Nobody

I no longer have a reason to feel crushed, yet that's exactly how I feel every Sunday when Jonathan and I part.

I don't feel slightly down, or moderately lonely. I go right back to the month, or so, I stayed out of work after Chris died, where I sat on my sofa, wrapped tightly in a comforter feeling as though the colorful quilt was the the only thing holding me together. I was safe inside the cocoon I had crafted, and reality could not reach me within.

I didn't know that the death of my spouse could leave me feeling as though my spouse has died every single time I am by myself; every Friday evening after work, when it seems that nobody is available to pass some time with me, every Sunday evening after Jonathan leaves, every night after the lights are out and all of my friends are sleeping, as I should be.

The pain of losing Chris is never going away, and although I feel much better in general, these days, I still have to fight to choke back tears on a regular basis.

Passing time opens me up like a meat hook tearing through flesh and I still don't want the day to come when I wake up and realize he's been gone for ten years. It has already been five years.

I don't really know whether or not I am still traumatized, but I cannot come up with an explanation for why I still have flashbacks, intrusive memories and sudden tearful breakdowns. Clay thinks I'm afraid that Jonathan will die, too, and since he has twenty years of experience in the field of psychology, to my B.S. in Psychology and about zero experience in the field, I feel inclined to believe him. I don't always believe I deserve to be with somebody I love and who loves me. If that were true...oh forget it.

Our society treats death as though it was a broken leg. Nobody expects me to still cry and fear loss and remain affected by what I witnessed Chris endure.

And I Do

So many changes, so many changes.

I haven’t written in such a long time that I’m having trouble deciding where to begin.

I have been feeling sad, lately, which isn’t surprising considering my systematic, gradual weaning off of Zoloft. I don’t want it, anymore. I don’t need it. My Z-tox is going well. I have decreased from two 50mg pills/day to one-quarter of one 50mg pill/day. By this time next week, I will have successfully kicked the habit.

Going off of Z has not been without discomfort in the form of withdrawals. I decreased nice and slowly, though, to keep the after-effects to all-time low.

I’m moving in with Jonathan in September. We love each other and I’m ready, even though there really isn’t any such thing as ‘ready.’ One of the things I love about him is that he knows everything about how I’m feeling. He doesn’t ever expect me to give up Chris in any way. He makes it known that anything I give up is entirely my decision and that he’d never ask me to give anything up until I’m ready. The load that takes off of my shoulders, my soul really, is worth everything to me.

I don’t like us living apart. I miss him when we’re not together, but I strike a nice balance between wanting to be with him, and wanting to make sure I respect his time and needs. Living together will be easier because we’ll get to be together even when we don’t have plans.

There’s a fight night at the boxing gym tonight and I have been thinking about how I don’t want to be there. Not wanting to be there is new for me. For more than two years I exercised myself to exhaustion to keep my grief in check, to cope and to have somewhere to be when I felt alone, which was all the time. I liked that the members were mostly men because I felt like maybe I would find someone there and even when I didn’t, I liked feeling like a desirable woman in a room full of men, even if that was only my mind.

The gym took on a surrogate meaning for me. For the past two years, I got to feel safe, and I got to work though so much of my fear, sadness and loneliness. This particular gym promotes a culture of camaraderie and support. There, I got to feel like somebody cared about me, and I really needed to feel like somebody cared after
Chris died. Now I have Jonathan, so instead of going out to fight night tonight just to be around people, I can be home knowing that Jonathan loves me.

I have never been comfortable with change, and feeling myself separate from the gym is no exception. Time keeps marching on and my life keeps changing and find myself fighting change just slightly more than I welcome it.

Tonight I’m left wondering if the boxing gym has served its purpose and if I will notice myself backing away now. I’m proud of the fact that I boxed for a while. I’m proud of the concussion I sustained. I’m totally, ever-proud of the changes in my body since the day I first walked through the door. I walked in wearing size 10-12 jeans and today my size 6 jeans are getting loose. I wonder how long I’ll be enjoying my new self before Jonathan and I try to have a baby. We both want to, but we also both realize that I’m 42. It’s in God’s hands.

Anyway…most of the time, because of the changes I am experiencing, I can’t collect my thoughts well enough to write about them. Like I said, I spend a bit more time fighting them than accepting them.

Chris is forever in my mind and in my heart, and instead of having to get rid of my memories of him, I get to nudge them over a little so my memories of me and Jonathan can fit, too.

