The Real Hunibuni

The Owl, The Exorcist and The Ghost of Christmas Past

2011-12-25T14:15:00.000-08:00

As I sit here on my quiet tiny Christmas, my third as a widow, I am surprisingly not melancholy or drenched in tears. I ate a hotdog, some chips, drank a pot of coffee and am watching "Mildred Pierce." Last night, my son and his friend were here and we laughed, truly laughed over stupid things. Nothing from the past. We laughed in the here and now. It makes me smile.

Our Christmas times were always a struggle. Being the parents of a first grandchild, of families that by and large did not get along well, we were always on the road. This caused great stress and issues between my hubs and me because they were making us crazy trying to make them happy. But things happened, as they always do, so that we could find the levity in any situation. We had to be at my father in laws for Christmas Eve. We had to be with my mother in law for Christmas morning. We had to be at my parents for Christmas night. Now, that doesn't sound bad until I tell you that the first house was in West Virgina. The Second house was in Virgina. The third house was in Tennessee. We live in North Carolina. Ahhh.. now it's all coming into focus huh? My son never opened a present in my house on Christmas morning until he was 18. Go ahead, say it. "I would never have done all of that! My children have always had Christmas at home." Shut up. We were young kids. We had a kid. We made our parents happy. We went through 4 states in, if we were blessed with either Christmas eve or the day after Christmas off, in about 36 hours. I don't care who you are, that just sucks.

However, because we financially struggled, we never knew what might come out from a Christmas tree at any given house with either our names on it as givers or receivers. When Mawmaw wanted to hide she had spent more money on someone than someone else, we were the givers. When Pawpaw decided we needed something for the house that we couldn't afford Santa would deliver a package. However, sometimes this meant that we gave strange things to people we hardly knew as we only saw them once a year. Rich got his first cousin's new wife underwear one year. I bought his brother a jockstrap. Drew bought his aunt her first bra. On and on it went. Year after year. Until it became quite the game for us. Santa on the other hand showed up with washing machines, vacuum cleaners, hydraulic jacks, or pots and pans. One year he bought a transmission for my car and the next, tires for Rich's truck. Santa was very practical.

Our road trips however lacked organization. We woke one Christmas morning at Pawpaws, very hung over from a night of rummy with the family. There were 7 inches of snow on the ground. We had to go, NOW. So we packed up like the traveling pack of gypsies we were at that time of year and off we went to the next place. Now to say there was a disparity in the families would be a misnomer. Dad's side drank the holidays into oblivion. Mom's side are holy rollers. My parents are hillbillies. So hung over as we could be, we bowed our heads for Christmas dinner. They prayed so long that we dozed off. I eventually awoke to the sound of Rich's snoring and the entire dinner table howling with laughter. Every prayer from then forward started with, "Are y'all awake?"

The next year we were driving on the interstate and an owl hit the windshield of the car tearing the wipers off. I thought we had been attacked by the Taliban. We stopped at a truck-stop and Rich rigged up some tractor trailer blades to flop about so that we might be able to see something of the road. Due to the late hour when we arrived we spent the night at my parents home. I awoke at about 9 and staggered to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. One sip and I had to run outside. I was standing in 8 inches of snow reenacting scenes from "The Exorcist." Food poisoning. Frozen pipes in the house. Need I elaborate?

Two of my favorite things concerned Rich and his dad but on separate occasions. The first was an Emory & Henry ballcap that made him drop Dallas Cowboy tickets into the tornado of wrapping paper that caused a near family riot. He cried and so did I over a simple part of his past. He wore it until it fell apart. Our last Christmas we bought Pawpaw tickets to the Daytona 500. I packed them into a half eaten box of Cheezits. (a private joke between rich and him) When he opened the package and it was a box of crackers he laughed that laugh that only family knows. I was so anxious, that I had to tell him to open the box. Inside was a card that read "You've watched it on the couch 100 times, get out in the sunshine for once." He found the tickets and was so awestruck that the room went silent. We rendered him speechless.

Rich would pull out Drew's toy's and play with them. Firetrucks that made noise or video games. Then he would put them back. His green eyes would dance when they were opened. Drew thought his Daddy knew everything because he knew how everything worked. They would play deep into the night on the floor while I curled up with a new book I wanted to finish. The world was right.

I remember these things without pain. I remember them with a smile. Drew and I are making our own memories now. But now it's not about presents. We might be alone, but we know that together we are stronger. We might have hot dogs on Christmas eve with some Doritos, but we do so with a light heart. We might be forgotten by the world we used to know, but in our new reality, we are a family. We choose who we allow to be family. Family is not blood and bone. Family is laughter and tears. Family is smiles and jokes. Family is a hand on your shoulder as you watch the family you thought you knew turn their backs and walk away. Family is knowing that in the heart of another you always have a place to call home.

Tomcats, Tobacco and A Clean Plow.

2011-12-14T10:10:00.000-08:00

I have not lived this long, nor survived what I have, to not learn a few things here and there about this world. I am the answer woman. I have a working knowledge of a lot of subjects and I tend to retain most of what I read, hear or watch. Don't ask me why, I have simply always been this way. The other thing I have retained is what my Daddy refers to as "good old fashioned horse sense." My beloved Granny instilled information in my head that comes to the forefront of my brain when dealing with different situations. My heritage is that of a resourceful people who learned at the knee of their elders and passed that knowledge on to those of us who would listen.

Some things come from being raised on a farm with lots of animals and lots of different things going wrong. For instance, a calico cat, that has more than three colors, is a female. We learned this when our cat Tom, had a litter of kittens under the bathtub. My Uncle had a belly laugh and said "Ain't no tomcat that has ever had more than three colors." I crawled under the tub and retrieved the kitties. Then Tom promptly stashed them under the stairs in the can closet and ran to the road finding a car tire at 3am. I crawled into the closet again retrieving the kitties. We raised them on a bottle. To this day, I have never seen a calico that did not fit this rule and I can raise any orphaned pet without its mommy. I have the formula in my head, if you need it, email me. I also know that doing a self medication of any cat is a bad idea. Again, it's a bad idea. Daddy and I decided to give an injection of antibiotics as advised by our large animal vet. Yes, I now know a cat is not a large animal. I have scars. It's a bad idea. I know that burnt motor oil kills the mange on dogs that don't bite, (make your own joke there please) and that the ball of fur on a cows tail will in fact come off at the worst possible time during a surgery (don't ask don't tell.) If you are from PETA, please do not email me. Horses love cold biscuits and will try to come into ones house for garden fresh corn. Chickens actually do come home to roost and a pig raised for food should be named Porkchop. A mouse can be killed with a hairbrush but won't die of fright from a hammer. A bat won't get out of your house if all the lights are on but you will break all the pictures on the wall with a broom. A blacksnake found in the bathtub at 4am will die a horrible death and maybe who brought it into the house as well. A bird will go to sleep if you cover the cage and won't wake up to fly on demand if you grab it out to toss it into the air for an Easter play. Not even for Jesus and John the Baptist.

Then there are the Mama things I have learned through the years. My first serious home remedy that I remember was when I was assaulted by a bumblebee the size of Mothra. (It was huge. I swear Granny. A MONASTER!! I was 4.) My beloved Granny grabbed a cigarette and crushed it. She took the tobacco from the paper and added it to a small amount of water. Voila! Miracle monaster bumblebee paste! She put it on the sting and within a little bit the swelling and pain were gone. I've used it 100 times in different situations. Still works. Any kind of tobacco product. If you burn yourself use vanilla extract to take the burn out. High blood pressure can be treated with vinegar and fresh garlic. (Again email me for that recipe.) Bleach kills a bug or fire ant bite. Kraut juice will kill a stomach virus. Cut a tiny notch in the middle of an ingrowing toenail and it will pull it out in a day or so. Socks stop the colic in a baby. (True story. Proven. Again email.) Visine will take the red out of a pimple. Preparation H really does shrink the bags under your eyes. Brandy on a toothache will dull the pain before you swallow it and smoke blown in an ear helps with an earache . Migraine meds with coffee and then a hot bath to make it work faster. But if Mama has a migraine, leave her the hell alone or you could suffer a near death experience.

The Farmers Almanac calendar (google it if you don't know what it is) also dictated alot of timing on things as well. Don't have teeth pulled when the signs are in the head because you will have a dry socket. However you do plant cabbage in the garden at that time. Plant potatoes when the signs are in the feet and they will be all toes. (those little growths on them sticking out all over.) Taking a baby bottle is easiest to take when the signs are in the knees. (I did this and it worked with my son.) A woman on her menstral cycle cannot enter the garden because she will kill the cucumbers and squash. (I know it happens. I can't explain it.) A close group of females cycles will also pull them together so there is generally only one week of hell per month. Allowing someone to sweep under your feet means you will never marry and if you get the front of your shirt wet while washing dishes you will marry a drunkard. A purse sitting in the floor is always empty of money and a man who is disrespectful of his mama is useless. Never give a friend anything sharp like knives or scissors as it will sever the friendship.(Lend it to them instead.) If you thank someone for a gifted houseplant it will die. A wild bird in the house means there is to be a death affecting the household but dreaming of a death means there is a baby on the way. (Very nearly lost my mind with that one. Now two nights of death in my dreams means everyone gets a pregnancy test!) You carry a girl in front when you're pregnant and a boy you carry allover.

My Appalachian heritage made me resourceful in many aspects of my life with simple common sense and remembering what I over heard as a child. I learned a lot about people and what causes certain behaviors to be displayed. Sayings that they used I remembered and I use them to this day. "A hit dog will hollar" states that the person who told your business will be the first to contact you. (Don't contact anyone when you've been betrayed. First one to contact you is the Judas.) "When you sling shit, you always get some on you" says that when you're talking trash behind someones back, you're the one who smells like garbage. If someone says to you "I'm going to clean that there boy's plow" call the police because there is going to be a fight. (A plow is actually cleaned with a hammer.) "Well bless your heart." translates into "Well aren't you stupid." (Regardless of what you think, that's what it means.) "A hard head makes a soft ass" fits someone who does the same stupid stuff and gets bit in the ass again and again. "Pot meet kettle." is used when someone is bitching about someone doing exactly what they themselves are doing. The best phrase I ever heard was "You can't save face and your ass at the same time" which means you can't have your pride and your ass when you've made a mistake. One will always pay for the other. You need to decide which is most important to you.

The Hellidays and Some Oil of Okay

2011-11-29T02:54:00.000-08:00

With the "Helliday Season" upon us, I am quiet. This is number three since I became a widow. It doesn't hurt quite as badly but the loneliness is setting in for a long winters rest. I am alone. It would be nice to say that I am doing well but I most certainly not out of the woods yet. The day after Thanksgiving, I got a call from one of my old friends and this person said perhaps the most ignorant thing I have heard uttered from a human tongue. "You okay now though right?" What in the hell does that mean? Define "okay" for me is what I should have said, but this person did not deserve to see my pain. So I said "I'm as okay as I'm going to be this year."

This year has brought many challenges and some I have conquered and some I have not quite mastered yet. I am learning to be alone. I met my husband at quite an early age so alone is not something I have ever really done before in this life. When I am sick, there is no one to make the chicken soup or to aggravate me on the phone every time I fall asleep by calling to ask if I am feeling better. I don't have that hand to hold in the emergency room or to tell me they are going to the sofa because they don't want to be sick as well. People say "Why didn't you call me?" "Because I look like the wrath of God and don't want to see you" is what I'd like to say. Instead I mutter something polite as I rush off the phone with something about needing to sleep.

I'm learning to value my true friends. The ones who get angry if I haven't been in touch. Lately I am bad about returning calls or even text messages. I am self isolating but it's for my own sanity. I cannot solve your problems today. I cannot hear you whine about your relationship today. I cannot hear that one more person is unwell or that you don't care what someone thinks about some petty issue. I have always been the problem solver among my friends. I am the strong one who is an adult. They turn to me for answers or just a sounding board. It's not that I don't care, but that the noise in my head will not allow me to hear you.

My relationship with my son has never been on more solid ground in his life. But, this year he has seen me vulnerable. He has seen me cry in the night and asked me what was wrong. I did not give him the standard "Nothing baby" mama answer. That is probably what I am most grateful for in this entire year. I've watched my son become one helluva man. I have actually patted myself on the back and said I did a good job. I let him comfort me. I let him tell me everything would be okay and I actually believed him. We got on a human level more than a parental child level and are so much stronger for the effort. I don't have to be a tower of strength in front of him anymore. I can be scared and its okay.

Right now, more than anything I am looking for something solid. I am unteatherd from things that keep me grounded. I've always put my worth in my family. Now I am without family. I am looking for true north it seems. The star that will always lead me home. I am not okay. But the truth is I don't know what okay looks like at this point. So bear with me as I travel up and down the isles looking for this mythical thing. What is okay to you may not be okay to me. Everyone gets a custom made piece. But what is home is the question now.

A while back one of my widowed friends was tweeting from her I-Phone and the auto correct sent "Oil of Okay." We laughed about it then but it was prophetic. This time of year I need some to rub into my emotional legs that are tired from this widows walk. Some days I take 10 or 12 steps forward on these platform heels, others I can not make it a single step and I must be content to stand. But that's the point, I'm still standing.

Victims and Volunteers

2011-11-10T22:37:00.000-08:00

I am told, that at this point in my life, I have great clarity in the way that I see things. Issues in my life are becoming more clear as I dig within myself in order to create a healthier me. I have an intimate knowledge of what has made me any unhealthy companion for myself. However, doing this work on myself has been a two edged sword as it opens my eyes to seeing mistakes others have made, are making or will be making in the future. I would rather shine the light on the things I have done with a bit of levity so that I can laugh and learn simultaneously.

As I said earlier, I have ventured a tad into the dating world. These are people I have never mentioned and there will only be thumbnails here as the names have been changed to protect the not so innocent. These appear to be archetypes that visit everyone in the journey through widowhood. If you see a man here you think you may know, you might, but that's alright. He's who you think he is.

First was a horrible mistake that took forever to extricate myself from it seems. This is the dreaded FWB. For those of you who live under a rock, this is a "friend with benefits," or as I prefer to call it, a MBP. My term means "Mistake Bearing a Penis." I kept him at arms length emotionally. I was trying to fill an emotional hole by plugging a physical one. Except this plug had a voice and personality, neither of which were compatible with my own. Getting out of that situation taught me quickly that being detached emotionally from the physicality that I craved was more damaging to me than starving for affection. Lesson number one learned. I cannot separate my heart from my body and be healthy. One needs the other to live. Was I a victim? No. I was a volunteer. I set it in motion myself and it was up to me to end it.

Second was an older man. He was 15 years my senior. We had a kinetic energy. We talked for hours. He could calm me. Married unsuccessfully three times, he was strong, wise and honorable. But we had never been in the same state never-mind the same room. He found me smart and funny. He said I was strong and honorable. Then he ripped my heart out of my chest. "I'm not what you need." That's what he said. I made excuses for him. "He is honorable and doesn't want to hurt me" was code for "He's selfish and doesn't have room for me." Second lesson learned, I had no boundaries at that time. Being your companion does not give you access to my soul. Was I a victim? No. I was a volunteer. I let him dictate the tone and pace of the relationship. My mind carried me the rest of the way.

Then there was the dreaded married man. We entertained each other on the phone. I conducted, for all intensive purposes, a daylight emotional affair. There were all day texting marathons that lasted from 8am until 7pm. I was a stress free female who always looked perfect and always said the right things in his mind. For me I could flirt and emotionally connect with someone without risking really getting hurt. Although the relationship was never physically consummated, many was the time he met my emotional needs as only a lover can. I never questioned his situation at home. But I would never say I didn't endanger it either. Third lesson learned, emotional fulfillment doesn't mean infidelity is acceptable. Was I a victim? No. I was a volunteer. I participated fully with the knowledge he was unavailable and never would be.

Forth was another older gentleman who sold me a bill of goods in many ways. All I will say about this is, I cannot do sick again. Lap band surgery, brain tumors, drug addiction, and rampant ADHD are things that should be disclosed. I did the walk of shame off a fucking airplane. Fourth lesson learned, all that glitters is neither hard nor satisfying. Was I a victim? No. I was a volunteer. I saw what I wanted to see and reality smacked me on the ass for my ignorance.

Next into the batters box was the younger man. 10 years younger is not quite cougar country but its too close for comfort for me. He and I remain fast friends. But he lives in far too high of a gear for me. His past lives in his home and I cannot, strike that, I will not compete. I am much more valuable to him on his shoulder than in his lap. Fifth lesson learned, I am 44 years old. Was I a victim? No. I was a volunteer. I saw a beautiful man and forgot why I loved being a grown woman.

The accumulation of these lessons is at hand. I am slowly building a relationship. Day by day. Week by week. Month by month. This one will last me until I take my last breath. I am not lost with this person and it grows stronger everyday. I am in a relationship with myself. I need to love me. What I don't love, I need to either change or accept. That's the long and the short of the thing. In order for me to be part of something bigger, I must first be whole.

The lessons have taught me the following regarding myself. A man deserves for me to be open emotionally as well as physically. I must be present in the relationship. A man deserves for me to tell him what I need. If I don't know myself, then how is he supposed to meet my needs. A man deserves my emotional fidelity. My heart must be open in order for him to build a home. A man deserves my full disclosure. I must be honest with where I have been and who I am. The last one is the hardest. A man deserves for me to leave my past behind me. There are of course souvenirs, but one need not wear the t-shirt every fucking day.

See, the issues I saw were not theirs, but symptoms of the sickness of my self esteem. I had to treat them one at a time to cure my illness. It would be easy for me to say "They all took advantage of my grieving and were insensitive jackasses." But that is simply not true. We all come into these things with baggage and expectations. I no longer look at what Mr Soandso did wrong. The more important lesson is what drew them to me. When I am healthy, I will draw healthy to me. There are no victims here. We were all volunteers at one time or another.

Flashes in a Fog..

2011-09-19T11:19:00.000-07:00

Some time ago, I was invited to write a guest post regarding surviving a suicide. A friend of mine who helps me with my posting from time to time, made me promise that I would publish it here. Mudgie, this one is for you.

I have just passed the eighth anniversary of that day. The day the world stopped the first time. When who I was ceased to exist. When the future I saw in my minds eye faded to black like a television screen. When I was no longer capable of believing that everything would be okay. A single shot gun shell ripped my life apart just as it tore thru my beloved brother’s chest.

