, that she couldn’t love a dead man the way he needed her to and that he couldn’t love her the way she needed him to.
Out of the eternal love he felt for her and even though she fell apart, crying uncontrollably and begging him to stay with her, he crossed over, leaving her to get on with her life.
It was my life being played for me before my eyes on the television. I felt everything that this her character felt. There wasn’t dry eye in the house.
Tonight, Jennifer Love-Hewitt helped me heal. Not many people can say that and mean it. And wherever Chris’ sweet, sweet soul is tonight, I’m sure it’s vomiting.
Shneed
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Fun Times
Stuck. Stuck, stuck, stuck. That’s what I am this week.
I know I just got through saying that when I don’t write for a while, it means that I have been happy. However, this time around, I didn’t write because I was extremely exhausted from another foray into the black hole that is grief.
Like a battered woman, I smiled my way through the days this past week, and nobody suspected a thing, partially because my bruises are invisible and partially because it’s too uncomfortable for most people to think that I might still be grieving over some guy who died nine months ago. Or maybe it's just my own fear that they think that.
I’m still grieving. It’s NOT in my past. It’s very much a part of my present and probably always will be in some capacity. That asshole was wrong.
Most of the time I feel as though I’m living on the edge of a waterfall, trying like hell to swim into it and stop the water from carrying me over, slamming me into the rapids below. I have lived in those rapids for such a long time. I’m just trying to get away and swim up, up, up to where the river is calm. But these days, my salty river of tears is the only thing that calms me.
This past few weeks, I accidentally overextended myself. I took an accelerated course, accepted a role in a play, worked full time and prepared for an orchestra audition all while doing the every day mundane activities of a forced bachelorette. I put off writing my paper and studying for my final exam until two days before the paper was due and the exam was scheduled. That’s why I stayed at work studying until 7:30 Tuesday night.
When I left the building, it was dark. I began walking up the street toward the orange line station and suddenly I was overcome with debilitating grief. Something about the cold air is really going to destroy my sanity this year. I love it, but it’s really sad to me now. I began to have rapid recall of the events leading up to Chris’ diagnosis. The buildings looked the same way they looked back then; cold, threatening, cruel structures. I began to lose my ability to take a breath in and I really had to concentrate to keep myself from crying.
I called Carol, just to hear a warm voice in my ear. Carol has a way with grounding me. The moment she answered, the fight ended for me. I cried into the phone, “I’m having a panic attack.” and she stayed with me all the way up Summer Street until it turned to Winter Street. I admitted to her that I wasn’t going into the train station, that I was on my way to the common to visit my and Chris’ trees, the ones we got married under. Sometimes I just need to go there. Carol said she was staying on the phone with me if I was going to the common because it was dark out and I probably shouldn’t have been going there alone in the dark.
Sometimes I just feel destructive.
Suddenly, I did an about-face and headed for the train station. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I realized that I had, on some level, felt as though Chris was going to be under the trees waiting for me. I wanted him to be there. I dream of a day when I see him and we embrace each other again. I’ll never let go of him, again.
I rode the orange line home, once again fighting to hold the tears back at least until I got off of the train and back into the shadows where we grievers belong.
I hyperventilated and cried the for the duration of the ten-minute walk to my apartment. Fun times.
I know I just got through saying that when I don’t write for a while, it means that I have been happy. However, this time around, I didn’t write because I was extremely exhausted from another foray into the black hole that is grief.
Like a battered woman, I smiled my way through the days this past week, and nobody suspected a thing, partially because my bruises are invisible and partially because it’s too uncomfortable for most people to think that I might still be grieving over some guy who died nine months ago. Or maybe it's just my own fear that they think that.
I’m still grieving. It’s NOT in my past. It’s very much a part of my present and probably always will be in some capacity. That asshole was wrong.
Most of the time I feel as though I’m living on the edge of a waterfall, trying like hell to swim into it and stop the water from carrying me over, slamming me into the rapids below. I have lived in those rapids for such a long time. I’m just trying to get away and swim up, up, up to where the river is calm. But these days, my salty river of tears is the only thing that calms me.
