TRAJECTORY

Yellow

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I opened my daily news email and right at the top is read "Today is the 16th Anniversary of 9/11." I was struck by this sentence, like falling into an icy river. Was that really today? I remember Chris and Todd picking me up before lunch at work. We went to Galileo's and sat with a beer, unable to stop staring at the TV. Chris and I looked at each other at one point and we both said "Talaura" at the same time. He went to his phone then and sent her a message. She was fine. The country went into shock. We went through all the stages of grief. We went to war. 

Chris and I would later joke about how politicians would use the phrase "9-11 changed everything" as a scare tactic for votes. We shifted into a country easily ruled by fear. Too easily. The date 9-11 became the Boogie Man. You said the words with a hushed tone while looking over your shoulder as if someone might hear you. And then what? Something bad would happen. Might happen. You never know. The date became cursed. The reality was that the changing of everything would end up being a delayed reaction for me. It would take four, no..actually three years for that wave to hit. J would go to war. We would spend Saturdays building care packages. We'd send him our Girl Scout cookies. I'd buy an extra box of tampons so I could send them in his care package. You know...for bullet wounds. Chris would spend late nights on his computer and occasionally he would be able to catch J online for chats. Chris would come wake me up and say "J's online now. You want to talk to him?" I'd crawl out of bed and sit at Chris's computer and chat about nothing with J. The last time we talked, I told him about Dad's haircut. We laughed. Later on, I would find out that out private messages where all being recorded and read by my government and I would be filled with rage over the injustice of it. 

When the tsunami wave of 9-11 finally did hit, it destroyed everything in it's path. Dad stopped sleeping. Mom grew hateful and bitter. Katrina went a little crazy, but can you blame her? Randy pulled further inside his personal shell. It was all sad all the time, but eventually we started to rebuild. We found a way to absorb it all, some of us better than others. That's how it works. Shit gets destroyed, you clean up the mess and rebuild. Prepare for the next disaster. Today though, I started playing the What If game. What if J hadn't died? What if he'd come home to us all? Would Dad not have gotten Alzheimer's? Would Chris still be alive? The What If game never goes well. Michael and I watch a show called "You're the Worst" and most of the characters on the show really are the worst. One guy though is really sweet. He's an Iraq Veteran and he suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). We watched an episode recently where he was really struggling. He was struggling to keep it together. Struggling for help. Struggling to stay alive. What if J had come back to us in one piece? Would he be struggling with PTSD? It's naive to think he wouldn't come back from that changed in some way. Would we know how to help him? I mean...we didn't know how to help ourselves for a while there. 

Sometimes I am still amazed at the chain reactions. Life is just one giant Rube Goldberg device. Some of it resulting in disaster and heartache, but some of it also resulting in great joy. I hate that 9-11 changed everything. 

IN ANTICIPATION TO PAIN

Instagram post by Cindy Maddera * Jul 25, 2017 at 8:40pm UTC

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Ten. Twenty. Fifty. The number of times I catch myself holding my breath in one day. Forgetting to breath or just not able to remember the last breath. I don't know which. I notice it happening when I'm driving. I notice that I do it while setting up a photo. I even notice it while sitting doing nothing at my desk. It is like I am bracing myself for some sharp pain. Like that moment at the doctor's office when you know that you are about to be poked with a needle. You know it's coming. You know it's not life threatening, but you brace for the sting of it. Bracing for impact. That is what this feels like. I am bracing for the inevitable impact. Of what, I don't know. But my body is tensed and ready for it. 

While I am bracing for whatever sharp pain to come, I've been picking at old wounds and letting my thoughts fester in my brain. Every thing makes my eyes prickle with tears. I saw a couple I know at work interacting with each other the way Chris and I used to and the memory of similar moments pierced my heart. I had to go wait out the pain of it in the stairwell. People in the office started a discussion about that baby with the genetic disease that keeps him from breathing on his own or even moving and I have to throw on my headphones and ignore it. I can see it from both sides. I've been on both sides. No one knows more than I do about that desperate feeling of grasping for any hope for some magical cure for a loved one. But I've also been ready to give up all the pain meds to ease suffering. I did not feel like throwing my two cents into this conversation. 

But it is more than just the Chris part of things. That's always there. Dad has been gone for three years now. I only realized it after Facebook asked if I wanted to share a memory of the camping trip we were on when Dad died. I was camping when Dad died, not in the nursing home three hundred miles away, with him. Sure, I'd already said my goodbyes and written my Dad off. He hadn't been my Dad in months. I played it off as if I was honoring Dad more by participating in an activity that he always loved. It was a selfish move. I was there when they pulled the plug on Chris's Dad. I was there during Chris's final moments. I didn't want to watch another person die. There was nothing peaceful or spiritual about watching the life leave a person's body. At least not for me. So I disappeared into the woods and roasted marshmallows on a campfire. 

Why the Hell was Dad in a nursing home so far away from any of us?!? I know the reasons why he was where he was and I understand that things moved too quickly to be choosey about distance. It doesn't make me fell less angry about it all or place blame. I feel the words 'never' and 'forgive' swirling around inside me. Not that there is anyone to blame for Dad's illness. No one poisoned him with Alzheimer's. I do blame myself for not being more involved or pushing for better information. I blame myself for trusting some of the information that came to me. All that doubt and anger causes me to roll my eyes at declarations from some that I can't image in a million years are authentic declarations. I have confrontations in my head, the words never passing my lips because it wouldn't make a difference. Nothing would change. I can't expect others to behave as I would or how I expect them to behave. I can only change how I chose to react to them. 

Maybe holding my breath is the best reaction right now. 

GRUMBLE GRUMBLE

Winter is more resilient than I.

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Remember that skirt I told you about with the elephants all over it and how I had to send it back and get a bigger size? That skirt showed up yesterday and it was even smaller than the first skirt. It was also a different material than the first skirt. I was just starting to feel pretty good about this body. My pants fit me, pants I've had for three or four years. In yoga class on Saturday, I felt positively svelte and popped up into headstand like I had made that pose my bitch. Sure, I've had a thing for melty cheese the last couple of days, but who doesn't when it is cold and snowing. When I tried that skirt on last night, I felt like a fatty fat fat. I tugged the zipper up as far as I could and then cried "what is wrong with me?!?!?" because of course my first thought was that the company had not made a mistake. My first thought was that I had gained even more weight since ordering that skirt. Then I thought "how is that even possible if my clothes still fit?" I laid awake last night thinking about foods I will stop eating and vowing to ride my bicycle to work as soon as the weather allows. 

I sent that skirt back this morning, slapping the free shipping label onto the box with disgust. Then I looked outside and it was snowing and I hated all things. Except cheese. I am a prickly pear and it took me half the morning to figure out the real reason besides hormones for the my prickly pear syndrome. It is March 14th, the day before the Ides of March, the day Chris and I got married because it was Spring Break. We would have been married nineteen years today. The prickly pear syndrome comes from not wanting to remember or acknowledge that I would have been married for nineteen years. It is symptom of trying hard not to acknowledge a past life because I have moved on to a different one. 