And I do.

5 Down.

This coming Sunday, January 17, Chris and I would have been married for 6 years. After Sunday, I will have made it through yet another concentrated anniversary season crammed into its usual 3-month span:

Nov. 23 – Chris’ Birthday
Thanksgiving – Chris’ favorite holiday
Christmas – The last time I rushed Chris to the hospital
New Years Day – Chris’ last day
January 17 – Our wedding anniversary

Even at the 5-year mark, I had a rough go of it this year. I fell a couple of times, cried more that I wanted to, hurt from a place inside that I just can’t reach.

The big difference this year is that I am in love with Jonathan. While our lovely relationship doesn’t obliterate my grief, it helps me to move forward, to realize that I am now living in the present, possibly for the first time in five years.

I will always miss my Chris and I am so thankful that so much of him now resides in me, because he was such a great, fun, sweet, creative and kind man, and I get to keep all of that positive energy within myself, and give it to others in my life.

5 years feels different. Chris has become a distant memory; a happy one and a sad one. I have placed him where he belongs, in my past, even though I have carried his beliefs, mannerisms and values into my present. We’ll see each other again…and again…and again…and again… and I’ll get to introduce Jonathan and Chris, if they haven’t already met before…and before…and before.

Cheers,
Shneed

Rite of Passage

My new life has begun. I’m tired. I have given up my fight, a fight I can’t win, anyway. Chris is gone. No matter how much I screamed and cried over the past five years, he was never coming back. He’s gone.

I miss him, greatly, even now, and I’m still so sorry for what happened to him. Terminal illness is horrifying for the afflicted, and extremely painful…and sad.
We laughed. We laughed a lot. We also bickered and annoyed each other. And I learned what love is, and I really, really wanted to keep it. I didn’t know I wasn’t done searching, yet.

However silly the notion, I still wonder if he remembers me.

The good news is that the fog is gone. I see us for what we were, and neither of us stands on a pedestal in my memory. We were just doing our best, and our best was the best I had ever experienced. What I have learned is that absolutely everything in life is a gift intended to help us learn and grow.

Jonathan and I share a whole different best. It’s nice, too. I love him. He loves me. We’re good together. And I wonder if I’ll ever really allow myself to let go completely, or if I’ll be scared forever.

Five years is a long time. I have arrived at a rite of passage, from the past into the present, and I will continue with my life with Jonathan as we share a brand new future together.

Fighting It

I’m more tired than I should have probably let myself get, tonight. I left work with the best of intentions, did a bit of Christmas shopping, called some friends, hopped on the bus and started home. I stepped off of the bus and began to walk through the park to my apartment and suddenly found myself crying.

I hate nights like these. My crying-while-walking-home spells have become very few and far between, but when they hit, I don’t even try to stop them. I have only my tears to pay tribute to Chris and if I have to stop, I don’t know how I would reassure the memory of him that I cared, that I still care, that I loved him and that I will always love him. It’s a game I play with myself.

I cried for a while, and then ate, and then toyed with my computer and now I’m over-ready for bed, drunk with exhaustion. I could fall asleep right here on the couch with my fingers still on the keyboard.

In just 2 weeks, Chris will be 5-years gone. I hate that.

And just like that…

I didn’t go to work, today. I’m not feeling well. I still feel guilty because, by most peoples’ standards, ‘sad’ doesn’t really qualify as ‘not feeling well.’ I woke up and started to get ready for work and then decided that I needed to stay home, instead.

Chris’ birthday is in 2 weeks, and even though I didn’t feel like I was going to be sad, sadness kicked in last night and spilled into today. I’m taking the day to cry, to fall, and to pick myself back up and continue on. In a perfect world, I would run and lift weights tonight in the spirit of feeling better. Right now, I couldn’t even begin to set foot out of my apartment.

The more Jonathan and I talk about getting engaged, married, living together and having a baby, the more I feel like I’m laying Chris to rest. I’m scared. After almost five years, I’m still afraid of losing him…even though I already lost him. I just want to be with Jonathan, now. I want to feel safe with him and secure that he’s not going to go anywhere or die on me.

I’m ready to step outside of the past and into the future…almost. Five years. How did this happen? Where did the time go? Where did my old life go?
Okay. Enough. I’m just waiting for Jonathan. His going away on business has triggered a small grief-spell in me. I want him here. With me.

I’ll just cry myself out, and then try to go to the gym, tonight.

