When October Goes

I just returned home from two open mikes, which is quite amazing considering that I was on the floor, sprawled across sixteen pieces of sheet music earlier this evening after finding the music for “When October Goes” by Barry Manilow and being thrust into an old memory I had nearly forgotten.

It was November, 2003 when I visited Steve’s studio to sing some songs in front of his piano accompaniment. I was very excited about building a relationship with him and singing with various pianists, in general. His studio was just a five minute walk from Chris’ and my apartment on Washington Street in Brighton, which was even more exciting. I went to my session an sang that song,which has a melancholy story line which seems to talk about loss of youth, loss of time and just loss in general. The song meant very little to me that day. The very next week, Chris was diagnosed with cancer and I called Steve and told him I wouldn’t be coming back.

For a time, I rode the train to and from Boston each day with the song playing in my CD walkman and I choked back tears worrying about Chris, tortured by thoughts of his death. My eyes filled with tears which I hid behind sun glasses each day. I can still feel exactly how I felt sitting on the green line worrying.

Finding the piece of music tonight, I picked it up and began singing the lyrics and that’s when I fell over defeated by my own disbelief that this entire bizarre, unthinkable event actually happened. I couldn’t pick myself up. I just cried thinking my usual, “No, no, no.” and shaking my head back and forth, trying to make it make sense. It still doesn’t make sense and the song crushes my chest making it impossible for me to breathe.

At that point I thought I was in for the night. When Jimmy called, I told him I was having a hard time with grief and we chitchatted about unrelated topics since he can’t handle my sadness, but even so, together we came up with a plan for me to drop half of an Ativan and try to come out. It worked. I had fun tonight, even though every part of my body and soul felt the loss of Chris tonight. The thoughts, invasive as they are, popped in and out of my head in between distractions and now that I am home, I can feel loss screaming at me from all angles.

I saw people tonight that I haven’t seen in months and in replied to their questions with, “I’m well, thank you. I’m doing good.” My eyes felt sad and empty even though my mouth was smiling and I wonder if anybody but me could feel that. Even if others could sense my sadness, they would never admit it. That’s unpleasant and could jeopardize their comfort. Still, I wonder.

I feel empty without Chris. Still. Forever. I keep trying, though, and I wonder if I have a breaking point and if there is such a point, when and how will it look when I reach it? That thought makes me need to speak with Clay.

I am entering another danger zone, one in which I keep repeating, “He can’t be gone. He can’t be gone. He can NOT be gone.”

But he is gone and I am having too much trouble coping.

Sometimes I worry that I use Ativan to pull myself out of the hole. Even though I use it sparingly, I am quite aware of the fine line between being a functioning member of society and becoming a dysfunctional degenerate who has thrown in the towel along with her sanity. I wonder if I ever could ever cross that line. Sometimes I don't care what happens to me.

I shared two nice hugs with John tonight. Hugs have healing power.

Meltdown # 630,116 (seemingly)

I am not messed up I am not messed up I am not messed up.

I need to keep telling myself that. Detrimental thoughts can become self-fulfilling prophecies in a flash and I have to remember that I am the one driving my life now, “one” being the operative word. Chris is gone. He left.

I just came home from the supermarket. I tried to pay for my groceries with my debit card but it got declined, not because I don’t have money, but because I exceeded my daily withdrawal by paying my school bill this afternoon, which really isn’t a big deal, except that I became a little embarrassed because I got the thought stuck in my head that the cashier thought I was trying to use a “used up” credit card. I felt dumb. I felt poor. I felt inadequate. I feel like a failure. Most of all, I feel like Chris, wherever he may be, is pissed off at me for having to use a credit card to pay for my groceries, which strange (or not) as it may seem, is really just ME being pissed off at me for going against everything Chris taught me. It was unintentional, but regardless, I am really struggling against my tendency toward self-hatred right now.

I have a date with a really nice man tomorrow night and that also has me feeling as though Chris hates me, which is really just more of me hating myself. Or maybe it’s more of me hating Chris for dying. Whatever.

I dont’ think I like this anniversary-season crap.

Okay. It’s out of my system and on paper now.

I’m making a promise to myself. Tomorrow is going to be fun. I am getting up and beginning an exercise regime, again. I am going to run 2 miles. Then I am meeting the pianist to rehearse the songs for the documentary. And then I am going on my date with this man and he is going to like me and it’s going to be okay.

I am not going to act frenzied anymore, tonight. I am going to take Pungent Blunder's advice and take deep breaths until I can see this incident for the "nothing" that it is.

I just worked myself up. Someday, maybe I won't have so many anxiety-related traits. It's hard to believe I was once reasonably calm.

I wish I could have a hug.

...a nice, long hug. I wish my social worker could hold me just for a little while, while I cry about ending our sessions and talk about how it feels like more loss. I wish I could ask him for that. He wouldn't do it though, and he shouldn't do it. It's not professional and besides, I'm just experiencing transference, anyway.

But it sure would take me back to a place where I felt small, safe and protected.

And cared for.

Giving Thanks to the Birthday Boy

Aside from today being Thanksgiving, today is also what would have been Chris’ 36th birthday. I woke up wondering what he might have been doing if he had lived. He would have been working with the Car Talk guys for two years, probably doing something more than screening the calls that come in. I’m sure he would have excelled and they would have loved him and he would have learned so much more about radio than he had ever known before. That’s my Chris. He knew how to apply himself and whether he knew it or not, he always had the power and the ability to turn his dreams into realities.

I have been squashing my emotions since Wednesday’s trip to the library. I worked yesterday and while the rest of the office left at roughly 2 or 3pm, I stayed. My job is business critical and I have to be there all of the time, so if I went home, I would have had to sit by my computer anyway just in case I was needed. I opted to remain at work. Even though I was the only one there, I somehow felt less isolated than I would have felt at home.

I’m doing quite well today, even though the anticipation has been nothing less than horrifying. I can feel that I have cordoned off half of my brain, immersing it in that same fog that doesn’t permit thinking, mourning, wondering and wishing. Basically, the only part of my brain awake today is my realist brain, the part that is going to my father's to celebrate, yes, “celebrate” Thanksgiving. I will not endure another holiday season controlled by fear, anxiety, sadness and yearning. The time has come for me to enjoy my life to the best of my abilities, even if that means that I cry for sixteen days and nights and then celebrate a holiday like I was once able to long ago.

I may need the help of my trusty sidekick, Ativan. Time will tell. I took half of a pill last night before going to my friend, Carol’s house to ring in the Thanksgiving holiday. I wasn’t sure I would take anything to help myself but at the last minute before I left my house I remembered this year’s theme, that which I was just speaking about in the last paragraph. I deserve to have a happy holiday season.

I have endured much pain and sadness, beginning with our move to Los Angeles in 2001 and culminating in a horrid disease that ultimately claimed my husband’s life. Thanksgiving has come and gone for the past five years instilling anger, loneliness, thanklessness, terror, denial, smashed hopes and deflated resign . No more.

Some time ago, I became aware that performing the tasks for which I am responsible alleviates my pain and sorrow and instills in me a sense of accomplishment, self-esteem, self-confidence and strength that I remember from many years ago. I have the power to bring those feelings back into my life. Grief can (and will) stay, too.

Grief is a part of who I am. The emotion is not all bad. Grief has transformed me into an empathic, selfless, deep-thinking, accepting person and even though the pain sometimes feels sharp enough to shred my soul into millions of fragments of my former self-assured, lucky-to-be-with-my-Christopher self, those same fragments, when pieced back together re-adhere to make me a hundred times the person I once was.

Today is Chris’ birthday, November 23. Born in 1970, my sweet, sweet best friend and husband swept me off of my feet 28 years later, brought me on a life adventure from start to finish and changed me and everything I stand for forever.

If I could talk to him, I would tell him all of the ways he changed me for the better, I would reiterate for the hundred-thousandth time how much I love him. I would thank him for coming into my life, and I would try to get him to tell me when I was going to get to join him on the other side. I would tell him how hard not seeing him every single day has been for me, how hard and unfair life can seem when he’s not by my side and how no matter what happens, I am going to try to be the strongest, most determined person I can be and keep pushing, pushing, pushing through the dark haunted forest until the lightness blinds me with love, healing and my own end of life complete with my Chris waiting and watching for me as I transcend my physical, earthly self and join lights with him.

I know the day will come and I am not afraid, but I have a job to fulfill here, first.

I believe that whether we are aware or not, there are people in this lifetime who need us and whose contact with us is also essential to our own growth, understanding and ultimate transcendence into the hereafter. Perseverance, as always, is key.

I didn’t know how to honor my Chris on his birthday, this year, but I now know that I honor him every day I remain on this earth, staying open, inviting my own life to flower and finishing the journey I was sent on thirty-nine years ago, regardless of how long the trip will last. I am helping others. That is why I was sent here and that is what I will work toward until Chris and I meet again.

Happy Birthday Creej. I love you more than I can ever express in earthly terms. Your soul dwells within my own and gives me the strength to stay above water, climb out from under the rubble and continue to give all I can give until my own time comes. Thank you for inviting me out for a cup of coffee and for joining with me in the time we were gifted together. Today I am giving thanks to God for helping us to cross paths and for you for meeting me and helping me grow from a closed-off, sheltered little girl into a wide-open, courageous woman who is not afraid of life or death. I have so much for which to be thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving.

-Shneed

Library Abuse

I spent three hours at the library this evening reading my psychology book and searching for psychology journal articles to write papers on in preparation for my final class. Neither of these were valid reasons for my trip to the bookshelves. Running and suppressing to the best of my abilities and staying as far away from my apartment as possible while staying as far outside of my own head as possible seemed like my best strategy. My escape attempt was not successful. I cried openly on my walk home from the train station.