Last week, I caught the tail end of an interview on NPR with Patton Oswalt. At the end of the interview he said "You know, you can say you're through with grief all you want, but grief will let you know when it's done." I wanted to tell him that it will never be done. You're going to think it is done. You haven't felt any twinges or leaky eyes in a while. You actually feel happy about your present life and then out of nowhere grief steps up and taps you on the shoulder. "Hey let's dance some more. I'm not done yet!" That's when grief turns into that crazy drunk guy you can't shake at the club. He may be kind of cute, but you're not interested and you're tired and ready to go home for the night. Yet, you are too polite to say no. You follow him back out onto the dance floor and think about ways to ditch him when he's not paying attention. You are not having any fun. 

Dates, numbers. They are too significant at times. Maybe if I focus on the irritating fact that I am sending a skirt back for the second time because it is too small, I won't notice what day it is. If I complain and gripe about how it is snowing in March (it is still winter, I don't know why I am complaining) I won't think about how our original plan was to get married on the fifteenth of March until we remembered Shakespeare and moved it up a day. If I spend enough time focused on criticizing my weight, I won't feel grief tapping on my shoulder trying to drag me back to that dance floor.

It has been five years. My feet hurt and I'm tired of dancing.  

THE LIES I TELL MYSELF

Rainy days and Mondays

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Lately, I've been thinking a lot about that last year with Chris. At times the memories of it comes to me in a rush, a big swirl of moving stress and clap happy happiness. There were times I was so happy it physically hurt. We were so happy. This is what I tell myself. I say that we were stupid happy, the happiest we'd been in ages. And for a while now, I believed this. I believed that Chris was just as happy as I was. I believed we were happy. Lately though, as I look back on fading memories, I think that maybe that wasn't true. I don't think Chris was stupid happy with that last year. 

How awful and hard typing that sentence is, but there you have it. Oh, I'm sure he was happy enough, at least up until maybe October. He was happy that I was happy. He was the type of person that received more joy from participating in acts that provided happiness and joy and seeing the resulting smiles than the other way around. Making Chris laugh, really really laugh more than a chuckle, was not easy but when you did, it was the best magic. Chris felt joy in seeing my elation with the new changes in our life, but mostly I feel like he was just humoring me. He was just going along with my choices. We stayed in Oklahoma as long as we did because of my job. We left Oklahoma because of my job. Our decisions seem more like my decisions. I see it more clearly now.

I can imagine his days here beginning to wear on him, the loneliness in his days at home with out a job while I left the house every day to go to a job I enjoyed. It was probably worse late at night when he'd normally be meeting Tracy for coffee and now was left with his own devices. I took him away from his framily. For a while, I was enough but I could see as the year progressed that he needed more. That on top of the beginning of the symptoms that would kill him was a sadness of isolation. If I think really hard about that time, I see it. I see the consequences of my selfishness or my self centeredness and I hate myself for it. I used to be all "no regrets!" but now I see I have one really big regret and it is way too late to say "I'm sorry. No excuses. I am sorry." 

I so desperately wanted to ignore the small details. Except now, I have had enough time to dwell on the big things that all that is left are the small details. It is like I've spent the last five years taking a shirt apart seam by seam. I've made it to the pockets, buttons and cuffs. At some point I am either going to have to send the pieces of this shirt to recycling or put it back together. I am bound to put it back together with crooked seams and with the right sleeve on the left. When I am done getting it all back together, I'll look at it, with crooked seams and all, and declare it to be beautiful. 

Even if it is a lie.

LAUGH OUT LOUD OFTEN

Party

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Michael and I use a calendar app called Cozi to organize dates because it is a calendar app that we can use on multiple devices. When I add something to the calendar through my iPhone, it shows up on Michael's Android (or whatever phone he has). Cozi also pulls from a Random Act of Kindness calendar and we get little reminders to do things like buy a homeless person a meal or be nice to a strange and then it reminds us to take out the trash. Sunday, Michael said "According to Cozi, tomorrow's Laugh Out Loud Often and Share Your Smile Generously Day." My reply was "That sounds about right because tomorrow would be Chris's birthday." Meaning today. Today would be Chris's forty sixth birthday. 

I am usually bombarded with Facebook notification to wish Chris a Happy Birthday! or someone has wished Chris a Happy Birthday. That's not happening this year because I have managed to fuck up Chris's Facebook account. Back in December, maybe even Christmas Day, I discovered that Chris's Facebook account had been hacked. I know his account was hacked because Chris sent me a message through Facebook. Getting an email from a dead person is creepy and not at all helpful during the holiday season. Any way in my attempts to hack into Chris's hacked account, I ended up locking his account. I thought I had gone through the process of unlocking that account, but I noticed a few weeks ago that Chris was no longer in my friends list. When you search for him, he doesn't exist. Which actually makes sense because Chris doesn't really exist any more. Chris is dead. I am working on getting his account unlocked so we can at least turn it into a memorial page. 

I woke up at 3:00 AM Sunday morning to the Cabbage screaming. I opened the door to find her standing in the living room, yelling at Michael to wake up and crying because she had a nose bleed. She looked like she had just stepped off the set of the latest slasher film. I took her into the bathroom and cleaned her up, calmed her down and got the nose bleed to stop. I put her back to bed and then went through the process of trying to wake Michael up to go lay with the Cabbage. After the fifth time of telling Michael about the Cabbage's nose bleed he finally looked at me and said "Well..I didn't know any of this." He got up and went to the Cabbage's room. Later in the day, the Cabbage squirted soap into her eye during bath time which brought on another round of screaming along with a nose bleed. Micheal started getting mad because he couldn't tell why the Cabbage was screaming because she was incoherent. I made him step away and once again found myself cleaning her up, calming her down (so I could rinse out her eye) and stopping a nose bleed. Once she was dressed, she sat whimpering while I brushed her hair. She let out a loud whining "Am I going to die?!?!?". 

My first instinct was to tell her the truth but then common sense clicked on. I figured that it wasn't a good idea to tell a six year old that, yeah...someday, you're going to die. Instead, I explained that soap in the eye is not life threatening, it just stings a whole lot. I continued to brush her hair in an out of body sort of way, letting my brain float somewhere far away. It's a practice I perfected during the summer when their complaining would reach a limit I could no longer bare. I would imaging getting in my car and just driving away somewhere. Wow, my life sure is different then it was five years ago when I was frantic to make Chris's birthday a good birthday for him, seeing as it was his last and all. He never complained about it, but Chris was not one to complain. The guy had a tumor on his liver, blocking his bile ducts for more than two months before he would finally admit that his pain was bad enough to go the emergency room. Maybe that's why I have a low tolerance for complainers and this entry feels a little derailed.  

Laugh out loud often and share your smile generously. I might be struggling with that today, but on most days I think I share my smile with others. I admit that I don't laugh out loud as often as I used to, but I still laugh daily. Some time I purposefully think back to a moment where Chris said or did something that made me fall over with laughter. I never have to think too hard, because it was pretty much a daily occurrence. I take a moment to contain a fit of giggles over the memory and then I go about my day a little lighter.   

PRONOUNS

Camper

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Michael and I spent pretty much the whole day on Saturday at the RV dealership in camp trailer boot camp. We learned all the things about our camper. We helped winterize it and fold it up. They gave us a $50 gift card and shopping cart with our names on it so we could buy camper things like those wedges you put behind the tires to keep your trailer from rolling away and decorative camper lights. Then we signed a bunch of papers, hooked the truck to the trailer and ever so slowely creeped our way out onto the open road. We headed straight over to the closest Thai restaurant because we had skipped lunch. I ordered shrimp Pad Thai and Michael ordered a mushroom stir-fry. While we waited, he leaned across the table with a wide grin and stage whispered "We got a camper! Somebody up there must like us." 