Shneed

Admittance

Being smarter than myself is crucial to my forward movement. I am an extremely self-aware person and as such, I have found that being able to decipher and dismantle my psychological facades has proved to be a most helpful skill.

Most of the admissions I make evolve out of writing about my emotions and thoughts surrounding my tragedy.

After writing about my perceived distance between Jonathan and me, I admitted the possibility that I, myself, might be responsible for our stagnating would-be growth. I began to take steps to pull down the barrier I had built between my past and my present. It wasn’t an easy task.

I began by talking a little bit more to Jonathan about what upsets me, how I feel about him, and what I want in life and in love. He also shared his own needs with me. It was hard. I had to keep nudging myself forward even though my heels were planted firmly in my past.

Jonathan is too good a man for me to give only choice parts of myself. He deserves my passion, my honesty and all of my love. We are both alive. My love no longer belongs to Chris. Only my love of his memory does.

There are still some things I cannot do, yet.

I planned to swap the lamp next to my bed with the lamp in my office, the other day. I entered my bedroom, office-lamp in hand and I froze. Chris picked out the bedside lamp. He didn’t even like home décor, and I remember wanting to encourage him, since he took the leap and chose an accent for our apartment. How could I say no? It wasn’t my type of lamp, but he picked it and I loved it for that reason, alone. I couldn’t move it. My body wouldn’t let me.

I have been wanting to watch our wedding video, lately, but I’m too afraid to see him in motion. I’m afraid I’ll cry and I won’t be able to stop. I still have trouble with the truth that a person who exists on earth can, one day, cease to exist.

Intellectually, I get it, but on a very basic level, I just don’t understand. And sometimes I still feel like I did something wrong, even though I know it isn’t true.
I had the most wonderful weekend with Jonathan. I am letting myself go. I’m letting myself live. I’m letting myself grow with him and I am letting myself begin to place my memories of Chris into storage, as cruel as that sounds.

I’m finally in love, again. I didn’t believe I could be. I never believed I would let myself be. I think about Jonathan and I feel safe, even though I know safety doesn’t really exist. Life exists. The ‘here and now’ exists.

And the only guarantee I have in life is the knowledge that I exist right now, in this very moment. And I believe that I will, someday, be reunited with everyone who has ceased to exist.

The Ritualistic Autumn Fall

I feel like I haven't written in forever, but only one month has passed since my last entry.

I'm having "one of those nights" this evening. With autumn, always comes a great sadness for me, operating right alongside a great happiness. I don't know if I'm making sense. I only know that I have waited all year for this beautiful weather to come, and I love it....by day. By night, I'm sad. I miss him. The void is gutting me tonight.

I still know everything he would say in reply to anything I might say. Chris and I were fused in some way. I could feel it. We were cut from the same mold. My best friend. And he understood me like nobody else ever has.

The night's fall temperature and ever-earlier darkness brought me right back to my week-nightly walk up Pearson Road, straining to see the warm, amber lights glowing from our apartment windows. When I saw them, I knew he was there. Home. And I was so happy to be there.

After Chris died, I bought some timers for the lamps in our apartment, so I wouldn't have to come home to darkness. I used to fool myself on the way up the street. I wanted him to be there. I wanted to laugh with him. We truly enhanced each other.

And tonight, for some reason, I feel like screaming.

I don't know what's going to happen with me and Jonathan. There's a distance that perhaps only I feel. It's possible that I put it there and that I keep it there. I don't know.

I'm too scared to share my grief with him. How do you tell someone that you love that he's not the only one, that you have never been able to pull the knife out of your heart? It's still there.

I want to go to heaven and say hello to my husband.

Someday, I suppose I will.

I hope he'll be waiting for me.

My Very Freudian Dream

Last night, I dreamed that Chris and I had moved into a new apartment in a bad part of town. I was scared. I left to go running and ran about halfway up the street, when I found myself feeling as though I had run into the middle of imminent danger. I turned and looked, and saw a man standing behind me, immediately became alarmed and ran, as fast as I could, to get away from him. When I stopped and looked ahead, past our new, decrepid, ramshackle apartment, I saw a beautiful horizon, blue sunny skies, a big orange sun and green lawns and mansions as far as I could see. Behind me, things were ugly, scary and gray, but up ahead there seemed to be warmth and hope. I stood in place for a moment, taking in the beautiful promise up ahead. I turned, once again, to look behind me and saw gray, cold structures, and felt mean undertones, and saw men dressed freakishly and evil clown-like, one in a hot pink tutu and one in women’s clothing and smeared hot pink lipstick. The scary man behind me was still there, dressed as though he had just stepped out of an old western. The scene reminded me of a circus. I looked ahead of me again and saw beauty. I wanted it so much, but I stood still, gazing and feeling like I could run towards the sun and be in that picture instead of the one I was in.