I feel isolated. There is nobody for me to talk to, anymore. Nobody wants to hear it. I don’t even want to say it, anymore. I want it to not have happened. I am tired of dealing with the crushing pain. Anxiety made me dizzy this evening en route to the library. I don’t want to be alone, anymore. I don’t want to be without Chris, anymore. But I can only solve one of those problems.

Tonight, when I think about my future, all I can see is me crying every single day for the rest of my life, whether I meet and fall in love with someone else, or not.

And I feel tremendous guilt lately and I think it’s because I have feelings for someone. And I’m terrified that he won’t be able to handle my grief if and when it rears its head throughout the remainder of my life. And I think I want to have children and get off of this fucking corporate carnival ride I have been on for way too long.

Why did I lose?

I am still so pained by everything Chris had to to go through. I think there’s more wrong with me than just grief. I still feel traumatized. I still can’t breathe when I remember Chris’ final days and the craziness of the fog and my eyes still snap open at night when images of his hospital stays invade my thoughts. I have asked Clay if he thinks I am showing any signs of PTSD but he thinks not. He's the professional.

And I am so angry all of the time. I’m angry with my entire family, my life, my phone, my face and my brain, and the grief counselor, who ignored my last phonecall, which was only my second time calling her. Ignored. And I’m angry that I have grown dependent on Clay and that I wish I could tell my psychology professor all about Chris and what happened and how I feel. Nobody screams “Save me!” like me.

I’m going to a party at Carol’s tomorrow night and I don’t want to go. I feel like I am going to be there with my sad soul, wearing a mask of happiness and fabricated holiday cheer. I want to stay home and cry. I’m not going to, though. And I’m not going to ruin anybody’s holiday, especially mine.

I have to pull myself together. I’m ashamed of myself this way.

I will. PMS has a way with multiplying the effects of grief.

Okay, I’m putting a stop to this right now.

(((smile, smile, smile)))
There, I feel better, already.
It's all about choices.

Good night.

Depression and Hope

I have been feeling very depressed for the past week. I have trouble getting out of bed in the morning, trouble getting ready in time to get to work on time and trouble concentrating on the show, even though while I’m actually performing the show, I feel great.

Last night, I experienced a 2.5 hour, "can't breathe" grief fit that, as usual, began on my walk from the train station to my apartment. I am so tired of choking back the surge of tears I know is coming to claim me. Despite my meltdown, I managed to make homemade spaghetti sauce, wash clothes and clean in preparation for a visit from my mother-in-law tomorrow. Still, the experience left me exhausted and dehydrated.

It's tough these days because I don't want to infect the lives of my friends with my grief anymore. It has been almost two years and I just don't want to do that to them. So I'm feeling isolated. I’m stopping my sessions with Clay at the end of the year, but instead of going it alone, I think I actually will try to find a good grief counselor. Now that I know counselors have all types of styles in which they work, I can try to find somebody who will help me stay on track, suggest action items for me and basically tell me what to do on a bi-weekly basis. No more of this “every week” crap. I’m done.

Chris' birthday is right smack on Thanksgiving day this year. This Sunday is the anniversary of his diagnosis and of our engagement.

I actually know I will fall in love again. I have a date with a very nice man next week and I am crazy about a man at work and I believe he is crazy about me, too.

I just get attacked by the horrible memories of watching the person I loved most in the world become ill and have to deal with it is spirit-crushing. I don't really know how to stop the flashbacks.

I know I will find happiness again. I just do.

In a lot of ways, I'm beginning to think that the only way out of the depression is to meet somebody, fall in love and exist in another partnership like the one I once shared with Chris.

Remission

Chris’ birthday is November 23 and it falls right smack on Thanksgiving Day this year. He used to love when that happened because Thanksgiving was his favorite holiday.

I am not sure how I feel about the approaching “anniversary season.” On some level, I have decided to have as happy a holiday season as I can because for three years, I have not been able to be happy.

I have spent Thanksgivings in shock from the diagnosis, terror-stricken from the fear of the inconceivable thought that Chris could die and crushed that the inconceivable came to pass. Someday I have to be able to enjoy the holiday season again, don’t I?

I haven’t really been sleeping lately. My body seems to know that the anniversaries are coming. There’s November 19, the day of Chris’ diagnosis; November 23, his birthday; December 25, the day I rushed him to Brigham and Womens Hospital because the pain in his side became too great for him to bear; January 1, the day he died and January 17, the day we met in 1999 and the day we married in 2004. There are so many dates.

I remember the orderly wheeling him away in a wheelchair on Christmas Day, 2004, as he said to me, “Don’t cry. We’re gonna take good care of him.” and I can remember the undertakers wheeling him away in a body bag on a two-wheeler. They looked evil to me. I know they didn’t have on dark glasses, but my memory tells me that they did. The brain is a very strange thing. He was gone, then. I knew his body was there, but he was gone even though I didn’t quite understand what that meant at the time. I figured he’d be back later. Actually, I didn’t figure anything. I was incapable of figuring.

I don’t know how to honor him on his birthday. Maybe the way to honor him is to have fun. Every step forward I have taken with absolute reluctance. I do it, anyway, all the while thinking “No.”

I dont’ want it to be.

I am just now beginning to be able to say the words, “My husband died from cancer.” and know that it’s true, that it really happened. It really happened to him and it really happened to me and I still just want to cry and cry and deny the truth. I would give anything to wake up and tell Chris that I just had the most horrible nightmare.

I laugh a lot. I'm happy most of the time. Even so, after everything that happened, anxiety is a state I will likely never conquer. I feel as though Chris' illness and death branded fear, anxiety and terror onto my soul forever.

Grief doesn’t end. It just goes in and out of remission.

-Shneed

Dom

I bumped into Dom this morning on my way to work. Dom is a man I worked with seventeen years ago.

We stood on the sidewalk outside of my building talking for about ten minutes or so asking each other questions about where we have been and what we have been up to over the past few years. I told him I had moved to L.A. for two years with my boyfriend and then came back and got married.

I coulnd’t leave it at that. My story felt like a lie.

We talked some more about trivial matters and then I said, “Sadly, my husband passed away two years ago.”

Dom’s expression held such genuine concern that I wanted to hug him. He, very openly, said, “Did he have cancer?” and I replied, “Yes.” Shocked, and seemingly knowingly he said, “How old was he?” I told him Chris was 34. He went on to say that he was just talking with another person who had told him she had been through the same thing. Then he asked me how I was doing and I knew he meant it so I told him, “You learn to cope and you learn to move on. It never goes away but you just move on.” Then I told him that a lot of good has come out of the bad. He pondered what I had just shared with him and said, “That’s too bad, Robin.” and I said, “Yeah. It is.” We said goodbye and Dom hugged me.

I walked away and softly said, “I’m telling my story. I’m not hiding it, anymore.”

People like Dom are few and far between.

S t r e t c h

Our show opened this weekend and we performed last night and tonight. The performances went well despite some technical difficulties and we have already improved since Saturday evening. Also, despite the fact that rising tensions caused me to never want to do this show again, I can honestly say that I would do it again if I am invited back next season. Preparation for this show is very difficult and tedious and during the process, I forget how much of a payoff performing it is. It’s all good.

I had a bit of a backslide last night. The director from the show snapped at me, which is a common experience when tensions are running high. I experienced a delayed reaction, in the form of grief, which occurred last night after I got home. I had to put the tears on hold until after the show and until after I had helped pack up the equipment. When I got home, I fell onto my bed and purged my emotions. I thought, “Chris would never have treated me that way.” which is what I always say when somebody is less than nice to me. I wish I could stop that pattern, but I was so upset and exhausted when I got home that I didn’t possess the desire to fight my grief.

Chris came to absolutely every one of my performances. I have a tough time with the fact that he can’t come anymore, that I experience euphoria on the stage and then walk outside onto the lonely city street and drive home to my empty apartment. Columbus Avenue is a very lonely place at 10:30 PM on a Sunday night.

As I sat idling at a red light, I suddenly realized that I no longer remember how walking around Boston with Chris felt. I couldn’t quite call the memory of the feeling of us together, walking. I became heavy-hearted. I didn’t cry though. I still haven’t cried.

If an elastic is used for a long enough time, its elasticity decreases and the rubber becomes dry. Suddenly, one day, the band has to be wrapped around two times in order to hold its contents.

I have reminisced about rage-inducing grade school games of keep-away involving me, my hat and a bully and the rage and frustration that ensued. I felt that rage and frustration for the longest time with regard to Chris’ absence. For a long time, I felt that he was being kept from me but that eventually, I would get him back once I was on the verge of rage-induced insanity. I began to feel that way this weekend because he’s not at my shows, but then my rage trailed off. The elasticity of my anger has diminished and even though my brain won’t easily go there, I am now beginning to surrender myself to the fact that no amount of screaming or raging is going to bring him back. My “elastic” has been stretching toward wellness and then snapping back to grief for so long and tonight, there was no back-snap. The rubber gave way and stayed stretched around my grief, with a larger barrier than before and I was much too exhausted to scream tonight. My threshold for grief has expanded, like the elastic.

I’m not going to get my way, this time. It doesn’t matter that one of the song’s I chose is about a spirit coming back to comfort her surviving husband. Chris can’t see that, and even if he could, he couldn’t come back just because I paid him that tribute.

I’m okay lately. I get sad thinking about Chris and wondering how I am ever going to “get there” again, “there” being “ a loving, close, unconditional relationship.”

Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.

