No-Sleep Tricia

On Shame...

2011-02-09T21:19:00.001-08:00

Just a quick preamble to say, "Yes, it's been a hell of a ride on the delayed grief train. I do hope to be reaching the end of the line soon. Perhaps I'll even blog about it someday." And now, on to more interesting matters...

Every once in a while, I stumble across some slip of paper, a picture, a piece of music - you get the idea - and I remember what life used to be like. For the most part, these memories are good ones. A receipt from the Water Grill reminds me of our anniversary dinner just 12 days before Iain was born. An article in the newspaper references the Mission Inn where Dalton's 20th class reunion was held and he reconnected with old friends. A visit to Shun Fat supermarket in Monterey Park with Debby and Iain launches me into stories about Dalton's obsession with Asian culture. Tonight, though, I stumbled onto Dalton's electronic prayer journal, and for the most part, the emotion it wrenched out of me was deep, desperate sadness and fear.

I know there are some of you that probably think I'm terrible for reading Dalton's prayer journal. But, we do it all the time with people who've been dead for centuries. No one seems to feel too badly about reading Martin Luther's works or Augustine's or about selling scraps of Picasso's drawings scribbled on a notepad in a hotel room (I might be mixing up my artists here). But, many of us actually knew Dalton, and the thought of knowing his struggles feels intrusive, disrespectful, and damaging to his legacy.

So, I won't be publishing it.

But I will be writing about it. Because, it's not the detail that's important, it's the theme that is so compelling.

Why is it that some people struggle with a deep, consuming, self-loathing sort of shame? Dalton's writings (and those of many other great artists, thinkers, philosophers, and theologians) are full of anguish. He is utterly deperately remorseful for the things he has thought, done, and said. Perhaps this was a plus theologically? It does mean that he had a great appreciation of his need for forgiveness. He was able to recognize his lack of agency in affecting any change within himself apart from God. However, I can't help but wonder how different are our two experiences of shame.

I've never known that type of shame. I've experienced deep regret over things I've done. I've felt guilty, been remorseful, cried over my lack of self control and repeated failures. I've hidden myself for a time from those who love me. But, something inside has always assured me that the discomfort of being honest about who I was/am with even just one other person would never come close tot he isolation I would endure if I kept it to myself.

Why do some people continue to live in isolation, with their struggles hidden?

Is it genetic? Environmental? Spiritual? Is it something to be sought or resisted? What should we strive for in our relationships with shame, honesty, isolation, and forgiveness? What should we teach our kids to aspire to and how should we help them get there?

Reading Dalton's prayer journal did not reveal anything to me that I didn't already know. But, it did remind me of the courage and strength he must have had to walk through every day carrying such a heavy burden of the soul. He used to say that when he took Communion, he would experience for a moment, a complete sense of cleanliness and worth. The fact that he now has an everlasting sense of cleanliness and worth is a gift I am immensely grateful for.

You have got to be kidding me...

2010-08-15T22:31:00.000-07:00

There is no greater joy in all the world than a Saturday afternoon spent watching my spirited son sword fight his way through Chuck-e-Cheese while I savor the unrivaled culinary delights of an everything pizza, thin crust. Sarcasm, my friends. Sarcasm.

I hate Chuck-e-Cheese. Heidi, if you are reading this, I love you, love Paul, love your friends and family, hate Chuck-e-Cheese. In fact, my willingness to drive 60 miles to spend the afternoon in a circle of hell with you, is evidence of my tremendous affection. And, of Iain's love for his friends. And, of my love for Iain.

Unfortunately, I left the party with tremendous abdominal pain, indigestion, and cold sweats. If only it were food poisoning.

This has been an awful season for me. My life is like a tire with a slow leak. I have no idea when i ran over the nail, and I didn't notice the leak until the tire was so flat I could no longer drive. Sure, there have been signs of a problem. For two months I fell asleep every night at 8pm and woke up at 3:30am. For the next two months, I used my insomnia as an excuse to catch up on every Showtime and HBO show produced in the past decade. I stopped exercising. I gained weight. I passed up social invitations. I stopped seeing friends. I quit getting pedicures. I started having chest pain. I obsessed over possible catastrophic illnesses I might be suffering from. I canceled travel plans. I felt sad. I felt lightheaded. And now, I'm angry all the time.

You're thinking hypothyroid, right? Well, maybe. But now I have another possible culprit - delayed grief. You have got to be kidding me...

On Saturday, in my 5th circle of hell, I met a woman whose husband had died when she was pregnant with her son. As she relayed her experience to me and explained the delayed grief she encountered 6 years after his death, I felt my chest begin to tighten and my mind begin to shut down. I knew that I needed to hear what she had to say, but I desperately wanted to get the hell out of there. Not this. Not again. I was done!

The idea that I might have more grieving to do is exhausting, infuriating, embarrassing. I'm strong. I'm resilient. I'm capable. I'm a testimony to God's grace. That might have been me two years ago, but if I really am suffering delayed grief, then it was all a sham, a neatly wound cocoon everyone thought was surrounding a butterfly instead of an ugly old silkworm moth that can't even fly.

I'm still going to get the thyroid checked. It's on tomorrow's agenda, and a thyroid disorder would probably be much easier to fix than trying to connect with my grieving soul. Either way, something has to change. I don't like waking up angry, being irritated by everything my son does, feeling hopeless, anxious, unable to breathe. I hate panic attacks and I hate feeling blah.

As an aside, this wasn't what I would have planned as a kickoff post for the spunky, spirited blog of a widow boldly plowing through life with a take no prisoners sort of attitude, but I guess that one may have to wait until next time. Until then...

Well, hello there...

2010-03-14T22:22:00.000-07:00

I can't believe I'm writing this. I mean, it's been nearly 2 years.

But cancer doesn't know the difference.

The past few hours, I have been rereading the blog posts following Dalton's death. Horrifically, cancer claimed the life of another dear friend today, and I wanted desperately to be able to say something profound and helpful to his wife and son. Unfortunately, what I remembered almost immediately is that there is really nothing to be said. Grief cannot be cured by insightful retrospective. It isn't soothed by witticism or even empathy. It doesn't even have the decency to manifest similarly in each of its hosts.

But, I think, grief is gracious. And, I hope it will be gracious to my friend.

I'm sorry that so much of the past two years has gone undocumented. But, that too may have been a necessary part of the process. I've learned, after all, that regrets are worthless and that everything we do has value and meaning in this life - even the things we fail to do. For tonight, anyway, I feel compelled to write and to do so publicly. Only God knows about tomorrow.

On Friday afternoons,
we'd sit on the balcony
and pray.
We'd pray
and drink red wine.
White in the summer.
The three of us would talk about our husbands -
how their lack of detail
irritated us
how their childish humor
tickled us
how their Godly love
humbled us.
We prayed for
right hearts,
gentle spirits,
and kids.
Babies were hard to come by.
Miscarriages and monthly disappointments were the norm.
But then, Daniel.
And Elliot.
And Iain.
God was so good,
We were so grateful.

Perhaps we should have kept meeting.
Drinking wine on the balcony.
Then, maybe, the cancer wouldn't have come
and snatched two of our
irritating
childish
loving
husbands
away.
We prayed for
right heart,
gentle spirits,
and kids.
I only wish we'd known to pray for more.

Moving Forward

2008-08-06T22:10:00.000-07:00

I think it's time. Perhaps I'm narcissistic. Perhaps, just curious. More likely, I suffer from narcissistic curiosity. Regardless, I googled myself. To be fair, I googled you as well, but most of you don't have a publicly readable online journal of some of the toughest times in your life. When I googled myself last month (after googling someone I'd met through an online dating service), I was shocked to see that this blog topped the list of results. Immediately, I felt naked and hid it from your view. It's not that I'm ashamed of what I've written but I was terrified that this blog might be the first and consequently only impression that someone could have of me. It's not exactly the whole package, and the fuller my life gets, the smaller no-sleep tricia seems.

Early in my grief, I came across a visual representation of the grieving process. It displayed a glass jar containing a large blue ball. The ball, labeled "grief" barely fit inside the jar which was labeled "life". It perfectly illustrated how I felt at the time. Everything revolved around my loss of Dalton. I was so full of sadness and loss that there was barely room for anything else. The second picture was surprising, though. It, too displayed a glass jar containing a large blue ball labeled "grief" In fact, it was exactly the same ball, identical in size and shape to the first one. What had changed, however, was the size of the jar. In the second picture, the jar was much larger. Consequently, "grief", even though it was the same size occupied a much smaller space in "life", and there was room for other things. That is how I now feel.

My experience with cancer and the loss of my husband, best friend, and father of my child has forever changed me. It will always be a part of my life in the same way that every single thing we ultimately affects who we are. However, it is no longer the defining characteristic of my life. I am many things of which widow is only one. I am mother, friend, activist, advocate, Christian, optimist, thrill-seeker, dinner party host, writer, soon-to-be triathlete, business owner, realtor, connoisseur of indie music and modern architecture. I am playful, trusting, unflappable, inquisitive, peaceful, passionate, compassionate, and generous. I struggle with many things which will remain unwritten.

Consequently, I'm really struggling with what to do with this blog. I keep thinking that it's time to stop writing in this space, but even when I type that, it feels wrong. I think, instead that I will change the names to protect the innocent and guilty alike. Hopefully, that will alleviate the google problem while still allowing those of you who care to keep tabs on me a way to do so. With that being said, I will soon post an update on both me and the boy who will subsequently be called PB (short for Pooh Bear, the nickname given to him by his father who will subsequently be called DJH2).

Small parts

2008-05-28T22:14:00.001-07:00

Sometimes it riles my skin
to think a part
is still
here.

Two years
gone.
His body wrapped in satin
wood
concrete
Earth

I am peeling today.
Sunburned.
I forgot my spf 90.
The flakes fly to his chair.
Where he sat
sunburned
peeling.

Settling in.
Crawling into nubs of peppered upholstery.
Working their way
into
foam.
Encased in wool
wood
air
Earth.
Small parts still here.

Unremarkably Human

2008-05-23T17:44:00.000-07:00

Over six months. I'll make no excuses, so don't ask. I couldn't answer if you did.

I haven't been writing much. Funny, I quit my job in the name of writing and have written less in the last six months that in the six weeks prior to that event. Unless of course you count papers on the economics of stewardship and effective leadership in times of change - in that case, I've written a bunch.

Shortly after I stopped "working", I realized that my focus needed to be on school. On May 3rd, fifteen years after finishing high school, I finally graduated from Azusa Pacific. See, Dalton and I met while I was finishing my junior year at Santa Clara. One thing led to another and I never quite finished up those last few courses. When he died, I figured it was time.

So now, I'm at a loss. At least for clarity of purpose. Or maybe more accurately clarity of income. You'd think after everything I've been through with God, I'd be better at trusting Him, but only just a little. What I want to do, what I feel called to do is launch a business focused on the needs of cancer patients and their families while writing a book or two about grief and redemption for the unremarkably human Christian. What I keep coming back to is a nice safe job in some downtown financial services firm and a life that looks, well, normal.

For most of my life, I've felt different. A little too heady. Too sarcastic. Too dreamy. Dalton and I had finally achieved the look of normalcy when God reminded me that normalcy wasn't in His plan for me. He had something else in mind. So now, I need strength, encouragement, discipline and faith to embrace that idea, to trust Him that it - whatever it is - will happen.

In the meantime, I'll once again try (gosh I hate my own lack of follow through) to write. Musings. Poetry. Chapters. Who knows? I may even need to put some categories into this blog for those of you who are more interested in reflective thoughts on God's mercy than on the difficulties of an uncoordinated single mom trying to teach her desperately athletic 3-year old how to properly throw a baseball. Both are me.

Nothing to Write Home About

2007-12-12T22:13:00.000-08:00

Nothing profound happened today. Nothing at all. I woke up, got ready, fed Iain, took him to school, came home, cleaned my house, did some schoolwork, picked up our Christmas Cards, ate lunch, went to the bank, went to Target, replied to some emails, picked Iain up, played trains, fixed dinner, gave Iain a bath, read some stories, and watched Private Practice.

See. Nothing interesting.

So, I need to figure out what to write when the day doesn't provide much material. Should I write a short story, reflect on something I read, present a dilemna, post pictures, or just let it go?

For today, I'm letting it go. Nobody wants to read filler, and at the moment, that's all this is!

Advice Poll

2007-12-10T22:31:00.000-08:00

Can someone please give me a simple way to say, "I'm not interested." I've been on several first dates now, and I have yet to master the art of "Thanks, but no thanks."

The first time around, I said yes to the second date before I realized that it might be unwise to date someone who within the first twenty minutes of meeting him confessed to having anger issues and a restraining order against him. When he followed up on my "yes.", I took the easy way out and sent him an email saying I didn't think I was "ready to date."

The second time around, I spent eight hours with the guy, enjoying the conversation and the company but had to admit that I just wasn't attracted to him. When he called to ask me out again, I tried to be honest and say that either I wasn't ready or he wasn't the right one. That obviously didn't work too well, becuase he conitnues to call and invite me to art shows and B-52 concerts.

Last Sunday, I went out with a guy who was just plain boring. Nice to look at, but boring. He texted me Tuesday morning, and I've yet to respond. I don't want to hurt his feelings.

Really, why is this so hard? I really have a hard time being honest if I think it might make someone feel bad. But, leaving them hanging is just plain rude and leading them on is worse.

So, here is my question foor you, the reader...

When someone contacts you following a 1st or 2nd date, and you know you're not interested, how do you respond AND how do you muster the courage to do it?

The Weird Checker

2007-12-09T22:59:00.001-08:00

Just days before Thanksgiving, a new Whole Foods opened down the street from me. As a foodie, there aren't too many more exciting discoveries. Depending on how you look at it, the gigantic, two story, block-long structure featuring amongst other things a wine and tapas bar, custom nut roasting and candying counter, massage room, and 300 ft. butcher case is either an insult to the art of gastronomy or an orgasmic adventure in a culinary paradise. Regardless, I chose to do my Thanksgiving shopping there, knowing that the produce would be fresh, the meat Prime, and the cheese nothing short of spectacular. As I loaded the goodies onto the conveyor belt, the redheaded checker asked me how many people I was having over. "Just twelve," I replied, "but this is the first time I'll be doing it on my own so it's still intimidating." "All family?" she asked.

I suppose I could have simply said No and left it at that, but my "no" including a few too many qualifiers, and after several attempts to avoid the inevitable, I ended up explaining that my husband had died and that this was my first year hosting a holiday without him.

Her response was, "I can sense that he is here with you now, though. You must be overwhelmed with how much he loves you."

Um, thanks. I smiled sheepishly and looked away hoping she wouldn't realize my sudden, awkward shifting. Not only did I feel like she was stepping into risky territory, I also felt ashamed and embarrassed at my inability to confidently affirm her assertion. Was Dalton there with me now? Could she see him? What was he doing? Is it against my faith to think these things? She continued, giving me a weird sort of psychic reading in the checkout line at Whole Foods while I stood there, frozen with a forced smile on my face. I left; feeling completely bewildered and ticked off. If Dalton really was near me, why did she get to sense him when I couldn't? And, if he wasn't, why was this crazy woman saying this to a grieving wife. It didn't make me feel better either way.

I've always secretly envied those people that were able to sense their loved one's presence after he/she died. For a long time, I told myself that this sort of talk was contrary to my Christianity, but then I read A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken, an Inkling and close friend of CS Lewis, and realized that he claimed that his wife stayed with him for two years after she died. So, if Dalton or my mom weren't communicating with me, what did that mean? Didn't they love me? Were they ok? Was I too closed off to the spirit world? Was I ok? It was even worse when a friend or coworker would have an encounter with one of them. I mean, who was I, chopped liver? And now, the checker was sensing Dalton's hand on my shoulder and I was oblivious.

Truth be told, I have been having more "encounters" with Dalton. I use the term loosely because they have mostly been dreams. However, since I rarely remember my dreams, anything vivid enough for me to recollect is worth noting. In the past few months, I have had three or four that woke me up and compelled me to write them down. Mostly, they are happy dreams, full of peace and joy. Dalton and I are both in the present time. We talk and laugh and comfort one another, but there is a sense that he is somewhere physically, spiritually, and emotionally that I can't yet be. Weird, I know, but true. Most of these dreams also include some kind of admonition or guidance from him about what I'm doing and feeling, so maybe it's just my own mind trying to accept the loss.

Tonight, I took Iain out to look at the Christmas lights in and around Hastings Ranch. This section of Pasadena, about 4 miles from our house, displays the largest neighborhood commitment to Christmas decor that I have ever seen. Iain and I drove at least 20 blocks and still hadn't seen it all at the end of the night. Not only does the individual homeowner dress up his home, but the sidewalks feature giant Santas, snowflakes, angels, snowmen, etc, and every house has a Christmas tree in their driveway.

This is when I finally sensed Dalton's presence. I was driving around, talking with Iain about the lights, the decorations, and the meaning of Christmas, when Dalton broke into our conversation and said, "I'm proud of you. I'm proud of the job you are doing with Iain, the joy you have in your life, the woman you have become." It was short. The feeling of his presence only last a couple of minutes, but it was significant. And, I hope, I really hope that it wasn't just my own mind trying to accept the loss.

Zapped.

2007-12-05T23:50:00.000-08:00

Although I am committed to writing in the blog every day, my creative energies are tapped out. I had a great day writing for the novel and will now be settling down for a little light reading. Specifically, I am reading "The Year of Living Biblically: One Man' s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible." It's a pretty creative concept, and so far, a compelling read. I'll keep you posted.

Tomorrow, remind me to tell you about the day of ideas.

Slowing Down

2007-12-04T12:57:00.000-08:00

I am fascinated by myself right now. Not in a "Gee, I'm great." kind of way, but in a "I wonder what's going to happen next" sort of way. I feel a bit like a science experiment.

There is so much space in my life right now. It's full of gaps and pokets that I can fill with whatever I choose. And, I have the time to consider the question of how to fill them and how I feel about them. I also know this is a completely priveleged circumstance and one which isn't likely to endure. So, I want to pay attention and make notes so that I can remember it later.

Unfortunately for me, the tedious process of recording observations was always the weakest link in my scientific endeavors. I liked the hypothesizing, the analyzing, the process of coming to a conclusion, and the conclusion itself. But the observation tested my patience, required discipline, and seemed like a necessary but boring step in the experiment.

Since this is the observation stage of my experiment, my days seem very slow and require a lot of attending to my emotional state.

I wake up and leisurely read stories with Iain, fix breakfast, get ready, and drive him to school. Then, I look at my day, reviewing the big goals and the appointments, and prioritize them. Today's list looks like this:

A1 Planning and Solitude
A2 Advent Devotional and Prayer
A3 Schoolwork/BMGT 408 Assignment (1.5 hours)
A4 Write for book and blog (2 hours)
A5 Clean house/finish laundry (1 hour)
A6 Dryel (.25 hours)
A7 Chiropracter (I fell and tore two shoulder ligaments)
A8 Read (1 hour)
B1 Bills
B2 Christmas Cards
B3 Respond to Match Emails
B4 Festival Chart
B5 Gift List
C1 Call Katie about Borrowing Jeep for Tree and Ikea
C2 Set up Appt. with Attorney for House Contract
C3 Schedule Painter for Front Door

I have a production meeting for the film I'm helping out with at 8am, a counseling session at 9:30, and I'm taking Iain to Chuck E Cheese at 5. Otherwise the day is open.

