I Guess

I didn’t have much fun at my father’s house this Thanksgiving. The holiday was Chris’ favorite and it weighs heavy on me. His birthday is tomorrow.

Both of my step-sisters got married this year and they and their husbands were each at dinner, today. One of them married a man who reminds me of my Chris. The two of them remind me of how Chris and I were and I know that he and Chris would have liked each other. I get really sad that I’ll never get to see the relationship between them. Being in the same room with them caused my heart to sink a little bit. I want that interaction, again. Actually, I want Chris back.

I don’t believe that I’m going to be over my loss anytime soon, and if I share that with anybody, I could find myself emotionally out in the cold, because nobody is really going to understand that I still feel sad and that I still yearn and that there is still a part of me that is kicking myself for letting Chris slip through my fingers even though that isn’t what happened.

I want what I had with Chris with a new man. I want the intimacy. I want the partnership. I want to be a second half, again.

But now is not the time.

I guess.

The Present Moment

I moved into my new apartment fifteen days ago and I haven’t stopped running, running, running since. Running is my way of suppressing and for the first thirteen days, I didn’t shed a tear. In fact, I felt euphoric and as though I was completely done grieving. However, I have enough experience with grief at this point to know that when I feel like that, I can pretty much thank the universe and know that the end of grief will never arrive. My crashes become fewer and farther between, but I am learning that sadness is just a part of my story – our story – and I need to learn to welcome my retreats into despair with and open mind and open arms.

The third anniversary of the death of my husband is almost upon me. November 19 is when we received his diagnosis, and try as I might to be unaffected by the past, I find myself regressing into fetal position on my living room chair wondering why this tragedy befell Chris and why his death befell his loved ones. I’m okay, though. I want to cry when I’m crying. There is no relief – only the cloak of sleep that claims me each night when I’m all cried out and void of any ability what-so-ever to bring myself back up.

By day, I’m quite cheerful, working alongside a group of people whose company I cherish. We’re a fun cluster of folk, working and passing the day with good humor and camaraderie. The gym continues to keep me uplifted, albeit in considerable pain.

I had a proud evening Monday. I left work knowing that I wasn’t going to go one step in the direction of the gym. I felt horrible. I had almost allowed myself to revel in my sad, angry, self-pitying state of mind. My anger had reached such levels that I felt like kicking in doors and smashing my possessions. The impulses became too much for me to bear, so I thought I would stop by City Sports on my way home and buy some new workout clothes, which is a very effective way for me to get myself through the gym doors. I found two lovely pieces for less than forty dollars and headed toward home to see if I could coax myself out my door and into the gym. Caught between not wanting to go to the gym and not wanting to stay home, I finally erupted into a pool of tears, which is really what I needed to do in order to let go of the pain and anxiety that had amassed. Once the wave passed, I picked myself up, got dressed and headed to the gym where I had a very tough, very challenging workout. My anger did not begin to dissipate until two hours in.

For a while, I have been telling myself either that I want a boyfriend or that I don’t want a boyfriend. There is a discrepancy with the black and white nature of that thought pattern. The truth is that I do want a man in my life. The truth is also that I am not ready for a relationship with another man. I’m beginning to believe the popular 5-year guideline perspective. For now, I am going to stop thinking and have some faith that I will someday be able to love another man. I have to believe that. The alternative suggests that my golden years will be spent sitting in front of my living room window, gazing out over the landscape, hurting, reflecting, and yearning for my lost love.

I don’t want to be that person and I have a feeling that I have more control over my life than I am willing to entertain at the present moment.

Way to Pull Me out of My Own Head

Yesterday was a tough day for me.

I knew that, with my move, I would eventually need to venture into the storage closet and take out all of my Chris-mementos. I had managed to avoid the task for the past three weeks, but with time running out, I needed to face my demons.

Controlling my tears was not an option, for they flowed like flood waters out of my eyes and onto my carpet, as I laid eyes on possessions I hadn’t looked at since the anniversary of our 1st wedding anniversary.