I am in love with Jonathan. We’re in love with each other. Last night was our one-year dating anniversary, and I wished it was our one-year wedding anniversary.

I think, eventually, it will be.

Still frozen, yet steadily thawing,

Shneed

Independence Day

July 4, 2009 was the most wonderful, happiest fourth of July I have had in many years.

This entire weekend was perfect. I spent most of each day outside, which is what I love doing. I ran 7 miles Friday, and then shopped and dined with a friend. I kayaked on the Charles Saturday morning, dined with more friends and walked to Harvard Square, sat on a bench on the banks of the river, let the river breeze soothe me to my core, and walked home. Then today, I ran 3.5 miles, dined with yet another friend and shopped some more.

I worried that I might be sad, once again, about that singular 4th of July back in 2004 when, despite the fact that Chris was experiencing horrid chemo side-effects, and I could do nothing to help him, the rest of the world celebrated with barbeques, beers and patriotism. I knew I was inside a bubble back then, that we two were not connected to the world the way we had been before the cancer came. Holidays, back then, always felt like nobody cared, because people who are not experiencing adversity of their own don’t want their own holiday ruined by the horrors of others. That’s just the way it is.

Case in point, on Christmas Day, 2004, when I called my family from the emergency ward at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, where Chris and I spent the entire day after his abdominal pain became completely unbearable, I was invited by my father to come to dinner, anyway. I know he didn’t realize at the time that he was essentially asking me to leave Chris at the hospital and come to Christmas Dinner (by the way, we’re Jewish), but there is a certain level of denial that spreads to those who come into contact with the adversity of others. For fourteen months, I had to investigate and find out if anyone at our family gatherings was sick, because nobody understood that Chris’ chemo treatments weakened his immune system and posed a very real threat to his health. I know it’s a compliment that they wanted us there, but that type of compliment could have killed Chris long before his actual demise.

I feel better this year, than I have felt in all of the years that have passed since Chris’ death. I feel happy and I feel able.

I will always cry for my Chris. I will miss him always and I will love him always. I suspect that I will always shudder at thoughts of all of pain, fear and anger he endured and the injustice of cancer. The broken promises of a life snuffed out like a candle flame will always make me doubt love’s durability, even when a relationship is good. But all of that stuff now fits into a much smaller compartment within my mind and most of my mind is filled with optimism, as always.

And I continue to trek forward.

Grief is my Mistress

Well, I’m finished with school. I’ll be taking the walk on August 29th to make my graduation official. As of last week, there will be no more rushing around, trying to write papers and collect research data. I have no more chapters to read in academic textbooks.

And I have so much time to myself, which is something I have craved for a long time. Time to be quiet, to be still, to rest.

The end of my school days has leaked into my workout schedule and created a pocket of ”I don’t wanna do it.” I’m just relaxing. And I’m still dealing.

I’m glad I have time, again. Time used to scare the daylights out of me. Now, I welcome it, even though I cry sometimes, simply because there’s time to, now.

July 4th is a trigger date for me. I don’t feel like going into detail at the moment, but I’m sure I have written about it in blog posts from Independence Days passed.

I still just remember a promise -- not made by anyone -- but a promise, no less, or a hope for a promise. I remember the History Channel all day and night for an entire day when I sat in my bed staring at the screen, watching men scalp other men and wishing I could walk out the door with my husband and enjoy the Charles River festivities. All we wanted to do was walk to the Esplinade, since we lived so close. But Chris was too sick. He slept the entire weekend, and anyone who has ever witnessed somebody fight cancer knows that by “entire weekend” I mean 24 hours a day, waking only to use the bathroom once or twice.

I was lonley for the life we had together. I was angry that he couldn’t rise up from the couch and hug me. I was helpless as he lay sleeping, and I wanted out of that nightmare so badly. I wanted Chris to get well and stay with me.

I can still see him passed out in a chemo-induced pseuda-coma. I would never leave him. Never.