And, while there is more on the list than I can accomplish today, it still seems slow and introspective. Prayer is slow. Schoolwork is slow. Writing is very slow.

All this space gives my emotions a chance to come to the surface and I not only feel them, but have time to figure out why they might be there. It's not only helping my writing, but I think it's making me a better friend.

How to Tell a Story?

2007-12-02T22:14:00.000-08:00

I am running into trouble. I want to write a story about my day, but the process is making me feel very exposed. Yes, I have been exposing myself online now for over two years, but this is different. For some reason, it's acceptable to struggle when life is tragic, get angry when circumstances are devastating, and be prideful when the burden is so heavy. But today's story is not tragic and my life is pretty normal. I went to church, ate lunch alone, and went on a first date. Consequently, divulging my inner thoughts feels immodest and indulgent. I am embarrassed by myself.

Regardless, I can't possibly be the only one who thinks these things. In fact, I suspect that great writing is great in part because its characters are so unashamedly real that they are endeared to the reader not in spite of but because of their flaws. I can really get behind that for a fictional character. Not so much when the protagonist is me.

Let's put it this way: try writing down your thoughts and feeling for a day and see how many people you want to have read them. I used to disregard that suggestion by thinking, "OK. What's the big deal? I'm an open book. Honesty and kindness are easy for me." HA! Even that little thought is embarrassing. How prideful! Sadly, I only realize the arrogance when I put it out there for others to read.

Here's a snippet of what I started to write about today...

Another couple of pounds had disappeared, and her favorite A-line skirt buttoned easily. She paired it with her knee-high black platform boots, and wondered if it was too flashy for church? "No." she thought. "There's nothing immodest; it's just a little louder than I usually wear. And, besides, I feel confident and fun, so why not?" The attitude worked well for her that morning...

Let's just stop there. This is my CHURCH! And, a lot of you reading this blog probably saw me this morning. I don't know that I really want you to know that my boots made me feel more confident or that my skirt fit better today than it did last week. But, it paints a good picture of the real me, and that's invaluable in story.

Anyway, I haven't solved this problem yet, and it is part of a larger concern I am considering as I begin to write. How do I be true to who Dalton and I are and still look at my friends after they read the book?

I'm optimistic that an answer can be found.

Practice

2007-12-01T01:31:00.000-08:00

Something else Dalton and I had/have/had/have (I rewrote it four times) in common - we never practiced at anything. For both of us, we were either good at it the first time, or it wasn't worth doing. Frankly, this is a particularly dreadful character trait. Arrogant. Lazy. Undisciplined. It wasn't very kind to our clarity of purpose either. Only very rarely would either of us acknowledge a desire to attempt something that we might fail in. Instead, what we did, the jobs we held, the projects we undertook, the interests we pursued were dictated by aptitude rather than longing.

I am going to give practicing a try.

I am going to write.

Uugh. There is such potential failure in that statement. Actually, I'm not even sure what failure would look like, but since I also can't define what success would look like, the whole enchilada is a risky proposition.

I just know that I want to do it.

I resigned from my position at the church and as of October 27, I am officially unemployed. Instead of writing, I have spent the past month buoying the stock value of The Container Store, filing my 2005 (hey, it was a rough year) taxes, discovering that Dalton actually managed to teach me a thing or two about cooking in the last decade, and planning how my schedule would look once I finally got around to doing what I quit to do in the first place. There are a lot of lists. Not so many manuscripts.

But my month is up, and it's time to learn the art of practice.

My aim is to write something every day. Actually, I want to write two things everyday - something for this blog and something for the book. Some days they will be one in the same, call it a 2-for-1.

And for now, no questions about the structure of content of the book, please. That's what the practice is for.

It

2007-10-04T22:55:00.000-07:00

I am babysitting little "T" tonight. She and Iain are quite close and I am happy to be able to facilitate their together time. T's Daddy was there with us the night Dalton died. He read the 23rd Psalm while Dalton's heart beat it's last beat. As I laid there on the floor of Iain's room this evening listening to Iain and T, I was overcome by the magnitude of the evening of Dalton's death. I can't imagine that there will ever be a time in my life that isn't affected by it. It still catches me off guard. It suprises me. It socks me in the stomach. Frankly, it astounds me. It is like a dream from another life, and surely Dalton is still here with me.

There is something permanent about this experience. My friend was right; it changes your DNA. The death of a spouse is unlike anything else. It is an encounter with the deepest parts of humanity, the closest we get to running head first into eternity on earth. It is the most exceedingly painful and exceedingly human thing we endure. Truly, it isn't that it is that unique amongst people. Nearly half of us will face it, some more than once. But it is so incredibly unique when juxtaposed against normal day to day life. There are no other instances in my life that I have relived as much as I have Dalton's death. Not my wedding. Not my son's birth. I cannot imagine a time when even the slightest detail will begin to fade. For some obscure reason that comforts me, and I hope I am right.

I've been out on a few dates now and am realizing the challenges inherent in this process. Even the good dates are difficult. As much as I want to be in love again, it's really not that easy. Either I'm not ready or the right person hasn't come along. I'm sure there are people out there for whom falling in love is as straightforward as finding a new job. I'm not one of them. Thus far, Dalton was it. Maybe he'll always be it.

Don't misunderstand. It's not that I'm necessarily depressed about this idea. Just a little sober. And maybe a little curious about what to do next.

A Little Bit of Clarity

2007-09-11T19:52:00.001-07:00

It's just a little bit, but a little bit is more than none at all.

I need to do more than what I am doing. Existing is not enough.

Over the past few months I have felt myself moving. Out of a seated position. Standing. Searching. Over a year ago, I sat down in a desert able to head out on any path but void of any direction or compulsion to do so. Dull. Dead.

But life is life and it doesn't know how to stay dormant. Hibernation lasts for a season, and it serves a vital purpose. However, animals who hibernate eventualy wake up. And, despite my desire to stay asleep, I am waking up.

My life needs to have value. Purpose. Meaning. I can't imagine that I've been left here to simply wait for death. And that is what I have been trying to do. If I am stuck here, then it better damn be worthwhile.

I can no longer pretend that life is about getting through it. I don't believe that and I don't want Iain to believe that.

These moments of clarity are still just moments. I'm Stirring. Sleeping. Stirring. Sleeping. But I know I'm waking. I see things that others are doing and I feel my hope and optimism and excitment returning. I am able to recognize value in things beyond their instant pleasure quotient. The idea that my actions could and should have value is reemerging. I think maybe I need to be a part of something bigger, something more.

On Prolonged Silence

2007-07-19T08:19:00.000-07:00

I suppose the easiest way to explain these months of blogger silence is to say that I simply haven't known what to write. And for that reason, I've chosen to avoid the issue entirely. It's not that I have been suffering from so-called writer's block. More aptly, I have been overwhelmed by thoughts to the extent that each time I think I have clarity on a particular topic, I am immediately aware that I'm actually entirely conflicted. Even the issue of whether or not to blog has been vexing me these days. On the one hand, it is a useful journal for me and others who share this odd circumstance. On the other, it has begun to feel a bit limiting. I think that my life might be outgrowing it and I haven't determined whether it has a place in this fuller life. It began as a way of keeping people up to date on Dalton's journey with cancer, became a sort of memoir of my own struggle, and since his death has been more of a recording of the process of grief.

But now what?

I am certainly still very deep in grief. I react to life in ways peculiar to those who have experienced tremendous loss. Guarded. Contemplative. Disconnected. Distant. Reckless. Unfettered. However, these things are no longer violent waves of feeling that thrash me about and make it impossible for me to think of anything else. They are more like an undercurrent, and life goes on despite them. Writing about the undercurrent and ignoring the rest of the tide is an unfair description of my life. And, frankly, it isn't very interesting. So, I am faced with the dilemna of continuing to write a boring blog focused primarly on the steadiness of grief OR expand into areas of my life that are more mundane and risk being another one of the milions of bloggers who think that their daily life is intriguing in any way.

I just don't know.

So much has happened since I last posted. I went on my first date (a disaster that will make a great short story one day). I sold my West Covina house. I took a vacation to England and France. And through it all, I greived. Grieving really isn't anything special or dramatic anymore. It's just is. Since I am by nature an upbeat, positive person, the subleties of my grieving are hard to spot. But I know where they live. They live in my inability to get excited by anything, passionate about anything. They invade the space in my mind and heart where ambition, purpose, and excitement normally reisde. For me, that is the cruelest part of the process, the feeling of floating without any direction or anyplace to float toward.

I keep asking God for relief, for direction. The only answer I kep getting is "Be patient." But the world around me isn't patient. People want to know what I do. What I hope for. What I am working toward.

I have no idea.

I simply worry about today.

And really, that is probably a healthly way to live, because today is all we have. But it isn't very acceptable, it isn't very respected, and it certainly isn't understood. I can't say that I am all that comfortable with it myself, but the one thing I am sure of is that forcing the issue is a bad idea. Faking it till I make it would be disastrous.

I am thinking about writing more consistently and trying my hand at a novel, but I'm still on the fence about that as well. Who knows? In the meantime, I'll just go on reading the Match ads and wondering if I should rule out a potential date because he capitalized Novel. Dalton would never do that. And Dalton is who I want.

One Year

2007-05-26T08:27:00.001-07:00

One year.

My apologies in advance to those who might be offended...

Time for a counselor...or maybe drugs?

2007-04-18T18:08:00.000-07:00

It's been kind of an introspective day. So, let me begin by saying that before I wrote this post, I thought I'd go back and read a few of my more recent musings.

What a mess!!!

Of course, I wish I could take it all back and say that I'm not a mess, but after today, I think it's a fairly accurate assessment.

To start, the party was fine...good...there. No, really it was good, but I don't think I was very present. My friends really are wonderful. Several showed up to help me beforehand and a crew did all the cleanup for me. They really are an amazing group of fun, giving, selfless people. Interestingly enough, that's how I am so certain that I have gone completely insane.

I think my friends don't like me.

Oh, and I think I am dumb. And ugly. And a bad mom.

And, I have too much baggage for anyone to want to be with me.

This insecurity has happened periodically over the past 11 months. Sigh, 11 months? I can't really figure out what causes it. Could be stress. Could be timing. Could be lonliness. Heck, it could be PMS for all I know. Regardless, I hate it. In general, I don't have a lot of respect for people who aren't their own cheerleaders. By that I mean that whiny, insecure people aren't the most fun to be around. Not that I can't love them in a Christian "love your neighbor even if you don't like them sort of way", but I don't usually choose to hang out with them. And here I am being one of them.

I had lunch with a good friend last week who has experienced her own fair share of loss. She made a statement that caused me to get physically ill and visibly shaken. She said, "Grief changes your molecular structure. You are forever changed." I don't want to be different. I still want to be youthful and peppy and optimistic and confident. I want to be like I was when Dalton met me so that I can have again what I had with him. But I don't know if that is possible. Either one, really - being what I was or having what I had.

I really wish I had a happy post to publish. I want to be happy. I am trying. Trying really hard, but what I really want to do is not have to deal with any of it. Getting old and dealing with life just sucks.

Right this second, I am keenly aware of my need to find another counselor. That, or discover that Dalton is still here, that my best friend hasn't disappeared. Right this second, I really just want to curl up beside him and feel safe and loved.

Iain's Birthday

2007-04-13T20:55:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning at five o' clock and the first thing I thought of was holding Dalton's hand in the labor and delivery room at St. Joseph's hospital in Burbank. It was just about five when the nurse came into the room and said that the doctor was on his way.

Impossible to believe that was just two year's ago.

Today I have been flooded with thoughts of that day and how much emotion and joy and expectation and promise there was. My labor was 23 hours long and Dalton was there the whole time. In fact, I think he slept less that night than I did. When Iain finally arrived, his first scream didn't really impress the respiratory therapist, so he was take to the NICU for monitoring. Dalton went with him and took pictures of Iain's first bath, his first yawn, his first swaddle. Dalton was so relieved that everyone was healthy becuase for some reason he had a terrible fear that I was going to die in childbirth.

Life is just so different from what it was supposed to be.

Last year, Iain's birthday party was a huge affair. For many people, it was the last time they saw Dalton alive. He was really thin and obviously sick, but that day God gave him supernatural strength and joy. He might not have looked like himself, but he certainly behaved that way. He was the consummate host, making the rounds, smiling, laughing, and making sure that we didn't run out of hot dogs or nacho cheese (it was a Dodger themed event). I still don't know how he managed to do so much, but I think he either knew or feared that it would be the only birthday he would share with his son, and he wanted to do it right.

Tomorrow is Iain's second birthday party and to be honest, I really don't have the energy or the inclination to take over where Dalton left off. I don't want to be the consummate host, smiling, laughing and making sure we don't run out of pizza (no Dodger theme this year). Not without my partner. Not without Iain's Daddy. Not when every bone in my body hurts from weeks of poor sleep and I have a horrible headache (something that happens every time I cry all day). But damnit, Iain deserves better than that. Yes, he needs to know I'm sad and that grief is real and that I miss his Dad terribly. But, he also needs to know that he is important too. That his birthday is worth my energy and my joy. He needs to be able to run around the yard with his buddies and open presents and enjoy being celebrated for who he is. And for goodness sake, if Dalton was able to do it...

So, please, God, let me have the strength to do that for Iain. Let me have the strength to do it for Dalton. Let me do it right.

Tired

2007-03-24T20:57:00.000-07:00

and in a funk. As usual, functioning just fine, but feeling oh so unmotivated. (actually, maybe not functioning very well. getting lots done, but ignoring the important stuff)

Please do not ask me if I am liking my new house. I still feel disloyal for liking anything. Even the good stuff is just a better shade of gray.

It's been almost ten months and I'm starting to wonder when the color will return to my life. Sure, I enjoy lots of things. In fact, I probably have more fun in my life than most people. However, anything more than surface gaiety still eludes me. I talk less about Dalton these days because I figure most of you are bored. But I think about him more. Maybe it's the year mark. Maybe its the impending wedding anniversary. Maybe its the move. Sheesh. It could be anything or everything. I suspect that for most of you, I seem to be back to normal and moving on. Unfortunately, I'm still waiting for that to happen.

I feel like I am treading water in a treachurous riptide and focusing on the beautiful sunset so that I can ignore the reality of my circumstances. Still, what else is there to do?

I know I should write more. This is an abrupt ending. But like I said, I'm tired and would really much rather go to sleep.

I know, It's been awhile...

2007-03-07T20:50:00.000-08:00

but life's been a bit busy.

To hit the highlights (or lowlights) in reverse chronological order:

1) They delivered the appliances to my new house this morning. The cord for the refrigerator is too short, and the hole for the stove is too small. Whoever installed the granite countertops must have decided that a trapezoidal hole would add character, so the front of the opening is the standard 30", but it gradually tapers down to 29.5". Of course, my stove is a square 30", so I'm in trouble.

2) Iain had sugery yesterday. His tear ducts were clogged, so to open them up, the surgeon stuck a blunt object down the tear duct into his nose. It was quick and relatively easy, but I bawled the whole way to the surgery center and whined to God about the fact that Dalton should have been there. Iain handled the anesthesia and the surgery like a champ, and was back to his normal cheery self by this morning.

3) On Monday night, I turned Oingo Boingo's Not My Slave up really loud in the new house. While I was dancing on the stairs, in my heels, on the slick wood floor, I caught the edge of a step and fell. Really hard. This will be especially humorous to the NoCal friends who witnessed the drunken stumble at Sam Woo. In addition to the large unattractive bruise on my derriere, I am now sporting a beautiful navy blue shoulder sling for a couple of days and hoping that I didn't seriously damage any ligaments of tendons.

4) Iain was down for the count with 104+ fever for over a week.

5) We closed escrow on the house in Pasadena.

6) A friend's best friend was diagnosed with Esophageal Cancer.

7) I moved all of my stuff down from Northern California and officially ended my time as a serious commuter.

8) I began the exciting job of packing up the West Covina house.

9) And, minus one witty and charming birthday card from Dalton, I turned 32 years old.

It's been a busy couple of weeks.

Yahoo Personals...

2007-02-13T21:41:00.000-08:00

Bet that got your attention.

This is one of those posts that might be better housed at the "other blog", but I'm going to be bold and post it here. Frankly, the whole experience of being single again is interesting in a "watching someone eat pureed grasshoppers" kind of way. Unfortunately, I am the one eating the pureed grasshoppers. Hmmm. Not sure what I think of that analogy, but moving on...

So, I've been asked out on a couple of dates; I've even been sober for a few of the conversations. I've also been asked if I want to "come back to my place and hang out." Uh, yeah. Thankfully, even though I haven't necessarily been sober for those invitations, I still managed to coherently utter the words, "maybe some other time." What I've learned in all of this is that if I was looking for a one-night stand, I'd have no problem finding it.

Unfortunately, I don't think I'm looking for a one night stand - at least not on this blog I'm not. And the best advice anyone can give me is online dating. I've got one girlfriend who recently got engaged and another who is on the verge, and they both met online. Hence, my evening entertainment of persusing the personals.

BEST FUN EVER! if it weren't so damned depressing.

Seriously, I am not an overly critical person. I can get along with just about anyone who isn't downright mean, but come on...

A few headlines for you..
Tough outside, soft inside (Could you be more specific?)
Honest man looking for honest woman (Well, that narrows it down)
Hi Ladies (Funny in the right context. Not the right context)
Celtic prince seeks goddess to worship (Comment unecessary)
I'm a lover not a fighter (Or a writer)
My ideal match would be a moderately attractive woman? (What exactly does that say about you)
Nice guy seeking real woman (not a transvestite?)

To make matters worse, from what I could tell, these were just normal guys stumped by the online format. After all, this is new for most of us.

Even worse than reading the guy's profiles is having to compose my own, a task which remains undone for fear of writing something that will end up posted on someone elses blog. And the profile composer isn't much help. It's kind of like madlibs for grown ups.

My friends say I am _________ (adjective).
Something I've always wanted to do is ___________(verb)
Someday I want to visit (place)

You get the point.

But sometime soon, I am going to complete the profile. And, I will probably say yes to one of the dates. And Dalton will/would/whatever understand. He never really liked being alone either.

Lori

2007-02-12T20:49:00.000-08:00

Shit!!!

I hate cancer.

If you get a minute, swing by Lori's site and pray for her. She's this incredibly awesome amazing young woman who after blogging and sharing her whole experience with the world and inspiring so many others to have hope and humor and life with cancer, just got the news that...

Uggh. I can't even write it.

Anyway. The site is http://toosexyformyhair.com/.