This past few weeks, I accidentally overextended myself. I took an accelerated course, accepted a role in a play, worked full time and prepared for an orchestra audition all while doing the every day mundane activities of a forced bachelorette. I put off writing my paper and studying for my final exam until two days before the paper was due and the exam was scheduled. That’s why I stayed at work studying until 7:30 Tuesday night.
When I left the building, it was dark. I began walking up the street toward the orange line station and suddenly I was overcome with debilitating grief. Something about the cold air is really going to destroy my sanity this year. I love it, but it’s really sad to me now. I began to have rapid recall of the events leading up to Chris’ diagnosis. The buildings looked the same way they looked back then; cold, threatening, cruel structures. I began to lose my ability to take a breath in and I really had to concentrate to keep myself from crying.
I called Carol, just to hear a warm voice in my ear. Carol has a way with grounding me. The moment she answered, the fight ended for me. I cried into the phone, “I’m having a panic attack.” and she stayed with me all the way up Summer Street until it turned to Winter Street. I admitted to her that I wasn’t going into the train station, that I was on my way to the common to visit my and Chris’ trees, the ones we got married under. Sometimes I just need to go there. Carol said she was staying on the phone with me if I was going to the common because it was dark out and I probably shouldn’t have been going there alone in the dark.
Sometimes I just feel destructive.
Suddenly, I did an about-face and headed for the train station. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I realized that I had, on some level, felt as though Chris was going to be under the trees waiting for me. I wanted him to be there. I dream of a day when I see him and we embrace each other again. I’ll never let go of him, again.
I rode the orange line home, once again fighting to hold the tears back at least until I got off of the train and back into the shadows where we grievers belong.
I hyperventilated and cried the for the duration of the ten-minute walk to my apartment. Fun times.
Sunday, October 9, 2005
Just the Guy
I knew it was coming tonight. I knew it. I drove a friend to the open mike and about half way through the night, I felt a surge of grief coming on. Sometimes it can be difficult to listen to songs all night, with lyrics that can be percieved in any number of ways Sometimes those lyrics can get into my soul like the cancer that got into Chris’ body.
“I Won’t Send Roses” is a song from the musical, “Mack and Mabel”. The song is the one I was going to use in my cabaret show to illustrate how I felt about Chris. He was going to be alive when I sang it, alive and smiling from the audience, knowing it was for him.
The lyrics are:
So who needs roses or stuff like that?
So who needs chocolates? They’d make me fat.
And I can get along just fine without a gushing valentine.
And I’ll get by with just the guy.
And if he calls me and it's collect,
Sir Walter Raleigh I don't expect.
And though I know I may be left out on a limb,
So who needs roses that didn't come from him?
I never needed anything from Creej except his smile, his love, a couple of hugs daily...oh...and his cooking. During his illness, I kept thinking, “If he only lives, I’ll never want anything foolish from him, again.” This promise was conditional, directed toward God and designed as a bargaining chip to make God make Chris healthy again. I wish he had lived. I wish he was still my husband. I wish he was still my best friend.
So I haven’t been able to sing “I Won’t Send Roses” since Chris died and I wouldn’t have sung it tonight, either, if John hadn’t brought up that it would be a good duet for us, since I have been wanting to sing a duet with him. I made a snap decision not to “grief out” over it. Afterall, it’s a beautiful song that I can sing completely from the deepest, most loving place in my heart. It was for my Creej.
So we sung it, and it was beautiful and I was able to put all of that love into it and project it toward John, who seemed to really enjoy the genuine place it was coming from. I loved doing it.
I had forgotten how feeling all of that love had felt. A part of me awakened tonight and it felt so good to feel in love again.
But the surge got stronger and I felt like running out of the restaurant and going home. I drove, Lori, though and she was chit-chatting with a friend so I held my composure until she was ready to leave. I saw no real reason to run at that precise moment. My grief was coming tonight, whether I rushed out or casually strolled.
I dropped her off at home and from the moment the car door closed until now, I have been enduring a screaming crying fit, though writing this has calmed me some.