I grinned back, but the somebody up there part of his words kind of punched me in the chest. We talked more about the camper and I said "we need to name it!" Michael said we should name it something Chris related. Our waitress set our steaming plates of Thai food down in front us and I shoveled in a fork full of noodles. Michael asked if he could steal a bite while I slowely chewed and I nodded my head as the lump of noodles in my mouth seemed to grow. I put my head in my hands as I concentrated on swallowing the lump of growing noodles and then I started crying. Of course this left Michael stammering and asking what was going on. "Can you talk to me?" He asked and I just shook my head 'no' while my throat closed up around Pad Thai noodles and tears streamed down my face. I finally had to excuse myself to the restroom and clean myself up. When I came back to the table, I said "It was something about the somebody up there statement and the fact that this Pad Thai tastes just like Chris's Mom's that set me off." Which is all true.

The idea of naming the camp trailer something Chris related makes me want to stomp my foot and yell "NO!" In fact, right now I can imagine the satisfaction of throwing something in a rage at a wall and watching it shatter, something heavy and made of glass. I can see myself shoving all of the things off a counter top or tossing a table, Hulk style. The whole thing makes me mad and want to wail. I miss him without wanting to miss him. I am frustrated that my identity was so much Chris and Cindy and so very little just Cindy and that more than half the stories I tell Micheal start with "One time, Chris and I..." I've finally gotten a grasp on my own identity and I've maintained that individuality even in my relationship with Michael. We have our own separate things, though we've been moving closer to a merging. There is Cindy. There is Michael and there is Cindy and Michael. I don't want to name the camper after Chris. The camper is our thing, Michael's and mine. Chris and I never talked about getting a camper. I talked about it. Chris was all high tech tent gadget camping. This camper is OURS! Fuck Chris. Fuck all of this. I can hear the words in the back of my brain, but I will never say them out loud. "It's not fair." It isn't, you know, not to any of us, but I don't say it out loud because the response to every child's whine of 'it's not fair' is always 'life isn't fair.' Buck up, Buttercup. 

I haven't figured out yet if Michael thinks that buying this camper is part of making me happy sort of like when he built the chicken coop. As if building a chicken coop and buying a camper will exorcise the ghost. I feel guilty about it, the way he goes above and beyond to take out that sadness that has settled in. I'm not sure I am entirely worthy of all of that effort. Michael just wants to make me happy, which at times I really don't understand. I admit to being emotionally numb for the last few weeks. Things that I should be happy about just make me shrug my shoulders with meh. I've plastered a smile on in hopes that no one really notices, but I'm no actress. When we left the dealership with our camper on Saturday, I felt a flutter of joy that I haven't felt in a bit. It had nothing and everything to do with buying the camper. I could imagine the future of riding along back roads with the dog in my lap and Michael singing along to some country song on the radio as we headed off to sights unseen. 

I could imagine a future.

DEAR AMERICA

Red white and blue

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Many of us started our morning with heavy hearts. Being on the losing team is hard. It is especially hard this time around because so many of us are worried about the future of our civil rights. Many of us who are not white, who are part of the LGBT community, who are Muslim, who are different, fear for our safety. So right now, I'm just asking the other half of the country to be a little patient. We are a little tender and frankly, scared. Donald Trump may end up not being so bad. I don't know. He never really ever told anyone how he planed on making America great again, so maybe it won't turn out all fire and brimstoney. In the grand scheme of things, I am most likely to take a hit on my 401K and will have to start paying for birth control pills again. The younger generation on the other hand are going to have their work cut out for them in the future. My friends who got married last year, may have to be defending the validity of those marriage licenses. That girl who got raped by her dad may not be able to abort that baby even if her own life is danger. 

My biggest concern though, right now, is how I feel about my fellow Americans, the ones who voted for Trump. I read on someone's post that Trump's acceptance speech was more indicative of how he will be as a president and not crazy and outlandish. I wouldn't at all be surprised if it turned out that Trump's campaign tactics turned out to mostly be an act, but that doesn't diminish the fact that people voted for him because of that act. Meaning, people I know, people I thought were good people, smart people, kind people, voted for a platform based on hate and discrimination. It is hard and disappointing to discover that a basic Christian value of treating others as you would want to be treated is not a universal belief. It is hard to admit that you know people who are racists. And it is hard for me to wrap my brain around the idea that this man really speaks to you. It is going to take me a bit of time to understand why you think this man represents you and the country you want. 

In the meantime I've also got to figure out a way to teach a little girl that even though right now in this country it doesn't look like it is possible, that she can be more than a trophy for a man. I have to find a way for her to be able to continue to make choices she needs to make for her health and her body. I have to find way to express to her how hard women have been fighting for the rights to their own bodies and how we are barely hanging onto those rights. I have to find a way to teach her that it is not okay to bully with hateful remarks those who disagree with you. We fight our battles not by calling others names like "fatty" and "whore" but with facts and common sense. I also have to teach her to find empathy and compassion for those she strongly disagrees with. That is something that I also have to teach myself. 

So...give me a minute, a few days even, to come to grips with this new situation. Be patient with me as I poke and prod out answers about why. All I'm doing is trying to understand. All I'm doing is trying to find the good in this country and find a way to work with our differences and it is just not going to happen overnight. 

OLD STEAM ENGINES AND DAD

And then an old steam engine showed up.

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While we were tooling around Science City the other weekend, I saw a group of people gathering around one of the second floor windows that faced the rail tracks. Curious, I went up to one of them and asked "What's everyone waiting for?" They told me that an old steam engine that had recently been restored would be pulling into Union Station sometime in the next ten to twenty minutes. We hightailed it out to the pedestrian bridge that crosses over the railroad tracks so I could get a good spot to set up with my camera. 

And then we waited. 

And waited.

People walking across the bridge to visit Union Station would stop and ask what we were all looking for. Once they were told of what could be coming around the bend, they would stop and our little crowd started to grow. We all took up a perch and waited.

And waited.

Then, way off in the distance, you could hear it, that slow hollow "woo-woo" sound of an old train whistle. You could just barely see a puff of smoke way off in the distance.

And we waited. 

You could feel the excitement spread through the crowd as the sound of that whistle grew closer and closer. That small maybe puff of smoke turned into a trail of smoke that you could follow and finally that steam engine huffed and puffed it's way into the station. I stood on that bridge snapping pictures (I have yet to upload and edit those) and I was a little surprised by the tears that welled up in my eyes blurring the view finder of my camera. I had started thinking about Dad. 

Dad loved all things mechanical and old, particularly cars and steam engines. In fact, I am sure that if Dad was still with us (both physically and mentally) he would have known way in advance about that steam engine visiting Union Station. He would have called me to tell me about it and we would have made plans for him to visit that weekend to see it. We would have had camp chairs out by the tracks, so we could sit and wait. And if I think about it hard enough, I can see his face. I can see the glint of excitement in his eyes and I can see his joyful expression as that train rounded the bend and came into view. It is such a clear vision in my head. I'm even positive he would have found a small train pin to put on his cap and he would have brought his old train whistle. And I would have taken a picture of him standing next to the steam engine.