Typical Me

2007-02-12T20:10:00.000-08:00

WooHoo. It's 8pm, and these days, I can count that as a late night. Seriously, I have gone from nosleeptricia to sleepallthetimetricia. If I didn't know better, I'd guess I was pregnant. And yes, i know better.

Whereas my prior stages of grief have resulted in almost compulsive non-stop activity, my current state has me entirely apathetic. And because I am so good at irony, I have more to do now than I have in eight months...yes, it's rapidly approaching nine. UNFREAKINBELIEVABLE!

Somehow, I am still managing to get to work, take care of Iain, , and occasionally do the dishes. But what about packing up my whole house? And doing schoolwork? And paying bills? Yuck. I think I'll just go to sleep. I wake up with the best of intentions, but by the time 7 o'clock rolls around, all I want to do is crawl into bed. My house is in a constant borderline state. One more 1/2 empty juice cup and it would go from mess to filth. So not me.

I know it's bad because I don't even feel like going out or seeing friends. Troublesome? A bit. But normal, I think. Call it the depression stage, and call me typical. Fortunately, I'm still able to muster up the energy to force the issue. And when i do, I always have a good time.

Now, if you are a friend of mine, don't fret. The lovely part about being me is that a few days feel like a lifetime. So really, this bedtime at seven routine is just a few days old. I'm sure by Friday I'll be back to not being able to sleep and having bathroom floors you could eat off of.

Here's hoping for more productive grief.

Empathy

2007-02-09T08:52:00.000-08:00

I got word last Sunday that she had died. Leukemia. Her husband was my friend, a coworker from years ago. They have a 14-month-old little girl.

Today is the funeral, and I'm having a hard time getting out of the house. Had a hard time getting to sleep last night as well. Empathy, like none other I've experienced. The pain in my chest is so severe and the tears just keep welling up. I hurt for what I know these next few months will bring for them. And I wonder why some of us experience this kind of loss at a time when everything else in our lives and our marriage and our family held such promise.

That Pensive Smirk

2007-02-07T21:10:00.000-08:00

I caught a glimpse of him in the backseat
staring out the window
chin tilted upward
blue eyes shining
hands patting the edges of his seat
He looked just like his father
sitting there with that pensive smirk
and for the first time
since his father died
I cried
with gratitute
for my son.

Grace or Betrayal

2007-02-06T05:33:00.000-08:00

I lie awake at night taking an inventory of uniquely him. The freckles on the top of his feet. The softness of his hair and the way it would start to curl up if he went too long between haircuts. The strength of his grip. The red in his beard. The little scar on his leg where he didn't like to be touched. The feel of his breath against my neck while we slept.

But my memory struggles with the passing of each night. And I realize that I don't sleep because I fear sleep. It comes like a gracious thief and steals away the sound of his laughter, the scent of his skin, the shape of his mouth. And I wonder how long it will be before I can no longer feel his fingers slip ito mine.

Is it a gift or a slow betrayal? The passing of time. Or is it simply is. For sleep eventually comes and steals from my inventory of uniquely him.

The Other Blog

2007-02-05T21:18:00.000-08:00

Blogging has been difficult for me lately. Writing is easy, but blogging is difficult.

Most of you are just too close.

When I began writing last October, it was to keep everyone up-to-date on all things cancer. Church friends, insurance co-workers, high school friends, ministry teams, old acquaintances, and long-time family friends could all connect through the blog. It was easy to write for everyone because everyone was interested in Dalton's health.

Then when Dalton died, it was easy to write for everyone because everyone was interested in my loss and grief and plans for the future.

Now that I'm grappling as much with my loss as with my identity, things have gotten a bit stickier.

The truth is that some of you would be horrified by the humerous insights I gain after an evening out in Hollywood. Others of you would roll your eyes at my reflections on Scripture. Some of you feel like its dishonorable for me to stop wearing my wedding ring, and others wonder why I still have pictures up in the house. This would all be fine if I were anonymous. I would just write it like it is and disable the comments button. But I'm not anonymous, and I can't very well tell those who care about me to disable their comment button.

I guess what I am trying to say and miserably failing at saying is that I feel stuck. I want to keep writing here to keep people in touch with what and how Iain and I are doing, but I think it might also be time to start a new blog where I can write anonymously for other young widows who might actually be comforted by some candid discussion of this mess.

Actually, if it weren't for the other widows who already read this blog, I wouldn't have written this post at all, because I really don't want to offend the people I love the most.

Oh for goodness sake, I should have just posted the following "I'm starting a new blog written for young widows rather than friends and family. If you read this blog because you are a young widow or just find young widowhood intriguing, please email me at triciaharding@gmail.com and I'll give you the new address. Otherwise, if you are a friend or family member who wants to stay current on what Iain and I are doing, this is the place to be.

See what i mean, this post is a disaster because I want to make everyone happy. And it is really hard for honesty and codependency to coexist.

Where O Where Is My Sense Of Humor?

2007-01-26T22:01:00.000-08:00

I was just rereading my posts from last fall. They were funny.

The recent ones, not so much.

Hope my sense of humor didn't die eight months ago too.

The Tour is Coming to an End

2007-01-26T20:39:00.000-08:00

A shift is taking place.

For the first time in 8 months...oh God, it's eight months today...I feel like settling down. NOOOO, I don't mean "get married", maybe more like settling in. I want to set an alarm clock, go grocery shopping, have a bedtime routine with Iain, know which days I am working and which days I am playing. I want to know where I live and what is vacation and what is home. I want just one teensy weensy ounce of routine in my life.

I realized yesterday that life hasn't been steady for over 26 months. That's ridiculous. In Ocotber 2004, I was 12 weeks pregnant, mom went on hospice, and I shifted my focus from work to caring for her. Shortly after she died, I was put on bedrest. Iain was born. My church imploded. I lost my job. Dalton was diagnosed with cancer. He was treated. He had surgery. He came home. He died. Since then, I have done everything I could think of to avoid settling in. I've travelled, lived in two places at once, refused a set work schedule, and overbooked my socail calendar. Anything to avoid steady.

Steady was with Dalton before October 2004.

It's time to find steady with Iain in 2007.

It physically hurts to begin that process. The pit that I first wrote about shortly after Dalton died is bigger than ever. Nothing makes his absense more palpable than planning a week of meals and cooking them up on a Monday night without him. That makes us sound dull, I know, but it was actually how we managed to stay spontaneous in the midst of a really really busy life. Having lunches prepped in advance meant that a last minute invitation a show at the El Rey could be accepted instead of declined. I like having a plan to stray from. Living in constant whimsy has felt a bit like being on a whirlwind tour of Europe. I just want to pick someplace and stay put for awhile.

Of course, I still intend to sleep in on my days off, find a last minute sitter so I can join the girls for happy hour, travel often, stay up late, get up early, earn my pilot's license, buy wine's that's too expensive, and generally feel obligated (not just free) to really get the most out of this life. It's so easy to forget how quickly time passes, and I don't want to miss out on opportunities to enjoy life in favor of just getting through it.

Still, I think it's time for steady. And steady is looking really painful.

Not Mechanically Inclined

2007-01-25T03:25:00.000-08:00

I had grand plans for tonight. Dan had me scheduled for "legs", meaning that my knee had finally recovered enough from a nasty fall down the stairs at Sam Wo's (note the comment about the narrow stairs) to handle a good workout. Jenny and Joseph and I were going to grab some dinner at a cafe in Glendale. Leah, Jill, Martel, and I were going to have Girls Night Out. And Iain was going to hang out with his buddy Levi and Godfather Matt.

Apparently, I was not supposed to have grand plans. First off, Joseph was coughing up a lung, sweating out a fever, and in no shape to do anything other than stay in bed. To be honest, that worked out better for Jenny as well who was feeling a bit overwhelmed and quite happy to reschedule. It also meant that I would actually have time to shower and primp before going out with the girls, so I wasn't heartbroken either.

Unfortunately, when I arrived home at 3:30 to grab my gym clothes, things went terribly awry. Just like every other night for the past two years, I put my key in the lock, unlocked the deadbolt, pushed down on the lever, and pushed on the door. Unlike every other night for the past two years, nothing happened. The door wouldn't budge. The deadbolt was still engaged.

What the heck? Trying again. Put key in lock. Turn key. Push lever. Open door.

Nope.

Not being easily discouraged, I skipped around back and came in through the kitchen. "I'll just open the front door from the inside and see what the problem is."

Nope. Couldn't open it from the inside either. Here is where I made the crucial mistake...

"I'll just take the lock off the door and fix it."

Dalton is laughing right now. Really, really hard.

Oh, I got the lock off the door alright. The problem was getting it back on. So there I was cross-legged in my work clothes with a pile of deadbolt parts in front of me realizing that there was no way I was going to make it to the gym for my appointment and that I had no way to lock my front door while I picked Iain up from daycare. Most people would have at least one of several solutions to this predicament. Most people have two locks on their door, know their neighbors, have family nearby, or have a spouse/other parent to pick the kiddos up in case of "emergency". I, on the other hand, was stumped. Seriously. I was so perplexed by the circumstances that I got up from the floor, poured myself a glass of wine, sat down on the couch and did nothing.

Five minutes later, Leah called. After explaining the situation to her, she suggested that I at least try to get ahold of a locksmith. After all, I still had almost 2 hours before I had to leave to get Iain and they might be able to get the door fixed in time. Following her suggestion, I called the second (never the first) locksmith that popped up on a google search for "locksmith west covina". Lucky me! They would be out within the hour. And, they would fix the lock by 6:10 so that I could pick Iain up by 6:30. Yipee.

It didn't work out that way. An hour later they hadn't arrived. When I called the dispatcher, he nonchalantly explained that they were running about an hour late and would see me around 6:30. I politely (I think) explained that I needed to pick up my son from daycare. In turn he said, "Go ahead."

Yeah, and leave my front door wide open!

The closest friends I have in proximity to my home are Joseph and Katie. Joseph, who was coughing up a lung. Katie, who was coughing up both lungs. They are about 12 miles away. After them there's a handful of folks in Pasadena, but that is about 20 miles from my house. And it was 5:15. In Southern California. No one can go 20 miles in an hour at 5:15 in Southern California.

I called Joanna, my easternmost Pasadena friend, and told her my predicament. Without hesitation, she answered, "I'm on my way."

Like I said, no one can go 20 miles in an hour at 5:15, but she was close. I was a little late getting Iain. The door was open for about 10 minutes. And, I felt a little better when the locksmith told me that the lock was indeed broken. Joanna stayed for dinner and drinks. Iain watched the Wiggles. I was reminded once again of why I need to move in closer to my friends.

I think most young widows, especially those with children, move "home". By that I mean that they return to the place where their parents live. Since my parents are both dead, that isn't the best option for me. And since Dalton's parents live in Apple Valley and I would be dead if I had to live there (um, the annual happy trails roundup...), that isn't the best option for me either. Luckily, I have amazing friends. Friends who will drive an hour to wait for a locksmith while I run to pick up Iain. Friends who will gladly babysit so that I can get some much needed adult time. Friends who will just hang out while I sort through the reminders of my life with Dalton. Friends who will wrap up dishes and help me pack. Even on my most misearble days, I know how lucky I am to have friends like these.

The same cannot be said for the second locksmith on my google search of "locksmith west covina". Next time, I think I'll try the first.

The Most Depressing Day of The Year

2007-01-22T19:57:00.000-08:00

Right off the bat, let me just say that I'm stealing from PussyGalore. But I thought this was funny and a little bit appropo. The most depressing day of the year happens to be my Mom's birthday which just happens to be the Monday following Dalton's birthday. Oh well, at least I can get 'em over with at the same time. Tonight I would have given anything to drop Iain off at a friend's house and get the heck out of town. Yosemite sounded nice. Vegas, fun. I even considered a cross country trip. What it really boiled down to is that I wanted to disappear; be a missing person for a week or so. Turn off the phone. Live on cash. Take on various identities. Unfortunately, I'm still sane enough to know that there are too many issues that would arise if I did that. Like, um, my job, the house I am buying, my dog. Plus, all that emotional crap that my friends and family would have to go through. For what? A bit of craziness that would end soon enough anyway?

Nope. Couldn't do it.

Why is it that some of us (ok, most of us) still feel the overwhelming pull toward responsibility even when we could justify otherwise? And, perhaps the more interesting question is "Why is it that some people snap easier than others?" I could snap. Really, I could. But what would happen to Iain? Who would pay my bills, take care of my dog, clean out the refrigerator? I really did think about that - moldy food. And, eventually, I'd probably get over myself and then I'd have created more work and hassle for myself in the long run.

Anyway, I doubt if today was the most depressing day of the year for me, but if it was for you, cheer up. At least you got it over with nice and early.

January 19, 1968

2007-01-18T22:13:00.000-08:00

Dalton's birthday.

Last year, steak dinner and stuff I can't write about. This year, a picnic in the cemetary.

That just sucks.

Who knows whether it is the purchasing of a new house or the subconcious awareness of the date, but I have been a bit...weepy?

This is a really big deal for me. I mean, each succesive death (Dad, Mom, Grandpa, Dalton) has resulted in more and more impassivity. I can remember as a child that I cried a lot. If someone stepped on a bug, I cried. If I thought someone didn't like me, I cried. Sad movies required a box of Kleenex and an escape route.

Nowadays, I can sit through "Trade", a disturbing, haunting movie about human trafficking without even tearing up while the guys I am sitting next to are sobbing. This scares me a lot of the time. Am I no longer able to form close emotional attachments? Have I constructed emotional roadblocks to shield myself from pain? What does that mean for the future?

I think that's one of the big reasons I am seeing a therapist. I want to be healthy - physically and emotionally - and I suspect that the emotional stuff may take a while to diagnose.

Of course, I'm not sure this therapist is going to the be the one to diagnose it. I was sharing with her that while cleaning out the garage, I had come across several letters, notes, journals, photos, files, etc. All of them made me cry. Some caused longing, others joy. Some, especially the journals, were very painful. They revealed Dalton's complexity as a person, his struggles, demons, etc. I'm really not certain how much of that type of "keepsake" I should be keeping. It's fine for me to have, but what if somehting happened to me. I would only want Iain to see these things in the proper context, with a counterbalance of Dalton's joy and faith. Do you know what my therapist's suggestion was? After meeting with me evey week for five months, she actually suggested, "Why don't you have your Mom hold onto them for you?"

Like I said, i don't think she's the one for me to be talking with about my reluctance to form deep emotional ties. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure I should be talking with her at all. Guess its time to look for a new therapist and just be happy that for now, it's good to be weepy.

If you've got any fight left...

2007-01-18T22:05:00.001-08:00

Seriously. I just need to stop watching Grey's Anatomy.

Nearly Last Wishes

2007-01-12T21:58:00.000-08:00

April 1, 2006 (our sixth anniversary)

We talked tonight about fear and death. Hopefully, we won't continue to live in that place. We cried about Iain and little Dalton and our own potential loss. Faith was hard to muster today. Heaven is a place for old people to go after they've Seen their kids grow up. Not really, I know. But it seems like that's how it should be.

I wrote that post the day after the doctors told us that the cancer was in Dalton's lungs, liver, and abdomen. We had sat in the living room after Iain had gone to sleep. I was on the couch. Dalton was on the chair.

In between sobs, I managed to ask "If something happens and you die, do you want me to stay here? In this house?"

"No." He answered. "I'm not going to die from this cancer, but if I got hit by a bus on the way to get my chemo, I'd want you to move closer to LA, to be near our friends. Maybe someplace like Pasadena. Take Iain to the places we liked. Teach him to eat sushi at A'float. Get him a hot chocolate at our Coffee Bean." Mostly, I'd want you to stay connected to the church and our church friends. They've been good to us."

...On Tuesday, the realtor called to tell me that the offer had been accepted. I am in escrow on a house in Pasadena. Actually, it's a duplex, and I'm buying it with some dear friends from church. It's in an amazing area. We can walk to the Rose Bowl and Old Town. It's literally across the street from the Gamble House and a few blocks from the Norton Simon Museum. The friends I am buying the house with have become surrogate grandparents to Iain and spiritual lifesavers for me. It's a good move. Probably short term. Maybe for two years. Then I'll revisit NoCal. Or New York. Who knows?

As much as I am in love with Northern California, I am not ready for that kind of a change yet. As a matter of fact, the fact of buying a house anywhere seems to have opened the floodgates so-to-speak, and I can't seem to stop crying. Something about starting to build a life without Dalton as opposed to just sampling different options is making it all too real.

Every time I say that, it sounds absurb, but it's true. By refusing to either live in our old routine or establish new ones, I have been able to maintain a sort of denial. Not so now. If only my shrink were more into the antidepressants...

As an aside, I am really glad that I have had this time to travel and socialize and live in two places at once. In fact, I never really decided on LA vs. SF. It just sort of happened. The house became available. It felt "right" like nothing else had. So I went for it.

I guess if all goes well at the inspection, I will indeed be living in "someplace like Pasadena. Taking Iain to the places we liked. Teaching him to eat sushi at A'float. Getting him a hot chocolate at our Coffee Bean." And, considering I'll be living next door to our church friends, staying connected shouldn't be a problem.

Who's in your address book?

2007-01-07T09:07:00.000-08:00

Being friends with someone (ok, me) who is grieving is not for the weary, impatient, or judgmental.

Some things I’ve noticed about myself in these months following Dalton’s death:

1) My moods are absurdly unpredictable. At any given time, you might find me nostalgic, indifferent, optimistic, terrified, resolute, flighty, sociable, socially inept, charming, obnoxious, selfless, self-centered, gloomy, perky, angry, pacified, lonely, loved, intent, scattered, etc. In fact, it feels and must often appear that I am suffering from multiple personality disorder. Were it not for the fact that the therapist assures me this is all quite normal, one of the personalities (the rational, cautious one) might consider having me admitted.

2) My memory still isn’t functioning properly. I seem to be doing better remembering numbers and facts, but I regularly stumble when asked “What did you do yesterday?” Conversations don’t stick, especially my side of them. I can’t remember to feed the dog or put gas in the car or pick up the dry cleaning.

3) I go through much of life in a fog. I am functional. I can see what is right in front of me. But, get more than a few minutes behind or ahead of where I am and it’s all a blur.

4) I need constant reassurance. Annoying, but true.

5) My sleep habits continue to be erratic. Some nights, you will wake me up if you call at 8pm. Other nights, I will wake you up when I need to talk to someone at 1am.

6) I want desperately to find some magic pill that will help me start over but ultimately know it doesn’t exist.

7) I often feel like I am getting worse instead of better.

I was on the youngwidow.org bulletin boards again this morning. Sigh. So pitiful. One of the recurring themes is how friends seem to disappear or withdraw as time goes on. The saying goes “grief rewrites your address book.” And my favorite quote on the subject is “I completely understand. My thing is, who would even want to hang out with me. At this point, I am no fun to be around - I wish I didn't have to hang out with me!”

Anyways, I really appreciate how many of my friends seem to be hanging in there with me. I know that so far, I have been really lucky on that front. It does help to ease some of the lonliness.