Independence Day is coming, again, and I know if I try, I can have a very happy long weekend, even though Jonathan is away. That’s probably for the best, actually. When grief comes calling, I’d rather not have to explain to anybody. It’s nice, in a strange way, to be afforded the time to temporarily fall apart.

Our time is coming. We’re talking marriage and kids and living together, these days. I’m so happy I have him in my life.

Okay. If I'm gonna do it at all, tonight, I’d better cram something down my throat, wash off these tears and head to the gym.

...or maybe I’ll just curl up and read. :)

Shneed

A Little Help

What I have come to understand is that anti-depressants are not the enemy. And I know that if there was no such thing as medication, I would be just fine. However, I am happy that I have the option to choose to use an antidepressant to help me get through the rough spots that still arise in my life.

After a small personal struggle, I recently decided to increase my dose, again, since I could feel depression creeping up on me. I know the signs like the back of my hand. I begin to feel angry for no apparent reason. I use more profanity. Motivation is in low supply. Loneliness takes over. Boredom sets in. I know the signs.

During the onset of depression, however, I still go out and have fun and laugh and carry on like my optimistic self. When the day is over, though, and I’m alone, I feel all of the symptoms mentioned above.

I have come to accept that because of the trauma I experienced, I am prone to depression. I refuse to say, “I suffer from depression, though. The real truth is that I manage depression on a steady basis. That scenario is more accurate, I think. I tend to focus more on alleviating the symptoms than on the pain I feel when I know it’s time to change my anti-depressant dosage. Doing well on medication is not something to be ashamed of. I have been through the mill and come out on the other side, with my life in tact. So what if my seretonin levels need help every now and again?

I’m in love. Jonathan and I have talked about moving in together. I am finally in love, again. I live a life filled with blessings from the lessons I have learned. I didn’t choose for Chris to die, but since he did die, I choose to view his demise as a gift in my life, a lesson in selflessness, resilience, a gift in the form of the knowledge that when faced with a horrible circumstance, I do the right thing. I’m a loyal partner. Once I give my heart away, my heart belongs to the person to whom I gave it, and the only reason I will ever reneg is in the event of infidelity. I have a zero-tolerance policy where cheating is concerned.

I digress.

Increased Zoloft = increased concentration, increased seretonin, increased well-being.

Shneed

Angie and Counting

Sometimes I really do wonder if it’s ever really going to be over.

I have good news...good news that sent me right into a grief reaction, as per usual. I got cast in the role of “Angie” in a production of “The Wedding Singer” in the next town over.

Every time my life begins to retake the shape it took back before I ever met Chris, I feel overwhelmed with guilt, like I’m erasing him from everything and everywhere. It’s happening, though. My life really is becoming what it was, again, and I’m terrfied.

I’m 42. I used to be 31 and I used to have a husband who was 4 years younger than me, who is now 8 years younger than me, and counting.

I’m moving forward, ever-so-painstakingly, and life is good, and things hurt, and I’m happy and I miss him and I feel so much guilt about moving on, but I do it, anyway.

This play is going to be a ton of fun.

And so is the rest of my life.

Even though it hurts.

Shneed.

Phew.

It's back. I e-mailed our coordinator at the front desk and she reported that someone at the office put my Chris-mug in a basket, high atop the refrigerator. I had to commandeer a tall guy to get it down for me, but I emerged virtually unscathed. I'm happy, again.

And I bought her a gigantic chocolate bar as a symbol of my gratitude.

Shneed :)

…and sometimes progress is forced.

I’m sitting at my desk, at work, trying to gain control of an very strong urge to cry.

Yesterday, after lunch, I brought all of my containers and mugs to the kitchen area to wash. I left, and was going to come back in a few moments, but I forgot. This morning, my dishes were nowhere to be found. Among them was Chris’ big soup-mug that he bought (he bought me a blue one) so we could enjoy enormous amounts of coffee on Saturday mornings. I still have mine, but his now seems to be gone. I wasn’t ready for this.

I know it’s a very small thing in the large scheme, but that doesn’t seem to be helping me at this precise moment. I want to go hide somewhere and cry, and I want to apologize to him for being careless.

Maybe it’ll turn up. I don’t want to think that a disgruntled cleaning person threw my mug away in an oppressive outburst. But I do.

It’s silly, but if I moved forward after witnessing Chris’ deterioration and death, I know I can move forward after the loss of his green mug.

Stuff is going away…and I’m scared…and sad.

Slowly I turn, step by step, inch by inch...