I moved my hand toward one of the boxes, accidentally knocking its cover off and there, exposed, was the picture of Chris I hate most of all. He sits at the table with no shirt on, head down, writing in his calendar book, completely bald. I hate that depiction of him. That photo gets behind me and shoves me out of my denial with the force of the impact of an eighteen-wheeler striking me from behind. I lost my breath and then I lost my ability to maintain my composure.

I then came across tapes and tapes of documentaries that Chris made while he was in school. I entered a meltdown, crying and screaming, “I don’t want these anymore! I don’t want these!” I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want them and I didn’t want to discard them as though they held no meaning for me, when they always will. I felt trapped.

The two events winded me so that I could no longer see how I was going to take the drive to the Salvation Army with my donations. I only had forty-five minutes to get there and I couldn’t reign the grief back in. I decided to push.

I ran up and down my five flights of stairs five times, carrying arms full of worthy provisions for those who can benefit. I backed my car into the driveway and began loading, using strength derived from all of the anger I continue to suppress. Anger does come in handy. I managed to squeeze boxes, bags and an entire vanity, complete with mirror and bench into my tiny, yet magnificent Pontiac Sunfire. Go Arthur (That’s his name.)!

I continued to choke back tears all the way and when I got there, I pulled up to the front door, turned on my hazard lights and began to unload when a woman began yelling at me for parking there, saying that I was endangering lives. Sigh. I looked at her and very calmly said, “I’ll be out of here in a minute.” My resign softened the blow I would have delivered in her direction.

I began loading my stuff into the building, when a man in his 60s came over and said, “I was looking at your pictures. I hope you don’t mind," to which I replied, “Of course not! Would you like them?” His face beamed and after making certain I was okay with him taking them, he thanked me and went on his way.”

So I donated clothing, furniture and other household items and managed to save this man the price of having to buy my pictures, which sent him off with a smile on his face.

How could I not smile, myself?

When I returned home, I called Bonnie to chat for a while. I mentioned to her that I had been considering leaving Chris’ tapes “on the curb” and asked her if she wanted me to hold onto them, instead. She did. So I did. Sometimes, taking the feelings of others into consideration is the way out of my own feelings.

Now I can’t even remember why I didn’t want to take them with me.

Shneed

Playing Hostage

I’m feeling sad tonight. Not sad enough to drive in front of the 101 bus as it made it’s way down Mystic Ave in Medford when I was turning off of Route 38, but sad, nonetheless.

I feel frustrated when people don’t understand, or don’t try to understand that I have been forever affected by Chris’ death, forever affected by losing my best friend, my love, my husband. Beyond my own loss, I witnessed some very disturbing events, such as the deterioration of my sweet husband’s body, his faith and his life. I looked into his eyes and knew he would never look at me with the same recognition and love with which he looked at me from our first date, on. I don’t hesitate to say that I have been disturbed ever since and I do believe I will be for the remainder of my life.

I miss him. I always will. I love him. I always will.

The good news is that I haven’t written in quite a while, and my writings are fewer and farther between than they once were. I tend to write when I’m sad, and my life has been feeling nice, lately. I feel happy. I still feel sad, but at the same time, I now feel happy.

I still have anger, though. It’s there. I can feel it, I just can’t get to it. Even at the gym, I can’t seem to get to my anger. What I can do, though, is exhaust myself with my workouts to the point that my anger retreats into remission for a while.

The small part of me that houses the anger, fear, anxiety and sadness is insulated from the rest of my world. I wish I could go there and wrap my arms around that part of me, fill the black hole with love and then wind up and bowl it right down the alley into my past.

I’m too scared, though, and playing hostage is easier for the time being.

Shneed

It was a nickname my late husband gave me.

Yeah, I said it. “My late husband.” That’s the first time I’ve said that to anyone. Today I said it to my new landlord during a phone call. He mentioned that my e-mail was strange and asked me what it meant. Then I said it. And I feel strange and a bit woozy inside.

Taking this new apartment has caused my grief to resurface pretty intensely. I’m not sure why. It’s not like Chris and I ever lived in my current apartment together. He was eight-months-gone by the time I moved. I fear that every move I make, throughout the remainder of my life, is going to feel like I’m stepping on his memory, pushing off of it with my foot, and continuing on into my future. That’s not a very nice feeling.