OK

2006-12-31T16:32:00.000-08:00

Again, I've gotten enough phone calls regarding my last post(s) to prompt me to write an "I'm OK" entry. Of course, it's 4:30 on New Year's Eve and I am a bit tipsy from the several free shots at the bar, but really, I am doing fine. Last night's drive up north was a good one - time to cry, time to dream, time to remember. In the right context, the six hours spent on the road are quite therapeutic. I miss Dalton terribly, but I also have the space and freedom to consider what lies ahead. The same is true for the mornings in Mill Valley when I wake up alone (with my dog) and have time to read and write and pray.

I only went to the Cantina for lunch, and that was only because the two other restaurants I tried had closed early for New Years. I thought, "My kitchen is empty, and I should definitely eat something before going to tonight's party." Trying to be responsible! What I did not count on was a "family bar". Eek! the kind where everyone know your name in the Cheers kind of way. Despite my protests that I needed to get home and get ready for a party, it seemed as if the bartender was intent on keep me there. I was sent one free shot before I asked for the check, and two afterwards. uggh. It's an interesting phenomenon, how people pick a bar to visit on a regular basis - or even that they do. Some were couples, some singles. I wonder what there stories are. What brings them back. What brings them in the first place.

I certainly don't want that for my life. Thankfully, with Iain, it's really not even a possibility. It's just kind of wierd to be an observer, to crossover for a minute, to enter a world that isn 't mine.

Back to me being ok.

I am. Even though I am still pissed at God, I know he still has me in mind. I have a future. A good one. And the only reason I even know that is because of Dalton's faith. I'm not sure what the future looks like, but I am grateful every day for the ability to get out of bed, smile, play with my son, chat with people on the street, help out dear friends, and even meet interesting folks at the Cantina. If anything, right now, my life is a constant adventure, grounded by friends, and tempered by grief.

I am ok.

My drug cocktail

2006-12-29T22:25:00.000-08:00

How long can I justify taking this drug I am taking? It's not an antidepressant in the traditional sense of the word, but it is definitely a drug. And it's functioning like an antidepressant. The perpetual travel, the packed social calendar, the material extravagance, the incessant planning, and the persistent busyness appear to be an effective cocktail for keeping me off the ledge. And yes, I know that this isn't a cocktail designed for long term use.

Then again, it's only been seven months. And it's not like I'm hurting anybody right?

All the recovering addicts out there just cringed at that line.

But seriously, after the holidays, I will try to slow down. I'm sure a gradual cutting back will be easier than a total withdrawal. And really, anything that keeps me off the ledge right now works for me.

I Hope Not.

2006-12-26T21:53:00.000-08:00

They say
"You'll figure it out"
Like I have any control over it.
Really.
I will figure it out
but
without the youthful delusion.
We all have our plans
but how many of them really come to
be?
As we intended?
When we intended?
With whom we intended?

I was going to be a veterinarian.
Then, an attorney.
I was going to stay single,
have one child (a girl),
live a cultured life,
be a superwoman.

Then I met Dalton.

Life changed those plans.
Love changed those plans.

I became a church lady.
Had a baby (a boy).
Bought a house in the suburbs.
Thought it would be nice to be a housewife
for awhile.
Enjoyed cuddling on the patio
as much as a night on the town.

Then
Dalton
Died.

So what if eventually I
"Figure it out."
My figured out plans might come true.
I might be an attorney.
have one child (a boy),
live a cultured life,
in the city,
be a superwoman.

But I hope not.

I hope life changes those plans.
I hope love changes those plans.
I am better because it did.
I am better because Dalton did.

Mascara

2006-12-25T19:23:00.000-08:00

Thankfully
I never got around to applying mascara today.
Really, Christmas is just another day.
I told myself and everyone else.
And it was.
No tree. No presents to unwrap. No Andy Williams.
I tried Andy Williams for Iain's sake.
That was after I had applied the eyeliner
but before the mascara.
I remembered Dalton in his goofy red sweater.
He loved that song, the way it swings.
And the Charlie Brown Christmas.
Couldn't play that one either.
So
eventually
I gave up.
On the music that is.
And the mascara.
We went out eventually.
More eyeliner of course.
Went to a friend of a friend's
In the village.
A fourth floor walk up.
Neat place.
Neat people.
Not so toddler friendly.
Stayed just long enough for Iain to throw tangerines at our hosts
and pour tea on the ottoman
and ignore his mother telling him no.
Now I am trying to sleep.
Thinking about years past.
And writing instead.
More damned eyeliner on the pillowcase.
Thankfully
I never got around to applying mascara today.

Really, It's Christmas Eve?

2006-12-24T22:14:00.000-08:00

Seriously, that's all I'll say about it. On a much more interesting note, thanks to my NY/LA friends, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that my New York experience has been a bit more authentic than touristy. Dalton and I always said that one of the most interesting places to visit on vacation was the grocery store. New York is certainly no exception. In fact, New York has some of the most interesting grocery stores I've ever seen. And I'm not just talking about Dean and Deluca. More interesting than D&D are te small corner grocery stores that seem to carry everything i need to make Iain happy. Their "salad bars" offer fresh cut mangoes, blueberries, strawberries, tofu, edamame, and of course pirates booty. They (these "salad bars") are 10 times the size of any in LA, and have made travelling with a toddler far easier than I would have expected.

Then, there is the whole NY dining experience. Let's just say the following things:

1) It's a good thing that i am only eating one meal a day or it would take me weeks to recover from the caloric surplus.

2) I have been lucky enough to eat at some of the best restaurants in New York, and a few weeks of extra sit ups are so worth it.

If you're a foodie, there's certainly more to tell. If not, I'll just sound like a pretentious snob. I'll leave it up to you to ask for more.

57, 46, and 37 degrees

2006-12-23T09:04:00.000-08:00

That's right. It's 57 degrees in New York, 46 degrees in West Covina, and 37 degrees in Mill Valley. Let's just say Iain and I got very lucky. Yesterday we took a cab up to the Guggenheim. Iain fell asleep shortly after we arrived which actually suited me just fine. Yes, I want him to develop an appreciation for art, but his naptime conveniently allowed me to spend two uninterupted hours viewing the exhibitions. The major exhibition right now, El Greco to Picasso, is incredible. It includes pieces by...you guessed it...El Greco and Picasso, but also Dali, Velazquez, Miro, Gris, Cotan, and De Goya. I really love Spanish art, so this was a particular treat for me. Plus, the Guggenheim has the one of the largest collections of Kandinsky's work in the world, another favorite.

The Guggenheim is located in the upper east side, so when we finished there, we wandered out to Madison Ave. for more shopping and dining. Actually, we didn't really dine, but picked up some goodies at Dean and Deluca and snacked while we walked. After spending some time at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, we took a cab to the Times Square Toys R Us.

Madness.

And the woman in the elevator said, "This is nothing. You should be here tomorrow."

Seriously, there is a giant ferris wheel in the middle of the store, and the place was packed wall to wall with people. We lasted about 15 minutes, long enough to have our picture taken and printed up (tourist rip off, i know), ride the elevator up and down to each floor and make our way back to the exit.

From Times Square, we walked the 12 blocks back to our hotel, stopping in at the numerous small niche grocery stores along the way. I really do love New York.

New York - Day 1

2006-12-22T06:46:00.000-08:00

New York.

To the four folks who specifically recommended or nearly insisted on New York at Christmastime - thanks!

We've been here less than 24 hours and I already love this city. Yesterday afternoon, Iain and I walked up to Macy's Herald Square. He was fascinated by the windows (indescribable) and the train and Santaland. I was fascinated by the coat department. I know, consumerist pig! Really, there is no way to comprehend any of it except by being there. In the evening, we made our way to Rockefeller Center, took pictures in front of the tree and the ice skating rink and the milled about with the hordes of other holiday cheer seekers.

When people say that New York knows how to do Christmas, they mean that the city is entirely bathed in Christmas - music, lights, atmosphere, attitude. From Rockefeller Center, we walked down Fifth, Madison and Park Avenues, shopping, sipping coffee (cider for Iain), and noting the extreme uniqueness of the city. We made it all the way to Central Park which while beautiful, couldn't compete with the Apple Store and FAO Schwarz that sit on the corner opposite the park. Yes, my mac friends would be proud.

Today, I think we'll tackle the Guggenheim, MOMA, and the Chelsea Gelleries. I'm feeling artsy already. And tonight? LA friends, transplants from New York, arrive this afternoon and we're planning another evening out.

I can't seem to figure how my grief fits with all of this, except to say that it is better being here than at home. I can imagine walking along holding hands with Dalton, both of us bundled up in winter coats and scarves, dressed for an evening out. I can imagine that he would have loved it here as well and how much I would prefer that he be drinking his annual eggnogg latte at me side. Yet somehow, because of Iain and the magical elements of the city, I'm enjoying it anyway.

I think he would want me to.

So bad I'm reluctant to hit publish

2006-12-20T00:58:00.000-08:00

This is crap. All of it. Tonight, after an entertaining evening of intellectual debate, theological banter and a refreshingly good cabernet, I finally decided to think about my impending trip to New York. By impending, I mean that we leave in less than 24 hours. And somehow, instead of my "packing" file, I ended up in the picture file. And, consequently, instead of planning our trip, I spent the evening bawling my way through a slideshow of Iain's first year.

Now, I'm just pissed. We had everything in front of us. We were building our life. We'd just bought our first real house (not a condo, although don't get me wrong condos are great too), Dalton was moving up the corporate ladder, and after several miscarriages, Iain had arrived, and he was perfect. Six months later it was ripped away from us by cancer.

I'm whining.
I know.

But sometimes I just feel entitled to a little bit of "Why me? Why us?"

See. I am not always strong. I simply persevere. I don't know what else to do. It doesn't seem to matter whether I feel like geting up in the morning or going to work or telling Iain to stop throwing his food on the floor. Time passes anyway. Barring drastic measures, I will still wake up tomorrow and have to face the same crappy reality that I had to face today.

Iain's first year is all that we got.

So, yes, I will make the best of it. Whatever "it" is. I will honor the cliches and make lemonade out of lemons. I will enjoy this life because frankly I don't like being miserable.

But don't think it's because I am strong or recovering so well or moving on so easily. All that crap about lemonade is cute but let's face it, on their own, lemons are pretty hard to swallow.

Capricious. Fickle. Flighty. Wishy-washy.

2006-12-17T22:54:00.000-08:00

This figuring out where I want to live business is exhausting. Sure, lugging Iain (who now weighs a whopping 32 lbs.) through Ontario and Oakland airports, balancing him on my hip while I virtually disrobe at the security checkpoint, and keeping him entertained while we sit on the runway due to inclement weather can be challenging. But really, it’s the mental workout that’s doing me in.

I thought I’d made up my mind to stay in LA. I even made a pretty convincing case for it to numerous friends and family. And now…again…I’m not so sure.

My reason and rationale for staying in LA is simple and straightforward and singular. Friends. I don’t mean acquaintances or “work friends” or people that you hang out with because your kids are on the same soccer team. I mean genuine, intimate relationships with people whose company you really enjoy and who know all your shit and love you anyway. I don’t want this to be taken lightly, because it isn’t a light topic for me. If it were, my house in LA would already be on the market.

But, there is absolutely nothing about the city of LA or the Greater Los Angeles area that excites me. Almost everything about Northern California excites me.

Today, Iain and I did everyday things that reinforced how much I love Northern California. We woke up to a cool house shrouded in fog, nestled in the trees, overlooking the ocean. We sipped our morning beverages next to a cozy fire and listened to birds calling outside. We ventured out to Toys r’ Us in the largest city in Marin (San Rafael pop. 50,000) and met a lovely family who directed us to the local Trader Joes. We bought our goodies and struck up a conversation with a really nice guy who joked with Iain and recommended Paradise Market (not Togo’s) for a great sandwich. By then, the sun was shining but it was still a brisk 50 degrees. Perfect for sitting outside bundled up in a winter coat. After lunch, we headed into the city.

The city gets its own paragraph of course. First of all, there is nothing more amazing than driving through the green hills of Sausalito and emerging from the last curve right at the base of the Golden Gate Bridge. It makes my heart skip and takes my breath away every time I do it. You can actually feel the energy change while you are out over the water such that by the time you land on Lombard, it is a whole different world. Like Manhattan, space it at such a premium in San Francisco, that everything has height. Plus, the hills add another dimension of interest to an already interesting city. Iain was captivated by the buses of course. And the cable cars. And all the people. I was fixated on the different neighborhoods and how much there was to explore. I wanted to park, pull out the stroller and stroll. But today was a day for shopping and the most efficient use of that time would still be had at San Francisco Centre. I won’t go in to the details of our shopping experience because after all it is still a mall. However, we ate lunch at a great French bakery and again met several really nice people who all seemed to be fascinated with Iain. We walked along Market in the hustle and bustle of other holiday shoppers, passed over the city sidewalk grates that could only be charming to someone like me, and stopped at a local café for an evening cappuccino.

So now, I am rethinking the city as a place to live.

I know myself well enough to know that I would eventually want to retreat to the comfort of Marin where parking is easy to come by and houses have backyards instead of fire escapes. But maybe, while I have the chance, I should live in the city for a little while. Maybe just rent for a year? Let Iain’s spongy brain soak in everything a city has to offer. Meet others who share a love for wine and books and theatre and music and all things independent. Maybe. While I still have the chance.

Capricious. Fickle. Flighty. Wishy-washy.

Would really love some resolution.

Northern California

2006-12-10T04:46:00.000-08:00

I'm here in the beautiful town of Mill Valley listening to the rain patter on the roof of this modern cabin. It' 4 in the morning.

For those who don't know, I am living two lives right now. Every week I spend two or three days in LA, going to work, paying bills, taking care of the house, and visiting with friends and family. The rest of the time I am living in Mill Valley, a small , fascinating community just a few minutes north of the Golden Gate Bridge. Our house is a two bedroom cabin with modern lines, lots of glass, and wood paneling. It's nestled in Mt. Tam, so we are surrounded by trees yet have a view of what I think is the Sausalito Bay from our deck. Truly, it doesn't get more beautiful.

I love this area, and the friends that I have up here have been incredibly good to us. Interestingly, though, these days spent in NoCal are having a curious effect on me. Because I don't have anything to "do" up here - no tasks to accomplish or friends to help or jobs to perform, I have a lot more alone/free time. That, coupled with it being Christmastime, seems to be making me consistently and profoundly aware that Dalton is gone. I am doing a lot more crying and a lot more thinking about what life was supposed to be like. I hate it, but my therapist is thrilled. She told me on Thursday that I needed to do that in order to really heal. Therapists are so sick.

As soon as I can procure an AC adaptor for my laptop (I keep leaving it in LA), I hope to write more regularly. In the meantime, I need to post this before the battery dies.

All Ting Go

2006-11-23T07:08:00.000-08:00

Today, I have two choices. Be miserable. Or, be thankful. Like a cheesy Hallmark card, I am going to try to be thankful. There are thousands of other bloggers out there today writing the same kind of contrived crap, so at least I am in good company.

Iain and I are both really sick. I have no voice and my post-nasal drip is turning into bronchitis. Iain's perpetual runny nose has turned a love shade of chartreuse and he is intermittently whining and tugging on his ears. In a couple of hours, we are going to shoot over to the urgent care and get ahold of some pink bubblegum anitbiotics. In the meantime though, we are enjoying a lovely morning.

On mornings when I don't have to work, I'll cook up some eggs, slice some strawberries (or other seasonal fruit), and we'll sit at the table listening to music and "talking". This was a regular Saturday tradition that Dalton and I began many, many years and 4 houses ago. It's such a simple thing, but it was one of those consistent times when you knew you were going to get to be together. Iain and I make it a point to do it at least once a week. In the new era, I do most of the intelligible talking, but occasionally I am blessed with a two or three word sentence.
And I know that one day, in a couple of years, the balance will shift and I won't be able to get a word in edgewise.

I will always get to pick the music though.

Today's musical selection was Sufjan Stevens, Illinoise. It's a brilliant album that captures both the melacholy and simple pleasures of this life. I have played it quite a bit over the past three months, and Iain really likes it. To be honest, Iain really seems to like most music, the first thing for which I am really grateful. He will sit in his carseat and dance to whatever is on. And, when a song ends that he is particularly fond of he will exclaim, "More, please!" I don't play any kids music, although we certainly sing a lot of "Wheels on the Bus" and "Row Row Row". Iain sings the kids songs, but I've never heard him sing a grown-up song.

Until today.

When Chicago came on, Iain was playing with his cars and trucks, driving them over the couch and the coffee table and the dog. All of the sudden, I heard him saying, "All ting go. All ting go." At first I thought he was just talking to his trucks, but then I realized that he was singing, not talking. And, he was doing it along with the song that was playing.

you came to take us
all things go, all things go
to recreate us
all things grow, all things grow
we had our mindset
all things know, all things know
you had to find it
all things go, all things go

It's funny, because Sufjan Stevens is a secular indie artist. He is a Christian, but not a scary one. If you don't know what I mean by that, then you might be one of them and you should just forget I said that. So, he is a Christian, but he is realistic about faith and the struggles that we deal with. Most of his songs are about life, not religion. I would venture to guess that he is pretty unpopular with the more pious Christians because he gets pretty angry at God at some points. At the same time, there is an underlying current of hope in his songs that I really appreciate.

Apparently, so does Iain. Or at least he likes the tune.

Either way, listening to him bop about the house with his cars and trucks singing, "All ting go, all ting go" makes me really happy.

I am so thankful for many things. For the things I have now - really wonderful friends, Iain's loving and helpful grandparents, a great job, lovely house, etc. For the things I had in the past - my mom and the 30 years of love and friendship and support that she gave me, my husband and the ten years of faith, passion, friendship and partnership that we shared.

Most of all, though, today I am thankful for our son who likes to sing.

Stripped of Pride

2006-11-21T21:55:00.000-08:00

I've heard women say that once they went through childbirth and exposed themselves to every doctor, nurse, and janitor who wanted to "take a look", modesty became a thing of the past. Having buried my mother, grandfather, and husband in the span of 18 months, I feel about the same regarding my smarts, or in this case a lack therof. To be fair, it isn't as if my IQ suddenly dropped 50 points simply because they all died. However, the mental manifestation of grief seems to be hitting me pretty hard these days.

There is a chapter in my Widow to Widow book (can't believe I am admitting to owning it), titled "Where Did I Put my Mind?" Some excerpts follow:

"A well shared symptom of "the crazies" experienced in early widowhood is the maddening amount of time spent looking for things you had in your hand only a moment ago, or had logically filed away for safe keeping...You are performing new and demanding tasks and making decisions, and on the other level you are trying to cope with your loss, your grief and the ever-growing realization of the full dimension of that loss...Expect, at least once, that in paying bills you will send the electric company check to the phone company and vice versa (been there, done that)."

Anyways, tonight's crazies might even top running over the tire spikes in the parking lot, but I'll let you be the judge.

I am spending Thanksgiving in North Carolina with the family of one of Dalton's closest friends. Iain and I are booked on a flight from Ontario to Raleigh that leaves at 10:40pm. Red eyes are good for him; he sleeps just fine on a plane. Larry is driving us to the airport.