Truthfully, the first 24 hours are more than foggy in my recollection. I quite simply don’t know much of what happened. I have bits and pieces of a shattered picture. I remember hearing a sound that was absolutely gut wrenching and thinking “Holy God, someone should help who ever that is.” Then I took a breath and it stopped. That howl of agony was coming from me. I couldn’t make it stop. Gradually it moved from an audible sound to my soul screaming to the heavens. There were police officers holding a letter and telling me I couldn’t touch it and they would read it to me. As they read I told my husband to call my relatives and to find my parents. Someone offered me water and a friend gave me a big cup of coffee and lit a cigarette for me.

Rich said “Your Mom is there. You have to talk to her.” I took the phone and told her to sit down. She questioned me. She was so happy. Laughing. I said “Sit down Mom. Now.” I was three hours from home with the worst news a mother can ever hear. I couldn’t find gentle words. I couldn’t form them in my mouth that would make this easier. “Mom, John shot himself in my backyard. He’s dead.”

She had a hundred questions and I had no answers. I simply hung up without another word. The police continued to read. I began to shake. They gave me drugs. Everything simply faded into noise as I searched my memory for a hint, a sign, a clue. There was nothing. I was simply empty.

The circumstances and what caused this cataclysmic event in my life at that point were really not even within my scope of thinking. What I knew was the letter to the family was type written 13 days before hand.. He wrote to me in longhand on the back of their letter that day. He could not find a way to say goodbye to me. He simply said “It is finished.” Three days later, before they closed the book on his life forever, I stood in a funeral home alone with him for the last time. I told him, “Rest now brother dear, I will take it from here.”

When I returned home, the silence was deafening. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn't eat. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t function. There was no rest. I was hollow as I said polite words and accepted condolences. The world went on like it never happened. As though he never existed. I had a husband and a son who needed me. My brother’s son needed me. All I needed was what I couldn’t have. I needed to hear John laugh. I needed to see him smile.

I was so angry with God. It was a seething, black, empty anger. How dare he take him from me. How dare he take my best friend and closest confidant. How dare he. One night as I drove home from work it began to audibly spill out of me in the car. I screamed. I yelled. I cried. I had to pull over because I almost had an accident. Then there was a lock that clicked and released in my head. My anger turned to gratitude.

People look a lifetime for an unconditional love. For a heart that will love you regardless of what you have done. It can’t divorce you or leave you. It doesn’t judge or condemn you or your choices. It supports you. Makes you secure. I had that. He and I had not even had so much as a disagreement in more than 12 years. We held an unedited conversation in writing for the last year or so of his life. We poured out the secrets of our hearts. For 35 years I knew this love. Why must I focus on the 35 years or so I will spend without him when I can remember the 35 years I had with him?

I would never tell you that I was then, or am now over the loss of my brother to a completed suicide. What I will say is that you can survive it. There will come a time when you can let the anger go. When you stop making excuses for their decision. When you can look at your loved ones realistically, When you will stop hiding the flaws that you saw in fear of disgracing their memory. The tears will not stop, but they will change as they lessen. When you might not understand the choice they made, but you will come to accept the experience it created.

Once the fog of grief has lifted, something wonderful will give you tears of a different sort. Some time after John’s death, I was sitting in the kitchen talking to my son. He laughed. I heard John. I could think of nothing but to make it happen again. I noticed his hands. John was there. The same long fingers. Later, I helped him get ready for Prom and he looked so handsome in his tux. He smiled at me. Laughing welsh eyes and there was John. I see him in his son as well. In his measured countenance. In his sense of humor. In his reasoning. In his quietness. In his caring manner. John lives on in our boys. He’s there in bits and flashes. When I looked beyond my grief, I could actually see. He has not left me.

Gorillas and Grace

2011-09-13T23:11:00.000-07:00

Sometime ago, there was a commercial about a gorilla and a Samsonite suit case. The commercial was to illustrate the toughness of the merchandise. My sainted grandmother used it to teach me something about how we deal with things in this life. She said that our issues were in that suitcase and the gorilla would smack us around from time to time with that weapon. It's a weapon we formed. The best scenario is when that gorilla is bored of playing, that we unlock that case and pull as much as we can from the baggage to process. Handle and put away everything we can in the time we have to do it before he wants his toy back. Then the bag is lighter and the hurt is less.

As we all know, I have been dealing with some nightmare issues, quite literally. I have also been doing some intensive work on what is wrong. My friend and I have been wrestling this issue from the boxes in the attic of my mind. The first thing you have to understand is that every person in your dreams are you. Something this emotionally painful has nothing to do with outside forces but with damage inflicted upon your psyche. In my case, it is a defense mechanism that I employed to not break. My psyche did what was necessary for me to survive.

I have to go back. Back to that day. When he collapsed I went into business mode. Just as I had done a hundred times. My business was making sure my husband lived to fight another day. To make sure that my son was alright. To hold my family together at all cost. However, my business had never been to make sure that I was taking care of me. The explosion happened and I locked away the part of me that believed. That could panic. That could fall apart. My husband, my son and my husband's family were looking to me for strength. For guidance. For wisdom. They were feeding their emotional states from me. I emotionally locked her in a dark room as surely as if I had slammed a door on a house. I had to survive what was happening to me and I had to carry them with me. I held my head, my heart and my tongue when I walked that aisle on my son's arm. I hid my eyes behind dark glasses so that I could hide my shattered soul from the world. Yet she was screaming in that room. Lost and alone. Afraid.

This was the price of a private grief. I only cried alone. I lay in the darkness of my grief alone. I had no comforting hands nor hugs of condolence. When I walked into my home the day of the funeral I shut myself away. In an effort to hold his legacy together, I very nearly destroyed mine. I closed myself off because everything that touched me hurt. The strong arms that had held me together through the death of my brother, the ones that banged down the door when I had shut down emotionally, were gone. Without them, I could not break down the walls I built to protect myself.

In my dream I am asleep. A state of childlike innocence. That part of me that could not believe that he could actually die. The part that won every fight for his life. The part that thought I had forever. In truth the catastrophic event that ended his life ripped me in two pieces. A part to handle the business and the everyday survival that was necessary. A part to lie dormant and wait for me to allow her to grieve. To do so in my way. Privately. Honorably. Gracefully. But the price was very nearly my sanity. "I'm sorry baby. I didn't know." Is me admitting that I didn't know he could actually die. I didn't know.

So at the moment, I have my suitcase and the gorilla is at the gym. He gets stronger everyday. But I am unpacking the bastards bag. I am lightening the blow. At least now I understand what it is that I have to unpack. But I will do this on my terms. I understand the issues now. I clearly see what it is I have done and what I must do. I have dealt with my relationship with my son. We are closer than we have ever been in our lives. I am on speaking terms with my husband's family. I have walked away from the fakes and the drama queens. Cleaned the trash out of my friends and attracted quality people into my life.

For everyone else I have fought. My husband. My son. A family that was unappreciative and needed someone to blame. A group of friends that waited for me to fall. People who wanted me to ask for help. Now I'm in the fight of my life. Because this fight is for me. This fight is literally for the life and happiness I have earned. I have cried, bled and quite literally tried to die. This fight I cannot lose. Because it is for the future I deserve. The only person that I have not settled this debt with is myself. But I'm coming for you baby girl. It will take a hell of a lot more than some juiced up gorilla on a 'roid rage to keep me away.

Nightmares and Dreamscapes

2011-09-07T14:55:00.000-07:00

Tears. Absolute floods of tears. Silent and wet running down my face when I least expect them. Inopportune and in senseless places. What in the hell is wrong with me? Sleep is not even a sanctuary now. I cannot escape. My psyche is kicking my ass for something. Horrid nightmares. Not those anxiety inducing ones that come every now and then. I have adjusted to those and can actually go back to sleep. The panic passes and I am okay. These are making me cry even in my sleep.

It's the same dream every time. I hear him, yelling at me to get up. It's dark in the room and all I can hear is him progressively getting more and more angry but he won't come in the room. When I drag myself from the bed, moving like I'm planted in molasses, he tells me, "You didn't pack? We have to be gone today." Suddenly I am in the kitchen of my home, packing seemingly endless dishes, glasses, pots and pans. He's behind me yelling again, "How could you wait this long?" The only words I can utter through my tears come out choked, "I'm sorry baby. I didn't know."

I wake up on a wet pillow every time. I am actually crying in my sleep. My son has heard my sobbing. He has awoken me from naps and from a dead sleep in the middle of the night. We have discussed that day at length. Gone over it minute by minute. Put all the pieces together and hashed out everything. All of it is on the table. We love each other. He says it's time for me to lean on him. He says I did everything I could do. He says I have to let it all go. That my time of strength is at an end. But if I let it go, who will remember him? Is there a time when ones strength reservoir is simply exhausted?

I have been researching what's wrong. All of the dream interpretations say that the yelling is repressed anger within me. I have never allowed myself to be angry. I've never screamed at his headstone, "How could you leave me like this?" I've never thrown things in a fit of rage at him. I have grieved privately and alone. I have kept my dignity out of respect for his memory. I have borne the scorn and whispers. I have never responded. Simply because I know the truth. Simply because it is beneath me to address such things. Simply because it is not in my character. Leaving me was not his choice. It's not something he would have ever done willingly. My son says he would never have survived losing me. He loved me with everything in his being. So whom is it exactly that I should be angry with about being alone?

According to the research I've been doing, the packing is change. There is some great change happening in my life. I need to pack up my past and put it behind me. I need to move through my life, not just knock around in the space I used to inhabit. But how do I do this in a life that is not of my own making? The life I constructed with my own two hands no longer exists. I am not who I was when that day dawned. Everything I dreamed of and planned is gone. Is this where the anger comes in? Well don't cue the violins because I'm not buying it. Wallowing in misery is over for me.

Maybe I have held my grief a little too close to my chest. My pain has and will remain private. I will not bleed on command. For as much as I have shed my Appalachian heritage, somethings remain ingrained in me. A strength. An honor. Those are the qualities I chose to keep. But evidently my psyche thinks I need to share. That I need to vent. If I won't participate in my recovery, it will drag me to hell until I do as it asks. I simply cannot wage war with myself any longer it seems. So I am working on the anger issue. I must do something constructive with it. I must not have done all of this in vain.

As much as the dream-scape I am inhabiting is only in my head. The results are very much not there. The stress is quite literally manifesting physically. I really don't know how this is going to play out in real life. I have a friend who has a degree in psychology who is helping me. We are going to sift through my feelings until we find this baseball bat of a problem that I evidently can't even see. She tells me that it's there but I just have to dig deep enough in the dusty boxes of my broken life to locate the damned thing. So I'm heading upstairs now to look through the rubble. I have on my protective goggles and my yellow playtex gloves. Maybe a flame thrower and a whip. But whatever is in my head will not beat me any longer. If I don't come down in a reasonable amount of time, call the marines. Tell me to come rescue me in my nightmares and dream-scapes.

Perspective is all that matters.

2011-08-06T00:42:00.000-07:00

People have been classed all throughout history, those who consider themselves better than or worse because of many different factors. Sex, race, finances and religion are classifications that are normally the measure that the uneducated or indoctrinated use. I am always very surprised when I am conversing with another wanderer in this widows world who still classes people. In my 27 months on this journey, it never ceases to amaze me that someone always needs to be more hurt than someone else to validate their grief. Death is the great equalizer.

First are the ones who, regardless of the circumstance, will always think what happened to them is worse than someone else. The ones who lost quickly tell ones who fought a long battle, "Well at least you got to say goodbye. I didn't even get that." The ones who strapped up everyday for war tell the ones who's world ended in the blink of an eye, "At least you didn't have to watch them die everyday, a piece at a time." In truth no way is better or easier than the other because the end result was the same. No one is more valid in their grief than anyone else. I have begun to actually stop answering the questions. If I want you to know what happened, I will tell you, but in my time and not on demand. There is no reason to press me for answers unless you simply have no manners. When I have to say the words "I am a widow" I try to say it without inflection or indication that I want to discuss it further. When the person presses further and says "What happened?" I simply reply, "He died." That should be enough of an answer for anyone. Somehow them prying into my life is seen as okay. It simply exhausts me. Why can we not simply say "I am so sorry for your loss. You have my deepest condolences." and leave it there? Why must one qualify their loss? Cancer, heart attacks, car accidents, HIV, suicides, old age, drug and alcohol addiction, or anything else that took your spouse is a vicious beast that ripped your life apart. Maybe you fought Godzilla and I had a nuclear explosion, nevertheless we are both on the same road.

The second qualifier that drives me to distraction is the children. Let me explain something to you ladies and gentlemen, the fact that my son is 22 and your son is 2 makes me no less a single parent than you. My problems with the situation may be different than yours, but they are still issues addressed as a single mother. You have dance class and chicken pox. I have car insurance and job interviews. But, I still face these things alone. While you are upset that the deceased parent won't see all the home-runs, perfect pirouettes, straight A grade-cards and Christmas mornings, I am wrestling that my son's father will never see him get married, settled in a good job, hold his first grandchild, or teach him to hang a blind in his first house. Simply because he doesn't live under my roof doesn't mean I don't worry that he is clean, well fed, safe and healthy. I know what you're doing alone, and I know it's hard, but don't look at someone else and say "At least the children are grown." Don't say "Those children will never know that parent" and not think about the ones who remember the last seconds of their parents lives. Although the damage is different its still damage. Just because my issue is something with a different skill set, doesn't mean I don't cry myself to sleep at night, sick with worry of what tomorrow will bring. We are all single parents. Why must your parenting issues be worse than mine? The simple answer is because your perspective is inside your life and mine is from inside my life. If we stop looking to be more important or our loss more significant than the next ones, we just might be able to help one another and not be quite so alone. Yes, I successfully raised a teenager. I've been where you are standing. I might know a little something to assist with your problem. You're closer to my son's age than I and your perspective on a situation might just shed new light for me as well. Others look at a surviving spouse without children and say "At least there are no children involved." which is a fallacy as well. They can look at you and say "You have part of your loved one living on in your child." Perspective is all that matters.

Then there are the people who do well with support groups and the ones who can not abide them. I have heard "You need to find a good group to support you." I have also heard "Those groups are the worst thing because you cannot heal by tearing the wound open again and again." For myself, I simply don't get much out of the experience. I am somewhat self contained. Walking into a group of strangers with all those different agendas is simply not conducive to my sanity. I am a very private person. I don't rip myself open and bleed for just anyone. For many others they are real life savers. They glean insight and gain support in that arena. They flourish in that structure. I am always happy for someone who finds a place to lean. But because it doesn't work for me, doesn't mean there is something wrong with me. It simply means I don't do well with that program.

What works for you may not work for me. The one thing that holds true for all of us is that if we don't work our grief, it will work us. Lean into it and feel it all. There is no way around it. There is no way over it or under it. We must walk through it. Shoulder to shoulder. Some will hold hands and some will not. The major component is that when one does reach out, there is a hand to hold rather than a finger to point. There is an answer to be found to every question. There is also something to be said for "I don't know but lets find out together."

Cold Rolled and Comfortable

2011-07-23T00:16:00.000-07:00

This time of year I get a little quiet. I’m taking stock of my life. Where I have been and where I want to go. The plans I made a year ago in relation to the progress I’ve made throughout the year. Some things I have passed with flying colors, others were mediocre and a few were complete failures. Birthdays used to be a time of celebration for me. Now it’s a bit different. I used to mark time in the years I have been on earth. Now I mark time by how long I have been here in the widow’s world. I am sure it will change at some point but I tend to be a realist and live where I am at the moment.

Since my birthday is in July, it was never anything big with my friends. My family celebrated it every year. Because I grew up in such a rural area, I never had friends there from school and we didn’t live in a neighborhood. In fact I actually never had a party until my 42nd birthday. It was five months after his death and my son threw the party for me. His is 2 weeks before mine and I actually think we celebrated together to keep from going insane. His friends and mine meshed together in one night. They stayed until dawn and it was okay. The darkness did not swallow me that night as it did many others and still does from time to time.

Last year I ran. I went to the coast and pretty much hid for the week. This year I’m going to face it flat footed. That is simply my personality. I don’t really have a fight or flight reflex. I have a “well it really can’t kill me” reflex. I’ve always been that way. Monsters in the basement? Let me go down there in the dark. A friend of mine told me today they are going to a family reunion with someone they aren’t related to because “they uncomfortable driving that far alone.” I simply don’t understand that mentality. I live in uncomfortable. If it makes me uncomfortable, I will do it or die. I’m not necessarily as much fearless as foolish I think.

My late husband was a manufacturing engineer who worked with metal. I learned a lot about the processes that were involved in his work. Then I look at my moniker of the real deal steel magnolia. All steel is made through fire. Forged in the flame the impurities burn off. Yes, I have walked through some fire. Granny always said “It takes an awful hot fire to make steel.” What she neglected to tell me is that steel is a raw material and it has to be made into something to be valuable.

That is the process that I am living through at the moment. It would be easier if it were a hot process. It would be comfortable. I understand fire. I have often said I vacation in hell. The best, most pure, strongest steel is cold rolled. Hellish pressure. At 50 degrees versus over 1000 degrees. It takes time. It hurts. I don’t understand the cold. I don’t remember life outside the fire.

I am learning to live in the cold. Outside the heated stares of people. Outside the flames of whispers and rumor. The fire I can do in my sleep. The cold is much harder for me. Cold is a cup of coffee on the steps with my morning cigarette with no one watching. Being forgotten in the world I used to inhabit. Cold is not speaking verbally to anyone for an entire weekend at times. Looking up at 11 pm from a book and realizing I haven’t eaten all day because I didn’t remember.

In some form or another I have always lived for other people. Worked hard to make someone proud. Lived in the sunlight of someone’s love and approval. I could have run right out and found another someone to live for I suppose. I would have still been steel but the hot rolled product. The cold rolled process is harder but it is best. The finished process carries less imperfections and impurities. In this method I am learning to live for me. To get my own approval. I am quite the perfectionist, so for myself I will be the best me and made out of the best materials available in heaven and hell. I have been through both and I desire to return to neither. The magnolia will be finished in cold rolled steel.

The Weight of Guilt and Grief

2011-05-06T19:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel like Ross Perot's running mate Jim Stockdale when he was in the vice presidential debate. "Who am I and what am I doing here?" I get asked a lot "Where have you been and what are you doing?" The easy answer is "Oh I am around, just sort of quiet these days." The truth is a tad more complicated. I am working hard to progress out of my dark place and to find the light. I laugh and smile a lot more these days. I am trying to learn to embrace my new self. Yet at times I feel guilty. Guilty that I want to move on. Guilty that I want to be happy. Guilty that someone might think that I have forgotten. I am guilty of many things, but these are not among them.