The Psychology of Psychology

Instead of crying this evening, which is exactly what I thought I would be doing upon returning home from a seven-and-a-half-hour rehearsal, I cracked open my psychology book and continued reading in preparation for this Tuesday evening’s class. I don’t feel like crying at all, now.

Coincidentally, in direct corroboration to my recent discovery that when I do what I am “supposed” to be doing, I feel better, reading this week’s assigned chapter, particularly the section regarding the Social-Cognitive Perspective, has helped me tremendously tonight.

The theory defines and explains both the external and internal locus of control. The section of the chapter that caught my attention mentions that university students who plan their day’s activities and live out their day as planned are at low risk for depression.

The moment I read that sentence I knew I had achieved another victory. For a person like me, who can quite frequently become frozen within her own reluctance to walk away from her grief and toward her future (even if that future stretches only as far as the next moment), doing what I am “supposed” to be doing and carrying out my responsibilities to myself, I have once again succeeded in laying my grief to rest rather than submitting to defeat.

I am happy. I feel fulfilled. I am extremely excited about psychology and I am going to sleep tonight exhausted in a good way with not so much as a fragment of Ativan in my bloodstream.

-Shneed

Clay

Talking with Clay is like being five and having my mother apply mecuricone to my scraped knee.

Highway Hypnosis

Somewhere between exits 31 and 32 off the Mass Pike east I had an insight that I am accepting as a gift from the universe and a hiatus from the chaos that normally resides within the walls of my brain.

The thought was simple. “It doesn’t matter what age you are, only who you are.”

I worry, since Chris died, that I am too old now. I am too old for any man to find attractive. I am too old to be acting the way I am acting. I am too old to be upset that people seem to think I should be over the loss of my husband and the list goes on a little further than that. I tend to pressure myself to hurry up and...well, I don’t really know. I just pressure myself to do whatever it is I should be doing before...well, I don’t really know when. Do you see what I mean? I don’t have to worry about anything. I just have to be.

Something about the Mass Pike really gets the gears in my mind turning. I also realized the path by which I travel into patterns of deep despair upon returning home each evening. I am not just grieving. I feel grief begin to materialize and I panic because I do not want to grieve. Basically, I suffer the proverbial (is it proverbial?) double-whammy, the threat of grief immediately followed by a panic attack resulting from the threat of grief, which spawns more grief and a splash of anger and feelings that I cannot control the grief or the panic...or the anger for that matter. So by the time I am finished dancing the “complete-loss-of-control-tango” I have run the gammit of emotions intertwining grief, panic, anger and self-pity.

Good. Now I have something of substance to discuss with Clay tomorrow evening.

Before I say good-night, I will raise my bowl of frosted flakes, bananas and soy milk and make a toast to the fact that I am not grieving or panicking tonight.

Go me.

Out of the Closet

I lashed out at my sister, yesterday, my sister who met her husband when she was 15 and who is still with him at age 41.

I finally completed my certificate in web and digital design and instead of saying "Congratulations." she said, "Oh WOW. Robin finally completed something!" so right in front of her husband and my 13-year-old nephew, I said, "Well, I would have finished faster IF MY HUSBAND HADN'T DIED." I hated the lack of control that allowed that venom to come shooting out of my mouth. I felt ashamed. I want to be more in control and I need to stop using Chris’ death as ammunition to force people to consider the odds I was facing while continuing my studies, acting in shows and getting a new job. I know, it just doesn’t get more vicitimy than that. No need to comment, commenters, I know I slid back into victim stance. I’m out again, though. Be kind.

I wrote her the following e-mail trying to explain my side of it:

Hi. I just want to apologize again for what I said earlier. I feel really ashamed that I lost control of myself that way. It's that season of anniversaries again and I know it's tough for people to believe and understand that at the two-year mark I'm still feeling very sad, but it's true.

I saw a grief counselor last week who basically told me the feelings of sadness are never going to go away and that I will learn to control them as time goes by. It's hard, though, especially now with the anniversary of the diagnosis, his birthday, the holidays and our wedding anniversary staring me in the face.

This is the hardest thing I have ever had to endure. Some days I don't know how I am going to live out the rest of my life, not just without him, but with the memories of what happened to him and how sick he got and how I couldn't help him at all stuck in my brain.

I keep trying to push on and I'm doing really well physically...keeping busy, going to school, dating, etc. It's really hard to come home at night to absolute quiet where there used to be a person who cared about me talking with me, listening to me and just being with me.

I started taking more of my Ativan to help me when I'm alone. I just need to tell my doctor and see if she approves.

Basically, I feel broken. I'm okay when I'm around people, as you know. I'm just living a double-life. Happy with people, devastated when I'm alone. I really miss him. He was a perfect fit for me and I was so proud to have him and for the first time in my life, I felt like I had accomplished something and then it was gone.

I just wanted to tell you so you'll know that my comment didn't come from a "mean" place. I lashed out because of how much I am hurting. I won't hurt you again. I hated how it felt and I'm sorry. I love you. Love, Robin

She responded with the following:

Don't worry about it. I can't say & hope I never have to say I know what you're going through. But I can say, "forget about it" it's over. That's all."

I’m pretty certain that by “it’s over.” she meant my comment and not my grief. Still, I poured so much of myself into that apology and I thought she would have more to say.

Why is death so taboo in this country? It makes coping so much more difficult when everybody runs in the opposite direction.

I don't want to go into hiding. Maybe that's the purpose of the book I am writing, to be out of the closet about death.

I Get High With a Little Help from my Doctor

An ongoing theme in my grief thus far has been guilt surrounding any positive outlook I may have.

I love singing and everything the vice brings into my life. Singing fills me with joy and engages me in so many ways as I strive, continuously to become more talented. With singing comes performing, which I still find unnerving even though I still do it because there is so much joy in the act of performing and from watching audience members I have moved with my singing. Striving, performing, emotion, the act of giving and the act of receiving are all of the wonderful aspects of singing and when I am fully engaged in all of those aspects, grief is nowhere to be found. However, a pattern of mine has been attending the open mike, having a wonderful time and crashing upon my return home wondering how I could reach such heights when my poor husband got sick, endured pain and ultimately lost his chance to experience such joys.

Last night, before I left to go out, my emotions were all over the map and I arrived at the decision to quiet them with half of an Ativan. I knew I would be drinking wine at the open mike, but I don’t drink a lot, just one or two glasses a week, if that. Considering coke addicts, heroine addicts and a host of other kinds of addicts, I figured that half of a pill once or twice a week, whose prescription suggests that I take a whole pill, three times a day, isn’t really going to harm me in the long run, even when I wash it down with the sweet, fermented fruit of the vine. There are other, more effective ways I could destroy my own life if I felt so inclined, and even then, I would need a death wish or suicidal tendency firmly in place, which I no longer have, thankfully.

As a result of my decision, I had a lovely evening of singing, hearing others sing and socializing and I was able to bring the effects of last evening to bed with me, uninterrupted by guilt, longing and sadness. I liked it. I deserved it. I always deserve that.

So, what’s the harm in gleaning hope from my little bottle of happiness? I know what the potential harm is, but so far in my life, I have not displayed any addictive behavior. I am going to trust myself from now on, always keeping my doctor and therapist aware of my new decision because the good thing about taking my Ativan last night is that as a result, I was able to create and sustain a happy memory untainted by darkness. The more memories I can create like that, the further the “senseless” part of my grief will dissipate into my past and the more confidence I can cultivate in my ability to live a life mostly filled with fun, accomplishment and happiness. I can do this. I am not a junkie and I can do this.

And as long as my doctor keeps filling my prescription, I feel safe deducing that she does not feel that I am a danger to myself. Especially since the last time she filled it was in August and I am still in possession of 18 out of 30 pills.

I Hope

I am feeling very lonely tonight.

I had planned, since Wednesday, to go to a wine tasting/Halloween party tonight but I bailed on that plan to stay home and learn five songs for my show and get myself to a place where I could feel relaxed about the musical part of the show. Now all I have to worry about is stage movement and costumes.

I have not spent an evening alone at home in a few weeks because I have been trying to outrun my grief so I have been keeping a crazy schedule, which falls under the category of “decisions that felt right at the time.” My frenetic pace has left me feeling exhausted and stressed out, both reasons I stayed home tonight. Now I’m rested and less stressed because I am now more prepared and because I did what I am supposed to do.

Tonight ended up being good, but I kept breaking down in between learning songs, washing laundry and wishing one of my friends would call.

I had a coffee date with a man this morning, our second date, and when it was over he told me he just wasn’t feeling a connection. I didn’t expect to be rejected and my body flew into a panic. I felt grief rising up from my core to stick it’s ugly head into my business, making a simple rejection, which, by the way, is par for the course in the world of dating, seem like death all over again. When grief rears it’s ugly head, I begin thinking thoughts like, “Chris didn’t reject me.” and “How am I ever going to repeat the way I met Chris with another man?” and the ever-popular, “Why, why, why did he have to die?!!” I managed to talk myself out of the reaction by reasoning with myself. After all, I rejected Marc and I did it three months into our relationship, not just two days into it. I can’t help thinking that he must have been hurt, even though I didn’t think so at the time because just like this morning’s date, I wasn’t “feeling a connection.”

In the midst of my grief reaction I regretted breaking up with Marc and I even thought about e-mailing him to ask if we could talk. I imagined myself finally allowing myself to fall apart right in front of him and telling him how sad I really feel most days at this point in my grief. I told him all of that before, but my poker face did not support the truth. At any rate, I bounced back into reality and realized that if I act on my desperation at this point, I could end up hurting him worse in the future. We did have fun together, but I am still not sure of my reasons for ending our relationship. I cannot figure out if we were a mismatch or if I was panicking out of grief. I couldn’t figure it out then and I can’t figure it out now. I just knew I had to get away from him quickly and retreat into my secret, safe cocoon. Even if it was possible, I wouldn’t suck him back in, unsure of whether I would spit him back out, again.