I had hoped to leave my house by 8pm in order to allow plenty of time to check-in and settle down. It is, after all, Thanksgiving weekend. At 7:45, I was set. Iain was fed, bags were loaded, house was locked.

OH MY GOD!!!!!

I'd left my ID in the copy machine at work...in Hollywood...30 miles in the opposite direction of the airport...at rush hour...in southern California. You can't fly without an ID, so I jumped in the car and prayed. And called my friend Matt (who lives closer to work) to see if he could grab it and meet me en route. And prayed. And prayed some more. Please let the traffic be light. Please let me get home before 8:50. Etc.

By some miracle, I managed to get to LA and back in less than an hour. This is a huge feat considering that it normally takes me an hour and a half to get to work. I pulled into the driveway at 8:42, and we were off to Ontario. At 9:10, we pulled up the curbside check-in, which was remarkably empty, and unloaded the luggage.

Skycap: Do you have your ID with you.

Me: Yes, and what a funny story that is...

Skycap: I can't find your reservation.

Me: What do you mean you can't find my reservation. I just looked at the e-ticket an hour ago.

Skycap: Do you have your confirmation number?

Me: No.

Skycap: I have a Mary and a Chris Harding. Are either of those you?

Me: No. Let me call my friend and have him check my email for the confirmation number.

(me dialing, waiting for an answer)

Skycap: What flight did you say you were on?

Me: The 10:40 to Raleigh.

Skycap: We don't have a 10:40 to Raleigh. We have an 11:55 to Raleigh, but you're not on it.

(me waiting for Matt to find the email)

Matt: Here it is. Delta flight 1103 from LAX to Raleigh leaving at 10:40.

(me taking a deep breath)

Me: Matt, did you say LAX?

Matt: umm. yes.

Me: Shit.

It was 9:20 and I was in Ontario. My flight was leaving LAX at 10:40.

We are not going to North Carolina for Thanksgiving.

And that, my dear friends, was my latest attack of the crazies. I may not have lost all sense of modesty following childbirth, but I have definitely been stripped of all pride by grief. The irony is stunning as well. I drove from West Covina to LA to pick up my ID, managed to somehow make it to Ontario, only to discover that I needed to be at LAX all along.

I will miss seeing my friend and meeting his family, but what can I do about it. Every flight is booked and overbooked. It is, after all, Thanksgiving weekend.

How to Tie a Tie

2006-11-20T19:51:00.000-08:00

If you met me
in the grocery store
or at a concert
or we chatted in front of the day care center
about cars
and school pictures
you'd think I was peppy and smily and cheery.
And I am.
If you knew me only from the blog I write,
you'd think I was miserable
and whiny
and, well, dull.
And I am.
Most mornings I wake up
to the sun shining through the bedroom window
and Iain crying
Maaaammma
from his crib.
We sit in the armchair
reading books about
trains
dump trucks
fire engines
He's all boy.
I cut up pears
and strawberries
and cantaloupe.
We always said we wanted him to eat heatlhy.
I get through this just fine.
Peppy, smily, cheery.
But then we drive to preschool.
And I remember Dallton getting dressed for work
tucking in his dress shirt,
spraying the Vera Wang,
telling Iain how some day
he'd show him how to tie a tie.
And I cry.
But not for long.
It's only 15 minutes to the school.
This is my day.
90% cheery, smiley, peppy.
10% sad.
I blog the sad
because it's not normal.
I don't know what to do with it.
I didn't blog when Dalton sprayed his Vera Wang
and tied his tie.
I had other things to do.

Stuff

2006-11-16T22:29:00.000-08:00

One of the most profound moments I had on Tuesday while going through Dalton's closet involved a piece of clear plastic medical tape wrapped around a piece of cotton. It was shoved in the pocket of Dalton's heavy green wool jacket. I can imagine him peeling it off his arm and shoving it there after donating some more blood to USC Norris Cancer Center. What struck me is that this little ball of plastic and cotton still existed, and Dalton was gone. In fact, there are bags of clothing sitting on my patio that have obviously outlasted their owner. I can't say why I found this so interesting other than that it crystallized what I had been feeling for quite some time. Stuff has no meaning outside of people.

NaBloPoMoFo

2006-11-13T17:28:00.000-08:00

Oh well. So much for blogging every day this month. I have never been very good at plodding (some would say I have a hard time with routine, consistency, whatever). In fact, I was just away from a computer. I went up to meet the landlords this weekend, and the Motel 6 didn't have a laptop handy. Anyway, it was a good trip. The house is really perfect for what I need. It's tucked away in Mt. Tam, has a fabulous wood burning fireplace, a lovely wrap around deck, and glass across the entire back of the house. Plus, it's about a 10-minute drive across the Golden Gate to San Francisco.

I can already see that there will be some difficulties to overcome in this endeavor. Namely, finding the perfect mix of timing, entertainment, and Benadryl (I keed) to keep Iain occupied on our twice weekly airplane adventures. At the same time, I am more excited than ever to do this. In less than 24 hours, I met four people with whom I could easily become friends. And, it just so happens that my landlord is a flight instructor, so I will probably be exploring flight lessons sometime in the next few months.

Back to my issues with not finishing what I start, I have decided to drop my Anatomy class. To all of you who thought I was completely insane for starting back to school when i did, I issue a hearty, "You were right!" Too much, too soon. But I said that I woud offer myself a lot of grace in these months, so that is what I am doing. That panic attack test that I took a couple of weeks ago resulted in a 33%, and although I could probably work really, really hard and maybe still pass the class with a C, I spoke with the professor this morning and decided that it just doesn't matter that much at this point. There is a two year wait list for most nursing schools in California, so I'm going to have to embark on a different career in the meantime. Plus, I am beginning to wonder if the nursing thing is really as much of a calling as it was a knee jerk reaction to my all-consuming hobby of the previous two years. I know I want to help people who are facing similar circumstances, but maybe not full time. Besides, for those of you who know me, I am much more of a suit, stockings, and high heels kind of gal than I am a scrubs and clogs kind of girl.

Dalton would have really appreciated my saying that.

So, for now, I am free from school and focused on getting things in order for the next phase of my life. Tomorrow, my friend, Millie. is coming to help me start on the task of going through Dalton's stuff. Last week was rescheduled because of her work schedule. Fine by me. I'm not exactly an eager beaver about this one. In my "prep work" today to ensure that none of our more personal items were included in the pile, I came across a stack of cards that Dalton had given to me over the years. He was really an amazing writer and hopeless romantic. I wish I'd only kept more of them, but then you never know. You just never know.

Being OK with Waiting

2006-11-09T19:55:00.000-08:00

It's just fine with me that I haven't a clue what next year looks like. Every time I try to think beyond February 28, I have an overwhelming sense of confusion. So, I have decided that I don't need to think beyond February 28th. In the meantime, I'll just try to enjoy each day as an independent story in the framework of my life.

February 28 is the last day of my lease agreement in Northern California.

For those of you that were confused, I have not decided to move permanently and will be traveling back and forth from Northern California to LA for the course of three months. Consider it respite and reconaissance.

Rings

2006-11-08T19:59:00.000-08:00

A BIG question for anyone whose spouse dies. Just check out the young widow forums. Rings and sex will get the most hits every time. When Dalton first died, I decided to wear his ring instead of mine; an easy choice since my engagement ring was stolen and my wedding ring hadn't fit since I was six weeks pregnant. Darned water weight.

Then, about two months ago, it started to slip and slide around my left ring finger, so I moved it to my right hand. Don't ask why, but that finger was "plumper" than the left one. It felt "right" on the right hand. I was technically not married, but I still loved having it with me.

This past week, it has fallen off of my right ring finger three times. The first, while giving Iain a bath. The second, while drying my hands after doing the dishes. The third, while desperately trying to rid my hands of dead cat smell in the anatomy lab sink. The thought of Dalton's wedding band getting washed down the drain with cat fat and formaldehyde was too much for me to bear. I had to do something.

I tried moving it to the middle finger, but that didn't feel "right". I thought of wearing it around my neck but still prefer the mother-child pendant he gave me on Mother's day 2005. So, after much debate, I have decided to take take it off and put it in the safe deposit box for Iain. My hands feel a bit bare right now. But also like a blank canvas. Maybe this week, I will buy myself a ring that fits. Something that celebrates Dalton and love and who I am because of who he was.

Actually, I'll be happy if I can just find something I like.

I guess the truth is that life moves on whether we want it to or not.

I was going to write about

2006-11-07T23:25:00.000-08:00

not wanting to write about grief anymore. It's not all I am. It's not all I want to be. I love modern art and indy music and dinner parties and reading stories to Iain before bedtime. I love traveling and doing nothing touristy. I like driving with the top down, smiling at the other drivers and seeing how many of them smile back. I like intellectual banter, witty, funny people, and unrestrained optimism. I like to sit outside beside the fire and sip wine. I like it even better when there's someone to curl up next to. I like hearing Iain sing. I like solving problems, being efficient, and having a clean house. I even like grocery shopping and going to the gym. And finally, I love a really strong cup of coffee on a crisp cool winter morning.

So I was going to write about all these things and then I accidentally (really) reread my blogger posts from last April. Now, I just want to go to bed.

Someone please tell me that there will come a day when the first conversation I have with someone won't include the fact that my husband died. It scares people. It scares me. I just haven't figured out how to be me without him and I certainly haven't figured out how to answer the question, "Where is Iain's Dad?"

Uugh. I so want to be done with this.

A really special cat...

2006-11-06T22:40:00.000-08:00

Today I failed an anatomy practicum. And let me tell you, when I do something like fail a test, I do it with style. I didn't just fail it, I will be lucky if I scored a 20/100.

To be fair, last week wasn't my best week. I have been more or less indifferent to school and remiss about my studies. However, I did spend about 8 hours reviewing the material and figured that I would at least be able to eek out a C.

HA!

I literally went blank. Normally, tests are easy for me. I don't get nervous. The answers flow easily onto the paper. But, today...NOPE, couldn't remember a single thing. Actually, I had to laugh at one point, because in my futile attempt to rack up points, I decided to give the same answer to five different questions, figuring that at least I would get one of the right. Did you know that there is a cat out there who according to Tricia has five biceps brachii? Hence the 20% goal.

Oh well, better luck next time.

You've heard it a million times before

2006-11-05T08:52:00.000-08:00

Again, there really is nothing new under the sun.

Don't ever get too attached to your stuff, because when you die, the people you love the most will eventually pack up 95% of it and give it to Goodwill.

I think I will be able to get through most of the clothes. Some things will be especially difficult though; the Hugo Boss sport jacket that we bought when Dalton returned to Marsh, the black J Crew Coat that I bought for him because he refused to spend the money on himself, certain pairs of shoes. It's funny how many memories you can associate with clothing.

The things that will be toughest though are those things that are uniquely personal but not necessarily sentimental. For example, the classical guitar that he always intended but never got around to learning how to play. Or, the briefcase that he carried to work every day for the past
six years. Or, his everyday fountain pens (not the really special ones, I'll keep those for Iain), but the everyday ones that he used in lieu of "inferior writing instruments. Or, his sunglasses, the same style and brand that he wore since college. Or, his cologne (which I may not get rid of because on bad nights I still sometimes spray in on the pillow next to me). Or his IPOD.

For all of you who gasped, I have my own IPOD.

It all just seems like such a waste. I want someone else to appreciate these things, to get some use out of them, to play the guitar, carry the briefcase, write with the pens.

So, if you are a friend and would use any of these, please let me know before Friday. Otherwise, I will be packing up 95% of it and giving it to Goodwill.

Proof that God has a sense of humor...

2006-11-04T15:35:00.000-08:00

Larry is my mom's husband, Iain's Grandpa (and an awesome one at that).

Larry is not my stepdad.

My mom and Larry met when I was 17, and for the first several years, Larry and I didn't like each other too much. He thought I was a selfish, arrogant brat. I thought he was creepy and boring. In fact, I can remember telling my mother that I saw him on America's Most Wanted and that she really should look into her boyfriends more carefully.

Likewise, Larry and Dalton didn't get along too well at first. Of course, that was due in part to the fact that things were a little crazy between Dalton and I in the very early years. One night in 1996 when we were living with my mom for a few months, Dalton and I had a bit too much to drink and ended up getting in a fight in the kitchen. It was 2am and Larry normally went to work at 4am. In a daze, Larry calmly walked into the kitchen and pointed out to Dalton that "He was a great cook, but a lousy house guest."

All the more amazing that the four of us eventually ended up really enjoying each other's company. I stopped being a spoiled brat, Dalton stopped being a drunk, and Larry stopped being so creepy. In fact, in some of Dalton's journaling, he references evenings spent laughing, playing cards, and drinking wine with my mom and Larry as some of his favorite memories. We always found that fact ironic.

But that's not the reason that God has a sense of humor. Today, while Iain napped, Larry and I spent the day doing real estate research and talking about potential cities to which each of us could relocate. Mom died two years ago this month and it is proving to be a hard time for Larry. Of course, if you read this blog, you already know that it has been a hard time for me. Anyway, and this is the funny part, amongst the things considered in our potential new diggs were opportunities for social connection. So where did we end up? On Yahoo personals entering in different criteria, different zip codes, and different locales. "Larry, look, she's pretty and likes dancing." "Hey Tricia, there are over 1000 men in the San Rafael area for you to date who claim to jobs."

You get my drift. We were laughing hysterically the whole time.

Of course, the truth is that I am only six months into grieving. Larry is nearly two years into it. And neither of us is really serious about dating. But who would have thought that an 18-year old brat and her mom's creepy boyfriend would one day have so much in common?

Sarah's Blend

2006-11-03T19:42:00.000-08:00

I realize that this is an odd post. It's just that I don't really have much to talk about in the way of grief today, and I subscribed to NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) and agreed to post every day for the month of November. So, instead, I am going to use my cyberspace to recommend a fabulous high-value wine. One of the things I decided after Dalton died was that life is too short for so-so wine. So, I've been ordering wines online starting with 90 pt. wines under $20. Marquis Philips 2004 Sarah's Blend Soutern Australia is the best I've found thus far. And, its running out. Complex, fruit forward, peppery, and deep. You can get it from http://www.klwines.com for $8.99. Yes, I said $8.99. I've seen it up to $17.99, but still?

Anyway, if you like red wine, give it a shot. Can't beat it for the price.

My Therapist Laughed at Me

2006-11-02T19:17:00.000-08:00

And she's really not much of a laugher...

I went in today and calmly explained that I was having what I thought were panic attacks: difficulty breathing, dizziness, a racing heatbeat, and weakness. She nodded sympathetically at first, but when I explained that the second one happened right after signing the lease agreement on the house in Northern California, she began to laugh out loud and shake her head in disbelief. "I think you have hit your limit." she said.

It's not that she's opposed ot this decision or thinks it unwise. She just thinks that my body has finally had enough and needs a release. Her suggestion? Ask a friend to come over so that you can finally go through Dalton's stuff.

Huh?

It's about time. It will be a good release for you. Besides, the longer you wait, the harder it is going to get.

About then, I started to feel my chest go tight.

What do I do about the panic attacks? Should I take a Xanax?

Nope. You just live through them.

She then read me a list of "Panic Attack Symptoms and Associated Thought Process."

1. Rapid Heartbeat, "I am going to have a heart attack."
- reality, your heart can beat at 200bpm for up to 2 weeks. You will not have a heart attack.

2. Difficulty Breathing, "I am going to pass out."
- reality, the stress is causing your lungs to expand and press against your chest. You are getting plenty of oxygen.

3. Dizziness, "I am going to faint."
- reality, the fight or flight response has dilated your blood vessels. You are getting more not less oxygen and will not faint.

4. Weakness, "I am going to collapse."
- reality, the blood is going to you largest muscles (legs), and you will certainly not collapse."

About then, I realized that I really was having panic attacks and began to feel even more pathetic.

As she pressed on about going through Dalton's stuff and how I could "keep one box", I lost it. I don't want one box. I want him. Then the rapid heartbeat, difficult breathing, dizziness, and weakness started to become evident. Her response? "We also should spend some time on your Dad, because this will inevitably raise the abandonment issues that you have as well."

I hate my therapist.

I love her too, because I need to cry. I need to get on with my life. And she gets that I am really good at bottling it up. And not very good at letting it out.

So now, I get to schedule a day with a friend so that I can "go through" (which really means get rid of) Dalton's stuff AND at the same time find something of my Dad's to bring into my next session. And this friend can't be someone who wants to fix it or make it better for me. They have to be comfortable with me being a mess. In fact, they have to encourage it.

Lucky friend.

In the meantime, I get to practice diaphramatic breathing six times a day as a way of minimizing the physical effects of a panic attack.

I swear, all I want to know is what the hell is wrong with Xanax?

On a Lighter Note...

2006-11-01T19:38:00.000-08:00

My tires rock!

I am lame, but my tires rock!
Just another indication that I am losing my mind. Every Monday and Wednesday for the past eight weeks, I have been parking in the pay lot at Mt. Sac Community College. You pull in, park, and pay on your way out. Today, I decided that I'd skip the "pay" part of the equation and go out the well-marked entrance instead. As my front tires careened over the spikes that I thought no dumb ass ever crossed, a funny thought crossed my mind, "Why I am I going in the opposite direction of the painted arrow?"

Then I realized that the large bump I just felt were my tires rolling over vicious spikes and I was probably going to be stuck here like a dumb ass until AAA bailed me out.

Luckily, my tires survived. Go Audi! My ego is a little bruised, but what else is new these days? Just thought i'd share.

The Hardest to Fill

2006-11-01T15:48:00.000-08:00

I'm not a nervous person. Anxiety, fear, and uncertainty are actually pretty foreign feelings. I've been called resilient, strong, self-sufficient, and any number of other adjectives that mean "You're going to be just fine." Even during the toughtest times these past few years, I've usually known that I would be ok. I'd get through it.

For that reason, this afternoon caught me a bit offguard.

I signed a contract to sublet a home in Northern California for the next three months. And after I signed the wire transfer for my security deposit, I was hit with an overwhelming sense of fear. It was a genuine awareness that my life was changing drastically, soon. And I was actually scared.

I'm sure that sounds wierd considering it's been five months since Dalton died and over a year since he was diagnosed. But I think this was the biggest decision I've made since May 26, 2006 and the first one I've made on my own for over ten years. I wanted to curl up next to Dalton on the couch, rest my head in his lap while he comfortingly wrapped his arm around my shoulder and assured me it would be fine.

In the ten years we were together, these moments might have happened five or six times. The night mom died and Dalton wrapped himself around me while I sobbed. The evening in the hospital when they told me I was having a miscarriage. The day I couldn't stop crying because I thought I would never be a decent mom. But, these were the moments that made our marriage intimate, real, vulnerable. when we were more than partners, more than friends, more than lovers. It was in these moments when I was really vulnerable, that Dalton was my husband, my flesh.

That hole seems the hardest to fill.