That train was worth the wait.  

THE BIG SWIRL

Bling

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Michael has gotten real hipster with his beard and mustache. If he uses enough beard wax, he can twirl his mustache up into a curl on either side of his face. Yes, it's a little bit ridiculous, but I cannot express how much I love it. It's a little bit hilarious and a little bit sexy. Lately he's been thinking about suspenders and adding them to his work clothes. He wears dress clothes to work with a tie and everything. Over the weekend, he bought himself a set of suspenders and this morning he put on his blue and white checked shirt with his pink paisley tie and his new suspenders. I can't even. I came undone. I mean, usually I get a little turned on when he's all dressed for work, especially when he rolls up his dress shirt and his forearm is showing, but add the suspenders and well...I of course returned the favor by saying something about slowly taking all of that off him and rendered him speechless. 

That's something I'm really good at. Michael can talk quite a bit, but I can take a handful of words and say them just right as to turn him into a stammering rendition of Porky Pig. 

Then, I get a phone call reminding me of a life before this one. I sent in paperwork weeks ago to close out an account that Chris had had. I didn't know about the account until recently. I had supplied them with a death certificate and a notarized family tree starting and ending with me and Chris. Yet the place still had to call and ask me if I had obituary. I went blank. Obituary? I stumbled around online looking for one. I finally came across one that was in the Chickasha News. It contained a bad photo of Chris and a short paragraph announcing the memorial service. The whole thing made me wince. I can't believe I didn't write or have someone write and submit a proper obituary when Chris died. I didn't even think about it at the time. I didn't really think about a whole lot of anything at the time. 

"Couldn't pay my respects to a dead man. Your life was much more to me." - Neko Case

I could only imagine what the woman on the other end of the line thought as I sent her a link to this homely obituary. I wanted to tell her that she should have heard the things his friends said about him at his service or to go read through his facebook page. We all thought (still think) the world of Chris. We were just too surprised by his death to write about him. When I hang up the line, I'm perturbed that they would even be calling me to ask about an obituary. Don't you think a death certificate is enough? What about that whole depressing little family tree I sent in? The woman did ask about that. "No children?" said in a voice dripping with pity. I wanted to respond "thankfully, no." but instead I just replied "no." A widow is sad enough on her own without the added element of children.

This is almost a typical day. There's always a trigger. Some triggers are worst than others, like that phone call or when that one Mumford and Sons song starts playing. I see Chris, throwing his head back and opening his mouth wide to sing like a Muppet. This image is replaced with an image of Michael making a bad motorcycle sound as he drives us down the road and then watching him crack himself up over it. I'll read some political crap in someone's feed on Facebook and think about how Chris would write a response so sharp you wouldn't know you were cut until you noticed the blood and fallacy of your own statements. I always look at Michael when getting ready to leave a tip because he does the math without even really thinking and it is always correct. Chris genuinely laughing at something, probably the Simpsons. Michael laughing while twirling the ends of his mustache. The memories I have swirl together with the memories I'm making.

It is not a bad blend of colors.  

IN RESPONSE

Start

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A few days ago, Patton Oswalt posted a letter to grief on his facebook page. Those of us who have experienced the sudden (or almost sudden) loss of a spouse who read through his letter all nodded our heads with knowing and agreement. Many people have written to offer words of advice and encouragement. Yet, I hesitate. I don't have time to compile my own thoughts on this topic. Work is crazy busy right now and I leave for a conference in Boston at five AM tomorrow. I am tired of compiling my own thoughts on this topic. I write about grief too often and when I do, people start asking me about my mental health. Writing about grief is therapeutic as long as you're not letting the whole world wide web read it. Some of the time. 

The real reason I haven't thrown my words in for Mr Oswalt is that I am slightly annoyed that I have some words of wisdom or advice, even if unsolicited. Grief is not something anyone wants to be knowledgable about. It is not something you put on your resume. It's not something anyone wants to read on your dating profile on Match. It is knowledge that makes other people uncomfortable. Except, grief is something I know and I'm sitting over here biting my tongue trying not to add my two cents. For one thing, Patton Oswalt doesn't even read this blog and another thing, it puts me back into that genre of being a grief writer. Like that's my niche. I'm really good at writing about something really sad. Again...not something I would want to put on my resume. Despite all of that it looks like I am about to throw my two cents in here anyway. 

Dear Patton Oswalt,

Grief is going to be with you now for probably forever. I know some people have told you that it gets better or that you will find a way to move on. Those are very nice words with well meaning intentions. I wouldn't actually say they are lies, but they are more like half truths because even when you've gotten out of the crawling stage and back into walking and being a "normal" member of society, grief is still going to be with you. It will be laying just under your skin waiting for the most ridiculous moment to fester up and out, hitting you with an intense shock of pain and loss. I'm sorry. I'd love to sugar coat it for you and tell you that this is not the case, and maybe it won't be for you, but in my experience, it happens all the time. It usually waits until you're having a really good day as a reminder that your life totally went to shit at some point. You do not move on either. This is not a bad breakup or divorce. This is not a sudden job loss. You lost the person you chose to spend the rest of your life with. You do not simply move on from that. Of course, you are going to crave human interaction at some point. Sex is great! You're going to miss that and want to find a person to do that with, but it will not be "moving on". It will just be something different from what you had.

That part about those half truths that is the truth is that you get better. You get better at handling the grief. You get better at living with the grief. You find a way to cope with always having that layer of grief hiding just under the surface. Sometimes I think of it as something almost symbiotic. Some days that symbiotic relationship with grief is going to feel like a parasite and some days you're hardly going to know it's there. It just becomes part of your life. It doesn't mean that you can no longer experience joy or happiness. It just means that those moments of joy and happiness now have become really really important. You are now part of the club whose members know that every moment matters, every day is important. Life will be a bit more bitter sweet for you and at times those bitter sweet moments will cause a great rage to ignite in your belly. Rage. Let yourself be really stupid mad for about five minutes, then take a deep breath and enjoy the moment. Learn to make friends with grief or at least get along with it, because it's going to be with you for a long time.

And as far as moving on? Well, I want you to get the notion of moving on completely out of your head. You will not move on, but you will move forward. You're life will continue. Days and weeks and years will pass. All along the way you will hold onto the knowledge that you had someone really special in your life and how lucky you are for that. As you continue to watch your child grow and maybe even find new love, Michelle will never leave you. She too just becomes part of who you are now. I'm not going to lie. It sucks. Even now, when I'm happy and have someone in my life I love, it sucks. It's always going to suck just a little bit. Remember the whole bitter sweet thing. 

I wish you the best of luck in finding your way through all of it.

Sincerely,

Cindy Maddera

I'VE STOPPED BREATHING

Shroom

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The thing I find interesting about Our Town is the message of how you'll miss all of this when you're gone. Colors are more vibrant and even the most mundane item can be breathtakingly beautiful. A coffee mug. The weight of that coffee mug cupped in both hands, absorbing the heat from the hot drink in the mug. So pay attention now, kids! You don't get this stuff when you're dead. The flip side to this coin is what you no longer have when others are dead. Our Town is not about the living as much as it is about the dead. I wonder if Chris is standing just on the other side of some invisible wall, thinking the same thing. Are we both missing the things that are now gone? What's it like on his side of that wall?