I allowed all of my tears to flow freely tonight, just like Diane said I should. I cried a lot, but I felt better after each burst, even if I am never going to feel better about my loss.

I am feeling so afraid of ending up alone, and so pressured to find a man to fill the void as soon as possible. I don’t like feeling desperate, but I can’t help worrying about my age. Diane said that when she was widowed, she felt old and also felt like others thought she looked old. That’s exactly how I feel all of the time, now, and I don’t know how to get out of that harmful and sad thought pattern.

What if nobody ever loves me, again, as much as Chris did? The thought conjures up an image of a deserted corner of a cemetery where my gravestone lies beneath weeds, my epitaph faded with time, not a beam of sunlight reaching it’s face. I know this description sounds dramatic, but some days, I really feel like my existence could end that way.

If I could have my wish tonight, I would wish to forget about men for the time being and just have fun, do my thing and live my life. If I can achieve that goal, I believe companionship will follow. I hope.

My First Session with the Grief Counselor

I like Diane. She’s a very down-to-earth woman who, pretty much, tells it like it is. I will probably see her a couple of times from now until January and then, once my insurance benefit kicks back in, I’ll begin seeing a grief counselor who takes my insurance. Diane doesn’t take any insurance, which is fine. If I don’t find a counselor that I like as much as or better than her, then I will just continue going to her without insurance. She’s worth it. I'm afraid of leaving Clay. There's a part of me that loves our sessions together and a part of me that needs and feeds off of our sessions together. I feel very sad thinking about never seeing him again. Everything feels like grief, now.

When I sat down she asked me to tell her what happened and as usual, I began the story, employing my tough exterior, and I gradually morphed into a sopping puddle of grief.

I told her how I feel punished by God and that I fear it will happen all over again with the next man I meet and fall in love with. She put an interesting rebuttal on the notion, pointing out all of the days leading up to the diagnosis and asking me if I ever think about how I wasn’t punished on all of those days. She’s right, of course. I felt some of my pain melt away.

I confided in her about all of the conversations I have in my apartment with people who aren’t even there. I constantly talk to people, dead or alive, when I’m at home and I usually think I am losing my sanity. Who does that? Who talks out loud when they’re all alone to people who aren’t even there? Diane said, “You spent years talking to your husband who was there with you to hear all of the things you said and felt and now he’s gone. You’re just doing what you’re used to doing.” I loved her for saying that.

Diane really knows what I have been through and how it feels for me now. Her husband died eighteen years ago when she was only thirty-one years old. She knows. There is nothing more valuable to me than that. She soothed my pain with her understanding.

We laughed a lot and I cried a lot and I felt like a fetus safely enveloped in her womb.

She asked me if I ever put aside time to allow the grief to come on full force and I told her that I have been trying to stop doing that because nobody is going to understand that I am still crying after two years. She said what Clay always says. Two years is very early in the grief process. It’s going to take a long time to process everything that has happened. I hated her for saying it but she knows. She has been through it and she knows.

She equated my grief to an injury that has left a huge scar on me. She said that scar is going to be with me always and even though it will heal and get better with time, it will never go away. She described grief as a fancy set of china she takes out on special occasions. This set of china, she uses and always hand-washes and puts away until she needs it again. She said that after eighteen years, she can pull the grief out when she wants to and put it away when she needs to.

I hate my grief. I want to put it away and never take it out again.

The Good In Between the Bad

Rehearsal was very nice this evening. All of the songs are beginning to come together into a repertoire of which we can be very proud. I’m very nervous that we’re not going to attract enough audience members. We should be able to, I think. I hope. I have next week off from Tuesday on and I plan to immerse myself in the music until I am solid on every single harmony, inflection, costume change and stage movement.

I went on a date last week with a man I met on Match.com. He’s very nice and he makes me laugh. I’m nervous, though, because he suffers from chronic depression. I’m not really sure what to do. He’s quite adorable and we have similar senses of humor. His demeanor reminds me of Chris’ demeanor and that’s never a bad thing. Still, I’m not sure how I feel about his depression.

He is starting his own business, which also means that he is currently unemployed. He’s got drive, organization, goals and a sense of humor, though. Whatever. Time will flesh out our story, if there’s a story to be fleshed out.

I have another date this Friday evening with another Match.commer. This guy is also very nice, so far. We have spoken on the phone twice. He’s a bit scary, but only because he’s manlier than any man I have ever dated. I’m not used to being with manly men. He has his MFA in theater and works in the school system as an administrator/acting teacher. That’s really cool. So this guy has a career, which is very nice. He has a creative streak, too, and actually acts in plays when he can. He enjoys Shakesperean plays. I like that. He likes music, too, and he seems to have a shred of an interest (possibly) in musical theater. I’m looking forward to meeting him. He’s coming into Boston to meet me and we’ll probably go to Faneuil Hall, unless I can think of a better place.

I can be happy. I just can’t be happy like I used to be happy. The happiness of today comes with interruptions for me. I’m physically tired from the roller coaster ride.

I wonder what Diane will share with me tomorrow night. A lot, I hope.

Dreams and Trauma

I dreamed about Chris last night. He was sick but getting better and the emotion I felt most vividly in the dream was one I haven’t felt for a long, long time; hope. I was full of hope in last night’s dream. I cried the very second I opened my eyes this morning and then fought the urge to remain in bed for an extra half hour.

Chris looked thin, like he had been through a trauma, but he was on his way out of it. We hugged and I was so overwhelmed with happiness that he was getting better that the emotion took over all else.

The other day, my boss, whose husband has been struggling with liver disease, told me and my coworker that he was not doing well. His condition is worsening and now she is going to move to Florida with him because he is on the transplant list there. She is worried sick, obviously, that he will die. He might die. She might be widowed. Only time will tell.

I know exactly where she is in the trauma she is experiencing. I remember it well. Panicked, hopeful, terrified, helpless. That’s where bargaining came in for me.

I keep having very vivid memories of snapshots of times I spent with Chris.

I was just sitting at my desk, when suddenly I was really walking down the Street in Santa Monica with Chris trying to decide on a restaurant to go to. I could feel and smell the California air and I could feel Chris walking beside me.

I was just still sitting at my desk when suddenly I was walking up Mass Ave in Cambridge with Chris on our way to buy Ellis Paul tickets two and a half years ago. We were laughing. We loved just walking together.

I’m not sure what is happening to me or what stage of my grief this can be categorized under, but I will be sure to talk about it with Diane tomorrow night in an effort to understand it and not be so afraid of it. It is causing me some grief reactions, though.

I have yet to admit that I have also been through a trauma and that even though I don’t have cancer and endure seemingly endless chemo treatments and surgeries, that I have been traumatized. I probably ought to try to deal with that at some point. I can’t do it alone, though. I’m hoping Diane can help or somebody.

No Clay this week. Diane’s my flavor of the week. I’m already grieving my loss of my appointment with Clay. I suppose once a loss is suffered and until it is dealt with, every other loss in one’s life, be it large or small, feeds into the big one.

Last night, I shocked my brother a little by saying, “I’m just doing my time here until I get to leave this fucking earth.” I shocked him with the darkness of it, I think. I feel that way, though. I suppose I would like to not feel that way, I never give much thought to the idea that I might be able to control my feelings. It’s just that sometimes I miss Chris more than I can even stand and sometimes I don’t know how I am going to get through the rest of my life without him in it.

Exhaustion-Fueled

This week has certainly been challenging in the way of working to meet too many deadlines, commitments and responsibilities.

This week I was faced with the dubious tasks of studying for a psychology exam, learning four songs for tomorrow night’s rehearsal and working like gangbusters to get a presentation finished in record time at work. My brain has enjoyed zero down time and zero down time is never a good thing where grief is concerned.

I studied for five and a half hours yesterday for tonight’s exam. My work paid off, but by the time I headed to bed last night, I was so wracked with anxiety and grief that I cried until I fell asleep.

Today I left work and took a walk for twenty minutes because I allowed myself to reach a dangerous level of stress that caused my body to feel numb.

Tonight, I am allowing myself some relaxation before I dive into the sheet music and make certain that I know my harmonies in four of the songs we are performing in our show, which opens in three weeks.

My life is not usually this crazy, but boy, I really packed it full of stuff this week.

My point is that I still have meltdowns when my life gets too busy and every single time I melt down, my anxiety and exhaustion resolve into grief. I feel almost powerless to stop my upsets from morphing into grief from my loss of Chris. There is usually a split second where I know that I’m not crying about my loss before I do a 180 and go there. I don’t know how much longer I am going to behave this way. Months? Years? Decades? Maybe the rest of my life? And am I pathetic for still grieving? Perhaps in the eyes of some.

I am very much looking forward to talking with Diane, the grief counselor, this Thursday. Diane also lost her husband so she will be listening to me from a different perspective than that of Clay’s. She will know what I am feeling and hopefully why. She will be able to answer my questions about how long I am going to melt down. She can tell me why I am still so angry even after two whole years and why I can’t seem to let go of my former life, even though everybody around me thinks that I have. It’s too hard. I can’t do it. I can have happy moments and happy days...happy weeks, even, but I just can’t let go. I am so angry that this happened. I angry that the man I loved is gone and that I have the stigma of “widow” attached to me. I am still very freaked out about what happened. I still experience anxiety on a daily basis and I still feel like screaming.

Granted, I nixed all of my antidepressant meds. I’m not taking them. I ‘m done. They don’t work, anyway, at least not long-term. My body adjusts to the dosage and then I have to keep increasing and increasing and I am just not willing to do that.

