The Other Side

I got into a silly argument.
I said you can’t protect him.
They said yes we can and they said we resent being told we cannot.
And after I read those words I dope slapped myself.

They are on the other side.
They are on the side where sure, sure random “bad” things can happen but to other people. But as parents we can navigate and shield our child from them. Their side says “We CAN keep him safe.”

They are on the side that offers power and assurance.
They are on the side that creates an illusion of strength and fortitude.
They are on the side I used be on.
The side where I could remove the mere threat of pain or at least negate it away.
That side is where I could plan for the possible assaults to their beings and plan how to keep them out of harm’s way.
That side is where I talked to professionals and stayed up talking to my husband about what we needed to “do” to improve a situation for our child.

That side is driven by action words like: DO, EXPLAIN, PROTECT.

This side I’m on now is different.
This side says gently “You cannot protect but in their tears you can show them their courage.”
This side says “You cannot make it go away, but you can teach them that the feelings won’t swallow them hole and that they won't last either.”
This side says "I am but a steward for my children. They have their own paths which I know nothing of or understand." In this case, their paths include learning to handle the loss of their father.
This side says “Have faith.”
This side finds me in a heap on my bed humbled by my inability to shield them and knowing that this inability is KEY to the amazing people they are becoming.
This side says, “Trust and love fiercely without getting in the way of the bullets.”

This side drops me to my knees when I watch my daughter loose her sanctuary (her school) because of the death of another child's father in her class. And every day afterward, when she entered her class, she faced remembering how she felt just one year ago.

This side has me awed as I watch my youngest son calmly respond to a child who is stupid enough to say something cruel about my son’s dead father. I want to slap that child, but my eight year old son responds “I’m glad you don’t understand what it means to loss a parent. I don’t like what you said and I’m not going to talk to you anymore.” His wisdom beyond anything I have ever witnessed.

Those people are on that side of pretend power, of control, of DO, EXPLAIN, PROTECT.

I am on this side that says HOLD, LOVE, CRY and RELEASE.

From here I see the inspiring strengths of my children in a way that both marvels and humbles me.

From this side, I marvel at my children’s ability to thrive in circumstances that shut the coping door for many.

If I had to choose, I would never be on this side but now that I am here...

It is such a beautiful awe inspiring view.

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Sssshhhhhh!!!!

Shhh!

Do NOT talk about them.

Do not bring them up in conversation! Pretend they don’t exist.

Proper widows talk about proper topics. These two topics are socially don’t-ask-just-assume-the-best topics. Only the bold among my friends will broach the subjects.

SEX

Sex with a man I like is delicious, scrumptious, enticing, drug like, fun, exhilarating --- oh but wait....

I, widow (female) am not too discuss that need! That need that at the age of 45, is alive and glowing in me because it’s not about making babies anymore. It’s about the sheer fun of doing it!

I am not to converse about my need to be held, to be openly desired, to feel a man’s naked body up against mine. I am not to talk about how just imagining his intense breathing in my ear just ……yummy!

I am not to discuss my sexual desire.

It’s vulgar.

I widow, a mother to three poor grieving children who have lost their father so tragically is too angelic to consider ...

her loins.

and MONEY

cash, moola, dinero, buck, dough.. M-O-N-E-Y.

Last week a good friend said “So how are you surviving anyway?” I laughed cause really I didn’t know.

The words “wing” and “a prayer” flitted across my mind.

Running out of it puts the issue of money in my face daily. And with it comes the shame.

The idea that somehow we mismanaged, lived to high, didn’t work hard enough, were foolish, not responsible…all of it presses down on me until it’s absorbed into my skin becoming part of my being.

I believe the whispers that say incompetent, fool and spender and then I look down at my three year old jeans, the ones I jam my ass into every summer. he ones that one day soon will split across the seat from so much wear.

Because the rule is, because we believe that if you are a hard-working, red blooded American you always have money. And because somewhere along the line of being that hard working red blooded American we learned how to manage money through….

osmosis.

And Rick Edelman, Suze Ormond and David Bach.

Not from my parents.
My husband not from his.

Today I am sucking that shit out of me.

We had six months of savings in an account like all professionals suggest. He had a retirement plan. Society says stay home with babies. What they don’t say is , it’s not worth paying you for your time.