I have reentered the dating world. Sometimes successfully and sometimes not so much. I've opened my heart. It was so much easier to be cold and unfeeling because everything hurt. I still have some cleaning up to do as I am still dealing with some cobwebs and some peeling paint from the remodel after the storm. Trust me FEMA ain't got an insurance policy for a demolished heart. So I packed it away in its many pieces and have slowly began to reassemble that part of me. Now I have to be watchful and not allow it to be injured as the newly rebuilt heart settles into position. I have to be willing to lose someone in order for me to even get a glimpse at what the future could hold with them. How much I am willing to be hurt depends on how much I value the person I suppose. I am into self preservation these days. If that is a crime then I am guilty.

I have put men on the friend list for many reasons. I am learning to be selfish. It's not that I cannot share, its that I simply don't want to share. I take up some room in a man's life and he needs to be able to accommodate me. I am unwilling to sit in the backseat of some one's life because of other obligations that were there before me. Needy children, neurotic parents, psychotic exes, unreasonable paranoia over passed illnesses or just plain baggage made up of crazy are not things that I am willing to step back for in my love life. I don't blame the fellas for having lives before me, but when those things bleed into my relationship with him, that's when I will pick up my keys and walk away. I have been told that I date like a man. So be it. I date like a woman who will not settle. I have raised my son and am ready to have a man to myself. If that is a crime, then I am guilty.

I am ready to shed my formal widow's title. I am tired of being either villanized or canonised because of my loss. I am tired of people judging me or my life because of the loss of my husband. I have grown tired of explaining color to the blind. I have my own identity and I want a life that is mine. People will always judge me. I understand that completely. However, I said long ago I would not wave my flag forever. I think it would be most unfair to a new man in my life to lament and forever be identified as a widow. I want to be the new me. A little older, a little wiser and a whole lot more myself. Although I spent well over 20 years in that one relationship, it will not define me. I cannot, nor should I be expected, to grieve myself to death. If that is a crime, then I am most certainly guilty.

I will always write about my journey through grief for I will always be on that road. The losses in my life have been many but none of the wounds to my soul were mortal. I will not always lament what could or in my mind should have been. I want to progress through this and grow. I have spoken to many widows who feel the same and yet are afraid to voice it to their peers because they fear they will be judged. They want to be happy mothers and girlfriends and yes even happy wives. It doesn't make them or me any less than the ones who will judge, nor their grief more valid. It simply means we are working our grief rather than being a slave to the pain. Our children, family and friends need us. They need to feed from our strength and watch us bloom again. Even if you and yours aren't ready, me and mine are. So, if that is a crime, once more, I am guilty.

Lastly, the weight of grief is relative. The weight you give mine is relative to the weight I will give yours. My loss is no more profound than yours. Your loss is no more profound than his. I get really tired of seeing people climb up on the rooftop of their lives and shout to hear the sound of their own voice. You're yelling to hear yourself above the noise in your own head. To me that is a symptom having no idea who the hell you are and not a result of losing a spouse. You built your life around someone or something, I did the same thing. But never doubt that before I knew I was a widow, I knew who I was as a person. I was lost in the mix for a minute, but I can stand flatfooted and say I know who I am. You have suffered a grievous loss. You are on a rough road. We hear you. The fact that you have small children, you have grown children, that you have no children, that you are a female, that you are male, that you are young or old, has no weight in this conversation. We are all in this hellish club that we didn't want to join and if listening to you yell is the price of being your friend, let me off this bus now. Because I am healing and if that is a crime, yes ma'am I am guilty as charged.

If you want to talk to me about your journey, grief, or recovery, I am here. If you need to vent, laugh, cry, question, measure or try to understand something, I am here. But if you come to me with issues that show that your grief out weighs mine because of the circumstances of your life, I will have no time for you. I want to move forward, learn, live, laugh and yes love. If that is a crime, I am guilty.

The Sacred and The Profane

2011-02-07T03:03:00.000-08:00

As I am hurled closer and closer to the two year anniversary of his death, I am learning things about myself. Things that are neither good nor bad but different than what they were before that day dawned. What I thought of the world and what I think of the world. One can not survive not one, but two, catastrophic life events and not be forever changed. The aftershocks continue long afterward and spill into every corner of ones life.

The first event was the suicide of my brother. It is a subject that I seldom broach but one that I suppose I should cover at some point. My brother and I were only siblings and the best of friends. In fact, our last Christmas, we actually bought each other identical clocks. We started a correspondence years before his passing with the understanding that when a letter was finished it was to be mailed with misspellings and all of the mistakes. An unedited conversation that went on for a long time. Those letters are sacred to me. When he left this world, I was as broken as I thought I would ever be in this life. I was cold inside and angry with God. Then God and I had a knock down, drag out, fist fight concerning the taking of him from me. A light bulb came on in my head. I came to the conclusion that I should be thankful for the 35 years I had with him rather than to count the 35 or so I will spend without him.

The changes around me were not as severe but they were a foreshadowing of things to come. I distanced myself from my family. I found their response to his death profane. It was hushed and silent as though it had never happened. As though he had never existed. Yet here I stood screaming in my heart. His belongings that were not in my possession were simply sold in yard sales or given to charities. Shirts were made into cleaning cloths with which he was wiped from the face of the earth it seemed. When he wrote his last letter, he burned every card and letter from me. Those ashes scattered across my hometown but the secrets of my heart were taken to the grave with him.

The second catastrophic event is the one everyone knows about. But I am learning in grief. What is sacred to me are things that no one else would see. The sacred is who we were. What we did. The son we produced. The profane is the loss of him. The loss of his family to me and my son. The loss the future I had planned. As much as I have ever grieved Richard, I grieve my hopes and dreams. I grieve the pictures in my minds eye that will never see the exposure of real life. I grieve my belief in forever. It is profane to me that I cannot yet look at people and not think “Do you not even remember that he ever existed?”

The tears that I have shed since the first event have now bled into the tears from the second. I would love to say that the torrent has slowed but it has simply retreated into the darkness. I refuse to grieve in public. The people around me before have simply faded into the background noise that I now ignore. In trying to reenter this strange planet, widows walk a strange road. We never know what to say to make the other inhabitants feel comfortable. When I am asked “Are you single?” I should be able to answer “I am a widow” without the obligatory “It’s okay” to make them more at ease. When in a group conversation, I should be able to share my sacred memories with a light in my eyes rather than casting them to the floor as though I have said something profane to silence the entire room. The sacred is that I can remember now. The profane is that I am not allowed to forget.

Today I wandered to a place of peace in a little grove of trees. I sat down on the bench and looked at the beautiful black granite and read his name through my tears for a while. Then a magic thing happened, I saw myself reflected there. The headstone did exactly what I wanted when I designed it. I wanted our son, his family and friends to look past the words of his death and to see themselves. We must remember that as profane it is how much of us as he took with him, that there is much of him left in us that is sacred.

Hurricanes, Rosecolored Glasses and the Vapors

2010-08-25T01:18:00.000-07:00

When a catastrophic life event happens, it is a landmark on the map of ones life. Sadly, most of the people from your life before this event are not going to make it into the life you lead afterward. As I am coming out of this hellish season of my life, I am shedding most of the people who knew me before the storm began. Some left immediately and others left when it got a bit too cold or the flood waters got a tad too deep. Not all relationships are strong enough to bend when hurricane force winds blow though ones life. Granny always told me, “People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime.“ During these 18 months I have seen all three come to fruition. I am only now learning some things about me and the people I keep around me, as well as who I was before and who I am now. The panicked silence of my grief is lifting and I can actually hear what people who genuinely care about me have to say. My logical thinking has returned and I can examine things in an objective manner that is unclouded by things that were said and done in the fog of grief.

One of my friends, whom is also a widow, and I have talked extensively about our late husbands. When we speak of our lives before and after, the information we glean from one another can be an absolute revelation. The most important thing that I have learned from our conversations is that we must remove our rose colored glasses and look at whom we actually lost. Both of us are southern girls and were raised to “never speak ill of the dead.” Yes, I said the word. Not passed on, not gone home, not even lost, but dead. For all of the polite words used for what happened to them and the lives we knew, both are in fact, dead. They were human beings, and as such, as flawed as any one that remains here on Earth. Our relationships were living, breathing things that died the day one of us took our last breaths. We cannot truly grieve until we put these canonized ghosts that haunt our pasts to rest and look at them, as well as our lives, in the cold light of day. The details are lost in the thousands of words that make up the conversations with a good friend that change the way one sees the world. But the ultimate truth that remains is one of the truest statements I have ever made in my life. The heart cannot grieve a lie. The truth is, we loved them then for who they were. The lie is that we love them now for who we wish they had been. Unless and until we come to grips with the realities of the relationship, there is no way to heal. When the cracks in the lie begin to show, it rips us open anew.

Another dear friend and I have talked extensively about other things. He is the father of grown children and sees things through eyes I do not yet possess. He gently walked me through one of the hardest things I will ever do as a parent. Learning that I have to transition from my sons Mommy into his Mother. In my panic that my place with my son was shrinking, I was making myself obsolete in his life. Mommy binds up the wounds, cuts and scrapes that life deals our children. She forces her will upon her children because she simply knows what is best. Decisions a child doesn’t understand are met with the simple answer “because I said so” and the problem ends right there. What I couldn’t see is that my son is an adult and I was trying to remain his Mommy to make everything better. When I made the transition into letting him make his own decisions, right or wrong, I became his Mother. By letting him go I have drawn him closer to me. I am his confidant. I learned to say “How can I help?” rather than “This is what we will do.” In doing this I became unafraid to say “I don’t know.” The difference is that now I stand behind him rather than in front of him. While I have made my transition, he has made sound decisions and great strides to secure his future. When the pressure of one of us disappointing the other was removed, we could proceed into an adult relationship. I am not responsible for his life and it is his to live.

I was speaking with yet another friend and the topic turned to people who try to drag us into the drama that surrounds them. Our views on these people are very similar. Everyone has an issue every now and then, but if the nexus for your life is always in disarray, then the common denominator is you. If you are constantly looking for validation by causing conflict around you, perhaps the question should be, “What is missing within you that causes you to look for that attention?” I have, for the most part, extricated myself from the drama queens who were around me. I simply stopped answering their cries of wolf. I have made a conscious decision to be happy. I try to look at each day as a shiny new thing that will bring me to something good. The people I am keeping around me these days are positive and want good things for me. The last friend noticed a marked difference in my countenance. In his words, I am lighter and much easier in day to day conversation. He noted that I am a loving, supportive and gentle soul who loves the people around me right where they are in life. I accepted his compliment without a qualification from me. That is not something I would normally do but I am learning.

When I first started writing I stated that I could not crack the code on this widow thing. I am getting there. The correct combination is coming to me and now I can see the path I must follow. What I have discovered is that if I spend less time looking at what is gone, I can accurately see what is here. In order to reach for the solid things I want in my future, I must release my grasp on the vapor that is my past. I was always fascinated by storms as a child. My cousins would run to Granny crying but she had to call me inside. I was always standing fearless in the rain trying to watch the show. It was then Granny told me to remember when it was the coldest and the darkest during a storm, others would run from the thunder and lightening. She told me to always remember the louder the sound the further the danger and that flash of light was to remind me that daylight was just on the other side. This long night is almost over. Daybreak is coming.

Sand, A Good Book and A New Perfume

2010-07-31T00:32:00.000-07:00

So all week I have been in dread of this day. One of my best friends and I actually took off for the coast of the Carolina's to get me away from everything last Sunday afternoon. A lazy place that was made famous by the likes of Robert Mitchum and Robert DeNiro. Its called the Cape Fear area. A quiet and sleepy place on the coast. No plans and no hurry. When we got in the car we told no one when we would return.

I walked the beach and looked at the water. I felt small like one must beside something so big and powerful as the Atlantic. The sun was setting and the moon rising at the same time. Shells in the sand left by the tide and footprints that are taken. One must find peace in such a place. I did just that with a good book and a pack of smokes. No internet access or cable television. In the quiet of my head, I was alone with myself.

The next day we got up and moved through the town. Methodically looking at souvenirs and antiques. Nothing to do and no where to be. We went down and sat on the benches of the river between the ocean and the intercoastal waterway. I watched the birds and the people. A big pair of sunglasses, a black ball cap and some 50 SPF. When we got back I crashed and slept for a fitful few hours and then up for the evening. Dinner at a nice but casual place. Laughter on the pier watching some unknown fireworks.

When we decided to come home on Wednesday, we took our time before leaving. Singing in the car. A wonderful lunch and some driving around looking at things we want to return to see again. Some hot sauce for D’s collection. A fruitless search for t shirts and flip-flops. Nothing to stress. A happy road-trip home.

I walked into the apartment and thought that the heaviness would greet me at the door like a forgotten house-guest. That the stench of grief would be on my bed linens when I pillowed my head that night. When the sun rose I awoke with an unfamiliar expression. I found myself humming as I made my coffee and stepped out in the sun for a smoke. There was a new fragrance surrounding me though just a whiff. It was so unfamiliar to me that it took me until today to decipher its perfume.

You see, today is my birthday. My second as a widow. But I am healing. I am reaching. Last week I walked outside and noticed a Magnolia in bloom. I thought, well damn, that’s late. But a veil on my heart lifted in that moment. I am more than certain she thought she would never find it. She was roughly handled by the gardeners shears and suffered the loss of parts of herself. I know that she thought she would die from her wounds. But she is beautiful at this moment and the spotlight is on her because she is the only of her kind in bloom. She has found her spring. I, like that magnolia am late, but I am slowly coming out of my wounds and the cold winter of my grief. The unfamiliar perfume is that of the Magnolia and what it smells of is hope.

A Magnolia by any other name

2010-06-29T00:32:00.000-07:00

I have been largely silent for the last two months as far as the blog is concerned. I came out of a situation and was in what I thought by and large was a state of stasis. Sort of like suspended animation. What has transpired in those 7 weeks has been nothing that anyone could see, but on the inside, a lot has changed.

I was speaking to my friend, whom we shall call The Madhatter. She sees things thru different eyes than I as she sees the picture from the outside while I am living within the frame. Strangely enough the conversation hinged on some towels for my bathroom. I had been in a mad search for a shower curtain I could see in my head but could not lay my hands upon. Under such circumstances, I am never satisfied until I find what I am looking for and have it in my possession. The Madhatter is familiar with my obsession with such things and takes it as a part of my personality. On this day, I had found my shower curtain and was moving forward onto the other pieces of my vision. Bathrooms say a lot about people to me as it is a sanctuary much like a bedroom. It is where we care for the most intimate details of our person and as such should speak the loudest in my opinion. Nevertheless, the conversation turned to towels and I mentioned that I would like to find someone to do a nice monogram for me. We progressed thru our conversation and I never thought about it again until I was looking for these towels. I needed a deep crimson red, a rich chocolate brown and a handsome burnished gold. A gold letter upon the red and brown with red upon the gold. They must be thick and thirsty as well as elegant looking hanging on the rack. It was at that point that an odd question reared its head that I have been examining since. What letter would I use?

All of my life I have been called something besides my name. My father is the youngest of 11 and my mother the youngest of 9. As their youngest child I am known as “Sissy” which has been shortened to “Sis” as I have aged. The entirety of both sides of the family call me by that name. My beloved brother was older than I so when I entered high school I was known as “John’s little sister.” Then I met and married Richard and became “Mrs. Richard.” He called me “babe” and later “Hunibuni.” My son was born and I became “Drew’s Mom.” In Richard’s illness I answered to “The patient’s wife” and as his father is a pastor with his deaconship the name became either “The Pastor’s daughter-in-law” or “The Deacon’s wife.” Lastly I became “Richard’s widow.” I have been cut and trimmed, broken and beaten, as well as crammed and slammed into someone else’s box all of my damned life. So now, as I take my tentative steps into a foreign world, what am I to call myself? Now that I haven’t a box what shall I do?

One would think this an easy question since I write my name everyday. In high school, I was one of those girls who wrote my boyfriends name with mine and daydreamed of who I was to be when I grew up. Because of the culture I came out of my identity was tied to whom I married. I would be “Mrs. MyHusbandsName.” If you have daughters, this is a dangerous proposition. Because, if she is widowed early or divorced, her identity is something she will struggle with her entire life. I’ve always had issue standing up and introducing myself to people. Now, I have balls the size that roll behind Indiana Jones in the movies, but my own name doesn’t ring true in my mouth. Probably because I have never put any stock in that it meant anything. I have answered to anything anyone cared to call me because that’s just the way it was for me. But, what do I prefer to be called?

While I wrestled this conversation in my head, I decided to call The Madhatter back and finished what we had started. I needed to hash this mess out. She sees me as strong when all I can smell is weakness on my skin. She is my vision when I am blind to the world around me. She made a very simple declaration that cleared my confusion. I have walked a long road to be who that I am today. The fates and this hateful world has bent, pressured and tested me. Many things have been taken from me but the one thing that remains is my name. Not what everyone calls me, in most instances she calls me “The Belle” as it invokes my strength in her eyes. But the name I sign. I will never relinquish Richard’s last name because it also belongs to my son. I wear it with honor because it was given to me in love. I have worn his longer than I wore my father’s surname, although I was hyphenated long before it was fashionable. But as my form recovers from the shape of the boxes I have been made to fit into all my life, so must my spirit. I must recover and reclaim what is mine.

It has been said that I am a self made woman. My family is not sophisticated in their life nor in their manners. My sainted Grandmother taught me to be a lady in the way I thought and in the old way of how I carry myself. But I looked at the females in the cities I traveled to and here in Charlotte to determine how I would appear. I studied their mannerisms and customs. I shed my Appalachian appearance and manners years ago. I traded them for a classic look and an elegant countenance. I stripped off my closed mind and my judgmental mindset. I created a strong female who owns her mind and self-worth. Someone who can love you where you are and never ask you to change who you are fundamentally. I made a 180 degree turn from the small minded and dependant people who arise out of that culture. We live in a world of choices and mine is to be who I am today rather than whom someone else said I should grow up to be.

I ordered my towels today and the letter I chose is an “S.” So let me stand up in front of you all and introduce myself. My name is Sandra and I am the Real Deal Steel Magnolia. I am very pleased to meet me.

Still, I rise

2010-05-02T10:26:00.000-07:00

Well, I did it. I have successfully done what I had to do in order to move on with my life. It was ugly and it was painful. But I did it. Those 48 hours have changed my life forever.

Packing was very difficult. I was ripping the world apart that I had used for sanctuary since Richards death. It was much like tearing the wound open again. As I packed his suits, ties, and clothes I was surrounded by his smell. His cologne permeated my soul but I could not wrap myself in it. It was impossible to convince myself that everything was to be okay. As painful as it was for me to do, I am certain it was even more painful to watch. People who had sworn their allegiance turned their backs rather than to see my angst. I opened my late brother’s suitcase and found the spare shotgun shells that were brought to end his life in July of 2003. I sat alone in the floor of my living room and cried for the men I have lost. For the life I had before. For the plans and promises that will go unfulfilled because they left me here.