I try very hard to not to wish Chris was here because that wish is pointless. Instead, I try to allow myself to miss him, but I’m beginning to feel like that restriction is not feasible, anymore because I do wish he was here and I constantly ask myself, “Why not him? Why not me?” People survive cancer every day. Why couldn’t he? Why do I not get to be with him. I wonder who he would be today if he was here.

I’m looking forward to talking with Diane and I am terrified of talking with her.

Grief Counselor

Next Thursday I will be meeting with a real-life grief counselor whom I contacted this afternoon. I already like her and I haven’t even met her, yet. She, too, is widowed so not only does she understand grief, but she understands my grief. I am looking forward to our visit. She also waited a long while before she sought help. We seem similar.

Her fee is miniscule considering what many mental health professionals in private practice charge. I commented on it and she replied that although she is a full-fledged licensed social worker, qualified to counsel in many fields, she deals only in grief and has for many years. Her fee is low because she cares about people and wants to help. Maybe I can be like that, too, someday when I’m beyond my own grief.

Clay and I will be wrapping things up by the end of the year. He has been very helpful to me for many reasons, the least of which is my grief. I leveled with him in telling him that I chose a male social worker deliberately because I needed male attention. He’s sweet, soft spoken, comforting and very helpful. He has grieved loss before, but I’m looking forward to moving to the next step in dealing with my loss. Talking with somebody who has actually been there will be priceless for me. I feel sad thinking about putting my sessions with Clay behind me. I probably won't see him again after the end of the year.

I’m trying to develop a game-plan to help put this behind me, even though I just got a huge pang of guilt for saying that. But that’s what the grief-counseler is for.

I hope she can help me. I need to be helped.

Resilience

It’s about that time, again. I am heading into the storm, into the anniversary season. I have read the accounts of other widows who say that the second year wasn’t as hard as they had expected. I’m afraid of it, especially after last year. Last year I wanted to die. Who am I kidding? Last night I wanted to die.

My grief overpowered me last night. Every follicle on my body hurt. The pain was too great to put into words. I just knew I was feeling as bad as I was humanly capable of feeling last night. There was no relief, so I prayed.

I prayed to God and to Chris to help me stop crying. The skin under my eyes feels like paper from a weekend spent rubbing tears off of my face. Last night, that skin burned all by itself from the irritation. I didn’t know what to do other than pray.

I’m not a religious person, but I swear to God, I felt better the moment the prayer left my lips. I felt calmed, assuaged, cradled and I fell asleep wrapped tightly within my blankets still quivering from the meltdown.

I felt better when I woke up this morning.

It’s tough to lose trust in happiness and lightness. I never used to give much thought to a good mood. Now, although genuine cheer is not difficult to experience in the presence of others, I am all too aware of black clouds looming above me or hiding behind trees preparing to jump out and extinguish whatever happiness I feel once I am alone. Going home is tricky these days.

I find that if I do what I am supposed to do, I feel better. Tonight, I learned two songs for my upcoming show and I read my psychology book. I updated a web site that I own. Completing those three tasks has put my grief to sleep for the night. All too often I find myself drowning in too many commitments and responsibilities that would be so easy to manage if I could just force myself to follow through.

Grief feeds on disorganization. Keeping everything in order makes me feel wonderful. Now I don’t have to explain to the director of my show that I still don’t know my harmonies. I don’t have to sit in another psychology class wondering what the hell the professor is talking about. I don’t have to feel incapable just because I grieve. I don’t have to let grief rob me of my self-esteem, self-image and confidence in my natural ability to succeed.

I do still feel as though I am walking across a 2 by 4 piece of lumber above a pool of acid. I can balance pretty well if I concentrate on getting across. I want to get to the other side and I want to get there unscathed, but sometimes I just stand there exhausted, hoping I won’t fall and sometimes I do fall.

I feel mostly like a bird with broken wings who has been trying to fly away for the past two years. I take off and hit a tree or a wall and crash to the ground sometimes worse of than I would have been if I never tried to fly. But I keep trying anyway because I keep hoping that one day I’ll make it past the tree and the wall and end up soaring above the log cabin on the white mountain that Chris showed me the night he died.

Un Un.

Okay. I’m done whining about my grief, now. I need a course of action. I don’t have one and I need to find somebody who can give me one. This is too painful.

I’m going to take a deep breath, reconvene and press on.

Still, venting felt good.

Un

I want what other people have. I want to be married. I want a family life and a house and I want to share my time with a man that I am in love with. I had it. Almost. Except for the house.

I am not doing well. This sudden onlslaught of renewed grief is killing me. Chris is all I can think about. Us. The us that we were. My life was so much more beautiful then.

I hate everything. I’m reading my psychology book and I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why. Why am I doing it? Why and I in school? Why do I work?

I turned off my phone because I can’t deal with getting a phonecall right now.

People my age have husbands and homes that they bought together and hopes and dreams. They support each other emotionally, just like Chris and I did.

I’m not doing well. I shouldn’t be talking about what I wish I had or who I wish was still here. I’m not allowed anymore. I’m having a difficult spell. That’s all this is, but it’s wreaking havoc and making me feel very unloved, unworthy, unimportant and terrified that I will never be in love again.

Facing Demons, Part 4

It is so scary and hard to believe that a single visit to the hospital area could upset the balance I had begun to strike to the extent that it has.

Carol and her new boyfriend are in love and I have not been able to accept their relationship. She’s like a sister to me, she was there for me from the beginning and most days, I can’t face her. I don’t want to answer the phone when she calls. I don’t want to go out with the two of them and I am horrible company to her when it’s just the two of us.

I am not jealous of what she has. I don’t want her boyfriend for myself. That’s not the case, although, he is practically a carbon copy of Chris. I would like a boyfriend of my own, though, even though I hate that word. I thought I would never have to utter that word again once Chris and I got married. I need to see him. I think I need to watch our wedding again.

I have not really been able to understand my emotions lately. I am so out of control of how I feel.

I’m beginning to understand a little bit, now. I just took a Lorezapam because I can’t deal with myself. I took one last night, too. I feel like I opened a Pandora’s box by visiting Dana Farber and like this is never going to get easier, now. I feel like I closed the curtains on my life and it is never going to be light again.

At the present moment, I feel like I hate Carol. I hate her, not because of what she has or who she is. I hate her because she was single the entire time Chris and I were together and now that she is in a good, strong relationship i cannot cope. The fact that she is with a man and they are in love and they are now identified as a “couple” is glaring proof to me that Chris is dead, because if she was still single, I could pretend that he wasn’t. She is now too much proof that life goes on and it’s much too painful for me to be with her and hear her talk about him and how much she loves him and how they’re going to move in together and buy a piano so he can play and all that potential that used to be mine is gone because my partner is dead. As long as she stayed single, I could keep Chris alive and now there is no more pretending. He never knew her to have a boyfriend. Anything and everything Chris ever knew is changing and is going to continue to change until absolutely none of it is as it was when he was alive.

Carol moved on. Cafe China closed. The apartment Chris lived in when I met him has been refaced and looks nothing like it did when we met.

We had a life together!! We did!! And I want to fully and completely be able to place it in the past where it belongs! I’m so fucking tired of feeling this way. I can’t keep doing this. Every little change feels like another nail in the coffin.

I want to be completely happy for Carol. I don’t want my happiness for her clouded with grief anymore. I’m not a good friend. I’m a bitter, miserable, grief-stricken weak person.

Carol and Josh invited me to a movie tonight and I should have gone, but I couldn’t because of all of these feelings. I am becoming immobilized. I can’t let go. There are too many secrets in my brain and my demons are threatening to choke me.

I need help. Nobody knows. I need to tell Carol about this.

Facing Demons, Part 3

So, the past week and a half have been very tough for me. By taking the steps I took to face my demons regarding the medical aspects of Chris’ cancer, I essentially unlocked a door in my brain where I had conveniently compartmentalized all of the pain and anguish that resulted from watching his pain and anguish. I threw myself for a loop.

This past week, when I thought I was going to attend the bereavement group, I wrote the following e-mail to my professor, who works at Dana Farber with children who have cancer and their families:

Hi Bob,

A little over a year and a half ago, I lost my husband to cancer.

Last Wednesday, I went to Dana Farber and spoke with a social worker who recommended a bereavement group that is beginning this coming Tuesday evening at DF. The group is going to meet every other Tuesday evening for 8 weeks and the person who is running it hasn't returned my call to tell me if it's going to run again. I'd like to attend the meetings because the timing feels right for me.

If I attend every group meeting, I will miss the first hour of 4 psych
classes. If I attend every other meeting, I will miss the 1st hour of 2 psych classes.

Will you please tell me how either of these scenarios will affect my grade so I can make an informed decision?

Thank you.

Robin

I toiled over whether to send it or not. I was horrified and I felt strange, but I didn’t know why. I sent it.

Two days went by and he didn’t answer, but I figured it was a long weekend. People go away, they take vacation, etc...

I began to panic about sending the e-mail. I wished I hadn’t done it. I started to think that I didn’t really want to go to the group and that I had just experienced a weak moment in which I felt I couldn’t shoulder the grief alone, anymore, without others who know firsthand what it’s like to lose a spouse. I wrote another e-mail to my professor:

Hey Bob,

I am not going to attend the group, after all. I'm going to go on the assumption
that it will run again in January.

Last week was very rough for me, but I rode out the wave and, truth be told, I'm
enjoying psych too much to miss any class time. My only regret is that I didn't
come to this conclusion BEFORE I sent my first e-mail. Ugh.

Never mention this to me. Ever.

Thanks. :)

Robin

Please disregard my last e-mail.