Lately, whenever I sing, people approach me and tell me how much I moved them, how wonderful I am, what a beautiful voice I have, and so forth. It’s really nice to hear those accolades from complete strangers. Something has defintely changed in my performance these past nine months. I’m singing from a much deeper, more genuine place and people are beginning to notice.
I wanted to come home and tell Chris. I wanted him to hug me. I wanted to hug him. He's not here, though. Tonight, only the rain is here and I’m cold and distraught. It’s very difficult to drive home in the rain in 3D. That’s how my tears made the rain look. There was rain outside, on my windshield and pouring out of my eyes. It is so damn hard to drive that way.
I’m home now sitting on the couch with my comforter wrapped around me, a hug of sorts, I guess. I’m getting warm, anyway.
I have stopped crying, finally. I’m tired and hungry. I need some peanut butter and then I need to sleep.
Exhausted, dehydrated, on the other side of this one,
Shneed
“I Won’t Send Roses” is a song from the musical, “Mack and Mabel”. The song is the one I was going to use in my cabaret show to illustrate how I felt about Chris. He was going to be alive when I sang it, alive and smiling from the audience, knowing it was for him.
The lyrics are:
So who needs roses or stuff like that?
So who needs chocolates? They’d make me fat.
And I can get along just fine without a gushing valentine.
And I’ll get by with just the guy.
And if he calls me and it's collect,
Sir Walter Raleigh I don't expect.
And though I know I may be left out on a limb,
So who needs roses that didn't come from him?
I never needed anything from Creej except his smile, his love, a couple of hugs daily...oh...and his cooking. During his illness, I kept thinking, “If he only lives, I’ll never want anything foolish from him, again.” This promise was conditional, directed toward God and designed as a bargaining chip to make God make Chris healthy again. I wish he had lived. I wish he was still my husband. I wish he was still my best friend.
So I haven’t been able to sing “I Won’t Send Roses” since Chris died and I wouldn’t have sung it tonight, either, if John hadn’t brought up that it would be a good duet for us, since I have been wanting to sing a duet with him. I made a snap decision not to “grief out” over it. Afterall, it’s a beautiful song that I can sing completely from the deepest, most loving place in my heart. It was for my Creej.
So we sung it, and it was beautiful and I was able to put all of that love into it and project it toward John, who seemed to really enjoy the genuine place it was coming from. I loved doing it.
I had forgotten how feeling all of that love had felt. A part of me awakened tonight and it felt so good to feel in love again.
But the surge got stronger and I felt like running out of the restaurant and going home. I drove, Lori, though and she was chit-chatting with a friend so I held my composure until she was ready to leave. I saw no real reason to run at that precise moment. My grief was coming tonight, whether I rushed out or casually strolled.
I dropped her off at home and from the moment the car door closed until now, I have been enduring a screaming crying fit, though writing this has calmed me some.
Lately, whenever I sing, people approach me and tell me how much I moved them, how wonderful I am, what a beautiful voice I have, and so forth. It’s really nice to hear those accolades from complete strangers. Something has defintely changed in my performance these past nine months. I’m singing from a much deeper, more genuine place and people are beginning to notice.
I wanted to come home and tell Chris. I wanted him to hug me. I wanted to hug him. He's not here, though. Tonight, only the rain is here and I’m cold and distraught. It’s very difficult to drive home in the rain in 3D. That’s how my tears made the rain look. There was rain outside, on my windshield and pouring out of my eyes. It is so damn hard to drive that way.
I’m home now sitting on the couch with my comforter wrapped around me, a hug of sorts, I guess. I’m getting warm, anyway.
I have stopped crying, finally. I’m tired and hungry. I need some peanut butter and then I need to sleep.
Exhausted, dehydrated, on the other side of this one,
Shneed
Thursday, October 6, 2005
A Meeting of the Minds
What I wouldn’t give for what seems like the whole world to stop worrying about me. It’s not that I don’t love and appreciate the thoughtfulness of the caring people around me, it’s just that sometimes, the care and compassion of others can hinder my progress.