Panic Attacks and Remembrances Part 1

2006-10-30T22:42:00.000-08:00

They've been brewing for a couple of weeks now, but today I had a real life panic attack. I'd thought it was lack of sleep or wierd chick hormonal issues or maybe just a reaction to some medication. But it wasn't. Those things cleared up and then bam! Today.

I know it was a panic attack because not only was I hyperventilating and unable to function, but I was completely irrational.

Inside Tricia's head...I can't move to Northern California, I'll never be able to get a job. No one will hire me, not even a temp agency for $12/hour. I have a baby. How do I explain that to an employer. No one hires single moms and that's what I am. Plus, what about the freak factor. I'm a widow. No one will like me in northern California. No one likes me now, but they feel too sorry for me to cut me off. Etc, etc.

On top of all that nonsense, I developed excruciating pain in my left heel and diagnosed myself with metastatic breast cancer. Then I crawled into bed and listened to The Weakerthans over and over again until I could compose myself.

What a complete mess!!!

Truly, i am so embarrassed.

But I am better now. And realizing (hoping) that maybe some of it was really hormonal. And maybe one night's sleep does not a well rested person make. And even if it takes me a year to find a job, I'll be ok. And even if no one likes me, I can make new friends.

Maybe I'm not completely better, but you should have seen me this afternoon.

Anyways, I stumbled across the remembrances file in my email and realized that I had never kept my promise to share them with the rest of you. In fact, I hadn't even finished reading them myself. So, I am going to start tonight, one at a time. Thank you to everyone who has done this thus far. I know that they will someday mean a lot to Iain and they already mean a lot to me.

SWINGIN' SOPHISTICATES...
Iain, take a look at these three stylin' images... No, these beaming hipsters aren’t models from a 1958 LIFE magazine photo spread. The two swingin' sophisticates you see before you happen to be your parents, circa 2004. And this photo perfectly captures their whimsical side.Your dad was the consummate host: witty, urban, ready with a bon mot, and highly adept at the shaker and the strainer. He could small talk about the best way to decanter wine and a second later, delve into a conversation on Dorothy L. Sayer's idea to educate small children in Latin. A dapper "Man About Town" with depth. Equally at home in theology and Monty Python.And a true friend who brought joy to our lives.This is just one of the ways we'll be remembering your dad. Stay tuned for the others!

Love,Autumn & JC Cornwell

In addition to these photos, JC and Autumn also sent this photo of Iain and Daddy when Iain was just one day old. Thought I'd share it as well.

Long time, no write

2006-10-21T20:34:00.000-07:00

Where to begin?

And now I feel guilty. Isn't that silly? To feel guilty about not writing to an internet audience. I suppose what I really feel guilty about is not having captured this last month, not having captured the ups and downs, highs and lows of this crazy time. I have been at both my lowest and my most optimistic, but I haven't stayed at either for long enough to capture them.

"after the fact" is never the same.

So I will probably never get around to writing about these things, but in case Iain asks me someday, I want to remember...

Going back to the hospital where Dalton died and giving a gift to the nurse who cared for us.
Visiting Dalton's friends in Benicia and Petaluma and wondering why we never made the time to do it together.
Discovering that I did not die with Dalton on May 26, 2006.
Wishing sometimes that I had.
Lying down next to the grave of my husband.
And my mother.
And my father.
Getting to the gym five times in a week.
Going apple picking in Oak Glen
Having little Dalton give me a hug and say, "I miss you mommy Tricia. Daddy's in the hospital."
The dodgers winning the wild card and then throwing it away to the Mets.
Being up and down and all over the place in my thought, action, and dreams.

I am in counseling now. I spend $150 per hour for someone to listen to me perform my own psychoanalysis and occasionally ask an introspective question. She's very into dreams; believes they are truly gateways into our innermost psyche. That would be fabulous if I were someone who regularly remembered her dreams, but I'm not. Really, I never have been, but Iain kind of sealed the deal. How much of your dream are you really going to remember when the first thing you hear is a toddler screaming, "Out, mama. Out!" Nevertheless, I have assured Dr. D that I would place a notepad beside the bed just in case.

Just in case happened this week and of course, there was no notepad. I had two, yes two, dreams. The first was good. The second, not so good.

In the first dream, Dalton and I were having our usual fun, flirty, Saturday night at home. It was so real that I woke up thinking that I had finally been able to get through the nightmare about cancer and get back to real life. It happened at the end of a very rough day. Dr. D said it was compensatory, that I really needed it, so my inner self gave me what I needed.

In the second dream though, things were not so happy. There had been a murder, a stabbing, and Dalton and I were trying to solve it. Everything was either white or green-gray, like a scene out of Clockwork Orange. And here's the wierd part. Dalton was very distant. I was aware that he loved me, but that he was intentionally holding back. There was somethig he wouldn't tell me. Or couldn't help me with. And I felt alone. Very, very alone.

Dr. D's question to me was, "So which part of yourself do you feel has been murdered.?"

You're kidding, right.

All of me.

I have no clue who I am without this man. I don't even know who I want to be. It changes minute to minute. So most of the time I just am. And I really don't want to be someone who just is.

So I spend my time dwelling on who I should be. How can I fix this? What should I do? Where should I live? What should I study? How should I parent? What should I believe? When should I date? Who should I date? What cause should I devote my life to? Etc, etc.

It is tiresome, but so much easier than accepting my current circumstances. That is something that I cannot seem to do. And I continue to fight against.

October 11, 2005 and October 12, 2004

2006-10-11T13:07:00.000-07:00

One year ago today, we learned that Dalton had advanced esophageal cancer. Two years ago tomorrow, my mom collapsed from kidney failure while getting ready to go baby shopping. She never recovered. This is a sucky week. Don't be suprised if I am MIA.

City of Freakin' Hope

2006-09-28T17:44:00.000-07:00

In my mailbox today...a large manila envelope containing cd's of Dalton's last two CT scans. The note reads, "We are returning your CD/Films back to you for your personal use..."

Well, I've been looking for some good reading material, right?

F*?%.

Angry. That's today.

Anatomy 35

2006-09-25T19:57:00.000-07:00

Concentration
eludes me.
Talk of cadavers and hyperplasia
steers me eerily away from the classroom
with its flourescent lights
and too deep seats.
Instead I am holding his hand,
grown pudgy after days of excess fluid,
signs of organ
failure.
He grips back,
assuredly.
But, really, he doesn't.
They have dimmed the lights.
Reverence?
I suppose.
They say it will be "soon."
Why does it have to be at all?
I have no interest in cadavers.
Or hyperplasia.
I do not like the wooden seats.
I only want to hold his hand.
I want him to grip me back.

Fall

2006-09-23T20:50:00.000-07:00

Iain's Godparents made a me a generous offer. This is nothing new for them; they've been going above and beyond since Dalton and I first asked them back in December. We often joke that they didn't know what they were getting into, but they did. And they really show it in both their friendship to me and their love for Iain.

Anyway, back to the offer. They would keep Iain overnight so that I could get some much needed rest. I could take a sleeping pill, go to bed early and wake up when my body said it was time to get up instead of when Iain decided he wanted out of his crib. I said "YES!" and settled down for a good night's sleep.

Interestingly enough, although I appreciated the sleep, what I really treasured was the morning. First of all, I woke up on my own (after the sun was already up) because my body was finally well rested. I wasn't sore, cranky, or desperately trying to think of a way to keep Iain quiet so that I could grab just ten more minutes of snooze. I slowly made my way out of bed, grabbed a lightweight robe and wandered into the kitchen. I casually poured myself a cup of coffee, turned on The Shins, switched the stereo to "Outside Speaker", picked up the book I intended to read while Dalton was recovering from surgery and stepped outside.

It was Fall. The sun was shining. The air was crisp. A light breeze was blowing. And the shadows were longer. Dalton always said that there was one day when your body became aware of the fact that Fall had arrived. Today was that day. And I was lucky enough to sit outside, sipping my coffee, and enjoying a really well written book. I wasn't rushed or melancholy or preoccupied with whether Iain was eating his yogurt or wearing it. It was the nicest morning I've had since just before Dalton went into surgery.

And eventually, I felt like going to pick up Iain. And I put the top down on the convertible, turned up the radio and smiled.

Fall.

Let's waste time

2006-09-20T23:27:00.000-07:00

chasing cars around our heads.

I have resisted the urge to download Snow Patrol's new album, "Eye's Open" for four months. A friend gave me the cd shortly before Dalton died, but I misplaced it, and that was probably a good thing.

Chasing cars kills me.

All I can see is us laying in bed together the morning of May 16th. He wanted to go to school and I just wanted him to stay with me.

I just wanted a little more time.

Just a little more time with the love of my life. to chase cars...

We'll do it all
Everything
On our own
We don't need
Anything
Or anyone
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

I don't quite know
How to say
How I feel
Those three words
Are said too much
They're not enough

If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?
Forget what we're told
Before we get too old
Show me a garden that's bursting into life

Let's waste time
Chasing cars
Around our heads
I need your grace
To remind me
To find my own

All that I am
All that I ever was
Is here in your perfect eyes, they're all I can see
I don't know where
Confused about how as well
Just know that these things will never change for us at all
If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

Please, can I just have a little more time? to chase cars around our heads?

Read the Others

2006-09-20T22:39:00.000-07:00

There are others who like Dalton, fought this battle and lost. And, there are some who have won. And, there are others who are still fighting. Please read their stories, think about them, pray for them. Those of us who get dealt the cancer card early in life feel really alone. There is a whole community out there that needs your support, so share the love. Here's a start

http://que-sarah-sarah.blogspot.com/
http://www.the-cat-lady.com/
http://toosexyformyhair.com/
http://bombinmybelly.typepad.com/
http://jennys-belly.blogspot.com/
http://www.californiahammonds.com/
http://illuminade.blogspot.com/
http://fightingbreastcancer.blogspot.com/
http://2hands.blogspot.com/
http://adventuresofcancergirl.blogspot.com/
http://womanlyparts.blogspot.com/
http://www.carymiller.net/
http://www.tigerox.org/blog.html

A Really Long Business Trip

2006-09-19T07:57:00.000-07:00

This is a roller coaster ride. Right now, the dips and twists and turns seem to be weaving their way through anger, determination, optimism and extreme sadness. Yesterday, while moving my car from one parking lot to another in between my lecture class and my lab (a task I must do if I want to pick up Iain before the preschool closes), a stack of pictures fell out of my purse. I had tucked them into the outside pocket after a visit with some of Dalton's friends from work. They were pictures of Dalton feeding Iain his first solid food last 4th of July (guacamole) , the three of us visiting our favorite local winery, and Iain hanging upside down while his dad tickled him at the LA County Fair last year. For some reason, I became a blubbering idiot and had to sit in my car for several minutes while I composed myself.

I still can't believe that he is gone.

I know that is absurd, but it's true.

I think that most of the time, I just fool myself into thinking that he is on a really long business trip and will be back any day. I can't tell you the number of ties throughout the day that I think about calling him and telling him a funny thing that happened or letting him know that I'm runing late. And, when I realize I can't, I usualy just chalk it up to him being unavailable, not dead.

Iain is watching Winnie-the-Pooh right now and the Pooh song just came on. Dalton used to sing a modified version to Iain as a bedtime lullaby.

Iain the Pooh, Iain the Pooh
Chubby little cubby all stufed with fluff
He's Iain the Pooh, Iain the Pooh
Willy nilly silly old bear

Iain the Pooh, Iain the Pooh
Chubby little cubby all stufed with fluff
He's Iain the Pooh, Iain the Pooh
Time to go to sleep little bear

And I'm a blubbering idiot again.

Friendlies Only

2006-09-17T20:06:00.000-07:00

Please don't read this post unless you are my friend and can accept me as I am. This is a whiny, selfish post and I am reluctant to blog it. But I said I would be honest about this process and that means blogging when I am not who I would hope to be. Note that I am aware of this shortcoming and will rectify it, get beyond it, and live happlily ever after but right now, F-it.

There. I feel better. The Dodgers lost. Actually, Iain was amazing and made it through all 9 innings completely content to be outside in the hot sun. He cheered and clapped and kept pointing out ant the field saying "bay-ball"! I went with his Grandpa, my mom's husband, Larry. Larry and I never really cliqued until Mom died and since Dalton's death, Larry has really stepped up to the plate (forgive the baseball metaphor) as Iain's Grandpa. He comes over virtually every Saturday to be with Iain and do "guy" things around the house, like bring in the garbage cans and hang shelves. That is not the whiny part of the post.

Here it comes.

I am 31 years old and I am spending my Sunday afternoons going to baseball games, cooking dinner for, and sharing a bottle of wine with my Stepdad. Where is my husband? No, I don't even mean where is my Dalton. Just, where is my husband. I don't want to discover that I already had the best of what my life was to be. That doesn't mean that Dalton wasn't amazing. It just means that I've got another thirty years to go (assuming I die young!) and I don't want it to be downhill from here.

I'd like to think that I still have some spunk to bring to a relationship - joy, spontaneity, passion, intelligent conversation, fun, adoration, etc. But, crap, I can't do that yet. Dalton hasn't even been gone for 4 months. And, that makes me really, really selfish and uncaring. Of course, the truth is that Dalton has been gone a lot longer than that. Dalton has been gone since January 23rd when they cut him open and rearranged his insides. And, except for three weeks between January 1st - January 22nd (which were incredible and priceless), he had been gone since October. But, heck, who's counting right?

Alright so that is really the selfish part. I don't really want to go through the pain of grief. I'd rather skip it and move on to something better. And I know that makes me a biatch. But my God, I am not dead. I didn't die with Dalton and he wouldn't want me to.

Of course, he wouldn't want me to be over him after four months either. But trust me, I am not. I just don't like having to live here right now, alone.

If the title fits...

2006-09-17T04:40:00.000-07:00

At what point do I actually consider a sleeping pill? This is getting ridiculous. For the third night in a row, I am wide awake in the middle of the night. Then again, maybe I should just come up with a list of things to be done around the house - clean out closets, organize pantry, hang art, etc. At least then the time would be productive instead of frustrating. Yes, that's it...I'm off to clean out the hall closets. There are towels to be thrown away.

Single Ticket

2006-09-16T20:12:00.000-07:00

The Dodgers are in a penant race and I am watching the game alone. And again, this isn't the way things are supposed to be.

Dalton should be sitting in the chair caddy corner to me with a glass of this Vitiano Falesco in his hand. I should have put Iain to bed early, while Dalton set out some manchego and poured me a glass of sherry. I should be standing at the kitchen ledge in the pink vintage nightie that he gave me for Chrsitmas watching with awe (even after 10 years) at was an amazing host he is. On a summer night like tonight, the game would be on in the background but the night would be about us. Saturdays were our night, the only night we kept sacred.

Tomorrow I am taking Iain to his first baseball game of the year. He's been once before, when he was 3 months old, when his Dad wasn't sick. I don't know what to expect. Actually, i have avoided baseball for most of this season, but as I said at the beginning, the Dodgers are in a penant race. This isn't the way things are supposed to be, but it is the way that they are. And I want Iain to like baseball. I want it to be our thing. I want us to go and talk about Daddy and tell him about the game we went to when I was two months pregnant and the Dodgers clinched the division in the bottom of the 9th. I want him to see the picture of the three of us at Dodger stadium and know how much we enjoyed it. I want him to cherish it the way I do. So, we are going to the game and I will tell him the stories and he will babble and ask for more hot dogs and I will buy him another hat.

And hopefully the Dodgers will win.

Christmas in New York

2006-09-15T01:57:00.000-07:00

According to the little clock in the bottom right of my computer screen, it is 1:53am. I have been laying in bed for the past four hours trying to find some way to get to sleep. Clearly, nothing has worked thus far, so I may as well write.

I'm definitely angry these days. Not angry in a bitter nasty way, but in an "I'll show you!" kind of way. I met with my therapist today and explained my meadow metaphor and the fact that I feel like darting off toward the mountains or the ocean (anyplace but straight ahead). This, along with my obvious spunk sparked an interesting conversation.

In an oversimplified manner, here's what I realized:

1) Dalton was the pragmatic realist. I am the idealistic dreamer. Without Dalton, I am not especially grounded and tend to get caught up in the "Why nots?" of life. Why not visit a different city every month? Why not go to New York for Christmas? Why not flirt with the cute guy at the bar? Why not buy the best available seats for Sunday's Dodger game and take Iain to his first game of the year? Why not bet $300 on one hand of blackjack? Why not train for a triathlon? Why not take a leave of absence and wander around Europe for a couple of months? Etc, etc.

2) I like this part of myself. It is the risky, adventurous, fun, spontaneous side of me. Dalton like it too.

3) It is the start and a part but not the end or the whole of who I will be when I come out of this.

Dr. D. contends that as long as I hold some of the tension between reality and fantasy that I will be ok. Howver, she is strongly cautioning me from running into pure escapism simply to avoid the pain. Yeah, yeah, I know she is right, but it is so much more fun than being miserable all the time.

Thankfully, I have Iain, who grounds me in the same way his father did. I can't/won't spend all my money, bail on my job, risk my health (wine is good for you, right), or abandon him to world travels. However, everything else is fair game. And besides, I think he is going to like New York at Christmastime.

Not Quite Settled

2006-09-13T19:56:00.000-07:00

hmmm.

I haven't written recently, because I haven't stopped going. I caught an early plane last Thursday for Northern California and spent the weekend with good friends indulging in wine, witty conversation, and a fabulous end of summer party. Immediately following my return, I buried myself in Human Anatomy, specifically osteology, in preparation for today's grueling practicum. This is my first real "break".

As it turned out, the weekend was actually a catalyst for a personal paradigm shift.

I love airports. I've never been one to seek out or even appreciate alone time. The extrovert in me thrives off of being around other people, so I usually make an effort to minimize downtime. Airports, however, don't offer a lot of options to the individual traveller, so what's an extrovert to do? Go to the bar of course, order a Makers Mark Manhattan, and observe.

It was a Sunday afternoon and there was a football game on, so the bar was full. At one table were a bunch of middle aged women chatting about charity work and comparing notes on where to find the best deal on their panini grills. At the bar, their were mostly men in their thirties drinking beer, focusing on the game, and sneaking the occasional glance at any attractive women in the room. At a corner table, their was a young women nursing a baby. And wandering about was a man who looked lost, an assumption confirmed by the fact that he was drinking a glass of house white wine during a Colts game. There was an old man and his wife sitting behind me. And, each time a new flight boarded, there was a continuous game of musical chairs.

It was a intersection of every lifestyle and life circumstance, and I was fascinated.

Here is what I realized.

For the past four months, I have been saying that I no longer have any ties that bind. I am an orphaned only child who was fired just over a year ago from her ministry job following a nasty church split and whose husband, lover, soulmate, and best friend died after a seven-month battle with esophageal cancer. I have a beautiful baby boy who is still young enough to be mobile and untethered by school or friends. And, I technically, have the financial resources to temporarily take some time off work while I figure out what the hell I want to do with the rest of my life.

I have been saying this for four months.

It took an airport to make me emotionally accept it. And embrace it.

Let me explain it with a metaphor (my husband would be proud).