His life insurance company unjustifiably canceled his account. (Yes lawyers are now involved…on contingency) His parents chose not to support their grandchildren with one single cent although they are very able.

Been working my business (private K-12 school admissions and financial aid expert) and its growing and searching for a job at the same time. There has been little space for me to “allow the grief to come” like some counseled.

There were spots when I shoved it back down, deep and hard because I was on the phone with a client, taking to an admissions director or just had to figure out how to feed four on a not-even-well-balanced meal. There were doctor’s appointments that were put off. If it didn’t take so long to go to dental hygiene school (or cost so much) I’d go so I could clean my kid’s teeth. The teeth that haven’t seen those nice masked people with silver tools since 2008, months before Art’s cancer returned.

We budgeted. We stayed within that budget. Our credit card debt is below $3000. And yet the guilt borrows in, nesting in my essence. We must have missed something. If we did it all “right” I wouldn’t be trying to stretch a $10 into $100.

And I’m sick and tired of keeping this quiet. I’m struggling. I'm mad and I'm saying something.
I come out of the closet because I know I’m not alone.

But shhhhhhh

Don't talk about it, I am grieving widow. It's undignified.

I vacillate between sweat-inducing fear and believing that “If I leap, the net will appear.” I have leapt, I vision and pray and meditate and pray some more. Good has come my way…so many amazing gifts.

Only umm, God? This time You seem to be cutting it a little close!

The fear of having no money grips me, shakes me and says “you need to do something NOW!” but fails to include details. I continue to take action, trusting that the ground is not coming up at me as fast as it appears.

I know what I need to do to get food stamps. I know I can qualify.

And it all feels familiar, the fear, the anxiety, the not being able to see how I am gonna get through the next month or the next 5 seconds.

As I suck the guilt and shame from me, I find power, clarity, fire and a don’t’-mess-with-a-widow strength that is hard to contain.

I don’t know how this will work out.

But damn it, my husband died last year.

If I can survive his death. I can survive anything!

I am widow,

hear me ROAR!

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Men

I love men.

I love their athletic arms and their athletic legs.

I love the way they smile when they like me, when they look at me.

I like how I see their wheels turning, those sexual creatures. I like how I know how to stand with my butt just a little bit out so they can get a better look. I like how for some of them, it makes their day.

I like the power I have, how they get goofy when I smile at them, say hi or heaven forbid, stop to talk for a moment.

I love the way their hand touches, attentively, the small of my back, as they usher me through a door of a restaurant, to a car, out of some kind of "danger."

I like kissing them too.

Yes, I said THEM.

I like how their breath feels on my face. Or the roughness of their fingers as they stroke my face.

I like their deep voices. Their assured walks.

And I like myself with them. I like how I, at 45, feel confident knowing:

this is the body they can get, flabby belly, cellulite butt, small breasts....a good body, a body I know how to work, a body that knows how to teach them how to work it.

this is the loud laugh they can have,

this is the smart, quick business brain they can learn from,

this is the opinionated, thoughtful, idea generator that can help them,

this is a "good catch" that includes my kids!

I love how my priorities are clear...

my kids, my work, myself and my girlfriends and then....them.

I like that I am Kim Hamer, widow, mother, and no, not your lover.....yet. I like how I don't think about Art but all of this is because of him.

I like how Art's love for me oozes out and I am morphing into everything he thought I was, confident, kind, brilliant, spiritual and well worth waiting for every clock in the world to strike 12 noon.

I also really, really like that,

for now,

I don't have to worry if they don't put the toilet seat down.

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Happy Mother's Day?

Kids and I on a hike. 2007

Since Day 365 I have been haunted by Art. It’s like making it to that day I somehow expected that he’d show up at the door and yell “Just Kidding!” …at which point I would beat him to a pulp and then cover every bloody inch of him with kisses. After Day 367 that fact that he's not coming back is more real, almost tangible. And it makes me so very, very sad. It’s like this low level hum, not quiet irritating, not quite clear, but there, vibrating fast of enough for me to know it’s present, not loud enough to make me crumble. It seems to make my movements, my speech and my joy, not less bright but well, less something more empty perhaps. Like they are in a shadow.

Happy Mother’s Day!

(But where is the guy who helped me become a mother?)

This is a day we honor all mothers

(He’s not coming back, is he.)