Another shift has occurred. I know, because my brain has become clouded over in its usual protective manner. I thought I had seen the last of “the fog” four years ago, when it first lifted from the cloak of shock that enveloped and protected me from combusting into a ball of fire from too many emotions felt all at once. I still remember the feeling of reality incrementally entering my psyche, shred by shred. There was no rest. Each time I survived a shred, I instantaneously graduated to the next shred. I don’t think I can ever truly describe what it feels like to have had my terror that Chris might die transformed into reality. For as long as I live, I will never forget the sensation. Even now, when I think back on everything, I begin to exhale, only to remember, with a start, that Chris’ death actually did happen.

My fog of late, although much lighter than in the early days following Chris’ death, is protecting me, not from my experience, but from myself. I am beginning to let go of Chris. I can tell. I looked at a photo of him over the weekend and no longer saw “my husband.” Instead of seeing, I felt a friend, a guiding spirit, a love and a presence I believe is with me for the rest of my days on this planet. He’s here. He’s just not here in the same form in which he was here before.

I’m still afraid to completely release my grip on Chris. I’m afraid he’ll be alone. I know he’s not, but I still feel as though he needs me…or maybe I feel as though I need him. I don’t know. I sometimes feel as though I couldn’t take care of him enough, even though I know, logically, that I did everything I possibly could do for him. He thanked me, too, for always looking out for him.

I like my life with Jonathan, even though I’m really scared of history repeating itself. I wanted to tell him, this weekend, that I had felt a shift in my ability to feel and to let go of Chris, but the words never got past my throat. I’m not yet able to admit to him that I’m beginning to let go. He tells me he’s not interested in replacing Chris, which is the perfect thing to say to me. Jonathan always knows what to say to me.

I didn’t know I would be lucky enough to meet two wonderful men in my life.

Stay

It’s really no wonder I fell apart last night. I didn’t realize all of the issues building over the last two weeks into a culmination of heart and spirit-crushing grief and anxiety.

Of course, my birthday began my back-pedal into grief and anxiety, followed by my brother’s dream about Chris. Ever since his dream, I have felt as though Chris is here with me, and that pattern of thought always throws me into a futile cycle of “He’s here!” followed by “He’s dead.” followed by “He’s here!” followed by “He’s dead,” etc. It’s an exhausting pattern, really. Sometimes I just don’t know what to do with my belief in the spirit world and the afterlife. My faith has the capacity to exhaust me beyond all exhaustion.

I have also been watching “The Sopranos” beginning with season 1. Chris and I did that in L.A. when we were both so unhappy to be there that we rented every season as means of keeping us busy and occupied while we saved money to move back home. I didn’t realize how much the opening theme song would bring me back to our futon couch in West Hollywood, amidst our growing love…and Chris’ growing tumor.

In addition, I found out that someone I know and admire deeply is going to have a baby. The news, although very joyful, left me feeling very regretful over a lost life I didn’t get to realize with Chris, the promise of a family, a child of my own and Chris’ lost opportunity to be a father. My bubble burst and I came home feeling painfully envious of this man, who is 40 years old, and his wife, a young woman of 27. Knowing her age filled me with senseless regret. I don’t want to be 27, again, but at 27, beginning a life with someone has promise. Beginning a family is a real possibility, a gift a couple can share with one another. I may have lost my chance when I lost my Chris.

I came home, carrying a very heavy heart. When it finally burst, and the floodgates opened, I found myself quivering and crying uncontrollably, once again, about all the pain and fear Chris had to endure, and about all of the loss anybody in this world has to experience. I was not capable of calming myself down, last night, and the clock kept on clocking along. Finally, at 1:15 a.m., I got up and took the 2nd half of the Ativan I swallowed an hour earlier, and prepared to be rendered unconscious. When I awoke at 7:00 a.m., I was okay, again. I’m always okay, again. Things just get dicey, sometimes.

I’m 42 years old. I know women have children at my age. I’m feeling so very lucky to have found Jonathan and, love not withholding, so happy we work well, together. We’re easy, together. Our relationship is quiet, peaceful, fun, adoring, and filled with love. I never thought I would find that again, certainly not in time to ponder the possibility of becoming a mother and making my own mother a grandmother by me. I want that. I want a life with Jonathan, as his wife…his young wife (why not, right?) and I want to have children with him, and just be with him.

And I want our opportunities to stay, this time.

Born Again?