I felt very ashamed about my e-mails and I didn’t know why. I felt very silly that I had sent them, at all and I wished I hadn’t.

Bob replied:

Hi Robin

Sorry to be delayed in getting back to you. I was going to suggest you do
whatever is best for you. It seems you have reached a decision that seems OK
for now. PLease let me know if I can be of help. -Bob

His reply was very nice. I thought that he would be nice, based on his vocation. It takes a certain type of person to work in a profession that requires complete selflessness.

When I went to class Tuesday evening, after feeling as though I had been gone for a month on grief-leave, I walked into class and took a seat at the back of the room. I was afraid he was going to say something, even though I had asked him not to.

During the break, he told me that he e-mailed me and I said I knew and thanked him. Then at the end of class, I grabbed my stuff, issued my weekly “Thank you.” and fled the premises before I could end up alone with him.

I was relieved that it was over.

Facing Demons, Part 2

I didn’t know that by visiting Dana Farber, last week, I essentially bought myself a ticket for a a runaway train of grief, depression, low self-esteem, anger and panic, to name just a few emotions.

When I left, after talking to the social worker, I felt like a ghost wandering the streets surrounding the hospital. I felt hideous, conspicuous, fat, ugly, directionless and like no matter how quickly I walked, I could not get out of the area fast enough. My legs felt like lead, as did my spirit. Knowing I was walking the same walk Chris did two years before for five days in a row, every single month was too much for me to take. I felt like there was no escape from the feeling that I had jumped into a giant vat of cancerous toxins that I could not wash off of my skin.

I took the entire day off to do this and also go to my doctor for my annual exam. I was beginning to regret that decision.

I felt compelled to go back, though, and face the past. I needed to. I’m not finished yet. I know I will go back there and wander around and try to bring the reflection of the memory of what happened into focus in the here and now. Until I do, I will feel haunted.

I know the doctors at Dana Farber help people every single day, but for me, the hospital is a place where Chris could not be saved. I know that happens. Lots of people are too sick to be saved. That isn’t Dana Farber’s fault. It’s nobody’s fault. It is what it is.

The only thing I wanted to do was to go home, close the curtains, lay down, close my eyes and cry. Knowing that is what gave me the strength to scrape my spirit off the bottom of my shoes and make my way to the Boston Public Library, instead, my laptop in tow. I sat for a couple of hours designing a web site and reading my psychology book and when the time came, I packed up my stuff and headed to Davis Square for the dreaded GYN.

After my exam, my doctor mentioned that she felt something in my uterus and wanted me to go to the hospital to have an ultrasound to rule out anything serious. I didn’t care, or at least I thought I didn't care. I thought if I have cancer, I will just go through the motions, like Chris did. I know the drill. The only difference is that he wouldn’t be here to see me through, which actually makes me feel better in some ways.

I requested that the office assistant schedule my appointment with radiology and headed home. I didn’t know my appointment was going to be scheduled for the very next day. When I found that out, panic set in. I remembered that when Chris went to his doctor to point out that his stomach felt hard, the doctor told him, without hesitation, to get straight over to the oncologist immediately. That was the start of our ordeal.

I was nervous. Did my doctor see something? I didn’t know. I went to my appointment where I was subjected to a reasonably invasive internal and external ultrasound, administered by a technician who was about as gentle and understanding as a robot. The procedure hurt and my pain and panic angered her causing her to exclaim, “If you can’t tolerate this I’m going to have to stop!” I had to beg her to continue, or risk having to come back again. As Chris would have said, “I basically bent over and took it up the ass.” except that I was lying down and in actuality, I took it up the vaginal canal and into the uterus.

When it was over and I was dressed, panic began to set in again. I was experiencing raw crampiness and I became convinced that I was feeling the cancer she had found and aggravated. I began to think about how I would handle actually having cancer and having to take care of myself without a partner to help me through the nightmare. I imagined myself in a hospital bed, chemo drip-drip-dripping into my veins. I imagined how I might feel walking to the train station afterwards feeling like a strung-out junkie and like death had a hold on me and nobody could help. I tried to call my friends by nobody answered their phones. I felt so alone and very sad.

Facing Demons, Part 1

I thought I had nothing more to write, but I was wrong. For a while, it seemed I kept writing the same two stories over and over again. I’m okay. I’m not okay.There is more, though.

This past Tuesday, I contacted a social worker who worked with Chris at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. I had been thinking about her over the past couple of years and I even bumped into her in Whole Foods one day. She recognized me, strangely, even though I looked like utter hell the entire time I knew her. I say that because the last time I had seen her I was in a total state of shock and functioning on about four hours of sleep and a cat nap here and there during the four-day period before I was informed that there was nothing more that could be done for Chris.

I sent her an e-mail, re-introducing myself and asking if she had a few moments to meet with me and help me understand what Chris may have gone though, physically and emotionally throughout the duration of his illness. She replied to my e-mail right away, stating that she no longer worked for Dana Farber but inviting me to continue an e-mail conversation with her. She gave me the name of another social worker, Diane, she thought might be able to assist me.

I met with Diane Wednesday morning at 8:00am at Dana Farber. I hadn’t walked through the doors of that place since Chris’ last couple of weeks of life.

I got off the train at the Longwood stop and as I made my way up the street, crossing the Riverway and Brooklinle Avenue, I focused on trying to see my surroundings as Chris saw them on his many trips back and forth from his infusions. I saw the beauty in the trees lining the train stop, impatiently waited on the corner for the “walk” sign to light.

When I reached Brookline Avenue, the Longwood Shopping Mall in the distance on the far left corner, my anxiety began. My breath became short as I neared the corner and grew as I neared Binney Street. The words, “Binney Street”, are loaded for me. They mean so much more to me than a street label. They mean fear, terror, pain, impending doom and death. They mean lonliness and helplessness. They conjure up images of doctors that were unable to help, shots Chris didn’t want to get, hours and hours of time he had to spend in a hospital bed having poison pumped into his body and his voice. I remember his beaten, tired voice on the other end of the line calling me after each infusion.

I rounded the corner where I could see the DF banners blowing in the breeze and my pace slowed. I wanted to go in, even though I didn’t want to go in. I walked through the doors and checked in with security. Diane was there waiting for me, right in the very spot where a choir was singing Christmas Carols the year before Chris died. I remember thinking how odd music seemed filling up the air in such a dark and forboding place.

Diane asked me what it was like to be back and the floodgates opened. I couldn’t get to our private room fast enough.

We sat and talked for an hour about the period from Chris’ diagnosis up until the present time and I used up every single one of the tissues in the room. I told her about the medical stuff, dealing with it for the first time since experiencing Chris’ nightmare.

I confessed to Diane that I didn’t really know why I had come, that I had acted on an impulse. I thought I was going to be talking with Rhaea, Chris’ former social worker. Rheaa knew Chris. She has seen him alive. Diane apologized for not knowing him.

She set me up with a bereavement group that meets every other week at Dana Farber. I think it will be helpful and the timing feels right.

The last page.

I have decided to end this blog. This is the entry I will make here. If you have been reading, I hope I have helped by sharing my process with you. We all have the strength within us to move our lives forward. I wish peace to everybody who has ever been left behind by a loved one and suffered the raging throes of grief. May you find the strength within yourself to overcome someday soon. Happiness awaits each and every one of us.

I have entered into rewrites of the content of this blog and when I am finished and satisfied that my writings accurately reflect my journey of the past three years, I am going to seek to get them published.

So without further adieu, I give you my last entry.

I’m done.

I have made a decision to stop putting grief in the lead. From now on, I’m going to be in the lead.

I want to move on. I want to say goodbye to Chris. I’m tired and I’m ready to start the goodbye process.

I feel so much better about Carol’s new relationship. I have hated these past few weeks of grief responses. I am a different person now.

I sat on the floor in front of my full-length mirror this evening, trying to see all the way into my own soul, through my eyes. I kept repeating, “I am not Christopher J. Burrage wife, anymore. I am not married to Christopher J. Burrage. We are not a couple. It’s over. That story is all a part of my past.” I uttered the serenity prayer until it made sense. I can’t control what has already happened. I can change what’s left, though, as long as I can tell the difference between what I can and cannot control.

This week, I took every picture of Chris off of my walls and placed them into some special photo albums I bought. Each one of the books is labeled. Remember. Reminisce. Reflect. Those titles are perfect. I am going to bring them to Clay Thursday night so he can flip through them. It’s just another way for me to begin saying goodbye to my life with Chris and a life imprisoned within my grief.

I’m going to bring the “us” box to Clay’s, too, and go through it in his office. the “us” box is a box of almost every movie, concert or event ticket that Chris and I went to, every greeting card we sent to each other, the flowers from the wreath I wore on my head on our wedding day and other such contents. Chris saved all of it. I used to make fun of him and he would say, “One day you’ll be glad the “us” box is here.” He was right. I am glad.

I deleted Chris’ e-mail address from my contacts yesterday, finally. I had been keeping it there so I could hold onto him, even though it hurt to see it every time I opened up my address book. I deleted the phone numbers of his friends in Vermont from my cellphone. I don’t think I have ever called any of them, anyway. I still have their e-mail addresses for when I want to say hello to them. I realized that every time I scrolled through my phone numbers and saw theirs in the list, I was instantly brought back to that day in the hospital corridor when I had to robotically call each one of his and my friends to tell them they were sending Chris home to die. That day was the saddest day of my life. So the phone numbers are gone now, and I can begin to heal that part of me and put that horrid memory in my past, where it belongs.