You are special.

(Not special enough to bring him back.)

Today is the day we honor what you have given to the world.

(His mother would dispute that I’m sure. That world took her son.)

You are the unheralded heroes who raise our future citizens.

(This hero found nothing to say when her youngest was crying about his missing father today.)

You are amazing, full of courage and fortitude.

(OK I’ll take credit there.)

The world is better because of your guts to grow and change and adapt and then change some more.

(True again. I did make to Day 365 which means I will make it to Day 730 and beyond.)

Your love for not only your children but for others determines how we love ourselves.

(Huh. Ya know… getting through this I have learned a lot about self love, about my own

strengths, about how to shine.)

How much we do owe you for your kisses that heal wounds both physical and emotional.

(Not all wounds can be kissed away. I am a mother, not God. But thanks anyway for the kind words.)

So make sure that you honor yourself on this Mother’s Day.

(Two years ago, wow now I say two years ago, he was gonna arrange for me to take the car (minivan back then), fill it with mother friends and head to the mountains for a long hike that would ended with us, the mothers, toasting to ourselves with mimosa and cheese and crackers. He was good, no?!)

So this Mother’s Day honor…

(I will honor. I will honor him for helping me to become a mother. This Mother’s Day I will say thank you to him for making me, the mother of his children, happy, angry, disgruntled, joyful, daring, faithful, tough, humble, fierce and too many other things to be named.

This Mother’s Day I will honor the way good, the bad and the way ugly of our 14 year marriage.

And next Mother’s Day

When I will say "three years ago,"

I will go to the mountains with mimosa’s and cheese and crackers packed by me but enveloped in his love.)

Happy Mother’s Day to me.

Happy Mother’s Day to you.

Happy Mother’s Day to all of us.

We matter more than we will ever know.

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Overheard Conversation

Heaven is just behind him. Do you see it?

(On a car trip to a friend's house for a play date as told to me by B's dad.)

B: I have two houses now. My mamma and papa aren't living together anymore.

Ezra: I have two homes too.

Ezra: I have one in heaven.

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Avoiding

I'm avoiding...
my bedroom, my pillow, my scrumptious flannel sheets (Its been cold in LA)
cause he's in there, waiting for me and I don't want to see him
feel his emptiness,
be held only by his memory

So I'm up. It's one am. I will sleep less than 4 hours tonight and tomorrow I will continue running,
avoiding,
ducking,
and running some more,
until the loss of him catches me
and I sink into the hole
of grief.

I will making phone calls so that others can remind me how far I've come, that I don't stay in the hole for long.
That I
always
come
out.

Does this cycle ever end?
I know it doesn't and that is why I duck and weave.
Thinking that maybe I can outsmart it, thinking that maybe once it will pass over me and I won't have to be reminded that it will always find me.

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Day 365

The impromptu Memory Wall that went up in Ezra's classroom today.
Art's sister looks on as other students add to the wall

Today

was

a

beautiful day.

I am

here.

At day 365

not just standing

but rooted

grateful

and

joyful to take the next breath.

The grief is not gone.

Do not be fooled.

It will lurk within me

surface at unforgettable moments

until I draw my last breath.

But today

T-O-D-A-Y

I am

I am

grateful to Art.

Grateful for the life we had together

and

grateful

for all those people

none and unknown

close to me

and distant

mean,

empathetic,

helpful,

hurtful.

I stand here

because of all of them

because of me

because of Langston, Pallas and Ezra

It's day

365

and the

sun

feels

glorious on my face.

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I'm OK?

Today looked like this....

I got up.

I laughed before the big toe of my left foot hit the floor.

I left at 8:15 for an 8:30 class that was a 20 minute drive away.

I drove giggling...my lateness, some things never change.

I didn't know anyone in the class.

I didn't feel like knowing anyone from the class.

At the class, I didn't eat the granola bar, tossed the too sweet yogurt and drank 4 little bottles of water (borrowed from my the table mates, the ones I didn't know.)

I drove home and sang till I coughed.

I made a semi-nutritious lunch for my kids out of food I already had in the refrigerator!

I made a really nutritious lunch for myself. (Spinach, yellow peppers, avocado, pine nuts and goat cheese. Tossed with more balsamic vinegar than olive oil.)