My brother woke up out of a dream about Chris the other night. He has never dreamed about Chris, before.

The two were lying side by side on a couch. Chris looked good, with his tossled hair, glasses and facial hair. Oddly, he was smoking a skinny cigar with a white waxy tip on the end of it.My brother said to Chris, "I love you! I am so glad you're my brother!" He ruffled Chris' hair and gave him a big kiss -- Mwah! -- on the head and then ruffled his hair, again. He then said to Chris, "Please take care of Robin. Promise me you will, okay?" Chris said, "Oh God, Always! In fact, I'm moving right in down the street, but she doesn't even know it."

My brother woke up.

I always believe that Chris is around me. Always. I know he is with a certainty that I cannot explain. This kind of knowing exists deep within my soul. I can feel him. I know he helps me. I know he loves me and, of course, I know I love him.

My brother left the message about the dream on my cellphone, and I listened to it as I was leaving work. I was overcome with emotion that I could not keep below the surface. My heart swelled and I felt very safe.

Maybe Chris is about to be born again. Maybe he's being born to someone who lives right up the street from me.

On the "Jonathan and Robin" front, we are in love. He's wonderful. I am so happy to be with him. I spent the night with him, last night and I'll be seeing him again, tomorrow. I couldn't be happier. My love continues to grow. My guilt continues to dissipate, albeit very slowly. I can feel myself relaxing and as a result, spending time with Jonathan is becoming more and more fun.

I am truly blessed.

Sofa, so good.

I slept on my living room couch last night, which is something I had always done in my childhood whenever the common cold came calling. My mother and father’s bedroom was right off the living room, so if I cried in the middle of the night, they could hear me and come to comfort me with cold medicine and kind, loving words. I suppose the symbolism has lasted over the years, so whenever I’m feeling sad, I have a tendency to grab my pillow and blankets and head for the sofa, where I can still feel remnants of the safety that awaited me back then.

The thought didn’t dawn on me until now, but yesterday was my first birthday spent with another man since Chris died. When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t figure out why I felt so much anxiety and sadness. I took half of an Ativan, hoping to alleviate some of the heaviness in my heart, and I did for a while. I even went out to have lunch with two friends. I did some grocery shopping and then I was going to call Jonathan, but instead, I burst into tears. That’s when everything became clear to me.

I have a feeling I’m going to be experiencing “firsts” for a long, long time. I’m adjusting to a new life, learning to accept my tragedy and the fact that I did everything I could possibly do to help Chris, to make him comfortable and to take care of him while he was sick. I did.

Grief has always had a way with sneaking up on me when I’m not expecting it. I was supposed to call Jonathan after lunch, and I tried, but he didn’t answer his phone. Now that I have melted down, and recovered, and no longer sound like Rudolph after his father pushed the mud onto his nose, I think I can try again. Maybe we can just be together for a while.

Why?

I have been thinking about Chris a lot, lately. I wish I could remember clearly, the kind of person he was. I wish I could remember how we were together, what my life was like with him in it. I love him. I miss him. I’m still disturbed by his exit from this life.

Guilt has been slowly infiltrating my mind and body since I began loving Jonathan. I tell myself it’s okay. It’s just guilt. It doesn’t have any power, other than the power to fuel my anxiety. It doesn’t stop me from loving Jonathan. I suppose its purpose is to keep the image of my beloved Chris’ face as crisp and clear as possible. I am scared half to death of his image fading from my memory. The thought steals my breath.

Jonathan and I had a wonderful time together in California. I loved being with him for more than just a few hours. I loved waking up next to him. I love his good-natured demeanor. I love how he loves me.

I had my moments in California. We visited a few of the places Chris and I had been to and a couple of times, my heart felt heavy. We drove through the neighborhood where Chris and I lived for two years, past the very street we lived on. Part of me wanted to drive up the street and see our old apartment, but somewhere inside of me, I knew the effort would be futile. I felt strange, sort of numb, knowing that driving up that street would not bring Chris back, nor would it bring me back to 2001, the year we first embarked upon our trip out west.

Since our trip, I have fallen more in love with Jonathan. We don’t see each other too much, because we’re both pretty busy people, but I cherish the time I spend with him. I’m beginning to feel that we are kindred spirits. I’m starting to want to be with him more.

I wish I wasn’t so terrified of losing Chris. I still choke on the thought. He’s somewhere. I have always felt that he is somewhere. Why do I feel that?