When we began to load the truck, I switched to business mode with my soul screaming. My head said, “We must pack it safely and make sure everything is okay.” My heart was telling me that “nothing will ever be okay again. But I had to keep moving, quite literally. I had to get this done. One cannot get up off the table and leave a surgery.

I was dealing with people talking about “how hard Richard worked for this and that.” Finally, when I had swallowed all that I could I replied “he didn’t do this alone.” The wheels flew off then and my frayed nerves turned into fury. I had to defend myself against a canonized ghost. I had to stand alone against someone never thought I would never have to engage in this type of battle. All of my defenders were sitting back watching while we slugged it out. My will against his anger. My steel against his might. My love against his seething hatred. He retreated and I did not. I stood my ground. In doing so I destroyed my past. The lies and innuendos came to the light in way that I should have seen coming in the distance. The people who had sworn I was family forever now lay in a pile of smoke and ash. They believed outrageous things and of course they reverberated through the entire family like a church bell. It was as though they had been waiting for confirmation of grievous sin that explained Richards death. Something they could use to blame me. They judged my marriage and my life without evidence or debate. The ugliness underneath almost a quarter century came to light and what I thought was a foundation turned into quicksand. I decided rather than to dishonor my life and Richards memory, I would simply walk away. As I closed the door I held my head high and faced my own future with as much grace and humility as I could locate.

The cost was the safe haven I was to have within Richards family. I had said that this would be like having all of my skin ripped away in one sitting. I did not realize that I would have to bleed for the future I deserve. I was unaware that people I thought loved me were waiting for me to fall. That the quiet reserve I so carefully crafted was to be seen as coldness. I was shocked to find out that they viewed me as aloof and unreachable because I grieved in private rather than in public. I was trying to be strong for others who see me as mercenary. I have landed and the people who really love me are around me. The others will eventually turn around to see what has become of my life and I will still be standing. I will tell you that I am a survivor. What ever may come at me will not destroy me. I have taken these peoples best shot and yet I stand. Just as a phoenix rises after the flame, I begin anew. Still, I rise.

Labels in my closet.

2010-04-02T12:57:00.000-07:00

I have been paying a lot of attention these days to how I identify myself. “Ms. Buni Whatsherface?” “Mrs Richard Whatshisface?” “D’s Mom?” “That Bitch Downthestreet?” “The Widow Ifeelsosorryforher‘ “The Real Deal Steel Magnolia?” This is probably because I am so desperately searching for who I am in this world that labels me. How do I label myself? I am examining what is most important to me regarding how I am perceived and what I am learning is that it is more important how I see myself.

Being my son’s mom is an important part of who I am but it does not define me. Perhaps the fact that he was born right before I turned 22 just makes it another facet of who I am. I have never been a woman who talked incessantly about daycare, diapers and the cuteness of babies. Even when he was small I never went to a shower, Tupperware party or just out for dinner with the girls and prattled on about such things. He is the most important human being on the Earth to me, but he has never defined me as a person. I have had issues with widows support groups in my age group because all they appear to have to define them is motherhood. I went to talk about and learn about processing grief, not about potty training and how cute someone’s dirt covered child was in some pictures. To me, however callus it may appear, being a mother is a gift, not a badge of honor. I am not one who allowed my child to rule my house. I did not run around and kowtow to all his wishes. I loved him unmercifully. That’s it. Mom? You betcha. Are you hungry? Is your underwear clean?

I have worn the title Bitch all my life. When I was younger it was fighting words, now I embrace it with a smile. It means you are so insecure that I intimidate you. I am ambitious and creative. I am decisive and plain spoken. I am elegant of manner and graceful under pressure. I have a firm handshake and will look you directly in the eye when I say hello. I am the match for any human on this earth. No one is better than me and no one is beneath me. You put your pants on just like I did this morning doll. And yes when I say it in that tone it does mean I see you as a mindless plaything. We all came in this world naked and in the end that’s how we leave. Someone not liking me is not something that troubles me very much these days. I am comfortable in my own skin. I am very perceptive, trust and believe, I see you. I have a bullshit meter that is as sensitive as any earthquake sensor on earth. I like genuine people. Good, bad or indifferent, if you will be you, I will be me, and we should be just fine. But calling me a name doesn’t demean me, it shows your lack of imagination and vocabulary skills. Why don’t you go read a book? The library is free. Bitch? Yep, your estimation of the situation is correct. Woof.

Then there is this widow title I am wearing. Someone said the other day, “You will always be a widow.” As I thought about that statement I clarified it for the person who is not widowed. “I will always be Richard’s widow, but I will not always be a widow.” I have had a life defining moment but it will not define me. I will choose how the world sees me. Why would I let one tragic event determine who I am for the next 40 years? Life may never be the same for me but I will not remain on a soapbox, waving my widow flag when I am in fact someone else. Widow? Yes. But not forever.

The moniker I embrace at this moment is that of the Real Deal Steel Magnolia. The Steel Magnolia part comes from my beastie’s son who introduced me as one to some FDNY firefighters. He explained saying it meant that I am funny, smart, sharp tongued with a wicked wit. Life has made me strong but the struggle made me beautiful. That for me to love you, was like having a quiet place to rest. He made me all misty eyed. I got up and kissed his cheek and he said “See! I told you.“ One of the giant Irish fellas pulled up a chair and said “A Steel Magnolia huh?’ and I said “Yes sir, the genuine article.” For the rest of the night I was called “The Real Deal Steel Magnolia.” As I read up on Magnolia’s I was amazed at what makes them thrive and I compared a lot of it to my life. So I took that one and made it my own. Real Deal Steel Magnolia? Yep, pull up a chair and sit a spell.

Just as I am the daughter of a faithless mother and a philandering father, the sister of a completed suicide, the grand daughter of a cancer victim, the widow of a good man who died far too soon, the mother of a beautiful son, the aunt of several, the friend of many and the nemesis of quite a few more, none of these things define me. I am a diamond and all of these facets cause the light to bounce through me and different colors to show. I define who I am and who I will be in the future. Today I wear one label, tomorrow I wear another. In the closet of my life, one never knows what may be on my back from one day to another. But trust me folks, I never get dressed in the dark.

I love you enough to tell you the truth. Really.

2010-03-26T09:11:00.000-07:00

Well Spring has sprung in the south. I know that I am an opinionated person and this blog will be no different. I see things everyday that cause me to shake my head and here I will address these issues. There are fashion trends and just faux pas everywhere and it must be said that I am more than disgusted by them. You will ask without a doubt, who is she to make these judgments? I was a bridal consultant for 9.5 years. I am a stylish southern female. I was blessed by my sainted Granny who, as we say here, “raised me right.” I grew up in the Appalachian mountains. All of these things have been and are being done by people who are related to me. It is one of the only entertainments afforded me when I step back in time going home. I am a catty bitch. However, I feel that fair warning must be given before I begin to make fun anyone. So here goes.

First, just because Easter is around the corner, that is no excuse for hideous white dress shoes. If you are over the age of 7, you should never, ever have white dress shoes anywhere for any purpose. They should be outlawed unless they are designed for some sports purpose. There is nothing tackier on the planet. Say this word with me ladies, “Taupe” or “Bone.” Yes, that’s it! You can do it! While we are discussing the subject, white tights are also for small children. They make your legs look like tree trunks even if you weigh 12 lbs. There is also no such thing as nude panty hose. Suntan is orange. Yes I said it. They are orange. Unless you are an Umpaloopa, bitch that ain’t nude. If you must wear hose, please invest a little time and energy in finding something at least close to the color you are in real life. They have them, I swear to God they really do! Let us summarize by saying this, if you don’t have ruffled panties on with your Easter Dress, white shoes and white tights are not acceptable for public consumption. Bone, taupe or some other form of neutral blend into the leg and make you look leaner and taller. And in what world is that not a good idea??

And while on the subject of white, the benchmark for wearing white clothes is actually Memorial Day, not Easter. White pants on Easter Monday will draw cackles from the peanut gallery. For the love of the children, when you do break them out, under no circumstances do you wear white panties under them. Underwear issues are addressed later in the blog.

Second, open toed shoes with hose is an amateur move. Period. I don’t care what your grandmother does or what some celebrity does, this is uncalled for under any circumstances. No one wants to see your toes all smashed up in them. You have opened the door to the jail cell and made them stay inside. Free your mind and your feet! Also, in this day and age, there is no excuse for ugly feet. Support the economy and go see a professional to straighten up the damage you did during the winter. You can do upkeep yourself. A little polish and a nail file does wonders. If your feet look like a Hobbit, its disgusting. As far as footwear goes, please buy shoes that fit. If you have big feet everyone knows it. Its not a secret. There are no smaller size that will minimize like bras. Furthermore, they cause your ugly feet by making those god awful corns. Your big feet in tiny shoes look like you are baking bread and furthermore they make you mean because your feet hurt. Be proud of your big feet, they just mean you have a firm foundation. Along the same train of thought, your toes hanging over the front of your shoes make you look like a gorilla, specifically if you have on a flip-flop style and are grasping at the floor with your toes. That’s just nasty. Also ladies, if you cannot gracefully walk around your house in some sky-high hooker heels, then walking into a restaurant or other public event is a recipe for disaster. There is no shame in not being able to walk in them, practice in private before you embarrass yourself in public. You are not sexy stumbling like you are drunk or falling on some cobblestones. I will be crying with laughter as I help you get up. To summarize this lets all say together, if you are to set your toes free, don’t just show them daylight and make sure they are pretty. Be proud of your firm foundation. If you can’t find the cute shoes in your size, be well aware there are other cute shoes. Ain’t just everything for everybody. Take your ass to another store and find something that fits because my ribs hurt from making fun of you. Practice makes perfect in stripper shoes.

Third, I have no urge to see your bra straps hanging out from under your sleeveless shirts. I have no idea who it was that conceived this was fashionable, but they lied. Yes, they lied. Somewhere they are laughing at you for having black bras straps hanging out of your pink tank top. This is why God made racer back bras! Myself, I am pointing while I am laughing. Its as bad as your thong sticking out the top of your damned jeans. You are not Brittney Spears. Looking at parts of your underwear hanging out of your clothes is gauche. Furthermore, don’t wear a white bra with a sheer white shirt. That’s why they make nude. Darker girls, under no circumstances put black under a light colored thin shirt. You might as well not have on a shirt and a bitch will go to jail for that shit. Again, find something closer to what you are in real life. Also, industrial strength undergarments are fine, but ain’t nobody thinks they are sexy. I have my own things to keep jiggle to a minimum, but they are supposed to be a secret. To summarize this, underwear means it goes under your outerwear. If it were supposed to stick out, it would be called “sticking out wear.”

Lastly, if you have to ask someone, “Is this too short?” or “Is this too tight?” then you know the answer is yes. If you bend over and all of your business is hanging out, bitch that’s not a dress, it’s a shirt. A camel toe is not attractive, that’s why they make fun of them on the internet. There is nothing more unattractive than watching someone fight their clothes all day or all night. Your discomfort and your lack of confidence shows. We know, that you know, that its wrong. Unless you live in a cave, you have a mirror. Use it.

I am not saying “run out and buy a new wardrobe.” I am not saying everything you touch is wrong and you should stay inside. I am saying that if I see you in any of these situations I will stop point and laugh. But it doesn’t make me love you any less. I just love you enough to tell you the truth.

I didn't die

2010-03-15T09:42:00.001-07:00

Well, I made it. I passed the one year anniversary and I didn’t actually die of this grief. Last February I thought I would die. I did not think I could survive this emptiness. I did not think I could survive being alone. I have some things I need to say and someone needs to hear.

My first night in this bed was hell. It was so big and empty. I thought it was my bed, but it was my heart. It was this giant emptiness in my soul. I will tell you truthfully, I tried lots of things to fill it, but alas there is nothing. Then I went to bed for almost two months. I wish that were a joke but it is not. I was safe closed up in my room in this big empty bed. I could find peace in my sleep. I could find peace in solitude. I curled up in my hole and lay there. I went four weeks without washing or brushing my hair. I tried to literally lay down and die. Guess what? That didn’t work either. Is the hole closing? No. I would love to tell you it is closing, but it’s not. Sometimes I have a hole, and sometimes it has me.

I do not dwell on those 24 hours. I know that I did the best for Richard. I know that I did the best for my son. I know that I did the best for everyone involved. But I am stuck in that hospital room because I went into business mode. I took care of everyone and everything to the best of my ability but me. I should have screamed and cried they say. I should have begged him not to go they say. They say a lot of shit. They have never been where I have been, seen what I have seen nor made the decisions I have made. They have never chosen the best thing for the love of their life and let him go with the grace and dignity befitting the man he was to me. They have never walked up the isle of that church on the arm of a man child who was trying to be strong. They have never held an entire family together by a sheer force of will to hold my head high through the hardest days of my life. They do not have the strength to be me. “I would have” or “You should have” are terms that cause me to stop listening.

I have changed. I am opinionated but I am measured. I do not judge with the same eyes. I am harsher in what I think and I must control my tongue. I am less understanding of peoples faults. I am less tolerant of oversights and excuses. I really and truly do not care what people think anymore. I no longer believe what people say but I believe what people do everyday. Don’t tell me that you will be there for me, I don’t believe you. Show up even if its just a “Hello.” Don’t tell me you care, I don’t believe you. Ask me how I am and then don’t buy that I am okay. Don’t tell me I am welcome in your world, I don’t believe you. Invite me to dinner and don’t glance at me sideways when I speak to your husband.

I am looking at a future that frightens me. I did not plan to do this right now. I plan things for other people. I am in control. Today I am not in control. I was unprepared for this turn of events. I do not function well when I am unprepared.

I have crawled through the depths of hell in this almost thirteen months. I can tell you about a depression so dark I thought I would suffocate. I never broached suicidal thoughts because I am not put together that way. But I can tell you I just wanted everything to stop. I disengaged from everything so badly that my true friends were scared and my fair weather friends were relieved. To a certain extent I am still isolating. I like my own company these days. I reach out but not to much of anyone real. I can go a week without stepping my foot outside my door. They say it isn’t healthy. I say its doing the best I can right now. Learning to live without him is learning to live with myself.

Casey Johnson

2010-02-26T07:53:00.000-08:00

The recent death and announcement of the cause of Casey Johnson's passing this week really hit some nerves with me. According to published reports, she died as a result of untreated Diabetes and an overdose of the over the counter cold medication "Nyquil." As I look at the facts it angers me. This woman was the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune and chose, yes I said she chose, to not take care of herself. She could and should have had the best medical care, but all of the medical care in the world could not save her from herself. If she didn't do her part, the disease would most certainly do it's job. In my mind's eye and in the heart of a woman who was made a widow by this beast, she participated in her own demise.

This reminds me of a conversation that Richard and I had very early in our relationship. It was August after we began dating in May. I had just turned 20 and he would be 21 in October. The only knowledge I had of diabetes was my mother's first cousin who lost her husband, a diabetic and alcoholic. She sat by his bedside for 3.5 years while it slowly killed him in a diabetic coma. He drank until he passed out and never, ever woke up again. I had no idea of the beast inside Richard's body, until he called me one morning and said they were admitting him to the University of Virginia at Charlottesville because his "sugar was out of whack." He spent a week there and when he came home he handed me a giant, black binder. He said "Read this tonight and we will talk tomorrow. I am okay and I love you."

The binder contained everything that the medical community knew, at that time, about Diabetes. Highlighted portions had regard to Richard's illness and everything that was highlighted appeared to be the worst that it could be. I did not sleep that night. The words, blindness, kidney failure, heart attack, amputations and coma ran through my mind. It was that night that I knew in my heart that I loved Richard. I had told him in a teenager mentality that I loved him. But looking at what was staring me in the face showed me my heart. I walked the floor with one question wrestling in my very soul. "Can I do this?"

The next morning I went to his apartment early and awoke him from his slumber. He was a 20 year old college student and it was the weekend before school started back on Monday for him. There were liquor bottles and passed out friends littering the apartment. Pizza boxes and beer cans. Before I had always taken these things in stride. After my night of reading and soul searching, I saw things in a different light.

The first question I asked Richard was "What was your sugar level when they admitted you?" He blinked his eyes and knew that I had read the material. "680" he replied. I knew enough that a blood sugar reading of 800 is comatose. I also knew that 80 to 120 was normal. The next question I asked was "What did the doctor's say?" He looked at the floor and began to cry. He said "If I don't take care of myself, I will be dead in a year." As he looked up at me, that was the first time I ever saw fear in his eyes. It was then that I gave him the only ultimatum I ever gave. I had practiced and practiced it in the car on the drive over. I needed to say this without tears, but with resolve. I was so scared because if he would not do as I asked, everything would end. "You need to tell me what you want. I love you. I am invested. But, if you are not going to do what you need to do in order to be on this Earth, I will walk away. I can break my own heart right now and it will be easier than watching this kill you. Either participate in life with me, or participate in dying alone." With that I turned and walked from the room.

I heard the shower start and I woke the other fellas. Bleary eyed and hungover, I asked them to leave. I started to pick up the mess and put the dishes in the dishwasher. When he came downstairs, still wet from the shower, he still had tears in his eyes. With a dishtowel in my hand, I asked "What are you going to do?" He said, "I want to be with you." With those words, I made the educated decision to love this man and fight this disease. I was not blindsided, there was no diagnosis in a room with a doctor. There was just he and I in the livingroom of a tiny townhouse. Two kids who decided to face the world together.

Why would Casey Johnson choose not to fight for her life? Why would she ignore medical advice? Why would she choose to leave this world? According to reports, she lay dead for four days before she was found. Where were her parents with their money and influence? I cannot understand any ones actions in this entire debacle. But, the responsibility lies squarely on Casey Johnson's shoulders. She was not ignorant of the consequences of letting her blood sugar over take her. She was not ignorant of the fact that "Nyquil" is not safe for diabetics. According to the information involved, she in fact abused it. The sad part of this is that she was a young woman with a life that most of us could only dream of living. She had everything but love for herself and a love of life.

The doctors and forensic pathologists can state what they believe to be the cause of death. For my part, she died of self loathing. She participated in her death as surely as if she had taken a gun and ended her life. Diabetes is not a life choice, it's not a life style. You will learn to live with it like a lion in a cage, or it will end you. But in the end, it is your choice. Fight or die.