I braved Target at 2:30 pm shopping for clothes with my two youngest. We didn't run over anyone while we were telling each other jokes.

I put together a telescope. I saw the pink-purple flowers of the Morning Glory way in the back yard REALLY well.

I dropped off my daughter for her (as of this minute) first successful sleep over in over 1 1/2 years.

I was truly interested listening to Ezra's hypotheses about weapons, bombers, fighter planes and tactical ways to win over an enemy.

I paid attention as he went on and on and on and on and on and on and on.

Just he and I went to see Avatar. It was a 7:45 pm movie. He's usually in bed by 8:30. We didn't get home till 11:00.

Now at almost midnight, I am laughing again.

I'm OK.

His death didn't destroy me.

Didn't remove my essence.

Didn't consume me.

And I'm still standing

and I find my feet are encased, ensconced in this new earth.

I wriggle my toes and notice that I cannot move the earth that covers them.

I laugh so hard....I pee.

My friend said, "How are you doing?"

Today, I didn't lie.

"I'm ok." I told her

And I am.

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Ugly

“He’s in our thoughts and prayers.”

“We are sending a blanket of love.”

Those are words I read today about a boy, who like Art is

battling his second round of cancer.

He’s doing a better job than Art did

and I’m NOT doing a better job at begin gracious.

Instead, when I read those words of love

And support

Ms. Cynic thinks

“Save your breath!”

“Those good thoughts and prayers

Don’t work.

If they did,

I wouldn’t be writing this column.”

Silly, stupid, people.

-------

That boy died earlier morning on Friday, March 26.

The grief sucked me down its whirlpool, shame followed

And anger was fast on its heels.

Only this time, I bobbed to the surface

Before I got too much water up my nose.

The whirlpool didn’t take me down as far and I am not as disoriented.

I cry because I know where his mom will go

I know the journey of loss

and the idea of someone I know walking it

Makes me scream myself raw

and punch trees

and crumble to the floor and say

“Why her? Why her?”

Brooks….I’m sorry.

I wanted those silly, stupid people to be right.

I really wish they had been right.

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Cataracts

"You have cataracts" my eye doctor declares.

"I what?"

You have cataracts, she says, this time a little more slowly since I obviously don't understand her.

"But I'm 45 year old" I think.

Out loud I say, "Aren't I a bit young?"

She says "Yes but it was probably bought on by the low dose steroids you've been on for years due to your asthma.

There is silence.

She continues, "In 2 - 3 years, you can have this surgery that will repair your eyes to seeing better than you did when you were 20."

I'm not listening.

Who is going to take care of the kids and me when I have surgery? Who is going to help us for the days afterwards? Who is going to drive me to the doctor's office, go grocery shopping, tell look over Langston's should while he's on the computer or do Pallas's hair is done.

And the rage punches me in the back.

In sickness and health, in sickness in health!!

What about my sickness Art? Huh!

I did your sickness, what about mine!!!

I leave the office deflated and feeling old and

full of rage.

"You @)(*#$! You skipped out on ME!"

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Happy )@*# Valentines Day

This is my grief support group.

Art hated Valentine's Day Every year, annoyed by the hoopla he'd say,"No darn card company or flower company needs to tell me how to tell you I love you."

So today I give the finger to Valentine's Day.
Who needs you.
Who wants you
And
I hate you for reminding me of the big fat hole that exists in my life this and every stupid day I draw a breath.

This fingers for you Valentine's Day

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Feb 2, 2010 And Then We Dance

Ezra at the end of our latest dance party.

I'm not sure how it starts.

I'm never sure how they start.

But there is this collective agreement.

A collective need to release the energy.

And so one of the kids turns the music on and we are having a ...

SPONTANEOUS DANCE PARTY!!!

We take turns recording our latest and most definitely, best dance moves.

We don't care if we are out of rhythm (which rarely happens because they inherited my dancing ability, not Art's...phew.)

We don't care how silly we look.

We watch ourselves in the reflection of the large, dark windows, calling to one another when we think we have done something really cool.

"Hey Langston watch this!" 

"Hey Mom did you see this?" 

"Hey Pallas, does this look stupid?"