I have been feeling, lately, as though I might want to give going on a date a try. It’s just a date. I mean, at this stage of the game, it wouldn’t be anything more than a morning or afternoon cup o’ joe. I enjoy meeting new people so I’m not too nervous, plus there is nothing at stake here. Whatever used to frighten me about men simply doesn’t anymore.
Now that I have experienced the best (my husband), there is no question in my mind as to what I will and won’t tolerate. Of course that line is somewhat liquid. When two people find enough in common with one another, battles must be carefully chosen and power in certain areas willingly relinquished for the greater good
Now that I have experienced the worst (losing my sweet best friend and husband), there is nothing that will ever hurt me that much again, so any encounter will basically be a safe one. Rejection (or anything else, for that matter) can hardly hurt me now after having experienced complete acceptance and love and losing them both to death.
There’s a man I have been corresponding with via e-mail for some time. He seems very much like me. We have a lot in common from enjoying theater, to enjoying philosophizing to running, to writing and music and more than that. I have yet to speak with this man vocally. We have only spoken in the written word. While writing letters is quite enticing and fun, the reality to face is that some people are great writers and not-so-great communicators. I suppose our vocal compatibility remains to be seen…or heard, in this case.
Am I afraid of hurting Chris’ family by having my curiosity peaked as early as nine months on the grief-timeline? I Absolutely am. I know it could hurt them. It probably will hurt them. It even hurts me to some extent. There’s a part of me that never wants to move on in this area because Chris was my husband and I never wanted to separate from or be disloyal to him. As far as I was concerned I was going to remain with him until his 80th and my 84th birthday. My dating days were safely locked away in my past. I never liked dating, anyway. It’s troublesome. Establishing trust is really my favorite part of a relationship and then the comfort zone.
Passion is nice, but it could never replace trust and friendship for me. For me, passion comes later. It just makes sense to me that way. I know people meet and have sex on first dates. I know people simply have casual sex. I know. It’s okay if it’s okay for them. For me, though, I can barely fake that I’m enjoying a kiss from someone I don’t even know yet, never mind disrobing for them. It’s a slow and steady process for me. Chris was exactly the same way. As a result, we became best friends and soul mates. The added extras came later.
So, what to do? I’m finding my mind wandering to this cyber-friend of mine. We have begun sharing our lives a bit. It may soon be time for a phone call to put communication to the test. I have a feeling it’s going to be nice. With his undergrad in psychology his current pursuit his masters degree in the same, he seems smart, communicative, creative, sweet and fun. Not a bad 12th, or so, impression.
Shneed
I have been feeling, lately, as though I might want to give going on a date a try. It’s just a date. I mean, at this stage of the game, it wouldn’t be anything more than a morning or afternoon cup o’ joe. I enjoy meeting new people so I’m not too nervous, plus there is nothing at stake here. Whatever used to frighten me about men simply doesn’t anymore.
Now that I have experienced the best (my husband), there is no question in my mind as to what I will and won’t tolerate. Of course that line is somewhat liquid. When two people find enough in common with one another, battles must be carefully chosen and power in certain areas willingly relinquished for the greater good
Now that I have experienced the worst (losing my sweet best friend and husband), there is nothing that will ever hurt me that much again, so any encounter will basically be a safe one. Rejection (or anything else, for that matter) can hardly hurt me now after having experienced complete acceptance and love and losing them both to death.
There’s a man I have been corresponding with via e-mail for some time. He seems very much like me. We have a lot in common from enjoying theater, to enjoying philosophizing to running, to writing and music and more than that. I have yet to speak with this man vocally. We have only spoken in the written word. While writing letters is quite enticing and fun, the reality to face is that some people are great writers and not-so-great communicators. I suppose our vocal compatibility remains to be seen…or heard, in this case.
Am I afraid of hurting Chris’ family by having my curiosity peaked as early as nine months on the grief-timeline? I Absolutely am. I know it could hurt them. It probably will hurt them. It even hurts me to some extent. There’s a part of me that never wants to move on in this area because Chris was my husband and I never wanted to separate from or be disloyal to him. As far as I was concerned I was going to remain with him until his 80th and my 84th birthday. My dating days were safely locked away in my past. I never liked dating, anyway. It’s troublesome. Establishing trust is really my favorite part of a relationship and then the comfort zone.