Sometimes on dark days, I imagine the people I've lost wrapping their arms around my insides. In a Tim Burton inspired fashion, I see the ghost arms encircle my ribs and guts, my heart and I watch my internal organs turn gray and hard. Don't we all see our lives as a movie, our very own personal Truman Show? We all want to be a movie, a soundtrack, a star, even if it's that smallest most distant star. It's not so bad watching my insides turn gray and hard. I see it as invitation. "Hey, why not come hang out with us?" the dead say. And it's tempting. I'd love to veg out on the couch, watching dumb action movies all day with J or sitting in the driver seat of some expensive Cadillac as Dad drives us across several state lines to exchange it for a different fancy Cadillac. I'd love to spend the day doing anything with Chris. 

I've been forgetting to breathe. I'll be sitting at my desk and all of a sudden I will gasp for air as if I've been playing that game of how long you can hold your breath under water. I'm holding my breath. Every time it happens, I wonder about how long it's been since I last inhaled and exhaled. I know that part of this is all because I've spent the last month riding in cars and planes and hunched over microscopes or a lab bench. My chest has been closed off like a clam, but even clams need to open up and stretch sometimes. I used to do backbends all the time, opening up my chest, opening up my heart. Then my back broke and my heart felt squishy and vulnerable, so I stopped. Now the arms of the dead have wrapped themselves around my ribcage and my heart and I gasp for air like that goldfish I had as a kid who would jump out of the tank all the time. You'd walk into the room and he'd be laying in a damp puddle on the shag carpet, only his mouth moving as he struggled to breath air without water. That fish lived for ages despite all his suicide attempts. 

Today in savasana, I laid with a foam roller between my shoulder blades, my heart and lungs splayed open for all to see. I stayed there for ten minutes while I screamed inside my brain the whole time. It was torture. I could image the dead clutching to hold tight even while their fingers were being pried free. Before I knew it the ding of the timer was jolting me back to the here and now and the people I've lost no longer wrapped their arms around my heart and lungs. I am partly relieved and partly disappointed. 

WHERE I LEAVE CHRIS

Chris. Acadia National Park. Cadillac Mt, first place the sun hits the US every morning

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There it was. The Appalachian trail. I knew it was in Maine. I know the trail starts and or ends in Maine, depending on which direction you're walking. I just hadn't planned on venturing near any part of the trail. Too far north. Too far inland. Too little time. So I left Chris on top of Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park, the first place the sun hits the US in the mornings. We shared a sunrise, something I can't remember doing with him when he was alive. Well, not unless you count that time we were attacked by the raccoon and sat the rest out of the night out at the table, staring bleakly into the woods and jumping at any sound. This spot was a nice spot blocked from the wind on a rock ledge that faced East. There was still a good portion of ashes left when we returned the next day for a stamp. Then Talaura and I got obsessed with seeing a moose. So we started driving West in search of moose, taking us into the mountain forest region of Maine. 

Talaura saw the sign for it first and asked if I wanted to stop, if I needed to stop. We were eating chili cheese dog flavored potato chips and they all started to gum up inside my mouth as I said no. Hot tears filled my eyes and I suddenly felt like I was drowning in a wave of indecision and self doubt. Why didn't I split my supply of ashes? Why didn't I check with Talaura ahead of time about going near the trail? Am I honoring Chris the way I should be? Am I doing the right thing? Then I started sobbing because all of it made me angry. Chris, the Appalachian trail, his stupid ashes, livers and tumors, my self doubt. And I shook with the struggle between pushing the sobs away and just letting them come. In the end I said "OK...OK tears, you get one minute. Sixty seconds. Then you dry the fuck up." I didn't make a bargain with myself. No ultimatums. I just let myself have a minute. 

I am constantly swimming in a pool of self doubt. I'm a good swimmer and I can tread water enough to keep my head out of water, but it's exhausting at times. I never see that getting out of the pool is an option. Instead, I see that I have three choices. I can keep swimming, I can stop swimming and let myself sink to the bottom of the pool, or I can lean back and just float. In that minute, I floated. When my minute was up, I started swimming again and this time, I swam to the edge and got out of the pool. I started thinking about my choice to leave Chris on Cadillac Mountain. It was a good choice. I left him in a good spot. I stand by that. This trip was not about the Appalachian trail and it wasn't the time for me to leave Chris there. I still believe the Appalachian trail is something Traci and I have to do together. I think this is the most confident I've ever felt about places I leave Chris. 

I suppose it's about time I got out of the pool since I've been in long enough for my fingers and toes to become all pruny. 

THAT TIME I STARTED SOBBING IN TARGET

Paper bird

"Paper bird"

Initially I was in the toy section of Target to buy a birthday present for one of the Cabbage's little friends because we have to take the Cabbage to a birthday party on our weekend. We're creeping into birthday season, so I expect that many of our weekends will be spent driving from one party to the next. I probably should have let the Cabbage pick out the present, because I can hear the complaining already, but that's another story. Probably for Mother's Day. It was just easier for me to pick up a gift then to wait until we had the Cabbage with us. Then we'd be scrambling to get the present, wrap it and get to a party across town. I'll take the imagined complaints to save us from scrambling. Any way, I pushed my shopping cart down the so called "girls" isle, frowning at the Monster High dolls, which is what I ended up getting. I did notice that Barbie has a new reasonable waist. So head nod to that, Mattel. 

I turned my cart down the Star Wars isle because I noticed that they had restocked a bunch of things. I already have a Rey action figure, but she's a little bit bigger than the original figures. They make the original sized figures of all the other characters and I'm still looking for a Rey in that size. I went through everything on the shelves and never found a Rey figure. Nothing. The only Rey I found was the 'Janku' Rey with her speeder bike and it was more than I wanted to spend or should be spending. I did consider getting a Poe Dameron or the die-cast Millennium Falcon and it was while I was considering these things that a brick hit me in the face and I sat down hard in the middle of the isle and started sobbing.  

I cried because I was angry at manufactures for not providing enough Rey figures and I cried because I knew that half of those toys would be in our house by now if Chris was still with us. There would not be any hemming and hawing on whether or not to buy the Poe Dameron or the 'Janku' Rey. I cried because I was angry at the kid I'd heard weeks ago call them A-T-A-Ts instead of AT-ATs. I cried because I still wanted to slap my niece's boyfriend for calling it the Millennial Falcon. It's the MILLENNIUM Falcon, you idiot! Yeah, I probably shouldn't have said that out loud, but fuck it all. I said it.  I cried because I felt ridiculous for my comic book guy snobbery and know it all attitude about all things Star Wars. I cried because I knew so much about Star Wars in the first place. I cried because the teaser for the newest Star Wars movie had just been released. And God Dammit all, it is all just too fucking much. Because that person who should be here to appreciate all the Star Wars is not here and it's like having salt and lemon juice rubbed into paper cuts on my heart. 

I rail at the timing of everything. Why did they wait this long for a really good reboot of the Star Wars series?!? Couldn't they have released the latest movie just maybe five years earlier? At least he would have had that one movie before it all ended. Then I rail at the unfairness of everything. I want kick that whole "life isn't fair" thing in the shins, because I don't understand, can't even begin to comprehend, why it has to be so unfair. I am surprised by how violent grief has made me. I want a bloodletting. I just haven't decided whose blood needs to be let yet, but by golly, when I figure that out I'm coming at you with all of the knives. Not really. I'm more of a woman of thoughts and no action. But I'll tell you, my thoughts are bloody even when my rational brain is resigned to the idea of no Chris or Star Wars without Chris. Chewie without Han.