The Laundry List

2010-02-25T04:06:00.000-08:00

Well, I have walked through my year of firsts. I would not dare say that I am finished with my grieving process. I harbor no illusions. The good news is that now I am to face nothing that I have not faced before therefore I am better equipped to do what I must. The one thing that hangs over my head is reentry into the dating world. Before I go any further let me explain why this is such a daunting task. The last time I had a first date was May 14, 1987. Yes, almost 23 years ago. The world has changed into a place that though I am familiar with, but I am more than a foreigner, I am an alien.

The last time I looked about for male companionship, and it is not bragging to say that I have never actually looked, it always found me. At that time one actually had to stop at a payphone to call someone from the road. We met people in person before we actually spoke to them. I was also 19 years old. Nevertheless, my friends have begun asking “What are you looking for in a man?” So I have complied somewhat of a “Laundry List.” I have no doubt that it will be offensive to some, outrageous to others and unattainable to the rest. But since you asked, here goes.

First, I need a man who is 6’0 or over. I am 5’7 without shoes. With them I end up somewhere between 5”11 and 6’1. I will not give up my shoes for any mans vanity. They are as much a part of me as my nose. Wouldn’t want me to give that up now would you? Second, I like a good sized man. I am not talking about Sumo wrestler size, but he needs some meat on his bones. Fit is fine but he needn’t chase me about with a pair track shoes expecting me to run along beside him. I wouldn’t run if a bear were chasing me. Why would I salt and warm his food? I somehow think I might be mauled but not eaten if I were in the fetal position with a fecal matter sauce. But warm and salty I am a goner. He can run and jump and do as he pleases, I will be in the house with my Wii Fit. As long as I can outrun the last person in line in a horror movie, it’s all good.

In the area of age, there can be no one under the age of 35. If you have no idea where you were when Ronald Regan was shot or who Bad Company was then I haven’t the time to explain. Furthermore, no one over the age of 50 is acceptable either. If you have issues understanding of the abbreviations, IDK, NP or WTF in a message or dating me would have been a crime when I was 16, again, I haven’t the time to educate you either. There can be no small children bearing your DNA anywhere on Earth. Small to me is under the age of 15. I cannot have curtain crawlers or yard monkeys about me that I cannot kill and claim insanity. I do not like children. I will say this again, I do not like children. I don’t find them cute or endearing. I find them messy and cootie filled like a Krispy Kreme donut. If the said gentleman has children, I prefer that the maternal unit not be either needy or insane. Take crazy somewhere else, my container is full.

I suppose that the last thing is that I need an Alpha male. If you don’t know what one is, you aren’t one so that leaves you out of the running. If I can run over this man, I will. I cannot help it. It will also render me incapable of respecting the specimen. I need a strong individual who knows exactly who he is in this world and is secure within himself. Now I am not speaking of a Grade A, USDA stamped asshole. There is a balance. If he is an asshole and I am a heartless bitch, we will end up on the news rather than living happily ever after. I don’t look good in orange, therefore, prison is not really an option for me. Those flip-flops with socks are hideous. Kill me now.

Does this list seen a bit difficult to fill? Good. It’s supposed to be. I designed it that way with a purpose in mind. There is not a man on Earth that can fill Richard’s shoes. He cannot be replaced. The manner in which he loved me was a once in a lifetime kind of thing and can never be duplicated. He loved me from the age of 19 until he closed his eyes forever. He saw me mature and change and loved me because of it not inspite of it. He knew every bump, bruise and scar. He knew my likes and dislikes. He knew me. He treated me like a Queen. Richard once told me that when he fell in love with me it frightened him because I possessed his soul. He fully believed in his heart that he could not live without me. I have often mused in my mind what he would have done had it been me that had left this world far too early. There is nothing I would not do to spare him this pain. I will never find what I had with him again. There is a tale in Jewish mythology that says when God creates a soul, he splits in half and sends it into the world. These two halves search for one another relentlessly often never finding each other. When they do it is said that they are “Beshert.” We were such a pair so there was but one.

I am not saying I will not find love again. I am saying I am older and wiser. That rush, that panic, that euphoria will never be what it once was because I am not who I was when it found me the first time. When the time is right someone will appear who wants his own place in my life and in my heart. Someone who won’t want to compete with Richard because he won’t want to be a replacement. He also will know me well enough to know that with all of the Louis Vuitton in my closet, I would never accept a cheap imitation of an original.

Verbally Executing the Stupid as Sport

2010-02-12T09:00:00.000-08:00

As I close in on the year anniversary of my husband’s death, people say more and more stupid things to me. I am truly not fit for human consumption right now. Not because of sadness, but because I can be really, really mean. If you have read more of my blog than just this one post, you know that I am a raging smartass. However, if you have actually ever spoken to me, you know that I have a really dry sense of humor and a quick wit. If one combines these things with pressure and grief, the acid that drips from my lips makes that Alien bitch look like she just needs to brush her teeth. I have begun to verbally execute the stupid without a second thought as to what happens after I swing the sword. I am done with censoring myself and allowing the emotional suckerpunches that the inconsiderate throw to go unpunished. If you can't keep an intelligent tongue in your head, that's your ass.

The first stupid thing that was said to inspire me to take my badass out for a walk was in the bank that my mother in law runs. The stupid person made small talk and then uttered, “Well, maybe things will be better when everything gets back to normal.” I looked at this idiot, whom is small of both stature and mind, whilst unsheathing my sword and replied “Just what the hell is normal?” As the socially retarded individual stared at me as though I had suddenly sprouted a second head, I put her on her knees with “It’s not like Rich is on vacation. Bitch, he died. Life as I knew it ended, it is not on pause. Normal doesn’t exist anymore.” As this person put her mouth back together, I heard that audible pop that one hears when someone is about to utter what they think is a really witty retort. I swung hard and sure as I said “Unless and until you have buried that slob of yours that lays on your couch, spends your money, and sleeps with your sister, don’t ever speak to me about normal.” The bank hushed and I swear to god I heard crickets. Then my mother in law began to laugh that nervous "what the hell is gonna happen now" laugh while my victim began to cry. The socially retarded individual, who goes to her church, has not changed anything at home. She has had no light bulb moment. I guess working two jobs, while her husband lays on her sofa, unless he gets up to have sex with her sister, is her normal. Fear makes the ridiculous normal. She has no idea who she is without that situation because she is secure in her position in her normal. I, evidently, had my own lightbulb moment. She goes to my father in law's church and I am considered a preacher's kid, my husband was a deacon. My long years of swallowing my anger has given me a belly full. (Big clue folks, preacher's kids know most everything that the preacher does, but deacon's wives know more. Being both, I can get the dirt on anyone that darkens the door.) A bitch is all outta nice and I don't know when the next truck will deliver my order.

The second instance of my acidic, verbal, bitchslapping of an idiot happened when someone literally said to me “Oh I understand, my brother’s, wives‘, best friend’s, sister died 4 years ago,” Now, I understand that all widow’s have stupid things said to them. To the people to utter these idiotic phrases, sometimes the best thing that anyone can say is “I’m sorry” and leave it at that. Do not try to relate. I served him a nice, tasty cup of Shut-the-fuck-up as I actually said to this man, “Had she been in your bed for 21 years? Had you constructed your life as a pair and are now a single? How did you find a way to sleep?” He didn't see me draw the sword in his arrogance. Yes, I consider it arrogance. To compare one to another is utterly ludicrous. He was very quiet as I handled my business and walked away. I discount no ones grief, but there are levels of hurt in my mind. Trying to relate one to another is like comparing apples to landmines. Someone's mother, father, brother, sister, spouse or child outranks the loss of anyone else in your life. Period. This is not a debate. My hurt outranked what ever he thought he was feeling. At this point, I expect no quarter and I give none.

The reasons for my nastiness is that in the coming 7 days I must face my first Valentine’s day with out Rich in 23 years. It was also the last holiday that we celebrated together. There will be no flowers and no card. I will not be at Waffle House. Then on Monday morning I have jury duty. Now a widow on a 4 day countdown to the anniversary of the event that shattered my life as I know it may not be the best thing that can happen to someone on trial. But unless I actually know someone related to the case, I don’t have an excuse not to serve. I will not split my chest open and show my grieving heart to strangers. However, I am hoping that the attorneys during jury selection don’t make the mistake of stepping onto the landmine field that is my emotional state. If one must engage in verbal combat, I figure I could do worse than disemboweling a lawyer in public.

A week from today I truly have no idea what I will be feeling. My husband collapsed on February 19 and life support was disconnected on February 20. It's two day event. Will I be curled in the fetal position sobbing like it’s all brand new? Will I stay up through the night and drink for 48 hours? Self medication anyone? What I can say is that I am looking at it as just get me to the other side. This year has tested everything within me, and I have survived it. I have no excuse because I need none. I have earned my anger and my grief. When people ask me about my “Real Deal Steel Magnolia” moniker is about all I can actually say is this, “If you don’t know, you damned sure better ask somefuckingbody, else.”

The Battle and The War

2010-01-25T21:37:00.000-08:00

There are a lot of times these days that I walk away shaking my head. Things that confuse and confound me happen daily it seems. I think that maybe my long years of marriage or the fact that I actually believed the words “for better or worse” made me a rather sheltered soul. The illness and stress that went with it caused me to have rather a razor sharp focus in crisis. I really wasn’t capable of panic. It was life as I knew it and I soldiered on through everything. What I think I really thought was that anyone with a catastrophic illness in a marriage, did what I had to do everyday. More often than not, I did not then realize the extraordinary amount of love, honor and respect that it took for my marriage to survive the struggle. As I am reminded by people who were present and some who were not this was certainly not a marriage of convenience.

I was in that God forsaken Wal-Mart the other day just to pick up some dog food and sinus medicine. (Yeah, that’s why I was there.) Actually it was about 2am so the store was almost deserted. I went there specifically in the middle of the night to avoid the happy greeter at the front door and all those damned people that congregate there during the waking hours. Now the disadvantage is that the good sinus meds are now kept by the pharmacist and he was at home snug as a bug in bed. Therefore I was actually looking at the ingredients when I heard a discussion across the isle. A man that looked to be in his 50’s was berating his wife for losing her glasses earlier that day. He told her she was careless and ungrateful for the things he does for her. I was so very embarrassed for her. So I quietly rolled my cart away so hopefully she wouldn’t know I heard what he said. When I got to the check out they were in front of me and I saw that she was in a wheelchair. Mr. Man is a caregiver to a chronically ill spouse. As I went across the parking lot I saw him lift her in his arms and lovingly put her in the car, tucking a blanket around her legs and kissing her before he shut the door. He loves her. I thought about the argument and I thought, that’s really not about those glasses. He didn’t say “the things I buy for you” he said, “the things I do for you.” That made me wonder if she had ever truly uttered the words “Thank you” to her husband.

If you have ever been the caregiver to a chronically ill spouse or family member, you know that somewhere within you, there is a feeling of being taken for granted. I am not too proud to say, that Richard’s illness wore me down emotionally. It exhausted me fighting everyday to have another day. If the catastrophic illness is of the nature of cancer or another terminal beast, I would assume the panic and the fright would override the fight or flee instincts. I have lost family members to cancer but they were long and horrid battles that did not span my 10 years. I cannot speak to how that feels. My experience is that of a war rather than a battle. We always had to fight another minute, another hour, another day and another year. There were days I did not think I could take another step. But I did. Day after day, week after week, year after year, crisis after crisis. I never allowed myself the illusion that it would be okay or that it would ever stop. It was my life. But, I also never thought that I would lose. I am not put together to lose. The professionals actually say that in living in and learning to function under extreme stress for an extended period of time can cause Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I was on call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week for a little over 10 years. I would call that an extended period of time. I developed TMJ in my jaw and cracked the molars in my mouth from clenching my teeth during the 10 weeks in 2002 while we dealt with the failed pancreatic transplants. I know more about diabetes than anyone who isn’t a endocrinologist or a diabetic. I can actually identify the smell high blood sugar. I know that if you pass out and your vision goes black, it’s blood pressure, and if it goes white, it’s blood sugar. I informed Richard’s doctors of this phenomenon and they use it with their patients and primary caregivers now. I know the major hospital in Charlotte, NC better than the doctor’s do as I have given many an escort to a lost doctor at 3am who was a rat in the maze that couldn’t find the cheese.

I remember a lot of peanut butter sandwiches and Sunny D at 3am. I remember being scared so bad that my insides shook but holding myself steady and never letting him, my son or the people who depended on me see fear in my eyes. I remember looking into those beautiful green eyes and saying “It’s going to be okay baby” when I was certain of nothing but that whatever was coming was bigger and badder than me and that I had to stop it dead in it’s tracks. For lack of a better term, I strapped up for war everyday. I would never tell you that I did not have a sharp tongue or a short temper. I am human and flawed as a result. But I have censored myself when it was warranted and I raised hell like it was my job when the situation required a force of nature. It has effected every facet of my life and twisted my personality in such a manner that survival is just instinct. His family still relies on my calm and quick thinking when anything within the family is not right. His mother’s struggles with pancreatitis, his father’s lung cancer, his stepfather’s issues with diabetes and resulting kidney failure, my brother in laws two kids that had H1N1 last fall, and a Christmas where we were all lost. Family issues, legal issues and financial issues are brought to me. They are not gentle with me because I have always been gentle with them and had a strength that they could rely on. They love and respect me. They believe me to be of uncommon strength and unflinching vision. The mantle of matriarch has been bestowed on me by this family by love and respect, not through true kinship. But I am uneasy beneath this mantle because I am not blood related. What right do I have to have any say in the way this family runs or the decisions that it makes? Selfishly I sometimes think, if they look to me, where am I to lean? His parents, in their own way, have even told me that they understand that I must live. That I must find my way and build anew. For the first time in my life I can say that I am looking toward more than just one more day and it is overwhelming.

I have insulated myself from much of the things that go on around me but that gentleman’s words rang in my head. The times that it took everything I had to keep a civil tongue in my head echo behind it. I wondered if he had ever thought about going to talk to someone regarding his stress over the situation? Do their children help him? What must his days and nights be like? Does she understand what her illness is doing to him? All of those questions have danced in my head with the partners of my experience. Rich’s illness spanned from the ages of 31 to 41 for me. It took the bloom of my youth and left me with gray hair that I am far to vain for the world to see. It took my innocence and left me with a twisted view of the world that calculates how long battles and wars are made to last. As a result, I no longer believe in happy ever after and I am no one's damsel in distress. I am incapable of asking for help. From diagnosis to cure or death I can measure these things and never say what I know to be true. I can preach hope when I know that deaths cold breath is at your neck. It's just the cost of doing business in my psyche. In my mind’s eye, I always knew that I would lose my husband. But I thought it would be a long drawn out battle, not a swift event that leveled my life like Hiroshima ended World War II. I had no help with Richard through the years because to him and those around us, I was invincible. I would not fail because I am incapable of losing. I did not cry and I could not crack. These are the things that I wrestle with everyday now. I won every battle, but I lost the war.

Holding Hands

2010-01-22T19:04:00.000-08:00

I have written a few things in 2009 regarding how the year went in events and revelations as they have lit my cluttered psyche. I seldom breech my emotional doorway and discuss a lot of feelings about this year that has torn my life as I knew it limb from limb with no remorse for what it would do to me and those that I love. Many of these feelings I had carefully wrapped in tissue and put away into the dusty and darker corners of my mind. Not so much as one would package something to keep it from getting hurt, but so that the shards of this year might not injure my psyche anymore. I sealed them away because in truth, survival dictates it. I am not privy to a family that I can lean on for shelter so I must handle things in small doses. I keep telling myself a few more steps and this will be over. As I walk toward the date on the calendar that will mark my first year of widowhood I choose to peek in the boxes and tell you about the feelings that I have put away from me. In less than one month all of the firsts will be behind me. The pain will no longer be fresh and new and perhaps I can seal away parts of this forever.

Last January life was really good. I had a job that I chased three and a half years and I loved being there. I was in training and was shining in all the right places. I was looking at a bright future earmarked for bigger things by those who make such decisions. I was excited as I looked forward into life. When I watched the ball drop I was holding Richard’s hand.

In February, I had to stand tall and strong for a family I was not born into, in a place I earned as I did the hardest thing I have done thus far in life. I walked where angels fear to tread with grace and dignity as this family fed off my demeanor. I had to lead where I have always followed. The ground was rocky and very uneven as I made my way into uncharted territory. In my darkest hour, I held my son’s hand.

In April, I was summoned to West Virginia by a man who loves me. I drove there for the first time alone and had to have a GPS to find his house. I sat amongst family but I was alone. I asked about design and color and all those things because I was entrusted with this man‘s tribute to his son. I held his hand as he proved his trust in my strength and intelligence.

In May, I went to New York for sanctuary. I flew alone on a cool morning and arrived to see my best friend on the planet. I had never actually been in the same state never mind the same room as she. I was greeted with open arms and an open heart. I laughed in fabulous restaurants and bars with fabulous friends that I learned were family. I slept as I haven’t been able to sleep since, in peace. I cried at the World Trade Center. I tried out my widow’s legs in the city that never sleeps and I held her hand.

In July, I celebrated my birthday. I planned a party because never in my life had I ever indulged in a party for myself. I cooked and I cleaned for my friends. I celebrated with people from all walks of life who have always been around me but not each other. As I looked around myself that night before I cut the cake, I thanked them for being with me. I was surrounded by people who loved me. I watched the sunrise on my 42nd year with two very good, but very different friends and they held my hands.

In October, I had to make an appearance at the place of worship we not only attended but parented together. I went straight to my other mother and I stayed with her. I poked at food and made polite conversations. I accepted the past and looked toward the future. I let my other mother lean on me and feed from my strength because she needed me. Together we shielded our hearts from the nonsense at hand as they spoke the lies they tell themselves and I held her hand.

In December, the holidays were upon me like a black cloak. I avoided everything having to do with a celebration. I attended the family’s Christmas. I took his brothers, their wives and his grandmother to the cemetery to see his memorial. They were huddled together in the cold and I stood alone. While they opened the presents and took their pictures, I sat alone and held no ones hand.

On New Years Eve, I sat in my bedroom and read a good book. At around 11:45pm I went outside into the backyard, to see the moon. As I stood there looking at the wonder that is God’s heavens, tears rolled down my cheeks. I watched the last moments of this seemingly unforgivable, unsurvivable year bleed away. At midnight I embraced the new year and stepped forward, holding my own hand.

French Roast, Salvaged Butter Bowls and The Pruning of a Magnolia

2009-12-30T07:24:00.000-08:00

At this time of year I am doing something physically that many or most people do mentality and emotionally, I am taking inventory of my life. Without drowning you in the mire of financial manners, I am about to shrink a 1900 square foot house into about a 650 square foot apartment. As you can imagine, it is an enormous task. In doing so I am deciding, without a lot of melodrama, what parts of my past I can keep with me and what I must discard. I look through this house and see 21 years of love and work from the beautiful red lamps in the living room, to the gorgeous pictures on the wall that we picked out together so carefully, to each piece of furniture we chose and placed with love. I have to decide what I will take, what I will sell and what I will discard to the trash heap when the charities have had their fill.