Passion is nice, but it could never replace trust and friendship for me. For me, passion comes later. It just makes sense to me that way. I know people meet and have sex on first dates. I know people simply have casual sex. I know. It’s okay if it’s okay for them. For me, though, I can barely fake that I’m enjoying a kiss from someone I don’t even know yet, never mind disrobing for them. It’s a slow and steady process for me. Chris was exactly the same way. As a result, we became best friends and soul mates. The added extras came later.
So, what to do? I’m finding my mind wandering to this cyber-friend of mine. We have begun sharing our lives a bit. It may soon be time for a phone call to put communication to the test. I have a feeling it’s going to be nice. With his undergrad in psychology his current pursuit his masters degree in the same, he seems smart, communicative, creative, sweet and fun. Not a bad 12th, or so, impression.
Shneed
Monday, October 3, 2005
The Whiles
In case you didn't notice, there were five days between when I wrote last and tonight's posts. The reason for the brief hiatus from my blog is really quite elementary, my friends. I was happy. I had a happy five days in which nary a tear rolled down my cheeks. I laughed, I played, I ran, I sang and I had tons of fun with friends and family. I even felt whole, again. I even felt whole again without feeling guilt. That's a HUGE deal, yet I neglected to report. I must put this right.
I only write this because it occurred to me that I left out a very important, essential part of my writings. This blog I have created to illustrate the ebbs and flows of the grief process, yet I was not being true.
The truth is that I am usually inspired to write when I'm sad. That's been the case my entire life. When I read back on old journals, the entries are chock full of problems and pains. Writing is how I work out my problems and pains.
I really must try to remember to write as close to every day as I can. Then, and only then, will I successfully paint an accurate picture of my grief process.
My out and out breakdown of tonight's earlier post lasted a good hour and a half. The episode kicked my ass and left me in a heap on my bed, on my couch, on the floor, as usual.
However, I am happy once again.
That's the way grief goes. Grief's unpredictable nature is a lot like riding a horse in a rodeo. You get bucked around, stomped on, threatened by a bull, entertained by a clown, cheered on by the masses and when the day's rodeo is all over, you collapse from sheer exhaustion and slip into slumber.
So, I'm happy again for the while. And the whiles are getting longer and longer.
Shneed
I only write this because it occurred to me that I left out a very important, essential part of my writings. This blog I have created to illustrate the ebbs and flows of the grief process, yet I was not being true.
The truth is that I am usually inspired to write when I'm sad. That's been the case my entire life. When I read back on old journals, the entries are chock full of problems and pains. Writing is how I work out my problems and pains.
I really must try to remember to write as close to every day as I can. Then, and only then, will I successfully paint an accurate picture of my grief process.
My out and out breakdown of tonight's earlier post lasted a good hour and a half. The episode kicked my ass and left me in a heap on my bed, on my couch, on the floor, as usual.
However, I am happy once again.
That's the way grief goes. Grief's unpredictable nature is a lot like riding a horse in a rodeo. You get bucked around, stomped on, threatened by a bull, entertained by a clown, cheered on by the masses and when the day's rodeo is all over, you collapse from sheer exhaustion and slip into slumber.
So, I'm happy again for the while. And the whiles are getting longer and longer.
Shneed
Dreams of a Toast
Something about everything is making me cry this evening. There was something in the cool, crisp autumn air.
There’s something in the way my sheet music is strewn about on my bed from this morning’s dash to get out out the house on time. Sheet music strewn about just about anywhere is who I am to my core. Seeing my tossled music from this particular perspective, at eye level as I lay on my side on the bed hugging one of my red, crushed velvet pillows and feeling the cool air of fall and the change in lighting as a new season prevails over an old one...somehow I feel like a little girl again, missing her best friend.
Chris knew my sheet music messes. He knew that singing was very important to me, a fact he reminded me of often when my balance would tip and I would lose my purpose.