I am in a meadow. I am surround by people. Everywhere I look, there are people bustling about. 99% of them are moving in the same direction, toward the same goal. What is the goal you ask? To get married, have some kids, find a good office job that doubles as a career, settle down in the suburbs, and buy a plasma tv, of course. To be happy. And you know what, I already did that, and I was happy, but what do I do now? Do I jump back into that tide? Bury myself in nursing school (after all, it is a noble calling and a profitable career), log on to match.com and seek out my next new husband/provider? Or do I look around and notice the 1 % that are swimming upstream, heading toward the mountains that border the meadow on one side or the ocean that borders it on the other, unsure of what lies beyond their visual framework, but curious nonetheless. It might be horrible. It might be dismal, and dreary, and dangerous. But then again it might not. And the only way to find out is to go.

See, Dalton and I used to look longingly at the people swimming against the stream. We used to dream of aritsan cheese farms, and jet setting, and adventure. But there were two of us, and we had family. We had ties that bind.

I have no ties that bind. I have no ties that bind.

Of course, I also have no sense of which way to go. So right now, I am stuck. I am sitting in the meadow while everyone bustles around me. The difference is that I am enjoying the view. I am entertaining thoughts of adventure and wondering what lies beyond what I can see. I am preparing myself for wherever I choose to go next, and I am letting myself think outside the stream.

It feels good and defiant and angry and passionate all at the same time. And who knows how it will feel tomorrow.

Disjointed

2006-09-06T23:48:00.000-07:00

I drove past Hadleys today on the way home from Palm Springs. We used to stop there on our way to Idylwild. It wasn't really on the way for us and actually required driving five miles beyond the actual turn off for Idylwild, but dried papya and salted cashews make for excellent snacking on our mountain cabin's deck. And the kitschyness made it irrestible.

I have travelled quite a bit since Dalton died. No place all that interesting. Just elsewhere. The busyness of travel and distraction of my travel buddies seems to dull the ache. Almost so that I can't recognize it. But like a migraine that returns once the medication wears off, the ache returns with a vengeance once I return to my home. And even then, it isn't until the quiet of the evening that I realize the pain is actually acute.

The moments build up throughout the day. Little things. I let them slide. On their own they are but fond memories or subtle regrets. Today for example, I was pouring my coffee while everyone else slept and I recalled Dalton and I sitting at our kitchen table enjoying coffee as the sun came up. Refilling my gas tank I realized that Dalton would never let me pump my own gas. Scurrying around the house preparing to check out I remembering how effieciently we directed the clean up of retreat centers following the Alpha weekend away. Walking down the hall of the new science building at Mt. Sac, I knew that Dalton would have been proud of me going to class regardless of the fact that I was late. Then I picked up Iain and the "migraine" exploded. It had been hanging out in the background, but Iain's first painting put me over the edge. It was his first painting and Dalton didn't get to see it.

It's funny because I wanted to write all day but seem to be suffering from some block or distration. In rereading this, I proably shouldn't post it, but if this blog is my journal, then this is an interesting study on how disjointed I am right now.

I hope to write more regularly now that things are setling down.

We'll see.

To those I've never met

2006-08-28T22:40:00.000-07:00

Please email me. There are many of you out there whom I know of but do not know - friends of Dalton (or Jim) that I would love to be in touch with. There are a select few in particular - dear friends and old girlfriends (funny, I know) that I would love to hear from. I won't name names, but I suspect you are out there reading but staying anonymous. Stay anonymous no more. Email me at triciaharding@gmail.com.

Thanks!

Chatting it Up with the Doctor

2006-08-26T23:28:00.000-07:00

Is there anyone left in this town who doesn't have a therapist?

I've tried before. Really I have. I mean, it's the hip thing and goodness knows if there's anything about me that you should know by now, I'm all about being hip. Unfortunately, somewhere between notes made in a manila file folder and the coy timer that politely states "Time up", therapy always loses it's charm. Nevertheless, if one person tells you you have a tail, ignore them. If several people tell you you have a tail, it's time to find a mirror. Several people have told me that I should see somebody (yes, that's right I seem to have misplaced my husband), so i guess it's time to find a counselor.

And in spite of myself, I might have done that. The good doc is safe. She's sweet and quiet and looks at me in a "poor dear" sort of way that would have previously made me wretch. But she asks me about Dalton. No one does that anymore. And I can talk about him without feeling guilty that I am ruining someone's day or monopolizing a conversation or being a boring/dreadful friend. After all, I am paying her to listen and I had best get my money's worth. So I talk. And talk. And talk.

And funny enough, I cry. And it feels good.

She asks me about him. What is he like? What do I like most about him? How would I describe our relatinoship? When do I miss him the most. How did we meet? What is the hardest part of my day? And on and on until the timer says "Time's up." And she says without any hesitation, "Bring a picture next time."

I will.

What Happens in Vegas...

2006-08-26T23:01:00.000-07:00

So despite anonymous' insightful recommendation that I should stay home and take care of Iain, I was kidnapped and taken to Vegas last weekend. I suppose I could say shopping was my excuse. Or fine dining a la Prime. Or fabulous accomodations at The Hotel. Really, I don't think I need an excuse. Just an escape.

The problem with escapes is that they never last. And mine ended in the McCaren airport while monies were being exchanged for hoetl rooms and airfares. After all, "We were all going home to our husbands and might forget about settling up."

No one else noticed. At least no one else acknowledged the slip. But suddenly and subtly I discovered that I was different. Not the same. And homecoming was a bitch.

To the gals that were my Vegas buddies and best of friends, it truly was a fabulous adventure. There is no reason for guilt or sadness. It simply is what it is and the who's, why's, when's, where's or how's of my awareness are irrelevant and unimportant.

A day at the spa. Now that's important.

Cancer, Baby

2006-08-18T23:23:00.000-07:00

Somehow I ended up here. http://cancerbaby.typepad.com/cancerbaby/

I emailed her husband tonight. Jessica's. She died recently of ovarian cancer. She was 33.

I really don't understand sometimes.

Why is it that eloquent, smart, caring, and most of all useful people die while others who intentionally waste away their lives, live.

I know, it is a stupid question and there are a million right answers, but that's how one feels when one thinks about Dalton...or Jessica.

It seems so random. And unfair.

Remind me to tell you later about tonight's evening out and my first bereavement counseling session. Have I mentioned before that Dalton was my soulmate?

Go with the flow

2006-08-15T21:42:00.000-07:00

Who's to say what steers the grief process? For the past week or so, I have been functioning quite well. On occasion, I have even had moments of gladness and optimism about the future. In my daily life, I have managed times of productivity, personability, approachability, poise, concern for others, interest in life beyond my grief, etc. I have been getting along quite well considering...and then there was today.

I have no clue why I woke up with an elephant on my chest. I don't know why I found myself gasping for air and choking on my own panic all day long. Why I didn't eat or couldn't sleep past 3:50am. This isn't a "significant" date. Nothing momentous happened on August 15th. And yet, I have been in real physical grief pain all day long.

I suppose there's not much more than that to tell. I'm tired now. Iain is screaming because in I am attenpting to reaquaint him with his own bed. My head hurts because I haven't eaten all day. And my heart hurts. Nights are always hard, but tonight is especially difficult.

step one - the day he slipped away

2006-08-10T19:47:00.000-07:00

One of the eight grief recovery books I own begins with the end in mind. That is, it suggests that I begin my recovery by remembering the day that Dalton died. For me, this happened in two parts; the day he slipped away and the day he died. This is part one. Some of you may not have heard this story. You may not want to. I relive it nearly every day. Perhaps by writing it down, my brain will no longer feel compelled to dwell there; I don't know. I'm only following instructions.

...we had spent the better part of Tuesday at the City of Hope; Monday's consultation had resulted in a Tuesday visit with the wound care nurse. Dalton wasn't himself that day. He hadn't been on Monday either (needing a wheelchair and slipping in and out of confusion), but how would the doctor at COH know that? He'd never met Dalton before. Perhaps confusion and the inability to walk were part of Dalton's normal demeanor (sarcasm). Although we never saw the doctor on Tuesday, several of the nurses expressed concern about Dalton's physical condition (body temp: 95 degrees, oxygen: 89%, mental state: altered). I guess it wasn't serious enough to warrant a look by the physician. Whatever. They decided to order us some oxygen at home and see us in two weeks.

I went to my church meeting that night knowing things weren't good but unaware how bad that really was. Our friend Millie was at my house watching Iain. When I returned home, Dalton was in his usual spot in the living room chair, and their was an oxygen machine beside it. Iain was asleep in his room. I kissed Dalton goodnight and went to bed.

At five o'clock in the morning, Dalton came into the bedroom. He had just showered and was still wet. Hi legs were swollen. His shoulders were skin and bones. Dalton hadn't showered on his own for a month, so I was confused.

"Did you just take a shower?"

"Yeah, I need to get to school or I'm going to be late."

My heart sank. I ushered him into bed and curled up next to him. He was so frail that I was afraid I would hurt him, so I rested my head on his shoulder.

"You don't have to go to school today, Dalton."

"You say that now, but tomorrow will be another story."

I bit back the tears and took a deep breath.

"Honey, you have cancer, you're off work and school until you get better. Do you remember that?"

"Yeah."

We laid there for a few minutes.

"Why are you trying to keep me from getting to school?" he asked. "I mean, I like it, but aren't I going to get into trouble?"

"I promise you're not going to get into trouble."

"Ok, if you say so."

We lay there a few more minutes. Then he asked again.

Each time, I became a bit more panicked. Iain would wake up sometime around 6:30. What would I do then? I decided I needed help, so I waited until six, then started calling friends. I called the one closest to me geopgraphically. No answer. Next closest, no answer. Next closest, no answer. Finally, I got ahold of my friend, Anna, in Van Nuys and she left immediately. Along the way, she picked up Kelly, and both of them arrived with Anna's son in tow, sometime around 8:15. By then, of course, Iain was awake, but I had coralled him in the pak 'n' play and he was being entertained by the Sesame Street Alphabet video. I was still tending to Dalton.

I knew things weren't good, so I called Dalton's family who were in Las Vegas celebrating his sister's birthday. They said they'd head home later that day. Then I called the nurse practitioner at USC. SHe said to bring him in. While I was talking with her, Anna was watching the boys and Kelly was hanging with Dalton. He kept throwing up bile and trying to drink it. As she transported the full tupperware containers of bile back and forth to the sink, Dalton graciously apologized for being such a burden. To that, Kelly wholehearted replied, "Dalton, you are not a burden. You are my friend." and she took the next tupperware container to the sink.

When I came out of the bedroom and into the living room, Dalton said he wanted to return to bed. Since the home health agency had delivered an empty portable oxygen unit, we had to disconnect him in order to get him back to bed. As he was walking along holding my hand, I could feel him starting to collapse. I screamed for help, Anna threw her son on the floor and ran over while Kelly moved the chair underneath him. We frantically raced to get the oxygen reconnected. And Dalton slumped back in the chair.

His eyes had rolled back in to his head and his head was arched back in an unnatural position. I though he was dead Kelly thought he was dead. I turned to her and said call 911. At some point in the next few minutes, I managed to talk Dalton through some breathing and he became somewhat more alert. Kelly somehow communicated our address to the 911 operator and then we waited. It couldn't have been more than 5 minutes and I have no idea what everyone else was doing, but I think I was sitting on the ground holding my husband's hand and resting my head on his lap. I remember taking his head in my hands, looking him in the eye and saying, "I love you Dalton." Somehow, he found the breath to reply, "I love you too."

When the Fire Department showed up, they moved in and began asking questions. They gave him more oxygen, asked me about his history and told me where they were going. Anna and Kelly said they'd take care of Iain, so I got in my car and follwed them to the hospital. When I arrived at the ER, I was told that Dalton was extreremely critical and that they needed to incubate him. He was desperate for air and maxed out on the oxygen. The ER doctor suggested I call a pastor.

Dalton was septic (an infection of the bloodstream) and had pneumonia. He'd been that way on both Monday and Tuesday while we were at City of Hope. For whatever reason, though, they had missed it. They would do everything they could to treat the sepsis and the pneumonia, but they would not promise anything. In the meantime, they would keep him comfortable.

Your Timeline Is Not Mine.

2006-08-05T22:49:00.000-07:00

A letter to my younger friends...

I can tell that for some of you, my grief is getting old. "Shouldn't you be further along by now?" you ask. "When will you be done mourning?" "Is there any way we can help you get over this, after all it's been almost three months?"

Many of you are young and have experienced very little loss in your lifetime. Like me, you have just begun your family. Your husband or wife shares this joy with you. Your parents embrace their role as grandparents. In many cases, even you grandparents are bragging to the other folks in the senior community about their great-grandkids. This isn't me assuming some air of superiority; it's just fact.

Not so for me. Dalton's grief would be difficult enough. But I grieve more than my husband. I grieve my grandfather, who died in February, my mother who died last November, my father who died in 1994.

I grieve my entire family.

Iain is all that remains.

So please don't rush me through this. For once, i am trying to let myself heal. I am feeling the pain and still living with it. I am not numbing it in dangerous ways. I am not hiding out in my home. I am not isolating myself from those who love me. Crap, I'm not even taking any anti-depressants.

I just am.

And I believe that God is an will continue to bring healing.

Perhaps it makes you uncomfortable, wondering what the future might bring. Most of us will suffer tremendous loss in this life. Wouldn't it be easier if we thought of it as a temporary, even fleeting "thing to get past."

I'm not ready to past it yet. Sure, I'm ready to be done with the social awkwardness, the self-indulgent blog, the selfish monopolizing of conversations, the single-mindedness of my life. But if that is the price I pay for experiencing the pain of loss, for now that's alright. I can't imagine what I would be if I didn't, but I doubt I could be called human.

Iain

2006-08-05T22:47:00.000-07:00

Iain is wonderful. He is smart and funny and sassy and tempermental. Just like his dad. Just thought I would share.

It was a good day

2006-08-05T22:45:00.000-07:00

In my previous life, Dalton and I threw parties. We hosted Alpha courses, led small groups, and threw cocktail parties. Individually, we were certainly capable of engaging in cheery small talk and playful party banter. Together, we were twice the fun. We played off each other, cracking jokes and welcoming folks into our lives.

For ten months, I have actively avoided these situations. Even church, a huge source of my support and the connection point for many of my close friends, became a get in the door, don't look at anyone, hide in the sound booth affair. Only twice during Dalton's illness did I speak to someone at church whom I didn't know, and those were the two occasions that Dalton was able to be there with me. Truth be told, I was obesessed with the cancer that was dominating our lives. Since Dalton died, I have been obsessed with my grief and awkward demeanor. Sunday offered a glimpse of hope.

There was no fan fare, no grand plan to step out of my shell. People simply approached me and I responded. Not all of them knew my "situation". Two were new to the church. Two wanted to become more involved. One wanted to share with me that her husband was ill. And, interestingly enough, I was able to form more than two sentences. Did I look more approachable this week? Was i smiling more? Making eye contact? Who knows. However, for the first time in 10 months, I met new people without being concerned with my husband's cancer and subsequent death. It was nice and at the same time, odd.

Self-centered and Apologetic

2006-07-29T11:14:00.000-07:00

Dear Anonymous:

You are right. I am self-centered. As are you. As was Dalton. As is my precious son Iain. As is all of humanity. It is our nature. It is why we disobeyed God in the first place. And, it is why we continue to do so. Nevertheless, for most of the day, I try not to be. I wake up in the morning and I fix breakfast for my son. We read stories. We sing. I tell him about his daddy. We chase each other around the house. I do my best.

This blog is more of an open journal and ongoing prayer. Like the Psalms without the "God-inspiration" part. I've never been much of an emotional exhibitionist. Yet the blog lets me express my grief so that friends and family know my pain and my struggle. So they can pray and care for me as Jesus tells us all to do. Including you.

It is self-indulgent. If it offends you, pray for me. It is whiny, and that offends me. But for right now, it's all I have the strength for. Your rant is whiny and self-righteous and you have no excuse (forgive me, God).

In fact, I regularly thank God that Dalton now longer suffers. I appreciate that he is free from all of his burdens. It is my own loss and Iain's loss that I grieve and that is quite normal. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall know comfort. And while that comfort will ease the pain, it will not be reieved until I am done with this temporal life and am living in the eternal.

As for my faith, judge not lest ye be judged. I take comfort in knowing that both scripture and the writings of past saints affirm my angst, my anger, my pain, my weakness, and my joy. It assures me that even when I question, God remains. I would encourage you to spend some time reviewing scripture with an open heart. Read the Psalms. Read David's words. Reivsit the disciples' lives. Consider Paul. Even Jesus whose relationship to God surpasses most human understanding cries out "Why have you forsaken me?"

And, do not fall into the trap of the Pharisees, to whom Jesus says, "And you experts in the law, woe to you, because you load people down with burdens they can hardly carry, and you yourselves will not lift one finger to help them."

"Woe to you Pharisees, because you give God a tenth of your mint, rue and all other kinds of garden herbs, but you neglect justice and the love of God. You should have practiced the latter without leaving the former undone."

The entire law is summed up in a single command: "Love your neighbor as yourself." And with that, I will pray for your wretched soul.

Done Blogging

2006-07-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

Wow. I may not be blogging anymore. Below is a comment I just received. Truly, I am just flabbergasted. I think I will wait before I respond because right now, my response would not only be self-centered, but pointed nasty. I hope I never gave anyone the impressioin that I was perfect. Cheers.

"Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Whose Blog Is It Anyway.": When Dalton was here and I use to read your blogs, I thought you were very "self-centered". Now,you've just confirmed it!! I feel sorry for you! You think too much of yourself, what "I" feel, what "I" want, what "I", "I", "I". You need to grow up and go on with your life. You have a son and that's more than many woman out there are asking for. Dalton may be gone and you may experience the loss and the pain, but you're going way off the hill. You should be thanking God Dalton is not here suffering the "cancer pain" and that's more than your pain. Your pain will ease over time, maybe many months, or even years, but eventually it will go away. There was nothing to cure or to ease Dalton's pain! I guess you never had faith either. If you did, you would not feel the way you do about God. God is not stubborn or grants us our wishes when we want to. He decides, he owns our lives, He has a plan which may not be your plan. You're a coward. You want the easy way out!! Vegas, gambling, drinking --- start taking care of Iain!"

Panic. Pain

2006-07-27T23:19:00.000-07:00

Gasping. Can't breathe. Tired of this pain. Tonight.

Before you read...

2006-07-27T09:39:00.000-07:00

A dear friend just commented that the following post will likely piss off some of my readers. I really hope not. If any Christian doubts or questions our ability to struggle with faith and wrestle with God, I highly recommend CS Lewis' "A Grief Observed." If Lewis can question God and his goodness as he grieves, then surely it is ok for me. I'll come out on the other side because God is the author and finisher of my faith. If it depended on me, I wouldn't be here in the first place.

Whose Blog Is It Anyway.