I wiped my face on the hem of my t-shirt and pulled myself off the floor. I took a deep breath and looked at the things in my cart. One Monster High Frankie Stein doll, some Shopkins, and a bag of hand soap refill. I nodded to the things in the basket and said to no one in particular "OK. OK." and I ignored the confused worried stock boy as I turned that cart around and continued with my shopping. That's it really. I just let the brick hit me and moved on.

As always. 

ENTER A POST TITLE

Today's fortune cookie prompt.

"Today's fortune cookie prompt."

I opened my Fortune Cookie journal to the next open space. "You will have a deep, meaningful conversation with an important person that will be life changing." I blinked at the prompt and tapped my pen against the paper. I set the pen down and picked up my phone, but then I set the phone back down because it was February sixth. I picked the pen up again and stared at the blank paper below the prompt. I was stumped. I didn't know if I should write something true or make something up. Girl meets the Dali Llama seemed too obvious. I made a sideways glance at my phone. I would not get on that sorrow train. I said this to myself as I once again picked up my phone to just take a peek to see if anyone had said anything about Chris's birthday. There was one "Happy Birthday" in Chris's timeline from someone I did not know. 

It was seven thirty in the morning. The day was young. I was sure that there'd be more birthday wishes to follow. I was curious about this first birthday message though. This stranger's "Happy Birthday!" seemed more like the kind you'd leave for a living human being. Maybe this person didn't know Chris was dead. Of course that's dumbs. How could this person not know Chris is dead? I'm in this limbo of feelings: sad that no one else has posted on Chris's timeline even though it's 7:30 in the morning and relieved that no one is making a big deal that it's Chris's birthday. I am slightly annoyed by this stranger's generic "Happy Birthday!" Way to make your birthday wishes so personal and heartfelt, Dude. I put my phone down and stopped trying to stalk a dead man, but I knew that I would end up checking Chris's timeline throughout the day. 

I returned my focus back to my journal. Conversation with an important person. The whole "important person" is a relative term to me. Anyone and everyone can be an important person at any given time. It just depends on the conversation and if this so called important person is saying words that you need to hear in that moment. I've had a number of deep, meaningful conversations with Terry in his backyard church. I consider Terry to be an important person, but that guy over there walking down the sidewalk would think otherwise. There was that time I gushed all over Brene Brown about how I was so dang happy, but that was less of a conversation and more of a vomit of emotions. After that, I learned to never admit just how happy I was. I could be happy, but I could not be stupid happy, because I learned that disasters follow those kinds of confessions.

In the end, I decided to write something honest, a conversation with Chris. I still want to talk to him. I want to know what he thought about Star Wars and how Deadpool will pan out. It would be nice if he finally told me what he wanted done with his ashes. It would be nice if he told me that he approved of the way I've handled myself in the years since he's been gone. I'd love to ask him who this guy was that left a Happy Birthday message on his Facebook timeline. I'd love to hear him say something that will make me laugh. He has not come to me in a dream in ages and maybe that's his way of saying "Move on. You will never know the answers to your questions." Except, I don't want to move on. I'm not ready to move on. I'll move forward. I have been moving forward. There's a difference. Moving on sounds like something you do after breaking up with a bad boyfriend. 

I know you're sitting over there reading this and thinking "Good God, are we going to hear her whine about her dead husband every year?!" Yes you are. So just assume that this blog comes with a warning label in February: Warning! Contains sadness and grief! May not be suitable for those not ready to talk about or are tired of hearing about death. It's going to be a topic around here probably every year around this time. Because that's when the memories of the horror of it all haunt the loudest. That's when I force myself to remember Chris as he was before he got sick so I don't remember the last morning. So I have the good memories clanging against the bad memories in an epic sword fight, poking my brain, my heart.

February is the worst. 

I BOUGHT A COAT

Flock

"Flock"

Michael and I were sitting in a restaurant a few weeks ago and Michael was all glued into his phone (this is ironically funny because he used to tease me about being on my phone all the time and now it's him that's on his phone all the time). He said "It's going to be twenty degrees colder next week than it was this week." This statement caused me to slump in my seat and frown. I looked at him and said "winters get harder and harder every year." He told me it's because as I get older my bones get closer to my skin. I just responded to this with a raised eyebrow. I doubt seriously that my bones are any closer to my skin this winter than they were last winter or the winter before that.

It's just that something happens during the winter solstice and a switch gets flipped in my brain. A melancholy sort of settles in like a storm system and I feel like I'm struggling to be positive and joyful. Maybe this is the year I start taking drugs. I say that to myself every year. At the very least, maybe this is the year I buy one of those therapeutic sun lamps or maybe this is the year I just become resigned to the fact that winter is hard for me. Winter represents the taking away of good things. Warm sunshine. Scooter rides. Bicycle rides. Comfortably being outside. Chris. It dawned on me today while I was in savasana that for the life of me I could not remember the sound of his voice. Could not. Can not. I can't remember what Chris's voice sounded like. The realization of this was an Icee in the face. I even gasped for air like you would do when surfacing from a frozen swimming pool. Moments earlier, I'd come up into Warrior I with a giant smile on my face. Now I was racking my brain trying to remember the last thing I heard him say (coherently) and struggling to breath.  Bipolar grief. 

Then I get angry and I start remembering the few things about Chris that pissed me off. Like how he would say that any time I asked him to do something, I was nagging him. So much of the stuff in the basement is garbage that Chris couldn't get rid of when we moved up here. Now they're things I don't know how to get rid of. I never told you about the dreams I had where Chris was really mean to me. He said hateful, awful things to me and I know it's irrational to be mad at someone for what they did in a dream, but I sure am mad at afterlife Chris for saying those mean things to me. I want to make the excuse that it's the cold that makes me disgruntled. It's the angle and distance of the sun from the earth that makes me cranky. Disgruntled and cranky are just alternative emotions for dealing with the memories that these are the months where everything turned to shit for a little while. For a long while. 

The other day, I found myself getting really irritated because someone in front of me wasn't doing something the way I'd do it. There is a stubborn I-am-right-about-everything streak that bubbles up inside me at times and I have to remind myself that I am not right. My way is not better. Their way is not wrong. It's all just different. In that moment I decided to stop being angry over choices other people make because those choices are their's, not mine. It's like being angry over spilled milk that you didn't even spill. What if I did that now? Applied that theory to winter and grief? I didn't chose any of the events that led to everything turning to shit. Neither did Chris. Those things just happened. Just because. It's the answer that you give every four-year-old after they've asked "why?" fifty bagillion times. Yes. It is an incredibly unsatisfying answer. We inherently want things to be more, mean more than "just because". Sometimes there is more than "just because", like finding my scooter key when I found it. Mostly there is not more than "just because". 

Friday, I let Michael talk me into buying a new winter coat. The coat I had been wearing was bought for Oklahoma winters. I had to wear an extra layer under it here and then the zipper went wonky during Christmas break. So, I grumbly agreed that it was time for an upgrade. I now have a coat that is more suited to Kansas City winters. It keeps me warm without adding an extra sweater.  And because it keeps me warm, I was able to take back something that winter likes to take away. I was able to comfortably take my walk outside. When the sun finally broke through the cloud cover, it may not have been close enough to physically warm my face, but it emotionally warmed my heart. 