Sunday night, I completely fell apart. I couldn’t stop crying for two hours. I finally popped an Ativan and sat myself on the sofa in front of my television until it coated my psyche. And I remembered why I like Ativan so much. Uh-oh.

Last night, I began pacing around my butcher block. I couldn’t relax and my stomach was swimming around and around. This time, I took only a half of an Ativan and began the long process of streamlining any possessions of mine I longer want to keep.

In addition to the move, this time of year wreaks havoc in my mind and memories. It’s the time of year we began to suspect that something was wrong. October through January is still quite a melancholy time for me.

I’m moving to the beautiful city of Cambridge, the city I have wanted to live in for most of my adulthood. This move is going to be great. I’m excited.

Shed Skin

I don’t know why I have taken so long to realize that I think I am just no longer interested in acting in musicals. The admission makes me feel sad, but the fact is that that’s who I was before Chris died, before ugliness, horror and sadness entered my life. I’m just not interested, anymore.

I remember who I was back then. Singing was my absolute priority. I dreamed of becoming skilled enough to sing professionally and vowed to myself that I would take myself to a real Broadway cattle call at least once before I died. My passions were completely wrapped up in performance. That was before everything changed.

Now psychology makes me happy, intrigues me and keeps me very, very busy. The boxing gym makes up the difference.

I wish I still wanted to act. Sometimes I still go to auditions to try to get cast in a musical, but my heart isn’t in it the way it used to be, which is kind of a mixed blessing. I used to obsess about performing, about what to wear to an audition, how to sing and how to move. I ate, drank and slept musical theater. Most of my passion for the stage got lost in the tragedy.

I took this past Friday and Monday as vacation days. I feel sort of spacey, as per usual. Unstructured time still puts me in a strange place, another phenomenon that came with Chris’ death. Yesterday, I felt as though I was wearing a heavy cloak. Even though I went out and socialized and had fun doing so, the cloak remained throughout the day. Finally, last night, I began crying and couldn’t stop until I fell asleep.

Many people don’t understand the impact of losing a spouse, especially at a young age. I don’t know what to say to those people. I don’t write the rules, I just try to navigate through the caves and haunted forests. There’s a part of me that believes I will always be searching for my lost love. That part of me comes out when I’m spacey from too much time off.

I still don’t really feel like myself. At times, I don’t know who this psychology student and exercise enthusiast is. She didn’t exist before Chris died.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m afraid to act in musicals because they remind me of a time I shared with my husband. And sometimes I know that people sometimes shed their skin and grow a new one.

Old Faithful

I erupted this morning, into a hysterical, grieving mess. Grief is like an old friend whom you wish would just leave you the fuck alone. It’s like the school bully, lurking in the shadows, an ever-present threat reminding you that you can’t ever be certain of your own safety.

If I had just paid attention the past few days I would have noticed the return of my pattern-behavior. I had begun going out, keeping way too busy, overlapping plans and staying up way too late, all behaviors that point to an impending meltdown. I fill up every moment of every day in an effort to crowd my brain with minutia so larger, more profound disturbances can’t fit in. I should know by now that they always find their way in. That’s just the way it is.

Curiously enough, once I melted back up, I felt very positive about love and the possibility that I might be able to enjoy it again. Grief is not entirely unlike the boxing match I witnessed as I jumped rope at the gym the other night.

”In the left corner, wearing the black shorts, black tank top, black sneakers and black gloves....Grief!”

And in the right corner, skittishly peaking around the corner in her suit of armor, wearing blue gloves with two rolls of quarters in each fist...”

That’s about how it goes. Maybe it’s time that I start doing the attacking and Grief begins retreating.

I’m happy tonight. I feel better. More positive.

And hungry.

Shneed

Here we go, again.

I have begun to panic about this newest dating experience. I knew it would happen eventually, because how can I enter a new relationship without experiencing guilt, anger and sadness over Chris? I dropped half of an Ativan in the spirit of calming the fuck down. I’m going to stay with it...stay with him.

The problem is that I can’t decipher my own secret code. I can’t tell whether I’m panicked because I like him or panicked because I don’t want anybody but Chris in my life. If the latter is true, I could wind up living and dying alone.