It feels so good not to be upset over Carol and Josh’s relationship. I had come to realize that with every little thing Carol shared with me about how sweet he is I was tripping back in time and reliving meeting Chris. She and Josh are experiencing all of the wonderful things Chris and I experienced at the beginning of our relationship. I was never mad at Carol or jealous of what she now has. I am, in fact, so very happy that she has finally found happiness and love. I was just panicking about my loss over and over and over with each wonderful act of Josh’s. But I am not going to do that anymore. Instead, I am going to celebrate for them and know that I will have love in my own life again some day.

I feel a bit like a dove being released into the air. I want to soar, again. I want to feel air and wind and freedom, again.

I think the healing began with my brief relationship with Marc. I liked being with him. Being out on a Friday night with a man felt really nice, even if that man wasn’t the right man for me.

I’m studying psychology. I’m singing. I’m enjoying success in my work. I’m letting go of anger. I’m submitting to the reality of the situation and realizing that it wasn’t my fault, that I’m not being punished by God and that I have power to bring my life in whichever direction I choose.

I am excited about my future, I am excited about the present and the past is the past.
I couldn’t stop what was happening from happening then any more than I can stop it now. What’s done is done. Chris is dead. I am not his wife. He is not my husband, anymore. I am a single woman whose poor husband got cancer and died.

I feel a sense of relief. I can breathe, again. I can focus on what’s important in the here and now and stop wasting so much precious time on useless tears and pointless wishes.

What I had with Chris was the most precious thing i have ever experienced in my life. I am so lucky to have met, fallen in love and helped him into the next realm. I was married. I did that. We did that. From now on I am going to remind myself whenever I need to that it really is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

I am afraid, but I am more ready than scared to step into my future, bravely. This part of my journey is coming to a close.

I love you Creej. I loved you before we met and I will love you long after I die.

Love.

Shneed.

Maybe tomorrow will be better.

8:04 PM...

I’m running out of time.
There is nobody in this world for me.
Chris was the one.

I can’t keep breaking down this way. It has been a year and eight months!
WHEN IS THIS GOING TO END?

I hate my life.
I hate my grief.
I hate myself for not being able to handle Carol’s new relationship.
I hate Chris.
I hate that nobody knows I still feel this way.
I want to hurt myself.
Why am I such an asshole?

I feel like a fucking schizophrenic.
I don't want to feel this way anymore.

i just, plain hate.

Jeez. I should have posted all of THIS in my new match.com profile.

9:39 PM...

Well, that was quite a breakdown, initiated by too much time spent on Match.com. I became overwhelmed and bounced into a mode where I believed I would never love anybody else my entire life though. I threw my remote control and my box of tissues. I shoved my laptop away from me, punched the sofa, dropped to the floor, writhed around screaming and crying and finally banged my head on the floor, injuring my neck.

After pulling myself back together, I called Jeanne, a woman from the young widows’ forum I frequent online. We have never spoken in person before, but I am beginning to feel like I will possibly attend some of the get-togethers the group holds. Talking with her stabilized me. She and I are on the same widow timeline, so we shared our stories with each other.

It’s tough, sometimes, to realize that nobody knows how grief-stricken I still am. I don’t freak out like that in front of other people. Sometimes I scare myself. Tonight I scared myself. I found myself wishing I could kill myself, once again. Then I decided that if I am still alone and grief-stricken ten years from now, I will kill myself. We’ll see how that goes.

Nobody knows...except for the other young widows. It’s time to reach out.

Love is in the Air

I ended my relationship with Marc, yesterday. I decided to go with my gut feeling that the timing is completely off for me and decided not to keep him hanging on. I had some really nice times with him and he’s a very nice person, but I just don’t feel as though this is the right time or that he is the right guy for me.

My plan is to focus on school, theater and writing and live my life for a while without putting any pressure on myself in the relationship department. It's best for me that way. I apologized for wasting his time. He said that I didn’t waste his time and that I actually brought some happiness into his life.

So now I am single once again and although this was the absolute right move for me, I’m feeling a bit scared of the independence, especially since Carol is absolutely blown away by her new love. But I decided that if I ended my relationship, I would promise myself that I was going to be happy about all of the other things in my life and that’s what I am going to do.

Carol has what I had with Chris, now. I am so, so happy for her and although sporadic envy threatens to infect my soul, I am doing a stand-up job of tempering any feelings of jealousy I may feel, smothering them with unconditional love for Carol and happiness that she has finally found somebody who she is crazy about and who treats her beautifully. We both believe she has just found her husband. Because I believe that, I also believe that love could find me at any moment at all. That thought excites me. Jealousy is a useless emotion and I don't want to be that girl.

Tuesday, I have an appointment with a psychiatrist who also practices hypnotherapy and past-life regression. My hope is that he will help me to let go of some of the blocks I still hang onto, like the comparisons I draw between Chris and other men and the feeling that I will never find anyone I love as much as I loved Chris. I would also like to remove the sadness I feel when I remember times like the day we sat on his front steps sharing a pint of Ben and Jerry’s waffle cone ice cream or that first time he came down his steps to answer the door when I couldn’t remember what he looked like. I don’t want to cry when I think of those times.

I feel old when I remember who I was back then. I know I was 32 years old, but meeting and falling in love with Chris made me feel like I was an adolescent discovering love for the first time. There was something very young about us. I always felt like we had met before.

Carol believes that she and her boyfriend had known each other in a past life. They met two weeks ago and they are totally in love. It isn’t like Carol to feel that way but they have been on a whirlwind for the entire two weeks. They both feel like they have known each other for a lifetime. I know what that feels like. I felt that way about Chris. I’m glad Carol has found him. I look forward to meeting somebody like that again, too. I have already begun learning so much from Carol about how to be open.

For now, I need to get busy getting better, healing, growing and remaining open to any blessings that may come my way. I want to do life right. I want to do all of the things I am supposed to do here so that when I see Chris again, we can share our accomplishments.

Love will come, as long as I want it to come.

Jealousy, Hatred Turned Inward and Grief

I feel like a loser. I’m having a tough time remembering how I was once married and how it meant the world to me. I can’t remember our friendship or the ease in which we interacted. I want it back.

My psychology professor mentioned his wife tonight and that triggered a downward spiral of grief for me that has so far lasted an hour and twenty minutes. It was the way he said, “my wife” that sliced my heart in two. He said it with such normalcy. I remembered the times I heard Chris say those same two words, “my wife” in phone conversations. I loved hearing him say it.

I’m going to tell Marc I want us to stop seeing each other. It isn’t right. It doesn’t feel as good as I want it to. I’m not ready. I’m still grieving and I’m not ready. I didn’t plan to meet Chris. It just happened when I wasn’t trying. That’s the way I will find love again...when I’m ready.

Carol has a boyfriend, now. Carol deserves love and I hope she finds it. The two of them are so immersed in each other. Still, tonight I freaked out when she left a message telling me “Don’t call.” She was going back to her house after watching him play the piano. I know she was saying it tongue in cheek, but I got so jealous and angry and victimized. I don’t deserve her friendship.

I hate myself right now. I don’t want to be without Chris. I have a whole lot of anniversaries rounding the bend again beginning in November. Time really flies.

I feel like nobody understands what this is like for me. People know I’m hurting but nobody understands. I’m turning it all in on myself. I hate myself. People don’t hate me. It’s me doing it. I have to remember that.

Everybody on the young widows board says that when you are through actively grieving, you know it. There’s a calm, a peace that begins. I think I was foolish to believe it could happen this quickly.

Still, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I had a lovely week. This is a setback. That’s all this is.

Out of my Cocoon and into the Air

I have been feeling different, lately. Hopefully, I can analyze and accurately describe what is going on in my life.

I have spent the past week on a roller coaster of euphoria/confusion/anxiety. I’m not even sure where to begin.

I have been seeing Marc for the past couple of months. Together, we have established that we have referred to each other as boyfriend and girlfriend. I have a really nice time when I’m out with him. The trouble is that I’m not sure if that’s because I’m out with him or because it’s nice to be out on a date with a man...any man. I am not particularly attracted to Marc other than in a way that is similar to a good friend. He makes me feel good. He’s very nice to me and very nice in general. Still, I am beginning to feel as though I need to spend some quality time alone.

I have spent the past twenty months in a state of unrelenting grief over the loss of Chris. I have lived every day with anxiety stemming from my fear that I will never meet another man in my entire life that I love as much as I loved Chris. I have thrown myself into school, work and performance in an effort to keep myself busy to try to temper the grief and anxiety. I have been alone for twenty months of pain and anguish. I am finally beginning to feel differently and I believe it’s because I have dated Marc.

For so long I have just wanted to get another man into the empty slot that Chris left behind. Another man is all I could think about. Getting him in here to fill the black emptiness. I have been dating Marc for a couple of months, kissing him, holding hands and just being with him and my time with him has been very nice and has helped me to feel better. But now that I feel better, I think I really want to be alone now.

True, I have been alone since Chris died, but alone and in pain is very different from what I am beginning to feel these days, which is alone and hopeful, alone and happy, alone and industrious. I think I want to be alone for a while and enjoy the good emotions, enjoy myself, and enjoy the solitude I have just found myself reborn into. My favorite thing in the world lately is spending all day Saturday drinking coffee in my candlelit living room, organizing my life back into shape and studying psychology and spontaneously visiting my family and friends. Before I met Chris, I spent my entire weekends in this fashion. Half a year ago, the thought of returning to that unstructured schedule horrified and upset me. Now it's back and I can't believe I feel better.

I don’t want to be tied to anyone. I like my solitude. I finally like my solitude, again, which is something I thought would never happen.

The other piece to all of this is that Marc is my first foray back into a life of couple-dom and I never wanted the very next man I met after Chris to be the next “one.” I have a blank canvas in front of me on which to paint my present and future and I want to take my time and see places, people, events and experience life before I decide to couple up again.