VOODOO

Todd and I left Chris @VoodooDoughnuts with a bacon maple doughnut. #VoodooDoughnuts

"Todd and I left Chris @VoodooDoughnuts with a bacon maple doughnut. #VoodooDoughnuts"

I believe it happened when Chris and I were watching something on the Travel Channel about Portland. There was a story about Voodoo doughnuts. As soon as they mentioned bacon maple glazed doughnut, Chris was in. Portland was officially put on our list of places to visit because we might want to live there one day. All because of a doughnut that had a couple of strips of bacon pressed into the maple icing on top. We made our visit to Voodoo on our way out of town to take a day trip to the beach. Chris bought the last bacon maple doughnut the place had and before he took a huge bite out of it, I took a picture. I cannot express to you the level of disgust I have for that doughnut. I could not watch Chris eat it because every time I looked at that doughnut, I gagged. The picture I took also makes me gag. The bacon looks old and shiny with grease and the smell of maple glaze alone will induce diabetes. 

I knew that I would be taking some of Chris with me on this trip. I know that my plan is to leave Chris in places we've never been before. When I travel to knew destinations, he's traveling too. Sort of like that. Portland, though. I had to bring Chris to Portland. It was sort of like bringing him home. The problem was, I could not even think of where I was going to leave him. I sent a text to Amy just before leaving asking her if she had any ideas. She replied with two: Voodoo Doughnuts and Powell's Bookstore. Now Powell's was certainly a good idea. It is the biggest used and new bookstore I have ever been in. You could lost wandering through all of the different sections, up and down stairs. We spent hours in that place. But Voodoo Doughnuts? That just seemed like the most perfect place. 

The problem was how to go about it. I knew a bacon maple doughnut had to be involved in some way. Timing was also an issue. Voodoo Doughnuts has grown into quite the tourist destination. In fact, I've been told that the locals prefer a different doughnut shop. Voodoo is open twenty four hours a day and the downtown location sits right in tourist row. At any given time of day, there is a line out the door and around the corner. I was not going to be able to leave ashes inside any where. I knew that going in, but I didn't know where I'd be able to leave Chris outside in a way that wouldn't involve too many stares. I had plenty of time to think about it while I waited in line.

In the end, Todd and I decided to leave Chris in one of the flower pots just outside of the building. We placed a bacon maple doughnut in there with him. Todd actually ate a bacon maple doughnut to commemorate the event. He's taken my side, even though he ate the whole thing, and agrees that doughnut is pretty horrible. I know that some homeless person probably snagged that doughnut soon after we left. That almost seems fitting. Chris was the type to buy a dozen doughnuts just to give away. 

I did not have the meltdown I had expected in leaving Chris here. Good? Bad? I don't know. It felt right. It felt right leaving some of Chris here in his favorite city. I can't help but wonder if he'd see it as different as I see it today. After we left Chris, Todd and I walked down to a pub to get a beer. As we walked Todd said something about not knowing what to think about any of it. Death is the greatest mystery. When we leave Chris in these places, is he pleased? Or are we just making ourselves feel better? I like to believe it's a little of both, but I've stopped asking those kinds of questions that do not have answers. Instead I just hold onto the truths I already know.  

FATHERS' DAY

Happy Father's Day

"Happy Father's Day"

Sunday morning, I sat on the couch watching the Father's Day episode of CBS Sunday Morning I had in the DVR because this week's episode seemed to be all re-run stories. Steve Hartman was doing a story about moving his dad out of the family home. It was right around this time when Michael wandered out of his room. He looked at the TV and then asked if there were any good stories on today. I looked at him wide eyed and attempted to squeak out something about not being able to talk and then a sob bubbled up and out. I dissolved into a puddle of tears, leaving Michael standing there with a what-just-happened look on his face. I pulled myself together quickly, but it would be hours and hours before I could tell him about Steve Hartman talking to his dad about the house he had built for them all those years ago and going through all the old memories that house contained, deciding what to keep and what to throw away. 

I didn't do a Fathers' Day post here like I did for Mothers' Day. Mostly the reason I didn't write then was because I was still on vacation. I conveniently used it as an excuse to ignore the day. I'd given Michael his gift last month. His bicycle needed a new wheel and seat and I figured the sooner those things got replaced the better. Riding his bicycle is his yoga. I wished Michael a Happy Fathers's Day that morning and then went on with my day trying not to be bitter about not being able to call my dad and wish him a Happy Fathers' Day too. Dad will be gone a full year in August, though more than that really if you consider how the disease took his mind. Fathers' Day is hard now just like birthdays and anniversaries. There's a part of me that scrolled facebook on that day feeling pitiful as I looked at everyone's postings of pictures with their dads. It's easy to become bitter and begrudge others' happiness, so I looked away. Really. I'm glad you can still celebrate Fathers' Day with your dad or at least give him a call and send him a tie. 

This is what I would have told my dad on Fathers' Day this year. After years and years, my whole life really, of hearing about boiled peanuts and seeing them in every convenient store during every visit to Mississippi, I have finally tried one. Michael kept seeing them at every gas station we stopped in starting around Memphis. He'd never heard of them and kept asking me about them. I told Michael that I'd never tried one, that the idea of peeling open a soggy peanut disturbed me. Dad, I told Michael about all the times people asked you if you sold boiled peanuts and how you would make a face before politely saying "no". I told Michael that you had always warned me against them, but curiosity got the best of Michael which resulted in all three of us trying our first boiled peanut. And Dad? They are awful. The worst. Weeks later and I still have the memory of the horrid taste in my mouth. You were right to warn me. You were right to convince me that roasted peanuts are far more superior than boiled ones. Even when I was trying it, I knew you were right, but I was setting an example for a four year old who has a hard time trying new things. I have regrets for letting her try it, but it was her idea. Once she saw Michael trying one, she wanted one too. So there. 

Dad, you were right about boiled peanuts. Also...I miss you.

I'VE BEEN LEARNING TO DRIVE

One by one.

"One by one."

I have a whole thing written up about the chickens, introducing each one by name and breed. Except we have one that is still waiting for a name. The Cabbage gets to name that one. We have her with us for dinner this evening, so hopefully No Name will get a name tonight. Today is the last day of March and just like February, it has passed by in a blink. I was relieved to have February pass by so quickly. The passing by of March has left me with a spinning feeling like I was just spun out of a revolving door too fast. April you say? It's April? I'm not sad that March is over so quickly as much as I am shocked by it. March has been an odd month. Warm then cold then warm then cold. Today is warm. March has been flip-floppy and a month of vivid bizarre dreams.

One night I woke screaming because I had been dreaming that I had caught a rat. I was holding it just behind the head with one hand and the tail with the other. I was screaming for Michael to help me. He couldn't hear me and just sat on the couch eating popcorn. Meanwhile the rat was whipping it's head all around trying to bite me and I was screaming bloody murder. And that's how I woke up. Then there was the night I dreamed that Josephine figured out how to undo the latches on her crate. She got out and took a human sized dump on the rug and then tore up a bunch  of random things. I spent all this time cleaning up after her that when I woke up I fully expected to see a human size turd on my bedroom rug. 