We are laughing and moving and sweating. Are legs carry different loads of our body weight in brief moments, our hips gyrate, our belly's tighten as our minds focused on giving our bodies just the right command:

    jerk your shoulders back, but gently,

   wiggle your butt but only on the third beat,

   swing your arms to the left, then only slightly to the right.

We each try to imitate something the other one does.

And then ... 

I am playing mom again.

Time to get ready for bed.  We are panting and smiling and grateful for the trust, the intimacy, the freedom to express ourselves to music.

And in those dance moments, I see us as a family.

A whole family, not one MISSING A DAD, but one that is STRONG and LOVING (and has good rhythm).

I know this is what we do for each other.

We dance.

We trust.

WE RELEASE AND ALL IS WELL.

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January 29, 2010 Killing to Bring Him Back

Ezra is remembering his last day with his dad.

"I was so sad I couldn't cry," he says flatly.

"I was crying on the inside, not on the outside." come the adult observations in his little 7-year-old mouth which...

begins to quiver.

"I didn't get to say goodbye to Daddy!" he sobs, regret and anger in his voice.

I say a mommy-stupid thing, something like,

"You said goodbye in your head."

Hoping that this mother guess is dead on.

Hoping to avoid a lifetime of regret that my adult self is sure he will feel....

because I do with so many things.

"No, I didn't. I didn't say it out loud and I didn't say it in my head."

And his tears flow.

The next sound is my own sob.

"You can say goodbye now if you'd like. We can write a letter, or say a prayer. Daddy is still right here (I touch him in his chest). He'll hear every word."

Ezra declines.

"I would kill to have him back," Pallas says later


"I would too," I say and then I stop.


No, I wouldn't.


I couldn't bear to put someone else through this.

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January 25, 2010 Clearing Out

He says, "Mom, can you find money in the budget for two people to go to the movies?"

"Sure. What movie do you want to see?"

"Mom, not with you."

I fake cry which includes a snicker and a smirk.

"With who then?"

"A girl."

I act all casual, making my self busy picking up discarded tissues, socks, anything to keep the conversation going and to make him feel that we are NOT having a "talk."

"Whose the girl?"

And the conversation continues. By the time we are done, his floor is clear of all debri and I have managed to dust but not to iron the curtains.

I kiss him goodnight. I leave the room, head to the kitchen, standing in it's stark light and begin to cry.

It's not that I miss Art. I knew this would happen. This life thing -- it contiues on, ya know.

I am crying because I am confused.

This week's events culminating in tears splattering on a white linoleum kitchen floor in desparate need of a cleaning.

I have spent the week cleaning out cabinets, tossing items that we no longer need. It started with the spice cabinet. "Allspice. What the hell do you use allspice for? And why do I have two bottles of it?" And "I am sure that brown is not the color of Paprika." I reach in and toss the jars, and then I move to the other food cabinets. I move to the kitchen. "Would love this pan, if I could remember to use it."

Then to the cabinets above the table where there are bowls and flower vases and plates that I mean to use but forget that I have. They are taken down and cleaned and put into a pile becasue I am going to have a garage sale.

I am shedding. Shedding our past life, shedding Art. I am growing beyond what we were.

Making room for me, no more us.

I had shed him already in my relationship with the kids. No more "Let me check with Daddy." or "What did Daddy say?" wondering if they are telling me the truth.

But now that I have been through the kitchen, the pantry and the living room I feel light and free and fucking terrified.

I shed more.

I stand in the kitchen, not sure what to do or feel or think. This is my life now. My life. The kid's life. And ... I have no idea where I am going.

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January 23, 2010 Ezra Update

Ezra came back to me again, expressing his lack of desire to live.

I called Our House where the kids and I receive grief support.

I spoke with Lauren who is in charge of children's support.

She said I need to get Ezra help immediately.

She said it's great that he trusts me enough to express his feeling.

She said it's good that I have provided him with a safe place to talk openly.

She said to call ________ (a therapist experienced with children's grief) and tell her Ezra needed a suicidal evaluation.

She said to keep her posted.

I said I need another massage gift certificate.

and then I said

"Fuck."

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January 22, 2010 Ezra's Pain

As my world stabilizes

As I look forward, instead of back

As I feel the earth rooting me,

it is exactly as the grief people said it will be.

"Many children hold onto their grief until the surviving parent is able to cope. And then...."

.....hell breaks loose.

I see them, beyond me.