Clay’s coming back this week, thank GAWD. I need his support.

I’m going through the motions, but I don’t feel anything more than the beginning of a new friendship. It feels forced. Hell, it is forced. That’s what happens with online dating. Maybe I’m pressuring myself unnecessarily. I don’t have to love him, yet. It’s way too early for love to have formed. If love doesn’t form for me, that’s okay, too. I need to relax, hence the Ativan.

This is difficult, but then, I always knew it would be. He puts his arm around me and all I think about is how Chris hated to walk with his arm around me. I used to take his arm and put it around me just to hear him say, “Hey, you can’t just put me.” When I’m out with him, I wish I was out with Chris. It’s possible that after almost three years, I’m still not ready to date. I don’t know how to get better. Maybe this is as good as I get. Maybe there is no “better”. Maybe there’s no romance and/or love intended in my future.

I hesitate to say that I’m a mess. I am, however, a bit panicked. What if he won’t put up with what losing my husband feels like for me?

Maybe I just need to sleep. Sometimes sleep is all it takes with me.

Roaming in Wyoming

Wyoming is the most wonderful place, ever. The air is so clean and the mountains are so unbelievably beautiful that I didn’t want to come home. I could have sat in one place, feeling the mountain breeze and gazing at the horizon all day long. Of course, I didn’t. I went horseback riding, river rafting and hiking. This trip was a wonderful segue back into the world of travel, introduced to me by Chris.

The trip wasn’t without sticky grief-points. The moment I entered the airport, I felt a surge of panic and sadness because the last time I entered the airport was with Chris. Robby is so much like him that I kept “flickering” back and forth from knowing I was with him to feeling like I was with Chris. I didn’t tell him.

I only cried one night because I just wanted him to be there so badly. I wanted him to see the mountains and have the fun I was having. I wanted the quiet conversation we shared and I wanted to wrap my arms around him and hold him.

I thought about the guy I'm dating quite a bit while he and I were both gone on trips. He went to Yosemite and I was in Wyoming. I haven’t thought about a man that much, in his absence, since Chris. It’s still too early to know whether this will work out, or not, and I’m nervous again, but I remember that I thought about him a lot while I was gone, and that hasn’t happened for a while. I’m seeing him tomorrow night.

I have a feeling this is going to be a romantic autumn.

Shneed

Wyoming

Tomorrow, I’m leaving for my first real trip since Chris was alive. I’m going to Wyoming with a friend to hike, ride a horse, climb, run, and take in the beautiful mountainous landscape.

I never really traveled before I met Chris and so far, I haven’t really traveled since he died. I feel good. I’m very excited about this trip. There is also a part of me that feels guilty for going without him. Wherever I go, over the remainder of my life, I can take comfort in knowing (or believing) that where Chris went is so much better than anywhere on Earth.

Oddly enough, I’m very excited to have found out that there’s a gym at the inn in which I’m staying. It’s got a weight room, treadmills, sauna, steam room and whirl pool. I’m going to work out in one way or another every day. That excites me. I’m bringing my medicine ball with me, too. I think that officially makes me a fitness geek.

I’m reasonably happy these days, at times euphoric…at other times, downright sad, a moody bitch, perhaps, but a kind-hearted, loving one, no less.

Well, I’m off to Wyoming to visit another far-off land, an activity for which I had absolutely no passion before Chris entered my life.

Testing the Acceptance Waters

I dreamed I was back wth Chris, last night. He looked really good, although he was thinner than I remember him in life. I miss his dark, thick hair. I don’t remember too much about my dream, other than we hugged. I loved hugging him.

I have been a bit sad for the past couple of days. The guy I'm dating went away for 12 days, which, oddly enough, has sparked a small grief reaction in me. Clay went away for 3 weeks, too, which I suppose sparks off another small grief reaction.

Since he left, I made a deal with myself to allow myself to really think about Chris the entire time he’s gone. I need to. I want to. I keep remembering things that happened, things we said, times we shared, his smile, his hair, our interactions, our love...the list is endless.