Then, just last night, there was a dream that started out in a yoga class. I was on my mat doing my thing when I noticed this tiny coral colored scorpion heading right for my yoga mat. I spent the class trying to keep the scorpion away while doing yoga at the same time and I was so scared. I knew for sure that the scorpion was poisonous. When I got home from class, Chris was there. It was like he'd gone out to run an errand and came back and was all "hey, I'm back." I was confused and I remember saying something like "hey, that's great, but I'm with someone else now." Chris made a face and told me that maybe I needed to go lie down for a bit. I didn't wake screaming from this one, nor did I wake crying. I just woke up with almost crippling back pain.

I'm so tired of those dreams where I feel like I have to justify this new life of mine.  I can't understand why I'm never telling Chris to go fuck off. I did not leave. I was not the one that got sick and died. Sure it wasn't his choice, but he sure as hell didn't beat around the bush about it. As soon as he heard the doctors say "terminal" he got the ball rolling on passing on from this world. For the first time in Chris's life he did not procrastinate. I don't see why I'm the one left behind having to explain myself or why explaining myself is even remotely necessary in this situation. But my dreams do. My dreams feel the need to remind me of true fear, exhaustion and confusion. "Hey, your life is good now, but just remember. Remember what it's like to be so fucking scared and confused and exhausted, because all of that could happen again." 

All of that is true, but I'm certainly not waiting around and looking for any of that to happen again. You know what I'm going to do instead? I'm going to finish painting this chicken coop Michael built for me (us). Then I'm going to cuddle with the chicks and sing them some lullabies. I'm going to scratch Josephine's belly and then have a make-out session with Michael on the couch. And those March Madness dreams can march their way on out of here. 

BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH

Fire pit!

"Fire pit!"

We had a really nice weekend with most of it spent outside. Yard work turned into attending a St. Patrick's Day parade in Brookside. We ate green cotton candy and pizza. The Cabbage played with the neighbor kids and then that evening we built a campfire and cooked hot dogs. Then those same neighbor kids and their mom came over and made s'mores. The kids and Josephine ran around the yard while the adults chatted around the fire which was nice because we got to get to know our neighbors. And I like her. And get this. Her husband is a ghost hunter. That's his hobby. He was actually in Tahlequah, OK that evening on a paranormal investigation. Nicole, the woman next door, had sort of grown up in that house. It was her grandparents and she said that she had spent every summer vacation there. Her grandmother spent as much time outside as she could tending to her garden. There's this large stone structure in the back corner that I have been curious about forever. Did it used to be a chimney or a well? Neither. Nicole's grandmother had a large Virgin Mary shrine set up there. I'm really sad that it's gone. We talked about schools and homes and teaching teenagers math and we talked about Chris. 

The next morning I was sitting on the couch with my coffee watching CBS Sunday Morning when they mentioned something about the Ides of March. A little bell went off in the back of my head somewhere and I said "Oh...yesterday was mine and Chris's wedding anniversary." Michael said "Wait. You were married on Pi Day?!" "Yeah...I guess I did get married on Pi Day." I had never really thought of that before or put the two together. At the time Chris and I got married, Pi Day wasn't a thing. No one cared about 3.14159265359 and how that corresponded with March fourteenth.  We had originally picked March fifteenth, but then remembered the Ides of March thing and moved it to the fourteenth. It was Spring Break. These where the things we were thinking about when we picked that day. Saturday, I gave zero thought to it. When I remembered on Sunday, Michael asked "Do you think that's why Chris's name came up so much yesterday? Like 'hey, hello, I'm here'?" It makes sense. 

I feel a little guilty that I forgot our wedding anniversary. This would have been sixteen years. Traditional sixteen year wedding anniversary gifts include a silver tea set, a flask or a fountain pen. I would have gotten Chris a fountain pen, feeding his pen fetish. Chris has been around in dreams lately in his usual way of just being present. Last night, I dreamed that he had started selling baked goods out of the garage. I remember that walking up to him in the garage was like seeing an old friend you hadn't seen in a while. We even talked to each other in the same way. I asked him how he was doing and said that I thought the bakery was a good idea. It was obvious that we'd both moved on to other things. It was sort of like the end of The Way We Were when Katie and Hubbell bump into each other on the street. We were happy to see each other but awkward because we'd both moved on. I woke up wanting a cranberry orange muffin and a little sad to not be the girl who ironed her hair straight any more.  

But I'm not that girl any more and it wasn't our politics and convictions that drove us apart. I had only one choice and that was to move on. Though I don't like the sound of "moving on". It sounds like I'm leaving things behind. I'm moving forward while respecting the past. At least I hope that's what I'm doing.

I WALK THE LINE

Open heart. #40daysofyoga

"Open heart. #40daysofyoga"

February. That's my month. That's the month where all the memories of the past come swirling around and crashing into each other. That's the month where I feel that frantic need to just hold it together, for the love of Pete, just keep everything "normal". I feel the panic I felt then, the panic that came with the realization that all of this was real and there was nothing I could do about it. Chris was going to die. That's it. Get used to it. Take the time you've got left, which is very little, and make the most of it. There was a panic in that too. Making the most of the time left. It was like having a to-do list with too many things to do. Overwhelming. February is overwhelming. 

I suppose I have gotten used to it. I've gotten used to him not being here any way. With the exceptions of things that remind me of him. I'm sure he'd have a lot to say about the remake of the Ghostbusters and the all female cast. I can't imagine his feelings about the new Star Wars movies. But it's little things like these that pop up and make me want to ask "hey...what do you think Chris?" Except he's not around to ask. This used to make me fall to pieces. Completely undo me. Now it's just an annoyance and this where the line comes in. It should be more than an annoyance, but how do I reconcile this without hurting the feelings of the one I'm with now. Hey, I love you, but I also love this other man that I used to be with. It's not like we fell out of love or decided that things were not working out between us. We were both still in love when he left. Well, that love just doesn't go away. I don't even wish that it would. 

It just seems unfair. On both sides. There was a day a couple of weeks ago when I was I really sick. I was laying on the couch staring glassy eyed at the TV, watching Blended. Adam Sandler's character was tucking his youngest daughter in to bed and she asked him when he was going to meet another girl. The little girl was so matter of fact and Adam chuckled about how that was what her mother talked about all the time. Who was he going to date when she died? And this is how I found myself ugly crying through an Adam Sandler movie. These are things we never discussed, probably because Chris figured it didn't need discussion. Well of course, you'll meet someone and move on. That's a given. I remember when Melissa met Richard and before we knew it they were engaged. I was shocked by how fast it all went down. Chris treated it as a non-issue. Time shmime. He said "life's unpredictable. why should she wait?" I agreed completely. Of course he was right. I was just "wow that's fast". Which is funny because my situation was fast. Life's unpredictable. 

I'm pretty sure if you looked back in the archives, I wrote this entry last year. I've got five stories and they just keep repeating in a loop. Just like dad. Except my stories don't include chicken fried steak. It's a common theme around these parts. It's just that I've gotten so good a this tight rope act. I can even do that trick where you balance the chair on the rope and then do a handstand in the chair. February is that inner ear infection that messes with my balance. It's that sudden gust of wind that catches the umbrella I'm dancing with causing me to windmill my arms around trying not to fall. February is my vertigo, making the rope seem higher than it actually is. February is an asshole.