This has been very confusing because I have such a nice time with Marc, but I am 90% certain that I don’t feel love or attraction or romantic feelings toward him. Maybe it’s too soon for me to feel or maybe I’m afraid. I don’t know the answer. I just have to know that whatever I choose, there will be no going back. If I set him free, I need to leave him alone after that or risk dragging him into my very transitional confusing metamorphosis.

I really think I just want to be alone for a while. I keep feeling the desire to go on dates with many men and just coast for a while and have fun. And relax. And finish closing my life with Chris.

I have indicated to Marc a couple of times that I think I want to be alone but our conversations have been so wishy-washy and he has the gift of persuasion on his side.

At any rate, I am going to take a few days and see if my feelings change. If they stay the same, it may be time to venture out and be the brave warrior that I know I am.

A Much Wanted Visit from Creej

Chris vistied me last night in my dreams.

He came back and we were going to get married again. I was so happy to see him and to walk beside him again. He walked beside me throughout my entire dream.

At one point, we were walking down a street on a sunny day. I looked at my ring (in reality, our rings that I had soldered together and made into my tribute ring) and said to him, “I can’t wait to put this back on this hand, again.” , meaning my left hand. Chris didn’t smile. I remember feeling his disapproval and then telling others how he disapproved.

We were at an open mike the day before we were going to NYC to be married again. My friend, Linda, was there looking like she looked in junior high school, with her long hair and her young, teen-aged, face. She was the pianist.

Suddenly, I looked up at Chris and his hair was exactly the same as mine, long and wavy and held back with two barretts (in reality, the same way I styled my own hair last night). I said to him, “We have the same hair.” and smiled.

Then we were in another room, which resembled a hospital room with a hospital bed except that all of my own bedding from home was there. Chris became irritated because the room was messy, but I showed him that it wasn’t messy and that it was just that my pillows and blanket were on the floor. I told him about how lots of people had been iin the room the night before waiting for the elevators to open so we could all go down to the open mike.

I was on the elevator with a man I had never seen before. We were about to descend but then my dream switched gears.

We were at a woman’s house. We just walked right in and sat in the kitchen admiring her garden through the sliding glass door. She saw us, smiled, stood and came inside with her dog. I was filled with love and joy and emraced the dog, laughing.

Then I was with a faceless man that I didn’t know. He was in shadow. It was time to leave. He said he would let me into my car so I went with him to a parking garage. He opened his car and then slid the key over the hood of his own car to me. I took it and opened up my own car.

I believe this dream was a visitation from Chris. I think that by looking like me, he was telling me that we are the same person, now and that I am carrying both of us forward. And I think his disapproval about my comment about my ring was him disapproving of me holding onto the hope that he will come back to me some day (as impossible as I know that thought is).

I woke, this morning, feeling like Chris told me to go ahead, to move on. I feel like I have his permission and approval...and his love.

I feel like he wants me to move forward with Marc. I’m still apprehensive, but I feel better today. I can feel Chris inside me so strongly. It’s as if he and I have really meshed together and are as one, just as we promised each other when we got married. He’s in me.

I rolled over, looked at the picture of him I keep at my bedside and whispered, “Thank you.”


Dream Analysis from dreammoods.com...

Friend: To see your childhood friend in your dream, signifies regression into your past where you had no responsibilities and things were much simpler and carefree. You may be wanting to escape the the pressures and stresses of adulthood. Consider the relationship you had with this friend and the lessons that were learned. Alternatively, the childhood friend may be suggesting that you have been acting in a childish manner and you need to start acting like an adult.

Piano: To dream that you hear the sound of a piano, suggests harmony in your life. You are pleased with the way you life is going.

Man: To see a man in your dream, denotes the masculine aspect of yourself - the side that is assertive, rational, aggressive, and/or competitive.

Car: To see a parked car in your dream, suggests that you need to turn your efforts and energies elsewhere. You may be needlessly spending your energy in a fruitless endeavor. Alternatively, a parked car my symbolize your need to stop and enjoy life.

Key: To see a key in your dream, symbolizes opportunities, access, control, secrets, or responsibilities. You may be locking away your own inner feelings and emotions. If you hear the sounds of keys rattling, then it indicates that you have the right attitude toward life. You are heading in the right direction and asking all the right questions in the process. It is also a sign of decisive action.

Woman: To see a woman in your dream, represents nurturance, passivity, caring nature, and love. It refers to your own female aspects or may also represent your mother.

House: To see a house in your dream, represents your own soul and self. Specific rooms in the house indicate a specific aspect of your psyche.

Dog: To see a dog in your dream, indicates a skill that you have ignored or forgotten, but needs to be activated. Alternatively, dogs may symbolize intuition, loyalty, generosity, protection, and fidelity.

Hugging: To dream that you are hugging someone, symbolizes your loving and caring nature. You are holding someone or something close to your heart. Alternatively, it may indicate your need to be more affectionate.

Parking Lot: To dream that you are in parking lot, suggests that you need to slow down and take some time to relax from your daily activities.

Garage: To dream that you are in a garage, signifies a period of inactivity and idleness in your life. You may feel that you have no direction or guidance toward achieving your goals.

Elevator: To dream that the elevator is out of order or that it is not letting you off, symbolizes that your emotions have gotten out of control.

Later that night...

Taking these past two days to take it easy and do what I feel like doing when I feel like doing it has been really good for me. Basically I spent the past two days with no expectations for myself. I went out with friends, had friends over and spent a large amount of time getting stuff done that I have been wanting to do for a long time.

I finally called Marc a little while ago. We talked for quite a while. I’m glad I took the past couple of days for myself because once I relaxed, I missed him and wanted to call him and that’s a nice thing for me to remember going forward.

I want to move on. I want love in my life. I want happiness.

Reality Check

I want to call Marc, but I am petrified right here where I sit. I want to do it, but I can’t. What if he wants to see me? How can I want to call him without seeming like I want to see him? I want to hold onto him, if not forever, then for now. I like him. We have a good time together. How the hell am I going to get past the reluctance to begin anew?

I am supposed to be seeing a hypnotist/past life repressionist this week. My hope is that he can perform some sort of psychological surgery in which he removes the self-talk that keeps repeating, “He’s not Chris, he’s not Chris, he’s not Chris.” All that counterproductive babble is doing nothing to help me progress through the mire that is my predicament. If I can lose the negative (and protective) self-talk, I may feel freer to step in a little more with Marc.

I am stuck. I hate that. I am so good at moving forward and taking life by the horns. How can I be stuck? Stuck is for the weak. Well, maybe stuck is just for the stuck.

Clay’s on vacation for the next two weeks. I want to stop my therapy with him. At this point, I’m not sure that it’s helping me. There’s nothing he can tell me that I don’t already know. I’m going to see how this session(s) goes with the hypnotist/repressionist guy and if I fell as though it does some good, I think I’m going to stop treatment with Clay.

So here I sit, wanting to call Marc, yet frozen. It’s okay, especially if I tell him about it. He’ll be flattered that I wanted to call, even if I don’t do it. I could send an e-mail. That could be okay.

Anyway...This weekend has been lovely. I have seen him twice, my friends, I have gone out to sing, shopped and bought new clothes for work, done a slew of homework and cleaned my apartment almost from top to bottom. I still have the bedroom to complete.

Whether or not I call Marc will not matter at all the next time I see him. Not at all. I’m just going to take this weekend as it comes and try to relax and process and visualize my life the way I want it to be.

Something

Yesterday morning, Marc e-mailed me and asked if I felt like getting together after my therapy session with Clay. I accepted his invitation and proceeded to feel nauseous and irritable for the rest of the day. I felt smothered, overbooked and somehow tricked into seeing him two days in a row, something I am much too frightened to plan that way. It happened, though, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

I discussed the details with Clay and talked about how confusing this budding romance is for me. On one hand, I just want to be alone and on the other hand, I just want somebody important in my life. I have found myself in an impossible place. I want exactly the same thing that I don’t want. Leave it to me to be so difficult with myself..

After my session, I walked up to Central Square and awaited Marc’s arrival. He was cute, as usual, very animated and sweet. We walked to a small Mexican restaurant and enjoyed dinner and conversation. The evening was short and after we left the restaurant, we walked to his car. He drove me home and we sat for a few minutes saying good-bye. I thanked him for his patience. He is working very hard to accommodate my current state of mind and doing a very good job, I might add. I think he really cares about me.

I feel differently about us now. There’s a standard called “What a Difference a Day Made” which comes to mind right now. Yesterday I wanted to cancel our date and today, I’m looking forward to tonight’s date. I suppose I could revert back to not wanting to be with him, but I think that only happened because I spent time in his house before I was really ready to.

My boss just approached me and informed me that I am free to leave at 3:00 today, since today is the Friday before a holiday weekend. The tradition is a nice perk which has remained rather consistent at my company, at least for the eleven years I have worked here.

I have lived without Chris in my life for exactly one year and eight months, today. During the time I shared with him, he was the first person I called when I learned of my early release from work. Together we would plan the rest of our day and weekend based on what time I was leaving work for the day, since he was usually already home or at school. Sometimes we met for coffee in the afternoon, relaxed and then embarked upon our weekend plans together. For the past year and eight months, nobody has cared when I have gotten out of work early. There has been no one there to be happy to see me a little earlier or happier to spend more time with me. Likewise, I have not been excited to be released earlier, since the better part of the past year and a half I have spent either working or crying.

Today, the moment I found out I was getting out early, I called Marc. The act came as a surprise to me. I didn’t expect such an automatic admission on my part that things might be working, that we might be building something together.

Something.