I was talking with a friend last night about how strange grief is, in that there is always a belief buried way down deep in my psyche that loops the same tape over and over again...

He might come back. He could come back. I need to wait for that day

That will never happen, but the tape keeps on rolling. My guilt exists around that tape.

I’m a little heart-heavy, today. I’m giving myself a headache.

It’s coffee-time.

Shneed

My Date

I had a wonderful time last night. I really like this man. He really likes me, too.

More after I talk with Clay, tomorrow.

Shneed

The Lesser of Two Evils

My nervousness is dissipating a bit, but not as a result of much that I’m doing, myself. The man I'm dating has a schedule such that our dates have been spaced out at a comfortable pace for me. Basically, we have been taking 4 days in between dates, which gives me time to freak out, freak back in, and be ready in time for the next encounter. I like that. I find our timing to be quite comfortable, because I have ample time to breathe and regain my composure for the next meeting.

My dates and my workouts are similar. When I exercise, the fibers in my muscles are torn and then need time to rebuild. If I work out too many days in a row (which I did this week – ouch), the overall process isn’t very enjoyable, because I haven’t given my muscles enough time to recuperate. However, when I leave enough time in between workouts for the muscles to adapt before working out again, I end up being stronger than I was before. I am so spastic about dating and getting close to someone other than my Chris, that I need those four days to calm down, breathe and remember that there are things about this man that I like. If I don’t have that time, my fight or flight response get activated and, where dating is concerned, my tendency will almost always be to take flight.

So, our next date is Saturday evening. This will be date #3 and I actually want to go, even though I’m a bit nervous. Still, I have an overwhelming feeling that now is the time and that if I don’t make an effort to push myself over the grief-induced fear-hump today, I may end up setting myself back.

I just need to keep reminding myself that even though I am experiencing quite a bit of anxiety, that anxiety feels better than my loneliness of last week. I’m choosing the lesser of two evils.

Gained in the Telling

Monday evening’s date went well. I’m nervous, still. I guess that’s normal. I can’t remember what normal nerves feel like, without the widow/grief element. I suppose the possibility exists that I’m experiencing normal nerves and attributing them to other areas.

I keep pressuring myself to feel love. I forget that love comes with time, but because I felt such intense love within my relationship with Chris, I’m having trouble remembering that I was this nervous when I first met him, too. In fact, I was nervous enough to cancel two dates on him.

I need to remember that I’m allowed to cancel a date if I want to. I’m allowed to feel grief. I’m allowed to express to this new man that I need to take things carefully and slowly and that I need the leeway to process the relationship-related grief that is yet to come. He seems like a compassionate man. I guess I’ll find out whether that statement rings true.

I can’t help wanting to know what my future holds. I don’t like wearing blinders. I am thankful that my life is about to become very busy, again, once school begins. This semester I will be taking three classes, working out three times a week and (well, I may as well say “hopefully”, since that’s the first word that popped into my mind, despite my reluctance to admit it) dating this man.

Fear has a tendency, with me, to cloud excitement and anticipation. I have to try to remember how excited and happy I felt after our first date, so I can keep things in perspective. I’m afraid to let go of Chris, and as a result, I am in danger of sabotaging my potential to enjoy myself in another man’s company.

Grief is hard. I’m afraid that I won’t be understood, or tolerated.

What I realized, yesterday, is that telling people about me and this man helps me to accept our possible partnership. People are happy for me and when I see their reactions, I feel as though I have been given an injection of approval, warmth and support. Something is gained in the telling.

Still. I’m scared...and excited...and hopeful.

Shneed

Deep Breaths...In...Out...In...Out...

Nervous, nervous, nervous. That’s what I am. I wish I could control how I feel. Date #2 is this evening. I’m trying to hold myself together, but it isn’t easy.

I think this might be it. That’s why I’m so nervous. I’m ready. I could really be with this man. Well, that’s how I feel right now. We hardly know each other. Still, he has all of the qualities I like in a man.

I’m going to try to breathe for the rest of the day until I go meet him, later on. I’m also going to try to enjoy the anticipation.