They have changed from "one more thing to deal with"

to "how can I help them."

Ezra, in my room casually throwing himself aggressively on my bed in that boy manner says,

"Mom, have you ever thought about suicide?"

My heart does not skip.

I do not turn to him, startled. I have been warned.

His bereavement group leader called before the holidays. "He talked about wanting to die. This is not uncommon. Some kids long to see the dead parent so much they think suicide is a way to do it. However, Ezra kept repeating it. I told him this was very serious and that I would be talking with you. I think this goes beyond him just wanting to see his dad."

"Can a 7-year-old be suicidal?" I ask incredulously.

"Yes they can" she informs. I am silent.

I took in the information and let it swirl around in my head during winter break. Looking for any signs of depression.

Nothing till now.

Suddenly I have the mother-self-conscious awareness of the power of my words, aware that I have to keep this open. Oddly, I am not scared.

"Yes, I have Ezra. Do you feel like committing suicide?" my voice even.

"Yes" he says.

I turn to my closet, picking up a pair of shoes to put away. "Do not make this seem like a 'talk.'" I think. He is a boy, I must stay in motion.

"Why?" I ask hanging clothes in my closet

"Everyone talks about dad and I don't like it. I don't like talking OR hearing about him."

"Are the feelings that come up scary?" I can no longer resist. I sit on the bed and look at him.

"Yes, they are." he replies in a squished voice as he answers mid-summersault.

"For me," I say, "I sometimes feel like I can't possibly get passed them. I sometimes feel like dying would be better than feeling them."

And I swallow because every word I say is TRUE!

He starts into another summersault, but glances in my direction.

Searching? Seeing if I'm telling the truth?

"When?" he asks.

"On Tuesday," I say reflecting how now my grief seldom side swipes me during the day. How long has it been since they've seen me cry over Art?

He looks at me

and...

yells "Pallas, do you want to play?"

He leaps of the bed as if he just remembered there's bread in the oven and dashes out of the room.

I am left on the bed in between, crying and feeling courageous and dumbfounded.

I am sure of only one thing.

I am finally grief-less enough to help him.

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January 20, 2010 His Wallet

“Can I have dad’s wallet?” Langston asked.

“Sure.” I said quickly.

And the sadness swept in on the sing-song 'ly.'

Like love-ly or

Simp–ly

Floating in, settling.

As the ly settled I saw that I knew, back in February....

I knew he would die.

February was his 44th birthday. He had wanted a wallet. Something I had failed to get him at Christmas.

I remember standing in the store trying to decide which one to get for him, a decision clouded at that time with no sleep, feeling thinned out and elongated from running back and forth between him, the doctors and the stress and the kids, their lives and the stress.

Back then I thought that my will alone could keep him alive.

I remember choosing a wallet.

I remember picking up the wallet. I remember it in my hand. I remember facing the cashier.

And I remember, before I placed it on the counter, I turned away.

Placing it back in it's place and whispering, quietly,

inside my head so even I could barely hear ...

"Let's wait and see what's gonna happen."

I remember leaving the store, facing the rest of my day as if I never thought those words.

If you had asked me yesterday if I thougth Art was going to die, the answer would have been "NO!"

I thought I was surprised when he finally gave up fight. I thought I was unprepared when I watched as his very last exhale left his body.

But inside, buried so I could not see it or hear it, I knew it would be a struggle for him to live. Inside, back when, I knew it was over.

So I never bought him the new wallet.

I'm sorry, honey.

I'm sorry I gave up.

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January 11, 2010 SPLAT

I am standing,

sobbing,

in the parking lot of Costco

in the arms of

a strange man.

The parking lot of Costco, my cart next to me.

I am unable to find my car.

It's not my car, it's the one I am borrowing.

And when I left the store, striding like a woman who knows

EXACTLY where she is going, I remembered what it looked like.

But as I neared the row, I forgot where I parked.

"This is stupid." I say out loud.

My strides begin to shorten, then they falter and I can't find the car.

And then I can't remember what car I am looking for.

Is the mini-van? No that's at home.

Whose car is it? What does it look like?

And out of NO WHERE....I am sobbing.

I can't find my stupid car cause I can't remember what it looks like.

Is this grief or am I losing it?

Shit where is the car?

Why am I so hysterical about not being able to find the car?