I was in my kitchen this morning making the French Roast that gives me the strength to begin the day. I love my coffee and it loves me. When I pulled my coffee canister from the cabinet and the paper filter I must use, I thought about what is acceptable to me to begin my day. I buy really good coffee because it is the one indulgence that I allow myself. I can smoke a cheaper brand of smokes, eat store brand oatmeal and use whatever brand of sandwich bread that might be on sale. However, if Starbucks French Roast coffee were 20 bucks a pound, it will always be in my home. I will not deprive myself of that one thing.

As I stood in my kitchen awaiting the exlir of life to brew, I decided that I would unload and load the dishwasher because I had 15 minutes to spare. In my precaffiene stupor, I opened the wrong cabinet and was staring my "good things" in the face. My husband's paternal grandmothers china in "Platinum Ring," three really nice Ralph Lauren serving pieces I saved for and bought myself, assorted crystal and other finery that we generally save for important occasions. I looked at the things in my hands as I staggered to put the daily menagerie of mismatched things away and I began to think, "Lord God, I have to have a yard sale." I started to make a mental inventory of what I must take, my Kitchenaid Stand Mixer that Rich and my mother in law got up at 4am on Black Friday to make sure Santa delivered for Christmas of 2006, my beloved Cuisinart coffee maker that was exactly what I longed for Christmas of 2005, the stainless steel spice rack that was searched for like Waldo in a book long before they were in vogue. It is an inventory of memories of things bought for me or given to me, brand new or antique and things that I saved and coveted until I brought them home. It was then that it struck me, "What am I waiting for?"

How do we determine who eats off "the good china" and who gets the mismatched corelle? Does it have to be a holiday for our families to deserve our best? Why is it that someone's boss, your pastor or stranger who comes to talk about children or the community watch rates the good stuff and someone we love can eat their fruit loops out of a salvaged butter bowl and we think it's fantastic? If someone comes to my home and I break out a bottle of wine, the glasses must match and be beautiful, yet I can sit in the bathtub drinking it out of a mason jar? What makes me less than them? What makes the people we love less than a guest in our homes? Yet we would stand in the street and swear that there is no one more important in the world than our families and those we cohabitate with daily. We will however, stand in the house at 3am, yelling at the top of our lungs "I don't give a damn what you thought when you got your milk, but if you break that glass, I will break your arm!" and in the bright light of day never say we are sorry. But a stranger can drop the same glass on the ceramic tile floor shattering both and we pull out our best manners to inform them that everything is fine? We give our mismatched emotions, cast off remarks and salvaged time rather than the best we have to offer within us to the people we love the most? Just who is it that we are waiting to give our best to that is more important than them?

It was at that moment that I decided that I will take the best of everything from my home to the new apartment. I will use the china and the crystal. I built this collection with my heart and it is my heart I need to take with me. I will sip Diet Coke from rock crystal tumblers with platinum rings. If you come to my home, you will get your coffee out of the mug off the mug tree instead of something I got for free. Because no stranger is more important than the people that I love. I will make an effort to say "Please" and "Excuse me" to my familiars. My sainted grandmother used to say that good manners are more important with the people love than with strangers. Common human kindness and courtesy go further with your mate, your children, your in-laws and your friends than they ever will with strangers. The stranger will forget you in a moment, but the "Thank you's" and "I'm Sorry's" will echo in your family and friends hearts for a lifetime. "Love means never having to say I'm sorry?" I call bullshit. "I was wrong" should be easier to taste in my mouth when it is seasoned with love.

So as I inventory and pack up my life in the coming weeks, I will take my best of my things with me. I am also taking stock of what is the best of me. I will use them with joy and try to package them in humility that is befitting my station in life. I will give away the mismatched pieces and offhanded disregard that I show the people I love. In the end, I will come out a better person. I have no illusions, this is going to hurt and hurt bad all the way around. In the south we learn that to produce the famous Magnolia you must cut the branches back to the trunk for it to reach its most beautiful and majestic heights. To keep it from spreading and dying from the outside in, it must be pruned in winter for it to survive without horrible scars and disfigurement. In this wintery season of my life, it is best that the cuts be deep but sure so that I can reach toward the sky in the coming spring season. But, I will be better for them and I will be better to me. When the people from my old life look at me and think "How sad, she is so much less than she used to be" they will be wrong. When you come looking for me, I may be unrecognizable to the uneducated while these cold winds blow. But, I'll be the one in the bathtub with the expensive wineglass and the cheap wine. Come Spring, the Real Deal Steel Magnolia will bloom again.

Ahhh Christmas of 2009

2009-12-25T16:43:00.000-08:00

Ahhhh Christmas of 2009, this year has been mostly a piece of shit that I have been whacked with time and time again. I have shed many tears and thrown many pieces of glass and pottery. But I will not rehash these tonight. Tonight I will look at the good things in my life and all that I am thankful for as of today. I will mention many people and they will be concealed from others but not from themselves.

First, my son is the light of my life. He is my heart, up walking about on legs. This year has been a bitch, not only for me but for him. My baby turned into a man before my eyes and I must say that I have done a good job. You raise your children the best you can but who they become is up to them in the end. Teach them to be good people, but you must lead by example. I have always held my head high and been humble in the face of adversity. I see these qualities in him. He is strong and quiet, slow to anger and quick to forgive. He puts others before himself, he supports his friends, he is loyal and loving to those of us lucky enough to be loved by him. He is quick to smile and always shines the brightest wherever he may be at the moment. The best thing that I can say about him is that he is man enough to cry. He has his father’s temper and my brother’s laughter. There is no one on this planet that will ever rival him for my affections.

Second, my Bestie in New York. God granted me a sister and she is precious to me. She gives me center when I am untethered and laughter when I am in tears. Throughout our relationship and the thousands upon thousands of emails, texts, and phone calls we have forged a friendship out of words. In February, she gave me strength. In May, she gave me sanctuary. But everyday she gives me her undying love and support. She believes in me when I don’t and she fights for me when I can’t. If there is a truer definition of sister than she, I am unaware of the dictionary.

Third, my friends that live around me. I can count you on one hand, but there is no more room than the space you fill in my heart. From making me get out of the house to helping me celebrate my birthday, you have filled me with good food, alcoholic beverages and laughter. From my dearest Pink pal who took me as his plus one to the “Rednecked Wedding from Hell” and made me laugh all night to my girlfriend here who has let me lay my head on her and not said a word when I could not speak to my very own piece of Candy that emails or texts me everyday just to say “hi” so that I know I am not forgotten. My very own Hotline that twirls when I am offended and offers to shed blood when the first tear falls. You hold me together when I am falling apart. Your kindness and generosity of sprit are things that hold me together everyday. You understand when I need to talk and you understand when I cannot.

Forth, my boys, and you know who you are. The hugs, kisses and “how are yous” are priceless to me. You let me in your lives and call me “Mama” not because you know that there is room in my heart for you but because you have made room for me. You carry heavy things, take out my trash, and allow me to love you. I am lucky to be able to call you mine. You always come to see me on the holidays and my birthday you all made a special effort to be with me. You let me feed you and fuss over you.

Lastly but certainly not least are my friends who live far away but touch my life and heart. When it’s raining the hardest, you find a way to make me smile. Emails, Twitters, texts, Facebook and MySpace provide me with many hours of comfort. I can always reach out to someone and that means I am never truly alone.

These are the people I am thankful for as I put no stock in things anymore. They are nice but provide cold comfort on a stormy night in this house alone. There are many things that I have lost but the people who are gone are what has brought me to my knees. You help me see everyday that even if it’s just for an hour I need to believe in me.

I love you all. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.

Ambienese, Sister Bertha Betterthanyou, and a Straight Tact line.

2009-12-13T01:13:00.000-08:00

I was having a casual conversation with a friend the other day that became rather serious without meaning to. Those are usually the best and when, in grief, you get the most done. We ended up discussing what life has been like since Richard passed away. We talked about financial and family issues. I told him it was like a nuclear explosion had scattered people to the four winds in my life. I made the remark, "It's like they think it's contagious." Jokingly he said "Maybe it is" in a desperate attempt to make me smile through my tears. He then advised that perhaps they were afraid that they would say something wrong and upset me without malice. He basically was trying to make it seem not so bad. That maybe they would come back when they got some distance on Richard's death. But, I am not the kind of person who believes in fair weather friends. If you're not here when it's really bad, don't darken my door when it's really good. If I have learned anything in the aftermath of this, it's to be humble in the face of adversity in other people's lives. I will do anything anyone needs when there is trouble. I'm the one who will help your oblivious daughter with her homework, press your son's shirt for the dance, load the dishwasher, or clean your commode when you're at the hospital with a family member or in bed with the flu. I remember and appreciate each kindness and will repay them in due time.

After our conversation, I mulled it over and accepted that people generally do what makes them comfortable in any given situation regardless of what needs to be done. Case in point are the dreaded "Church People." They would have you believe that everything they do is rooted in "good Christian behavior." The good book says that we are to take care of the orphans and widows. However, the people who adhere to this most tightly aren't the ones that are thumping their bibles and saying "Amen" while looking down at the sea of humanity that surrounds them daily. They are the friends around me that I consider family. They have the tattoos, the strange clothes, the piercings, and the alternative lifestyles that the "church people" wont associate with in public. However, they never fail to call, text or email when I need it most. They ask and actually care how my son and I are doing in this particular season in hell. They offer a sofa when I need to run away for a couple of days to escape my grief. They have a strong shoulder as well as a cold adult beverage and pharmaceutical relief when and if I need any or all of the above. They invite me out to events they enjoy, including pudding wrestling at a lesbian irish pub. They take me as their plus one to the "Redneck Ghetto Wedding from Hell" because they know it will make me laugh. They text me in the Ambienese language when they know I can't sleep and they have already taken a pill. You know who you are and I love you so.

However, today I got a strange phone call that turned my frown into an outright belly laugh. The person who called me had not been in contact since the day of Richard's funeral. She had to have done a little research because my phone number is now private and unless you ask my father in law the pastor, you won't get it from anyone but me. Nevertheless, Sister Bertha Betterthanyou rang my phone today. I call her that because she is so saved that she doesn't need a bath most days. So Sister Bertha first asked the Christian questions, "How are you?" "Are you in church?" "What are you doing for the holidays?" with the obligatory invitation to her place of worship for the Christmas Cantata. Then there was a loud screech as the conversation took a sharp left hand turn into weirdness.

She lowered her voice to almost a whisper as good folk do and said, "Are you seeing anyone?" I believe in that moment that my mandible disengaged and literally hit the floor in true cartoon fashion. She further inquired as to the state of my personal life and did I have any men in mind to "set my cap" toward. While my eyes were doing that Roger Rabbit kind of expulsion from my head, Sister Bertha went on to inform me that she was "sure that all the ladies of the church would have a tight grip on their men folk because I was back on the market." Had I been hit with a baseball bat across the shins by Oompa Loompas running from behind the refrigerator, I would not have been more stunned. It was at that point that I realized that I must have missed the chapter in the Widow's Handbook regarding this subject. She went on and on (never noticing that I was not responding because the entire world revolves around her) about since I was an attractive well-kept woman with such presence and had been such a good wife to Richard, that I surely could have my pick of any number of "Godly Men." It was at this point that I said to myself, "Holy Mother of God, these broads think I am going to slap on some ho-gear and head to the house of God to hunt me a man!" I burst out laughing at which point there was silence on the other end of the line. I then gathered myself and said in my sweetest tone, dripping sarcasm you can bet, "The ladies of the church can relax that death grip and let those men breathe because I am most assuredly am not back on the market." It was at that point that she offered me the services of her brother in law to escort me to any functions that I might want to attend. We shall call him Mr. Notso Wonderful. This fine specimen is of course twice divorced with 4 children by 3 different church ladies. (None of which are the 2 he married.) Mr. Wonderful has never, to my knowledge, held a job in the 15 years that I have been acquainted with him. She also bragged that he has been out of rehab for about three months and she believes the "Lord has delivered him from the demons of addiction this time." Unfortunately he had to have his entire nasal and sinus cavity reconstructed since he snorts anything white and powdery including any residual flour left on the top of his biscuits. I almost had to gnaw my tongue off to keep from saying "Oh, Be still my heart." In my best southern manners I thanked her for the offer as well as declining her bid to pass my phone number on to Mr. Wonderful. With that I wished her a happy holiday season and thanked her for her call. I somehow think that Mr. Notso Wonderful may ring my phone as early as tomorrow. ~Note to self, answer no unidentifiable numbers for the rest of my life.~

The more I thought about the ridiculousness of the situation, the funnier it became to me. How insecure must these "Godly women" be about their men?? When I started dating, my sainted Granny gave me some wisdom. I am what is known as a "full service female." I cook, clean, do laundry, iron, listen, cheer lead, and make a mans home his soft place to land. I can in fact, shave him, trim his sideburns and any related facial hair, as well as square up his neckline between haircuts. I will check his collar when he wears a tie and straighten his "tact line" as my Daddy calls it. There are various other techniques that I employ but this is neither the forum nor the discussion for that subject. But trust me, it's got nothing to do with church. She told me that if I did these things well, my man would look no further for anything if he truly loved me. This is how I have operated my entire life. I never worried about Richard cheating. The man actually called me one night from Atlanta to tell me that the girl who had asked him for $5 about an hour ago had just walked into the men's room to relieve herself standing up at a urinal beside him. Perhaps this is why I don't understand the insecurity of the females is this comedy of errors. I am not now, nor have I ever been insecure regarding a man. If you can take him, congratulations, he's yours!

For the record, I have no idea when I might actually be "back on the market." I have to learn to stand on my own before I can stand with someone else again. I admit that I do get lonely and wish for a strong set of arms to hold me. I also freely admit that I would like those arms to reach up and get the stuff off the high shelves that I can't reach. But trust me ladies, I don't want your man or your insecurities. I actually pity you because that must be a miserable way to live. When I'm ready, I want my man.

The melody of my life

2009-11-11T02:15:00.000-08:00

All of my life, from the time my feet hit the floor in the mornings until I pillow my head at night, I hear music. My paternal Grandmother loved to tell the story that I was humming the theme songs to her "programs" (meaning television shows I suppose) from my crib, long before I ever uttered a single word. For that matter, I didn't actually talk very much until I went to kindergarten but I was forever singing they tell me. My father would be quick to interject here, "It wasn't that Sis couldn't talk, she just didn't have much to say to anybody." Because my brother was almost four years older than I, when he went to school, Mom turned on the radio to entertain me while she did her "outside chores." She performed in a little singing group with her sister and an older lady named Miss Bess (This lady was old when God himself was a boy, or as long as I ever knew her to say the least) that performed for church crowds of about 50 people. One afternoon, the ladies were rehearsing in our living room when Miss Bess discovered that I was singing with them whilst I sat in the floor between her feet. They got me to sing and off we went. I was wearing ruffled dresses and tiny black patent Mary Jane's about the age of three. Music has been an integral part of my life since I have had a memory.

Like most musical people, I hold a couple of songs in my head at any given time that are sort of the soundtrack for my daily life. (I am now going to need you to stop picturing that show in your head, I am not now nor have I ever been singing and dancing to Barry White in a unisex bathroom.) I have always found my joy, my solace, the words to express my pain, the unexplainable spark of my life, in the lyrics of songs. The prolific writes like Don Henley, Glen Frey, the late Dan Fogelberg, James Taylor, these are the people who have captured my feelings. The first album I ever owned was "Hotel California" from the Eagles and my brother bought it for me. It remains my favorite head and shoulders above the rest. I can tell you that I have never since been without a copy in my possession since he gave it to me. I've probably been through 20 copies and I will buy 20 more if I need them. It was Dan Fogelberg who bound up my broken heart and calmed my disbelief when my best friend Eric was killed in a car accident when I was 18. "In the nexus" gently told me that we all live and we all die. It's a natural part of life. James Taylor became the poet laureate of my life while I was in college. My brother would sing "In my mind I'm gone to Carolina..." when he called me to tell me he was on the way from Tennessee to visit me for the last 10 years of his life. These are the words that are tattooed on my souls skin to serve as guideposts to where I have been in my life.

A few nights ago I was listening to Whitney Houston's new CD. There are two songs on that album that spoke to me in a way I haven't heard in a long time. The first one is called "I look to you." There is a lyric that says "and when melodies are gone, in you I hear a song." It was like I had been hit with a hammer. I have not, to my knowledge, sang, even in the shower, since Richard's death. It broke my heart because I realized I have lost my song, my melody. When I looked inside myself, to listen to that part of me that always had given rise to my mornings and lulled me to sleep, it is silent. Not a whisper. Without a melody I am lost as surely as if I had wandered out into the desert in the pitch black of night. I turned off the music and began to cry. Not those beautiful tears in the movies, those mind wracking sobs that have your heart in your ears. I curled up in a fetal position where I thought that God would be merciful and let me find some peace in sleep. I was completely devastated to say the least. Even more so when I discovered there would be no rest for the weary or peace for me that night. As I lay in the dark, confused and alone, I decided to get up and try again. I put the CD back on and found a second song and a revelation. The title of the song is "I didn't know my own strength" but the line is "I was not built break" that spoke to me. It carried me back in time 7 years.

In the fall of 2002, I was having the worst 4 months of my life, at least up until that time. Rich had been very sick with the two failed pancreatic transplants. In the last week of October, I was taking him back to the wound specialist for the 20 inch incision open on his abdomen due to infection that I was charged with packing, wet to dry twice a day everyday. Then we had an appointment with the infectious disease guy who was handling the baseball bat antibiotics that I was having to administer three times per day through the pic line in his left arm due to him being immunosuppressed and surviving intestinal leakage into his abdominal cavity. I had spent my first night in an actual bed since July 23 when at 4am this particular morning, October 25, I heard a strange noise which was to be my alarm clock for this day in the minefield, the hot water heater in the kitchen burst sending 6 inches of water through the kitchen for me to clean up. At 9:25 that morning, while taking Rich to his doctors appointments. my cellphone rang. It was my brother telling me that my father had fallen victim to four strokes that morning. I suppose I should tell you that until this particular day in 2002, my father had never spent the night in the hospital, he wasn't even born in a hospital. To say that my nerves were frayed before the phone call is a gross understatement. I was in pieces after the call and Rich couldn't drive. My menfolk were worried about my emotional state. John had not allowed Richard to tell me that my father did not know anyone. Even when I walked into the hospital after a three hour drive that should have taken four, I had no idea of the severity of his condition. They flanked me like body guards when I rushed into the room to see my father and sat down on his bed. I didn't have a clue that he wasn't supposed to know me when I lay my hand on his forehead and said "Daddy." It was a true act of God that he opened his eyes and said "Well Sis, what are you doing here and where is the baby?" I was the first person he had recognized since the attack. There was a collective sigh in the room and Daddy said "What's wrong with yawl? If you thought this would break my babygirl, you don't know her at all. She's made out of stronger stuff than that." My family went home to rest, my husband went to his brother's home to rest and my in-laws left, but I stayed. I never left his side until he was out of danger and on his way to rehab. I handled Rich's wound and antibiotics in the hospital with the help of an excellent nursing staff providing me a sterile room twice a day. I had enough faith for all of us. They all depended on me and I handled it all. Little did I know that less than eight months I would bury my beloved brother from a suicide in my backyard. I certainly never thought I would be standing at my husbands headstone in a little less than seven years at 41 years of age. But I was truly not built to break.