Shneed

No Matter What

After a 3-week hiatus from the gym, I began working out again, this past week. The owner mapped out a 3-day-a-week routine for me that will take me through the next few months and then I can do it all over again after that. Feeling the pain of a life of fitness again feels really nice.

I had been feeling lonely for a while, so l answered an online personal ad last week and met a lovely man with whom I had dinner the other night. He asked me out again the next day and we’re going tomorrow night to have dinner and ice cream. He’s nice, smart, funny, sweet, cute and very nerdy...exactly the type of man with whom I like to share my time. I don’t know what, if anything, will come of our dates, but I do know that I feel less lonely and more ready to be with a man than I did the last time I tried romance.

I lay in bed last week, crying, saying over and over again to Chris, “No matter what, I will always love you. No matter what. No mater what. No matter what.” I hope he heard me. I hope he knows I’m telling the truth. I know that my mantra symbolized a deep seated longing to be released from my guilt, as well as an indication that I’m gearing up toward moving on, even if the insight is still partially subconscious. Funny, isn't’ it, that I have the ability to become aware of what I still consider to be in my subconscious mind? I’ll have to take that up with Clay and get his professional opinion on whether becoming aware of something subconscious is even possible.

So date #2 is tomorrow evening and I’m actually looking forward to it. I think I have done everything I can do within myself and my own life to move forward and the possibility exists that I may need somebody else to pull me the rest of the way out of my guilt and grief. Somehow I have formulated a hypothesis that some supportive, compassionate, understanding, loving arms just may be my ticket into the next phase of my life.

I feel as though something large is going to come out of this union. I find myself planning my life to enable a substantial amount of flexible time, just in case we keep seeing each other. I want to make sure I’m as available as I can be. I’m still doing everything I do, but I’m taking my classes online next semester, instead of going to class in person on a weekly, designated schedule. I’m still working out three times a week, but now my evenings are interchangeable. I find my willingness to make room quite curious.

No matter what, Creej.
Love Shneed

Nothing to do but write, with an injured knee

I was going to work out this evening after a 2-week sedentary carbohydrate bender. Unfortunately, I went to a foot doctor this morning, who helped me stretch my calf muscles and by the end of today, my knee was in so much pain that I couldn’t work out. I went and tried to jump rope, despite the pain and the fact that I had to sit on the platform at Davis Square Station because I actually could not walk at all for a few minutes. Damn titlted patella. It’s an old football injury, figuratively speaking.

When jumping rope proved impossible, I moved over to the weights thinking I could at least get in some strength training, but alas, even pushups engage the knee to some extent. Sigh. I came home. And I ate stuff. There’s always tomorrow.

I haven’t written in so long. I stopped taking Zoloft about a month ago because I am currently involved in a psychological study in which a different anti-depressant is being tested. I had to get the Z out of my system before beginning the study (which is fascinating, by the way). After getting through the withdrawals, I made a slow decline into depression. I would wake up and cry and I would cry before bed.

I’m going to cry about losing Chris for the rest of my life. It’s okay. He deserves my love. I’m beginning to worry that I’ll never open up my doors to another man, again. I want to. I suppose that man will have to be special enough to allow me fall apart until I settle in with him.

My Chris. Sometimes the grief just isn’t better or easier or lighter or anything. Sometimes my grief seems as though it’s in the past. I don’t control it, though. I just roll with it.

In my mind, Chris was so perfect for me in every way that I can’t imagine somebody else could also be perfect for me in other every ways.

I miss him.

I got angry last night and threw away my road atlases from the trunk of my car. They were Chris’. He insisted on having them. He loved maps and swore by them. He got me to a place where I actually used them from time to time instead of pulling into a gas station to ask for directions. Last night, I was mad at him for leaving and I threw them away...I suppose I threw him away. I’m still angry and I’m glad I did it.

Then and Now...and...

Grief is open-ended. The more I live it, the more I know it.

One of my co-workers came up with a way to yell my name which is similar to the way Mr. Spacely, of The Jetsons fame yelled George Jetson’s name (“JetSON!!”) so he’s been calling me “BurRAGE!!”, raising the pitch toward the end for effect.

Hearing my name out loud, with the emphasis on the last syllable caused me to keep repeating my own name over and over until it no longer sounded familiar. If you have ever done that, you already know that you end up feeling like you don’t really know why you’ve done it.