And then I stop, attempt to gather myself (which means I am telling myself to fucking knock it off, get a grip and calm the hell down.)

"Are you OK?" says a gentle voice.

There is a man standing next to me. And just like in the movies, I look down and shake my head.

And then I start to laugh AND cry AND sob.

"I can't find my car. I can't remember what I'm driving. My husband died almost 9 months ago and I really hope this is the grief."

And then he looks at me, knowingly and says,

"My wife died 5 year ago." he says "It's the grief." He smiles.

And then I swear to God,

I'm hugging this guy, and crying in his shoulder and with his arms around me. He doesn't shush me. He tells me about the time he landed at LAX 8 months after his wife died and wasn't even sure he was at the right airport.

And now I'm pulling away and laughing and then BINGO I remember what car I'm supposed to look for and

I

SEE

IT.

We smile at each other. I give him one last hug and we whisper a thank you to each other at the same time because it's our secret. He knows what he did for me. He knows the gift he bestowed on me and he is grateful I willing said yes.

He smiles and waves one last time before he turns towards the store.

SPLAT....grief undone.

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January 9, 2010 I Like Him

So there's this guy....

I met him at a party of another friend.

He's genuine, has a sense of humor, and thinks I'm funny. He's easy on the eyes and athletic. He fits my outline of what I was looking for. (Yes I have an outline. It makes it easier to find what I want!)

I feared that once I started a relationship (and this is not there yet), that every time my knee was caressed by a non-Art hand, I would find it uncomfortable, painful...something that I would have to "get used to."

I anticipated feeling like I was cheating. I thought I would compare... He does that. Art used to do this.

And I am surprised at how wrong I am.

I don't remember Art's hands. I mean if I really, really, really focus on them, I remember how it hurt when we intertwined our fingers, his large fingers making the spaces in-between my fingers stretch to discomfort.

I laugh at the memory of his "gentle" touch and how he mastered it after years and years of trying.

I remember the weight of him and how if he ever had a heart attack when we made love in a certain position I might actually suffocate beneath him.

I remember kissing him. I don't remember how he kissed, but I remember loving kissing him.

But I have to concentrate to remember. It's not a physical memory. It's an emotional one.

I miss the feel of a man. I miss the connection of having a familiar hand pat my backside or encircle my waist. I miss feeling that strong male energy. I miss having my body touched, sometimes gentle, sometimes not.

I remember in the beginning, just needing a man in the house. Didn't have to do or say anything, I just needed to sense the testosterone.

I remember month 3 or 4, the crazy, wild, do-anything physical longing that took over large moments, driving me to consider picking up a beautiful and willing young man just to feel what it was like to be touched.

Around month 6, I remember the craving, anger and resentment a hug from a friend's husband erupted in me. "I don't want to remember what I'm missing!"

And then the cravings died out, the hugs lost their power and my need to be touched both sexual and emotionally seemed to dry up.

Now, with this guy, I feel like an addict who's slipped; having worked a 12 Step program for affection. I had forgotten I needed it. We find ourselves in close proximity and all I want to do is crawl up in him and immerse myself. The smell of him that close, the touch of his rough face, hands on my thighs, on the small of my back.

And as I pulled away, I wanted to stay. I wanted to listen to the deep reverberations as he talked with my head on his chest. I wanted to remember what it is like to have my legs intertwined with another man's. I wanted to just smell his unfamiliar man smell. I wanted to bask in the rediscovered sun. I wanted to sing .... I love this! I love this!

Only I couldn't figure out how much of this drive was about him and how much of it was about feeling like those dandelion flowers you blow on, you give a short burst and the seeds scatter wildly.

Instead of reveling in my craving. I said good night.

And tonight, I remember that I'm lonely. I miss the knowledge that after I finish writing this post, there will be a man, in my bed waiting for me, keeping my side warm.

I miss being loved.

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January 3, 2009 40 Day Fatigue

The wall of my current situation has slammed me hard.

I am exhausted, bruised and sliced up (and proud) by what I have done and will do in the next coming months.

Want to tell all about the latest financial blow but can't do it just yet.

This break I bought myself a magnet that says:

"What If
We Just Acted
Like Everything Were Easy."

My compass is working on resetting to easy?

I feel it.

For now, though, I just need to rest.

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