2006-07-26T22:16:00.000-07:00

So many acquaintances and even friends say "You have such incredible faith. You are an inspiration." or "Your faith has so clearly sustained you. At least that has remained strong." If you are one of these, please don't be offended, but I often find myself wondering, "Whose blog have you been reading, anyway?"

I've finally come to the conclusion that you are seeing what you want to see, what you ernestly pray for, what you desperately desire - a young woman who has suffered a terrible loss, but is nonetheless being wrapped in God's comforting arms and palpable love. Reality check...no.

My faith continues to be a struggle. More of an exercise in discipline and reason than love and attraction. I stay this path because I have no choice. I cannot deny what God has done for me in the past. I can't deny that he led me out of Egypt and captivity through miraculous means (a metaphor of course). I cannot deny how he spared Dalton once before and offered us joy when we didn't deserve it. No matter how much I would prefer to discount God, to disbelieve him, my rational mind simply can't chalk up the last ten years to chance.

But then what? Like Lewis, the question then isn't whether God exists, but whether He is good. And what is worse? Believing their is no God or believing that He is evil? Random? Spiteful? Mean. Of course, that kind of talk doesn't do me much good either, because if He is those things then my feelings toward Him don't matter. And if by chance he is a loving God, then I am rejecting my only potential source of comfort.

You know what I want to do for comfort? I want to go to Vegas. Drop Iain off with the grandparents. Put the top down on the convertible. Turn up the volume. Book a room at the Hard Rock. Play really loud music. Drink. Gamble. Lay out by the pool. Embrace my singleness. Do all sorts of things that would absolutely have to "stay in Vegas." Mark my words, it will happen. It's almost a rite of passage. Then - mark my words again - I will come home to the same empty house, missing Dalton even more than I did before my trip, and be no better off.

But I'm angry, and somehow I think this would ease my anger. I'm angry at the God who did this to me. Why did you give us a glimpse of joy and then rip it out from under us? Were we not grateful enough? Did we take too much for granted? If we had been better "children" would you have let us play longer? Sure you exist, but you're mean. You made us this way and then you punsihed us for it. What kind of love is that?

Apparently it's the only one I've got.

So barring any other choices, I'll bring my thinking back around and try to see things in the eternal, to realze that this world is temporal, that ultimately once I get through with all the crap that is now, I wil have permanent joy. It's either a load of crap or the truth. If I bet crap, even if I win, there is no pay off. If I bet truth, at least there is a chance of hitting in big.

Quiet

2006-07-21T21:49:00.000-07:00

Junebugs are fluttering outside my bedroom window. I know this because for the past few minutes, I have heard an intermittent humming followed by a tap, tap tap. It's the kind of thing you only notice when it is very quiet, and it is only ever that quiet when you are alone.

I've always had roomates. I guess I still do if you count Iain, but he goes to bed early and sleeps very quietly. Dalton didn't go to bed early. If anything, I went to bed early and fell asleep to the undercurrent of South Park or Whose Line Is It Anyway. But that was only after he got sick. Normally we went to bed at the same time. And then, even when it was quiet, I didn't hear the junebugs. I can't explain it, but people make noise even when they are quiet. Their very prescence stirs the world around them. Perhaps it is because other parts of who they are occupy our senses and demand our attention. Their smell, their warmth, their subtle movement of breath. Our ears take a backseat, so that even when it is quiet, we are still connected. That is what it is like to be one flesh.

And now, I hear the junebugs.

Does that mean that my body is recognizing the loss? Like the loss of a limb, is my body finally realizing that part of it is missing?

The past two weeks have been harder for me. I cry more often and with less warning. I still don't cry much in front of others, but it has happened. Everyone tells me that the worst is yet to come (six months is supposed to be a doozie), but I wonder how that can be? It is not in my nature to not be effective, to ignore my child, to neglect the bills or the house, so I can't imagine "worse" manifesting in those arenas. Will I simply feel more pain? I can't imagine that either. I suppose we'll have to wait and see.

And yet, the idea of passive suicide sounds so good already. I came across this idea on the blog of another young widow (we're a prolific bunch). She explains that she is too much of a go getter, a strong take charge, I can conquer the world kind of gal to ever kill herself. BUT...(and this is the passive suicide part), if someone diagnosed her with terminal cancer and gave her just a few months to live, she'd be all the happier. That's me. I'd just like to join Dalton and be reunited with the part of my flesh that has gone missing. I know it will happen someday, but give me a break. I am human and impatient and in pain. And I don't like the sound of junebugs.

MIT

2006-07-15T22:23:00.000-07:00

Missing in Tennessee. Been gone for the past 8 days. Out in the country with limited computer access. Not feeling much like writing anyway. Wish I had more uplifting stuff to write.

I am doing things. Rearranging furniture. Organizing photos. Sleeping. Lots. Oh, and I registered for school. Told the financial planner that I would be paying my own way within 5 years. Start an RN program on August 28th. Long term goal is to be a nurse practitioner, maybe even work in oncology. Marie Seitz, Dr. Iqbal's nurse practitioner was a rock for us. Would like to be able to give that to someone else.

Don't know how that will go what with sleeping 12 hours a day, but I have to try.

Missing Dalton so terribly. Can't even express it. Thanks to those who miss him too. It helps.

Blank

2006-07-02T19:12:00.000-07:00

I can't seem to find the right word for how I am feeling right now. Sad. Tired. Blah. In pain. Anxious. Depressed. Despondant. Longing. Heartbroken.

I think that's it. Heartbroken.

I've yet to understand why the pain from grief seems to be so centered around my heart when it is my mind, body, and spirit that misses him so much. Today is a very bad day. I would like for someone to come out and take Iain for a week so that I could just curl up in bed and cry. Really, I'd rather curl up and die. I just don't want to do this. Iain is so happy and I'm really doing my best to play and laugh and give him a good, stable environment to grow up in , but inside it's killing me. I could have sat all day and just stared out at our yard. Dalton loved our yard. We bought it so that we could entertain and sit out on the patio on days like today and watch the boys run around. Instead, Iain kept bringing me books to read and balls to throw and the patio stared in at me, taunting me with its leftover tablecloths from Dalton's memorial.

I looked at pictures for a long time last night and wanted to share some with those of you who may not know us (and for those that do).

This is us pre-Iain, actually 1999.

This is our favorite candid wedding photo.

This is us goofing off in San Francisco when I was 6 months pregnant.

This is us the day that Iain was born.

This is Daddy introducing Iain to the sublteties of a good Pinot.

This is Love.

One Month

2006-06-26T21:11:00.000-07:00

I find us interesting. There is a website for young widows www.youngwidow.org that I go to quite a bit these days. The bulletin boards can be very helpful, especially in moments of pain, frustration, and longing. I don't know why, but it is comforting to know that I am not the only one going through this and reacting in the ways that I am. Here are some interesting things I have come across on the boards that you might find interesting as well...

Many of us...
1) sleep on the couch for months after our spouse dies.
2) choose to follow the tradition of wearing black for a year.
3) cling to something that smelled like them and find it comforting.
4) suffer from skin hunger and long for some type of human contact
5) comment that the thing we miss the most is our "go to" person - the one we call whenever anything happens.
6) wish we could join our spouse.
7) put a timeline on our grief only to discover that the second year is worse than the first.
8) take months/years to throw away personal items.
9) struggle for months to find the energy to clean the house/prepare meals/go back to work.
10) are young. There are LOTS of twenty and thirty-somethings.

Before you tell me that these people are wierd, let me tell you that they are not. Every book I've read mentions these tidbits. The problem is that as a society we don't like to talk about being unproductive or paralyzed or out of control of our emotions. And certainly not for any length of time. So when we are in the middle of it, we think we're the only one and that we should be over it sooner than we are.

Today is a month and I suspect that there are some folks out there who think I should be starting to "recover". I don't think I will ever recover; I will just learn to live without a part of me. Unfortunately, I think that I am just barely starting to acknowledge the pain. I made it to the gym today. I ate healthy. I went to the grocery store. I worked a full and productive day. However, all day long I felt like I was on the verge of a panic attack. Anxiety gripped me constantly. It was like someone squeezing my chest so I couldn't breathe. And now, I am sitting in my living room, staring at the mess called my house while the groceries sit in the car.

Every day I have these grand plans for the evening - clean, cook, sort through pictures, write thank you cards, do laundry, clean out drawers - and every night, I am too tired to care and just want to curl up with my glass of wine. I'm not even sure what I am doing with the time since I haven't watched any tv or done any reading and I'm up until 1am on most nights.

Anyways, I am not very focused today. Sorry for rambling. Perhaps tomorrow will have more humor and insight. Thanks for reading.

Social Misfit Status

2006-06-21T23:40:00.000-07:00

Where has my social barometer gone? I have rarely felt awkard in a group setting. Other than times of extreme self loathing, I can usually hold my own at a party. I know the rules of social engagement. I concur with Dale Carnegie that the being a fabulous conversationalist really means being captivated by what the other person is saying. It means talking less and smiling more. And yet...GROAN, these days I find myself leaving social gatherings wondering, "Crap. Was I just the most boring, miserable, worst guest ever?" I talked too much. I blabbed on and on about my miserable life that nobody wanted to hear about. And, I think, "They are all saying behind my back what a sad pitiful case I am - the widow with no life. The 1/2 person. The lost one.

It's enough to make me want to lock myself up in the house and never come out. Except that I am that pitiful case. I need others to let me vomit my emotion all over them. I need their patient, pitying eyes to say, "It's ok. Go ahead and talk about your dead husband. We can wait." I need people I've never met to smile and let me do all the talking and be the fabulous conversationalists that Dale Carnegie praises. How long will it be before I can talk about anything without the phrase, "Dalton and I" or just "Dalton"? Because really, in order not to technically talk about ourselves, many of us simply talk about our mate. Being one flesh, it is a convenient way to express who we are without talking about ourselves. And now, there is just me. And frankly, I am not all that interesting.

I don't know what I like outside of my life with Dalton. Sure, we are all independent beings, but when I married Dalton, he nourished the parts of who I am that most complimented who he was and vice-versa. For example, I currently love wine and baseball, and art. Of course, I loved wine, baseball and art before I met Dalton, but because Dalton also loved these things, we fed each other's interest and it grew. On the other hand, Dalton was never especially fond of cats (which I like but am not enamored with) and consequently, I have never become one of those crazy cat women with a dozen cats and 7 different Boynton cat t-shirts (one for each day of the week).
For this I am eternally grateful.

Somehow, though, I now have to figure out how to take those things that I fundamentally enjoy (like wine and baseball and art) and make them enjoyable without Dalton. And that is the rub. I don't yet know how to do that, so my conversations inevitably turn to him. And then, I am again the pitiful widow longing for her dead soulmate.

And again, I leave the party feeling like a social misfit, talking a little too loud and a little too often about things that no one else cares about.

No Cheese Please

2006-06-18T20:35:00.000-07:00

We painted the walls in our living room in January. Dalton and I did. It's only June.

I keep thinking about healthy Dalton. I think about him loading Iain into the carseat last April on the way home from the hospital. I think about our trip to San Francisco when I was 6 months pregnant and we walked from the theatre district to Cannery Row. I think about taking the convertible out last August to the Del Rae on our monthly date night. I think about Dalton packing his gym bag every morning with his running shoes.

These were just last year.

He can't be gone.

For today (and yesterday) numbness has given way to denial. I simply expect that Dalton is going to walk in the door any second and our life will be as it was. I want to hold his hand on the way home from church. I want him to swing Iain over his shoulders and give him a piggy back ride. I imagine him doing these things and it feels so natural. So much more nautral than him being dead. There is nothing natural about that.

We did nothing specific for father's day. I couldn't. Actually, we spent the afternoon with some friends, eating Thai and watching music videos. It was good, but hard. Our friends are happy. They should be happy. If they are reading this now, they need to know that they are doing everything right and shouldn't change any of their behavior. I am the one who has to realize that I am alone. That Dalton cannot put his arm around me or kiss me on the neck or do any of theose things that people do when they are in love. And every time I leave a social occasion, I feel like I want to run. Maybe if I don't have to be around anybody, it won't hurt so much. Maybe there is some way to escape it all.

Then I remember something else CS Lewis said about grief. After his wife died, he thought it was going to be especially difficult to go back to certain places he had previously been with his wife - the pub at which they regualrly ate, the hotel at which they often vacationed, etc. He resolved that rather than hide from these places, he would face them immediately and get it over with. What he discovered was profound.

There really was no difference in his pain. Her absence was no more noticeable in those places than it was anywhere else. It hurt because she was gone and it didn't matter if she was absent from his side at the pub or in their kitchen at home. It ws pervasive and inescapable.

So, what difference would it make if I ran? Dalton would be as absent in Montana as he is at our friends house in Los Angeles. And Iain and I would miss out on the love and friendship that we are being offered. So I'll stay for now even though it hurts. Maybe, eventually, this very long and awfully real nightmare will eventually come to an end and I can again hold his hand on the way home from church.

PS...Nobody better post the contrived cheesy comment that I will hold his hand someday in heaven, because right now that's not good enough.

Numb

2006-06-15T10:49:00.000-07:00

For lack of a better word, that is how I've felt for the past two days. Numb. Not sure why that's the case. Perhaps all of the logistical/administrative stuff that I've been dealing with has caused me to shut down. Maybe it's a defense mechanism of sorts. I'm really not sure. Actually, it's kind of disturbing, like I'm vaguely aware that there is something I am supposed to be emotionally devastated by, but I can't locate the source of the pain. I know that sounds absurd, but words fail.

Yesterday, Iain and I visited both the Social Security Office and the Life Insurance agent. Both visits were so proper and clinical. The social security agent who took the application kept repeating things back to me from the application for confirmation.

"So, you began your marriage in Los Angeles in 200o and ended it in West Covina in 2006."

Did I end my marriage? I mean, my husband died, but it's not like intentionally ended my marriage.

"And, let's see, your husband died of cardiopulmonary arrest."

I know that's what the death certificate says, but there was so much more. He went through so much to have the only record of his death say that his heart simply stopped beating.

"And he has two decendents, Dalton and Iain Harding"

They're his sons you idiot, his sons.

Anyway, that's how I felt most of the day. I kept wanting to say, but it's not just about the paperwork and the planning and the money. But to them, it was. How could it be anything else?

Speaking of that, I'm sure I will post at some other time about the financial implications of death - especially an early one -BUT if you are reading this right now and do not have life insurance and a trust set up to provide for your kids, do it now.

We were lucky, it was the last thing Dalton did in his role at Hollywood Pres. before returning to Marsh, and it has made a world of difference. While we weren't in ideal shape, we were definitely better off than most people our age, and what we had will allow me at least a little bit of space to grieve and be with Iain without worrying about money.

Cul de sac

2006-06-12T22:29:00.000-07:00

When my mother died in November 2004, I thought that I understood grief. She was my best "girl" friend. We were extrememly close. I still (perhaps more so now) miss her terribly. And yet, there is something qualitatively different about my grief experiences. With my mom, the primary loss was of things not yet done. She would never hold her grandchild or write the book she had always intended. We wouldn't take any more trips to Palm Springs or share any more lunches at Mimi's. And of course, I would never again be able to talk with her about my life in a time and space that allowed her to answer. I was devastated and haunted by these thoughts for many months.

With Dalton, though, my grief is more whole. Meaning, I grieve not only the loss of future, but of my past and present as well. Perhaps, more pointedly, I grieve my loss of self. Who am I without Dalton? Certainly, I am Iain's mom, but what does that look like when his Dad is no longer there to be my counterpoint. I am a follower of Christ, but is my faith strong enought to stand on it's own without the backbone that Dalton provided? I am a homeowner, but what good is this house for parties and BBQ's, and evenings spent out by the fire when the host extraordinaire, chef, and conversationalist is gone? I am a friend, but one who doesn't have much to offer right now - especially to the friends which were ours - couples with children whose lives no longer interesect so easily with mone. I am a worker without much interest in working. I am a person without much interest in being.

This is the worst of it. Dalton's death has, at least temporarily, caused me to lose (as if they just slipped out of my hands) the qualities in myself that he loved the most. Where have optimism and joy and passion and grace and hope and enterprise and dreams gone? Will they or will they not return? Both answers repel me. If they return, then surely I have underestimated our love. If they don't return, then surely I have dishonored Dalton and deprived my son. I am as bland as the world around me.

CS Lewis writes in his book, A Grief Observed, "I think I am beginning to understand why grief feels like suspense. It comes from the frustration of so many impulses that had become habitual. Thought after thought, feeling after feeling, action after action, had H. (or Dalton) for their object. Now their target is gone. I keep on through habit fitting an arrow to the string, then I remember and have to lay the bow down. So many roads lead thought to H. (Dalton). Iset out on one of them. But now there's an impassable frontierpost across is. So many roads once; now so many culs de sac." I am still finding only culs de sac.

Postponing the Inevitable

2006-06-09T20:47:00.000-07:00

Dalton died two weeks ago today. Since then, I haven't been left alone for more than a few moments during the day and a few hours in the evening when I wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep. However, my friend Sandi is heading back to Baltimore on Sunday and I will finally begin to get a fuller taste of what life is like without Dalton. Based on the few moments of downtime that I have had these past two weeks, I expect to be a bit of a wreck.

But what else can I do? This round the clock vigil can't go on forever. And as much as I dread experiencing the severity of pain that accompanies this loss, my body already knows that it is there. The pit, the tears in my scarce alone moments, the drifting away in the middle of conversations, the complete apathy about 99% of what other people are interested in, and the exhaustion I experience after doing nothing are pretty solid indicators of the damage that lies underneath. But, can something really heal without being cleaned out, properly dressed and little by little exposed to the outwside world?

Today I asked Larry (my mom's husband and Iain's Grandpa) whether he celebrated Father's day. Since my mom died in Novemeber 2004, Larry has begun practicing a faith that eschews all holidays. But, Father's Day has traditionally been a tough one for me because my Father died in 1994 and his birthday (June 15) always falls in the same week. Of course, this year, I have the added bonus of having lost my grandfather, and Iain's daddy in the four months leading up to that happy day. Anyways, Larry is very good to me and has done more than anyone could ask in these past few months, and he is a great Grandpa. However, when I asked about Father's Day, he replied, "We don't celebrate that day, but you can always give me the gift at another time." Clueless.

Clueless

Clueless

I suppose that the right thing to do would be to spend it with Dalton's parents, but they weren't especially upbeat folks to start with and they are ten times more depressed after the death of their son. Believe it or not, there are cases in which misery does NOT love company. This is one of them. Again, let me point out how much help they have been to me and to Iain and how appreciative I am. However, I just don't know if I will have the emotional energy that would be necessary for me to do that "right thing".

So here I go, into what I suspect will be one of the most challenging and painful times of my life. Please God, give me strength and comfort.

Don't Feel

2006-06-08T22:31:00.000-07:00

Tonight I don’t want to live anymore. Nobody freak out. I’m not suicidal. I just don’t feel like living. Everything is dull and I’m sad. In my dreams, when I am being chased, I usually decide to turn around and let myself be caught. That's how I feel. I don't want to go through this.. I'd rather just be done.