So when daylight came. I turned off the television and retreated into my music. I cried while I went about my business, an absolute force of will to make myself move and get things done. Somewhere between the laundry and cleaning the bathtub, quietly at first, a lyric here and a chorus there, a whisper at most, I began to sing. I found familiar range and unflinching sureness of words on "Wasted Time" from Hotel California with Don Henley at the wheel. I found a song. I found a melody.

I grieve for Richard without a doubt, I grieve my security, I grieve what my life was supposed to have been and who I used to be. But I will not grieve my soul. I will not die here in this blackness. I am a real survivor. I make no excuses for who I am nor am I ashamed of what I have suffered in this life to forge the steel that is my back bone. I may be crawling with bleeding hands and bruised knees, but inch by inch, I'm moving forward. I may not be singing at this moment, I may not even be humming. But, it's in there. I can still hear it. I will not let this beat me. I will know the measure of my own strength.

Laughter, hard heads and a good pair of sunglasses

2009-11-03T19:31:00.000-08:00

The last week or so has been a real learning experience for me. There have been some fantastic highs and some horrendous lows, but I am still here. I have chosen to see it all as a course I really didn't want to audit in college and these are my notes.

First, I'm learning to let go of things. All i can control is me and my actions. Sometimes it's not the problem but how one reacts to it that determines the amount of havoc it wreaks in your life. Just like they told us in science class, "Every action has an equal and an opposite reaction." For instance, the man from the Utility company knocked on my door last week to inform me that my meter was reading that I used 33,000 gallons of water in the month of October. He must have thought I was going to fly off the handle because when I opened the door he looked like he was expecting Satan and evidently his boots were really interesting since he was staring at them when he gave me the news. (My normal usage is about 4,ooo gallons. Just so we understand the magnitude of this issue, an in ground pool uses between 22,000 and 27,ooo. I do not now, nor have I ever had a pool. This means the water bill would be somewhere in the range of $130 rather than the normal $16.) The absurdity of the situation actually made me laugh. Because I laughed, he laughed. When we investigated, we discovered that one of my outside spigots had cracked and was leaking. The nice man wrote me a ticket about the leak and I called a friend who's husband is somewhat of a handyman. The replacement came from a home store and cost all of $6. My friends came over and replaced it in about 20 minutes. When I took the paperwork to the offices, we cut a nice deal for me to pay half the bill. They even spread it out over 4 months to make it even easier. Had Satan answered the door as expected, I wouldn't have known about the leak and I would have had to pay the entire bill. All I could control in this situation was my reaction to the issue. When I controlled me, the rest of it handled itself. Just like Granny always said "Don't write a check with your mouth that your ass can't cash."

Second, I am learning who I am and where I want to go in life. All I really need is the love of my son, a job I enjoy and to be happy. I am looking forward to a lot of things including probably going back to school. I want to use the things I know and what i have been through for a good purpose. I don't want it all to have been in vain. So I am looking into beginning my studies after the first of the year. As far as my son goes, the best thing I can do for him is to be a good example. He needs to see me rise from these ashes a better and stronger person. The other thing I have to do is let him make a mistake or two on his own. If I don't let him fall, he will never learn to get up. As hard as it will be for me to do, I have to let him grow up and be the man he is meant to be. He knows how much I love him, but I have to love him enough to let him go. It will be quite an adjustment for both of us but it will make us stronger. We have been through hell, shoulder to shoulder, and now we need to stand, each of us, alone. Being happy is another matter. All I can say is that I have really good people around me who want to see me happy. These people call, email, text or come over just when I need them most. Because I was blinded in my grief, I couldn't see what was going on around me at times. They pushed me to cut every bit of drama, stress and negativity away from me that I could find in my life. I was hard headed about clinging to some people that were bad for me and I had to see them for myself. But walking away from all of it was the best decision I could have ever made. I am a lucky girl to have real friends who love me. Granny used to tell me when I wasn't seeing what she wanted me to, or I wouldn't heed her warnings "A hard head makes for a soft ass."

Third, I'm learning to not rip open my wounds and bleed for just anybody about anything. I'm growing a little tougher skin these days. I don't wear my heart on my sleeve and anyone who actually knows me knows this is true. Everybody talks about somebody, and I suppose if they're talking about me, they're giving someone else a rest. I just stick on a pair rockstar sunglasses and keep it moving. Like Granny always said "It's not what people call you, it's what you answer to."

How do you like your eggs?

2009-10-21T01:06:00.000-07:00

Today I was making my grocery list and literally had to go to the kitchen to remember what I thought we might need. I glanced into the refrigerator and was making notes of the “he needs milk” style when I saw the egg carton and a scene from a movie played out in my mind. Julia Robert’s has a movie called “The Runaway Bride” that involves her running out of the church on 3 separate occasions. The story arc hits it’s high point when Richard Gere asks her “How do you like your eggs?” Through flashbacks we see that she eats her eggs however the man in her life eats his eggs. With one they’re scrambled, another they’re poached and a third they’re over easy. She transforms herself into the perfect mate for a man and looses herself. Thus, she runs away before saying the big “I do’s.” She literally leaves and finds out who she is by the end of the movie and they live happily ever after. Good movie, but I digress, this is not the point of this post.

I began to notice how many things I do “because Richard liked it that way” in my normal everyday life. Now after more than 20 years together, a certain amount of assimilation is to be expected. But, as I look back, it seems I was over taken by the damned Borg. As I made the list and wrote bacon, I automatically wrote sausage. Neither my son nor I eat sausage unless its Italian sausage in Lasagna. So I crossed it off the list. Neither my son nor myself eat canned vegetables, we are carnivores. God help me, the Jolly Green Giant is crying in the corner because I marked off those as well. I had Sunny D on the list because of Richard going into insulin shock. We hate it as well. Ciao. I had a particular brand of bathroom cleaner on the list that I have to work twice as hard to get the tubs clean because he hated the smell. My elbow says for me to buy something that could peel paint if it saves me work.

The biggest question of the day today was “Just who in the hell am I?“ So I began a study on myself of things I do or wear or eat or watch simply because “Richard liked it that way.” For example, I sleep on the left side of the bed because he was closer to the bathroom and it saved broken toes because he was a klutz. I have since moved to the middle. No top sheet on the bed because it made him cold. Guess what, they’re both on the bed and they’re black. He said dark sheets looked like you were sleeping in a whorehouse.

These are the results of my study so far. I sleep under my good comforter because I am responsible and won’t destroy it. When I make my bed I have more than 30 pillows that go on it, and I like it that way. I watch TV in my bedroom rather than the living room because it’s more comfortable. I watch what I want when I want because technology makes it easy to do these days. I wear a t-shirt that says “Heartless Bitch” in public and my rock star sunglasses indoors. I am not prone to holding my acid tongue if asked about either one in public. Young or old, if you have the nerve to ask, I have the nerve to answer. I have specific drawers for each kind of underwear and there are five separate drawers. My t-shirts are folded rather than rolled. I feel better in 5 inch heels than in tennis shoes. I take bubble baths rather than showers most of the time. I put bath oil in my bathtub without worrying that someone’s going to fall if I don’t clean it when I get out. If I fall, it's my fault. I sit on my bed rather than in the floor to put my lotion on and then get straight into the sheets without worrying about stains. I think that the right shade of red lipstick can turn that frown upside down and that every female on the planet has the right to find hers if it takes 500 tubes. I know that good make-up will hide a multitude of sins and less is not always more but if you can‘t put it on, leave it alone. I believe in the power of the little black dress, dark hose and platform shoes. I think that a woman in pearls settled, get the diamonds baby girl or at least look like you did. Three quarters of my wardrobe is black and has been for more than 15 years. No I don’t need color unless I say I want color. I am not really friendly with strange people and as a rule I generally do not like children under the age of 12 nor old people that act like they are privileged because they lived this long. Both types often tend to be needy and they usually smell in my opinion. This does not make me a horrible human being, just an honest one. I do not eat food that I do not like or cannot identify. If it's slimy, it's really not for me. No I don’t want to try it because I don’t like the way it looks or smells. I am a slave to good French roast coffee with a touch of sugar and I tend to like a strong, cold adult beverage. I do not drink sweet tea nor do I eat grits, and yes I am a true southerner. I do know what moonshine looks as well as tastes like. I prefer either text or email, I hate to talk on the phone for the most part. These are the things I can state with absolute certainty.

I find it amazing that I have to ask myself what I like or want. So many things that define me as an individual have been stripped away that I am in danger of loosing them forever. I have to find my way, my voice, my truth in this place. I know some things but not enough to say that I know myself well. Maybe I won’t fit where I used to fit because I am not who I used to be. But, it’s for me to find out rather than someone else to tell me.

And just for the record, I prefer my eggs over medium with some light brown toast please.

Church folk, Elephants and Hot Sauce

2009-10-20T10:59:00.000-07:00

To say I am scattered these days would be a gross understatement, at this time I can say that dealing with issues is not a job, it’s an adventure. Things that would be annoyances in the normal world become the shock and awe of “Widow’s World.” Everything is magnified because there is no strong arms to wrap around yourself and a steady voice to say that everything will be okay.

First was that I was summoned to my father in laws church, which was Richard and my church, for “Homecoming” festivities. For those not familiar with the concept, it is the anniversary of the first Sunday service in a church after it is chartered. Lots of food, family, etc. Now, the reason I was summoned was that they were to honor my husband since he was a deacon and the two of
us are charter members of the church.

I did not sleep all of Saturday night, so I started the glam process early. Took my time, drank my coffee and smoked the dreaded cigarettes as I painted my face to look my absolute best. Because I had not set my foot on the property since the day of the funeral, I was actually psyching myself up in order to go to the church. In truth I would have rather been dragged to the backyard and have been beaten about the face and head until comatose. But, I put on my armor and strode into battle. I say battle because these are the most inconsistent, undependable and fake people in the entire planet. I politely declined their insistence's that I sing at the Christmas Cantata and return to weekly services. I smiled, took their hugs and squeezes, their pats and polite conversation about weight loss and my nasal piercing. Small talk for the small minded. I watched their whispers and tortured food I had no intention of eating. Then I was making my polite escape when I was cornered by someone who was supposedly Rich’s best friend. When he pressed me to return that “my Church Family” was concerned, I reminded him that I had heard from no one, including him since Wednesday after the funeral. That if concern was what they were showing. I had no need of it at this time. He said they thought I had “moved away from the Lord.” I simply replied “I have not moved away from the Lord. But the Church Family moved away from me.” At that point, rather than engage him in a debate of excuses, I politely said my goodbyes and came home. I was exhausted and was trying to sleep when the phone started ringing. Like Granny always said. “A hit dog will holler.” I declined to answer the phone as I am unconcerned with anything they have to say at this point in my life. Please understand this is not an indictment of the church in general or religion of any kind. This is an indictment of these particular people.

Then last night, when I had finally relaxed enough to lay down, vandals threw a concrete brick through my living room window. My son was gone to dinner with his girlfriend and I was alone. They left their food on the table and ran to me. There was no white knight to come and protect or save me. I had to deal with the police and everything else alone. The officer, a tiny, little, and perhaps the whitest dude I have ever seen actually ask me with a straight face, if I was “beefing with anyone in the neighborhood??’ I looked at him and laughed as I said “Little too much TV there officer? I have never had an issue with anyone in the entire neighborhood.” I am not ashamed to say I came out of my bedroom with my gun and was prepared to use it. The brick sounded like a shotgun blast and I was petrified. I went into business mode and handled, along with my son and his girlfriend, putting cardboard over the window. I put the business card with the police report number on the refrigerator and the gun upstairs in a calm, cool and collected manner. But when I laid back down, I cried myself to sleep holding onto a pillow instead of my late husband. I truly felt alone. He’s really not coming back to save me it seems.

I often go back to my Grandmother in situations like these. When all of my problems and the weight of the world is resting on my shoulders, I see her soft brown eyes and hear her say … “’Buni, do you know how to eat an elephant? One bite at a time baby, just one bite at a time.” She was the calmest and best of all souls I have ever known. She raised five children in the depression alone and no one went hungry because she took in laundry she did by hand for one dollar a day. She never owned a home or drove a car. But out of all the influences in my life, hers is the strongest within me. Her strength was a amazing and her grace was a thing of beauty. My father’s side of the family gave me roots driven deep into the bedrock of the south. My beloved Grandmother was my Mother’s side and she gave me wings. She taught me the meaning of the word Lady. In good times and in bad she held her piece of this world with dignity. She left this world January 18, 1986 after a hard struggle with Bone Cancer that was metastasized Breast Cancer. God was merciful and it only lasted 6 weeks actually. She was the first close death I ever experienced. Today, October 19 is her 100th birthday. I hope Granny, as I wander through this “Widow’s World” that I honor you. I am eating this elephant one bite at a time, but I’m just using a little hot sauce to do it.

Nonsensical thinking of Insurance Companies and Drug Companies

2009-10-15T14:15:00.000-07:00

When my husband first began experiencing the catastrophic complications related to Type 1 Juvenile Diabetes, I of course began to panic. The costs of the best care were astronomical. In those 11 years I saw statements (not bills) that were larger than mortgages on 5000 sq ft houses. Some things really stick out in my mind but only one was related to the insurance industry. There were lapses in things with the hospital, stupid human mistakes that I caught because I lived at the hospital when he was sick.

When Rich's kidney's failed, we had an excellent, older nephrologist who admitted him to the hospital as an Emergency. He read the policy closely and understood what it would take to make the system work. The emergency meant that we paid $100 and everything associated with the situation would be paid at 100%. That included Paratenial Dialysis which is the best but not, at that time, the standard of care in the industry. Hemodialysis was the standard but would have made it impossible for him to keep his job, which had the insurance. he knew how to guide us through the system and protect us, making the insurance company do what they were supposed to do.

We waited 25 months for a pancreatic transplant and received one in July of 2002. We lost it 8 days later and he nearly died from intestinal leakage into his abdominal cavity. Then in September of 2002 we received a second pancreatic transplant, we lost it the first week of October on Richard's birthday. It encapsulated and they told me we would know in 72 hours if he would live. He was a immunosuppressed man who went septic. The pancreatic transplant is the only medically known and accepted cure for diabetes, thus the only thing that would stop the train.

The cost of the pancreatic transplants was astronomical. The "cost of procurement of the organ" for the first pancreas was $33,000.00 and the second was $28,000. What a family gave at the most horrific time in their life out of the goodness of the heart, the health care industry charged this much just to get. I understand the doctors and the helicopters etc. But the price to get it was patently ridiculous. Between the dialysis, kidney transplant and pancreatic transplants, the costs was over 2 million dollars.

Richard's kidney surgeon was doing research at that time on "pancreatic isolitte cells" to cure diabetes. Its complicated, but involves cells and a biopsy needle. He was a perfect candidate and was so excited about the procedure. Then the right wing, the drug companies and the insurance companies started pressuring the government regarding stem cell research being inhumane. The news came down that the insurance company decided it was "experimental" and would not pay for the expense. Since it was a study, the procedure was free. He was already on anti rejection drugs for maintenance of the transplanted kidney. The cost of this program compared to the "standard of care" a brittle diabetic in end stage renal failure was minuscule. We will never know if it would have worked for Richard, and we will absolutely know they will not cure diabetes in his lifetime at this point.

All together, though all of the bills have not come in from the entirety of Richard's illness. At last count it was around 5 million dollars. His work changed their insurance 3 different times to keep him from "topping out" the lifetime maximum. The health care industry is filled with doctors, nurses and staff that spend their days trying to save lives. Between the malpractice insurance, health care insurance and drug companies, they set the "standard of care" in the United States. Now, I don't pretend to know the answer to all of the questions regarding health care reform. But there are a few things I know about a chronically ill human being. We were dependant on drugs to keep him alive that cost in the neighborhood of $4500 a month for almost 10 years, or $520,000. I know that his hemodialysis for the last 10 months of his life cost in the neighborhood of $180,000 just for the sessions. There were shots that they gave him on and off that cost $5000 a piece that are also used on chemo patients. Just for transport it cost well over $25,000 for ambulances and med-flights. What I don't know is where the money is going. I don't know why there hasn't been a baby born in my hometown in over 20 years because there are no OBGYN's there due to malpractice insurance premiums making it impossible. I don't understand why the hospital in my hometown has been driven out of business for the same reason and my father has to be flown in a helicopter when he has a stroke or a heart attack.

I don't think the current Health care reform package is going to fix this issue. I don't think that socialized medicine is the answer. I don't think that health care should be run by the government as they are the people who paid $1200 for a toilet seat. I think someone needs to get the insurance companies in check. I am a simple widow woman without the answer to these questions. But an open intelligent conversation needs to start and it needs to start now.

Happy Birthday KoolAid

2009-10-06T12:27:00.000-07:00

This week is just sucking. Richard's birthday is Friday and I am filled with dread and foreboding. I really don't want to deal with it. Actually, I know what's wrong. I know that outside of this house and his parents, no one will remember it's his birthday. The man who touched so many lives is all but forgotten by the outside world. So today, I remember Richard and truly introduce you to him.

So, we were actually a simple kinda couple. For our 20th wedding anniversary last year, we both got off work early, and went to our favorite restaurant, The Waffle House for an early dinner. Yep, big plans. We were so young when we got married, I was 20 and he was 21, that everyone gave us less than a year. While we were at dinner we were laughing at them, "take that you bastards, we made it" kinda thing. We reflected over what we had been though and where we were in life over his BLT and my omelet. We shared a single waffle as we always did with sugar free syrup and lots of butter. We celebrated our anniversary and our birthdays with a waffle, just the two of us.