Burrage didn’t used to be my last name. I didn’t take Chris’ name when we got married. I didn’t want to change my name at first, and then I became confused by all of my options. I could change names completely, hyphenate my name or not change my name at all. I didn’t take Chris’ name until after he died. Once he was gone, I became aware that I wanted to carry him with me throughout my life, and taking his name was a very visible, deliberate way of doing so. I dropped my middle name, slid my maiden name (Orloff) into its place and snapped Burrage onto the end.

I remember Robin Orloff, but I can’t quite relate to who she was, anymore. That girl is long gone and somebody so much better; so much more patient, understanding and giving; and so much richer has replaced her. Robin Orloff was shallow, needy, attention-craving, a little self-centered and lacking in perspective.

Since Chris had to die, I may as well be happy about the positive changes that took place within me as a result. Without having to say, I would obviously rather be shallow, needy, attention-craving, self-centered, perspective-lacking Robin Orloff, but since she died along with Chris, I choose to be nice, giving, caring and happy Robin Burrage.

Grief is open-ended. I cried for an hour and a half last night because I want Chris to come back and be my husband, again. My journey has bypassed the two-and-a-half-year mark. I just read, in my Adult Development & Aging textbook, that widowed people report having grieved up to and beyond eight years! I laugh when I remember thinking “I don’t have a whole year to grieve!” when Chris first died. Oh the things I didn’t know, one of which was that I was living a virtually pain-free life up until his death. Nothing really ever went wrong in my life. I complained a lot and screamed enough to make the most avid nay-sayer believe my life was a turbulent cesspool of unfairness, but the truth is that I used to cry regularly if I wasn’t cast in the leading role of a community theater production for which I had auditioned.

The lessons I have learned and those I have yet to learn.

Janus: In Roman mythology, Janus was the god of gates, doors, doorways, beginnings, and endings. His most apparent remnants in modern culture are his namesakes, the month of January and the caretaker of doors and halls: Janitor.

Janus was frequently used to symbolize change and transitions such as the progression of future to past, of one condition to another, of one vision to another, the growing up of young people, and of one universe to another. He was also known as the figure representing time because he could see into the past with one face and into the future with the other.

Christopher/Kristofer

Tonight was the last class of my Infancy & Childhood Development course. For the past four weeks I, along with a group of other students, navigated through 12 weeks worth of intensive information about children and how they develop physically, cognitively and socially.

The class opened my eyes and my heart to the possibility of becoming a parent, giving of myself to a small person who depends on my love, guidance and knowledge in order to grow into a productive, functioning, loving member of society. Class left me with a spark of desire to have a child of my own, someday. Physiologically, I have a few years left to make that happen if that’s what I choose to do.

After class, I chatted for a while with a fellow student. I told her I thought I’d like to have a child. She began encouraging me, telling me that I could do it. “You don’t even have to be married,” she said. “You can do it single.”

She had no idea. She assumed (I’m assuming) that I am “that single, outgoing, independent woman of the oughts”…or maybe I projected that assumption onto her. At any rate, I needed to let her know. I told her about Chris and how he died and then I told her a truth that I have been suppressing for while.

“I never wanted kids. Neither of us did,” I said. “But now that I want to have a child of my own, I wish he was here to have one with.” The tide inside of me began to rise. I could feel tightness constricting my throat, but nonetheless, I kept a stiff upper lip.

I do wish Chris could father my child. In a way, he will father my child. If I do become a mother, I will be teaching my son or daughter all of the things Chris taught me, like love, patience, acceptance…and, of course, microbrews. No child of mine is going to drink the leading brand..

I’m not the type of person who feels sorry for herself or who feels that life is unfair. I don’t mope around. I get things done. I move forward. I help others and I love as much as I can. But last night I was so overcome with self-pity and anger that I wanted to put my fist through the train window, the escalator, a parked car, some trees and my front door.

