THE FIRST ANNIVERSARY

I haven't written since November 12th, eight days before the Anniversary of Ted's death. I have been preoccupied a great deal during this time. I've muddled with lots of different thoughts and emotions. My judgmental self has decided to rear its head and make me wonder: am I doing all right? Should I still be feeling so sad at times? Why haven't I been writing my "blob?" Is it okay that I still would like to nap and bury myself in a book? Is it okay that I don't want to do things like decorate my house? Eat chocolate sundaes and cereal?

I can give myself lots of understanding and empathy and even knowledge about the grief process, the kind of time it takes, the individuality of it, the necessity for being kind to oneself, the self-indulgence, the tears, the frustration, the anger, the listlessness, and on and on. I "shouldn't" need to have an outsider tell me I'm "doing just fine." After all, I'm somewhat of an expert myself what with enduring the death of my father when I was seventeen (he was 49); the death of our first child Brian at the age of 13 months; the death of Ted's mother 2 years after that; the death of my father's identical twin brother when he was 60; 8 years of counseling trying to resolve my lingering grief and sadness; the many, many books I read on grief and loss.

My reality: Ted is gone and never coming back. I can't hold hands with him anymore. I can't hug him, kiss him, sing with him, share "a moment" of connection with him. I must accept those things that I regret. Whenever people say: "you can't do that; you can't have regrets," I bristle inside. I do have regrets and I must face them, put them in a perspective that allows for them. The "if onlys," the "I wishes," are just part of the grief process to be endured, to learn from, to forgive, to embrace as human.

The anniversary brings back the events of that week. The anniversary is a reminder of how quickly time goes by and is stunning in its truth that a year has passed and there will be many more. It is so difficult to grasp. There still is the fantasy of wanting to do it over and do it better. To say what I didn't say. To realize that he was dying and maybe, then, doing somethings differently. I feel I missed the chance for the two of us together to recognize that he was dying and be able to acknowledge and share a goodbye. Did he know that he was going to die? I wasn't with him when they put him on full life support. So I never got to see him awake again. I never knew what he thought before they put him "under." We never got to say one more time "I love you."

To face these uncomfortable thoughts and feelings by putting them in writing where I can "see" them and others can to, is cathartic and healing. Somehow knowing that this will be viewed and "witnessed" by others is comforting.

Thank you for your listening ears and your loving thoughts that you send my way.