Today was quite a fulfiling day. I had an important audition for the university symphony orchestra, which went very well. I went into work late in order to audition. My vocal coach, of whom I am very fond, came to accompany me on piano. The conductor was and is very sweet and told me he very much enjoyed my performance and offered to have me come sing in some children’s concerts next fall. The slots for this year are filled, but he also writes musicals and gave me a quite unexpected impromtu audition for a part in his musical this morning after my orchestra audition. It was all very exciting. I read for him, using my best Irish accent (which leaves something to be desired) and he had already heard me sing so after my reading, he told me that he may want me to go to Harvard Square tomorrow night to sing for his collaborator. How exciting it all is.
The cool, crisp autumn air is wreaking enough havoc in my heart tonight. I don’t know how I can ever survive more of the same in Harvard Square, one of the most romantic places I know. It will surely do me in. It's okay, though. I'm ready for it.
Today's audition was very special because I created the opportunity myself. There was no audition until I e-mailed the conductor and asked if he ever thought about having a singer front the orchestra. He said he had not, and invited me to come sing for him. And now I’m (hopefully) going to be in his musical, an original musical, something I have been dying to do forever. I can create the role in an original musical. The songs are yet unknown. How exciting is that?
Tonight, I want to be telling all of this to Chris. I want to share my day with him and my pride and my faith in myself, my victory, my appreciation for him and my love.
I’m very proud of myself, but I really liked when Chris was here to be proud of me, too.
Tonight, if Chris was alive, I would have invited him out for a beer to toast to a hair-brained scheme which ended up going quite well. I would have toasted to him, to us and to love.
And Creej would have called me a little faggot.
Tee-hee.
I miss him more than I can stand it, tonight.
Praying for eternal happiness for Creej’s soul is the most I can do for him now, and I do it every single day.
Love Eternally,
Your wife,
Shneed
There’s something in the way my sheet music is strewn about on my bed from this morning’s dash to get out out the house on time. Sheet music strewn about just about anywhere is who I am to my core. Seeing my tossled music from this particular perspective, at eye level as I lay on my side on the bed hugging one of my red, crushed velvet pillows and feeling the cool air of fall and the change in lighting as a new season prevails over an old one...somehow I feel like a little girl again, missing her best friend.
Chris knew my sheet music messes. He knew that singing was very important to me, a fact he reminded me of often when my balance would tip and I would lose my purpose.
Today was quite a fulfiling day. I had an important audition for the university symphony orchestra, which went very well. I went into work late in order to audition. My vocal coach, of whom I am very fond, came to accompany me on piano. The conductor was and is very sweet and told me he very much enjoyed my performance and offered to have me come sing in some children’s concerts next fall. The slots for this year are filled, but he also writes musicals and gave me a quite unexpected impromtu audition for a part in his musical this morning after my orchestra audition. It was all very exciting. I read for him, using my best Irish accent (which leaves something to be desired) and he had already heard me sing so after my reading, he told me that he may want me to go to Harvard Square tomorrow night to sing for his collaborator. How exciting it all is.
The cool, crisp autumn air is wreaking enough havoc in my heart tonight. I don’t know how I can ever survive more of the same in Harvard Square, one of the most romantic places I know. It will surely do me in. It's okay, though. I'm ready for it.
Today's audition was very special because I created the opportunity myself. There was no audition until I e-mailed the conductor and asked if he ever thought about having a singer front the orchestra. He said he had not, and invited me to come sing for him. And now I’m (hopefully) going to be in his musical, an original musical, something I have been dying to do forever. I can create the role in an original musical. The songs are yet unknown. How exciting is that?
Tonight, I want to be telling all of this to Chris. I want to share my day with him and my pride and my faith in myself, my victory, my appreciation for him and my love.
I’m very proud of myself, but I really liked when Chris was here to be proud of me, too.
Tonight, if Chris was alive, I would have invited him out for a beer to toast to a hair-brained scheme which ended up going quite well. I would have toasted to him, to us and to love.
And Creej would have called me a little faggot.
Tee-hee.
I miss him more than I can stand it, tonight.
Praying for eternal happiness for Creej’s soul is the most I can do for him now, and I do it every single day.
Love Eternally,
Your wife,
Shneed
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