Last night, I welcomed a brand new aspect of grief into my life. I’m not quite sure what to call this latest surge. A post-grief backlash? Anger rewound? Sadness about something I can never go back and get? I was grieving about something I never wanted when Chris was alive. He has been dead for two years and seven months at this point, so having his baby is so impossible that I can’t believe I have entered this state of sadness. It won’t last, but it sure hurts right now.

Ever since Chris began chemo and the doctors told us he would be sterile, I had maintained that I didn’t care, that I just wanted him to live. Babies meant very little to me and next to Chris getting well, they were demoted to “nothing’ status. I had become so accustomed to suppressing, that I told myself over and over I had no regrets, that we didn’t want children together, so the fact that we never had kids simply was not a regret of mine. Last night, I got blindsided by my admission that I wish I had our child, that I wish we had put Chris’ sperm into a sperm bank before he was poisoned with chemo. Then I got double-blindsided by the reality that a child of Chris’, without Chris here to enjoy that child, would always make me sad.

The woman I was talking with after class said to me, “You always bring him with you.” I already know that, and even though I was thankful to her for talking to me and not running away, I suspected that she really didn’t have a true understanding of what it feels like to say that’s true only because you have nothing else left. I told her of my plan to name my child Christopher (boy) or Kristofer (girl). I want to honor him that way. It felt really nice to say that out loud to somebody so caring and open to talking with me.

And now I’m sitting on the orange line train on my way home, writing this, choking back the same old tears I smothered behind the cover of Stephen King’s “Desperation” back in November of 2001, as I sat on the green line trolley, in the grips of terror at the thought that Chris might die. His death was only a possibility back then.

Grief doesn’t get better. It gets different. Clay has said it again and again. My experience is that grief remains painful and maintains its ability and natural tendency to ambush at the most inopportune moments, like after a 3-hour class, when I’m alone on campus, at night, at Ruggles station, where the most warmth I can find is the T official smiling through the window of the steel-gray, bullet proof (I assume) information booth.

I’m okay. I just need to see Clay.

This too shall pass.

I just got the oddest urge to ask Chris if he knew he was dying before he was actually told he was dying. One thing about the death of a loved one is that the feeling that the person is still reachable…by phone, by e-mail…never really goes away.

There are so many things I would ask him if I could. Did he know? Was he hiding truths from me and Bonnie? How did he survive fourteen months if he knew the outcome? Did he love me? Does he still love me? Does he know my pain in the way that a spirit can know the pain of others without actually feeling that pain?

My dating life has been very fun for the past couple of months. I wonder if my rediscovered feelings of joy in the realm of romance have anything to do with the recent return of my memories of the hospital and from Christmas Day, on.

Monday evening, on my way to pick up my car from the garage, I remembered something Chris used to do to me. I’m not the most focused person, especially when I’m having fun with my friends. Completely losing track of where I’m going and/or what I’m doing is not out of the ordinary for me. If Chris and I were walking and talking, on the street, in the supermarket or elsewhere, and I forgot myself, I would quite often walk right past our target destination, yip-yapping the entire time. Chris never said a word. Without missing a beat, he simply placed both hands on my upper arms and turned my body in the direction I should be heading, placing me back on track. Also without missing a beat, I always simply said, “Thanks.” Nothing lost.

I remembered that about us and then my immediate task became choking back the surge of grief rising in me like a flash flood.

I arrived at the garage, only to be told my car wasn’t ready, yet, and then walked the fifteen minutes home concentrating to keep my breakdown at bay. Once inside, I let go and didn’t catch hold of myself again for two hours, when my mechanic called to tell me my car was ready.

My co-worker, Marc, who looks, sounds, talks and could be a 99% personality carbon-copy of my Chris told me he feels “smooshy” about me. Chris used that word all the time. In fact, for a short while, my nickname was Smoosher and then it became Smoosh. With no knowledge of my past nicknames, Marc just IMd me, saying he would call me “Smoosh” from now on. Seeing his message appear on my computer screen made me feel like the message came from Chris. Same demeanor, same creativity, same everything.

Yesterday, I became very dizzy at work, to the point that I couldn't walk down the hallway. I assumed I was experiencing an anxiety attack, so I just drank some water and willed it gone.

I’m fragile, again. Happy, no less, but very fragile. It’s okay. This too shall pass.