Now, just because we were a simple couple did not mean he did not show me his love in grandiose ways. Early that morning he had me 2 dozen white roses delivered to my office with the simple card that said "I love you Hunibuni, KoolAid." The people in the office were in awe of this simple and elegant arrangement. Lots of compliments as to their beauty and how unusual it was to see them alone in an arrangement. They were a symbol to him because our first anniversary he brought me a single, wilted, red rose he paid .50 for at the gas station because it was all he could afford. His arrangement for big number 20 was sight more than that and took my breath away. Very elegant and classy. The way he thought of me. It was a quiet yet decadent expression, which is the way he loved me. There was nothing too good for me in any facet of my life from my purse to my car. I was to have the best if it killed him. His love was like the best cup of coffee in the morning. Rich and warm but with a bitter edge if you don't give it a tad of sugar. ;-)

Richard was a quiet man of few words. He was a gorgeous man if I do say so myself, dark hair, goatee and sparkling money green eyes. He was quick with a smile and laughed from his very soul. He was a hard man. Everything had to make sense and be fair. He loved his son hard. All he ever wanted was to take care of us. He was a man of faith, a deacon in the church. He loved his truck (KoolAid), the Dallas Cowboys, West Virginia Mountaineers, The Tennessee Volunteers, motorcycles, guns, his mom and dad, his niece and nephews, and his work. He believed in the good in people and the strength of the human heart. If you didn't know him well you had no idea that he had been fighting for his life for well over 10 years. He never complained or said anything about his illness. He would fight to the death over my son or me and had a legendary temper. Richard was a man who could and did fix anything that was broken. He believed in the power of duct tape. The entire family kept things back for him to fix when we visited their homes. He loved Christmas. He had the heart of a lion and never gave up. But most of all, my beloved husband would do anything to make me laugh. I have a picture of him in his mom's kitchen last year for our nieces birthday party. He and I were alone and he put on little mermaid plastic tiara and smiled at me while I took a picture with my cellphone. It was that smile that was reserved just for me. It is one of the most precious things I own and it always lifts my heart even now.

I didn't realize how many people knew, respected and loved my husband until he died. There were over 600 people who came through the funeral home the night of his wake. He worked at the same job for 16 years. He ran 4 divisions for them and I received flowers at my home from their headquarters in Germany. The day of his funeral, his divisions and the offices went black. Even the President of the North American Division of his company came. Business owners that he used as vendors here in Charlotte came to pay their respects to him and to me. All of them could only say what a good man he was and how much they had heard about my son and me. How much he loved us and that we were all he ever talked about besides business. My old boss closed the doors to his company and the entire staff was at my husband's funeral. In his 20 years in business he had never shut his doors on a Monday, or any day for that matter. He had 19 standing sprays, 24 basket arrangements and they brought me 14 house plants. I was in awe of my husband.

There were 3 pastors who spoke the at his funeral. I asked them to preach Rich's life and not his death. The first was his friend from high school who told of his young life and their exploits. They were always racing home after work at night and his last comment was that Richard had beat him home again. The second was his best friend and deacon from the church who spoke about Richard being beside him when he came to know the Lord. He spoke of his quiet strength and his unfailing faith. The last was his stepfather who spoke of his great love for his family. How he and I had stood together through thick and thin. He told them that the music I had played at his service were his favorites of the songs that I sang in church. He spoke of Richard's love of his son and his pride in being his father. His last quote was something that Rich had said to him not a week before his death from a picture he bought me. It says "He who kneels before God can stand before anyone." The entire service took less than 45 minutes but it was beautiful. All I can hope is that I carried myself with the grace and dignity that he deserved.

Today I ordered flowers for his birthday on Friday. I ordered what I have been ordering since I ordered the spray for his casket. Solid white arrangements with calla lillies, madonna lillies and white roses. They are my tribute to our love and laughter and life together. They remember the decadence and the purity of his love. I will take them to him myself, just as he delivered most of my flowers himself. His monument is simple black granite that has his name, 1966-2009 and at the bottom it reads "Beloved husband and father." The best thing anyone could ever say about him.

Graceful in them damned Stripper Shoes

2009-10-01T22:33:00.000-07:00

Here I am, now what do I do? Family issues. Legal issues. Personal issues. And it's all ugly as hell. First, the whole fam-damn-ily.

My son got in a spot of trouble, if you count a high speed police chase at 140 mph, a spot. This is the first real emergency that I have had to handle on my own. I can say this is the first real trouble he's ever been in, but it scared the crap out of me. And I know you're sitting back saying, "Well. if that were my son.... " And I will say exactly what I've been saying to everyone else, "Well, doll face, he ain't yours. When your son walks downstairs and finds his father in cardiac arrest in the living room floor and he's all alone doing CPR when the paramedics arrive, tell me what you would do." Do not presume to know what you would do in any given situation until you step into my 5 inch platforms.

I had to keep the cool head which made life a tad difficult for me. They had to get him out of a police car so that I could speak to him and tell him to say nothing as I was contacting our attorney. His nose was bleeding, he was dirty and Jesus Christ on the Cross, he was barefoot. The police officers roughed my son up and I didn't turn into a spider monkey on espresso. I asked what happens next and Officer Testosterone Jackass the Third (that's my story as to his name and I'm sticking to it) started yelling at me that they were gonna do this, this and this like I was the criminal. I looked at him and said "I didn't ask for a smart ass answer." at which time my friend laid his hand on my shoulder to remind me to compose myself. A second officer, named Sergent I-Understand-You're-Upset told me how long it would take to process him and where he would be for me to go see him. I looked at Officer Jackass and said "See how easy that was??? People like you are what causes police officers to be despised." I then turned to Sergent Upset and thanked him kindly for all of his assistance. Bravo to 'Buni for not going to jail with my son. I handled everything including the bail without asking anyone for anything. I had a lot of support out of 3 dear friends. You know who you are and I love you. Mwahs. You make me graceful in these Stripper shoes.

Then, if the episode had not upset me enough, my husband's step father, the pastor, came by the house. I was asleep and my son called back to ask what I wanted to eat and told me he had been here so I called him. I guessed that he was going to try to read me the riot act, but I called and asked him what was up. I held my tongue and answered his questions. Evidently my son ended up in the newspaper, picture and all. Then he decided that he was going to tell my son what a disappointment he would be to his father and the gloves came off. I peeled him like a grape. He lives practically in my backyard and hasn't even called his grandson to say "Hey how 'ya doin?" since March. I told him what a lowly piece of crap he and all of the men in that side of the family are and that the only one who treats us like family is my husband's biological father. Then he decided to tell me I am the one who caused all this. Again, when you can walk in these 5 inch platforms preacher man, come getcha some of this. I handle my conversations with God in my own way. I haven't moved away from the Lawd, I've simply moved away from you and yours. So unless you can pray quietly in the damned corner, stay outta my way. Standing here arguing with you is making my feet hurt so I got some walking to do.

My mother in law calls the next day and says she found her husband crying in the kitchen when she got home. I actually said "Good, welcome him to my world." Evidently my filter is gone or I have finally chewed through the leash that Richard kept me on for almost 22 years. I'm not sure which but the anger tasted good for once. She actually got in line and is behaving admirably. I love this lady but I swear to God that my hip boots have worn out and I don't care for BS on my Stripper shoes.

Legal issues??? Yeah I know all about 'em. I got a good lawyer and he's gonna cost a pretty penny. But I think that eventually it will all be okay. He's a good old country boy that will do whatever is necessary to help my son. He's also handling some estate stuff for me, but more about that later.

Personal issues??? I have begun sorting Richard's things as he is haunting my house. I have been sequestered in my bedroom going through drawers, closets and desks. I've found many things that have made me cry, made me laugh and made me scratch my head. I am looking for my independence among the ruins of my life. The rosy pictures that once ran through my head are now being replaced with the realities of my life. My husband and I loved each other passionately. Ladies and gentlemen, that does not make for an easy marriage. It means everything runs hot. We loved hard and we fought hard. We screamed "I love you" more often than it came with a tender kiss. But that is commitment. That is a real marriage that we fought and screamed and let blood over for almost 21 years. To love with your whole heart you must be willing to leave everything on the floor everyday. When there is a chronic illness, you've got to take it all or leave it. That's what the vows mean. In sickness and in health, in rich and in poor, blah, blah, blah. Richard was my best friend, he was my husband, he was my partner in crime, and the love of my life. He was my true north and now he is gone. So while I was in closet I began to look at my extensive shoe collection. Ain't no shame in my game, I am hated by some of the girls with big feet cause if it's on display, I can buy it. I am famous for my shoes. So through my tears, I see a lightbulb go off. So as I'm dragging a chair into the closet, I remembered, he loved my love of shoes. He said that when I had on my "big shoes" I was at my most graceful, beautiful and fearsome. To go to his wake I wore a charcoal pnstripe suit with a royal blue turtleneck and some 6 inch platforms that made me over 6 feet tall. For his funeral, I wore a fierce, black suit, some rock star sunglasses and a sick pair of 5 inch platform pumps. He loved me dressed to kill. That was the last time I turned it out and it's been 7 months. That is who he called "his Hunibuni." He named me off the chick in the movie "Pulp Fiction" who is so down to ride with her man that she has the gun in the cafe robbery. Rich always said I'd never be able to bail him out of jail because I'd be sitting beside him. Hell yeah, that's me.

So here is what I have done. I took off my flip flops and pulled on a pair of 5 inch black patent Mary Jane's. Bad as hell. Because now, I gotta be down to ride for me and my son. I'm finding my grace, my beauty and the steel that I've lost outta my backbone. They're right here among the rubble. I have to remember somewhere that I am a bad bitch. But you know what, it's all in them shoes girls. It's all in them shoes. ;-)

Heartblind

2009-09-05T20:11:00.000-07:00

After the helicopter took off, I hugged my son and headed toward the hospital. I stopped and got fuel for both the car and myself (in the form of 3 packs of smokes) and called my son. We had to have a horrid discussion between ourselves before we confronted what lay ahead. The human brain has around 6 minutes before atrophy or brain damage begins. As close as the doctors could estimate, between the three codes, Richard had been down between 30-40 minutes. Under any circumstances, our lives had changed in the blink of an eye. I had no formal diagnosis but my spirit told me that he was gone.

After finishing with my conversation with him, I called my Bestie. She is however in Brooklyn, NY so she couldn't come to me. She could calm me and make me sane enough to drive. Now, I have driven to this hospital well over 100 times. Seriously. Crawling, crippled or crazy, I can find this place. However, on this particular day, I got lost. Like I said before, God made me head blind. I turned at the wrong blue "H" and went to the wrong hospital. Every street I took was under construction and blocked. It did provide me the necessary distraction to make me kick into business mode.

When I made it to the hospital, I parked on the roof of the parking garage. I always do this as it is much easier to find my vehicle when I have to leave. Normally it's like 11 days later so basically it's habit. My mother in law had already made it to the hospital and was outside the room. She said they were trying to make her sign some papers for a procedure and she told them she couldn't that I would take care of it. I advised I would be there momentarily and that nothing was to be done until I arrived. The room number was 7717. I raced thru the hospital and made it to her, her husband and my husbands youngest brother who had come from 2 hours away. When I arrived they went downstairs to get coffee while I waited. They were putting a blood pressure monitor in Richard femoral artery. I made a couple of calls, where is my son, my best friend here, my parents, etc. Basically just burning time. When I had enough I went into the room and they promptly threw me out. Less than 10 minutes later, although it felt like 10 hours, the doctor and a nurse came out. They asked where my family was and did I want to wait for them. I said "No." They offered me a chair. I refused. "Just tell me" I said. His exact words were these... "He has no gag reflex, no cough reflex and his eyes are not responding to stimulus. We have him on two kinds of life support. He cannot breathe alone and a drug called Dopamine is causing his heart to beat as well as show some blood pressure. Mrs. Blankenship, I'm sorry but he is brain dead."

Evidently, I passed out. Knowing something in ones head and knowing it in your heart is another matter. I became heart blind at that moment. I was in the business of making this as easy for Richard, my son and his family as humanly possible. When they revived me, I was in the chair they had offered. I was screaming and crying uncontrollably. He started laying out the options when I had composed himself. I could, if I wanted, end it right there. I told him he had family on the road coming from the entire southeast. I asked if they (the family that went downstairs) knew. He said that they "couldn't grasp the information." At that moment I made a fateful decision that I still reap the rewards for everyday. I told him that he and all of the staff was to speak to no one regarding Richard's condition but me. Anything that I wanted shared I would tell them but that this was my husband. There was to be no debate as I would not entertain it. I would have this handled with dignity and that if anyone became hysterical they were to be escorted from my presence.

This may sound harsh. I had a durable power of attorney for my husband. He had trusted me with his life for well over 10 years and had never revoked my privilege. I had made life and death decisions many times and he knew I would always do what was best. Had I not made this determination, there would have been doubt and distention among the ranks of his family. They trusted me as well so my word became law. My son and I would make all of the decisions together and I would bear the brunt of anyone's anger.

We determined that we would wait for the last brain activity tests until 9am the next morning and at that point life support would be disconnected. This would allow his family to say goodbye and to adjust to the situation. I realized then that I would never have the opportunity to do these things as I already knew too much. I went into see my Richard. He was so small and still in that huge bed. I took his hand and the nurse brought me his wedding ring. I put it on my left thumb where it remains to this day. I've never had it off. I felt my tears running down my face as I spoke to him. I told him that it was okay. We will be okay. I love you and I understand. I will make this stop. I cried rivers as I spoke the things that wives say to husbands. I would handle this with dignity and the strength he loved me for. I will take care of this for you my love.

Then the door opened and his mother walked in with the others. I politely asked if they could give us a minute and they left the room. I told Richard I would be strong for him and for them. I steeled myself to tell the worst news of a lifetime and walked into the hall. As I closed the door, my son rounded the corner and I called him to me. I hugged him and took him into the room with his father. When he looked at Richard in the bed he looked at me. Tears filled his beautiful chocolate brown eyes as he said "He's gone Mama?" and I sobbed "Yes baby, he is." I don't think I have ever uttered as hateful a phrase in my life. My heart shattered and the boy I raised turned into the man that is my son before my eyes. He held me and let me cry with him.

We talked about the discussions and decisions I had with the doctors and he agreed with me. Nothing is irrevocable I told him. I can change anything. He said "No mama. It's what must happen. I love you and we will do this together." We stepped out into the hall and I delivered the worst thing one can ever say to another mother. She didn't want to believe it. She didn't understand it. His youngest brother ran from the hall. His oldest brother met him coming out and he told him as well. My son held on to me as the winds of change swirled thru our life and no one but us could feel them.

2009-08-23T22:57:00.000-07:00

These days, I spend alot of time alone. Therefore, I spend alot of time in my head going over the events of Thursday, Febuary 19 and Friday, Febuary 20 of this year. This was the 24 hour period when my life was forever changed. So I am thinking that if I write what I remember here, maybe the thinking and the analysing may stop (at least for a minute so I can organize my thoughts and feelings.)

Thursday morning was normal, except I was running late for work and was rocking the wrath of god look we all have when we jump straight out of bed and run out the door within 15 minutes. My husband wasn't feeling well so he stayed home from work. My hten 19 year old son was in the shower and I called him back to tell him to stay at home with his Dad that day. I told him to trust his judgement rather than his Dads and to call 911 if he needed them. I was uneasy to say the least but never did I think I would never hear my husband say "Babe" again or see his eyes smiling when he walked into the door. Trips to the hospital was what we did rather than a vacation. Going to the emergency room was as normal in our house as going to the movies. A brittle diabetic, my husband had been in renal failure for 11 years. Our first transplanted kidney was done on June 1, 1999. It stopped functioning on Good Friday in April of 2008. We had begun hemodialysis that Monday. We had also been through 2 unsuccessful pancreatic transplants, diabetic retinopathy and various car accidents, motorcycle accidents and a blood clotting issue. We were seasoned in the art of fighting for Richards life. I was good at it. I was his advocate and his taskmaster. I did not beg and plead for his life as a normal wife, I stood up, squared my shoulders and sounded my voice loud. I declared that he would live or I would know the reason why. I jerked him up by his hospital gown and said "You've had one day to mourn, today we put our feet on the ground and our fists in the air. Today we fight. You will not leave me and your son here alone. He needs his father and I need my husband." A sheer and unforgiving force of nature is how my husbands doctor's described me. I have called them at 3am if I wanted an MRI or a CAT scan. His medical file has written on the outside in wide red Sharpie "Wife is Aggressive." So I did what I normally do, I went to work.

I had begun crying in the car and continued at my desk. I was on the phone and working thru the tears at 8 am. I was doing my best to do my job while I watched the clock for 915 when I could go to break and call my son. When the clock hit the right time I jumped to my feet and ran to the elevator since I had no signal inside. Down 4 floors and straight out the door, his phone was ringing when I stepped into the frigid air. He checked his Dad and said he wasn't responding and I told him to call 911 and said I was on my way. I hit the door in a dead run. Back to my desk to grab my purse and tell my manager there was an emergency and I had to go. Back down the elevator and I called my son again. He said 911 was in their way and I told him to call me as soon as they got to him so I could give them his medical history. Looking at it now, I should have heard it in his voice, but God made me headblind because I was 36 miles from home. When I hit the interstate I was flying and the phone rang. I rattled off his medical history and told her we preferred a specific hospital to which she responded "In these situations we go to the closest ER." In 11 minutes I had traveled 36 miles and I met the ambulance coming out of the subdivision. I called my son and told him I had the ambulance. He told me then "Mama, he doesn't have a heart beat and he's not breathing."

When I got to the hospital they put me in a little room with a strange little man who was a patient representative. He was making stupid small talk when the doctor came into the room and sat down. He informed me that they had gotten his heartbeat back in the ambulance and then he coded again. They got his heart started again and all I could say was "Take me to Richard." The little man was mumbling again about "it doesn't look like it does on TV" and he tried to put his arm around me. Truth be told the rest of whatever he was prattling on about was drowned out by the beating of my heart in my ears as we rushed to the Trauma room.

And then the curtains parted and there lay Richard. He was helpless and lifeless. His spirit did not greet me when I arrived. The silence was deafening. It felt as though my heart had been removed from my chest. The world made a hard stop when I took his hand in mine. My spirit was screaming, searching, pleading for his to answer, but I couldn't make a sound.

My son arrived and the little man was back asking me what to do as I ran to the waiting room leaving him talking to himself in that strange hushed voice. I sent him to his father and stepped outside to call my husband's mother. I don't know how long it took them to get there or how I got back inside the hospital. About 5 minutes after she arrived Richard coded again and my world went pear shaped. They sent everyone out and they ran for the waiting room. I stood at the door and prayed. I don't remember what I asked for, how long it took or even the act. I was evidently swaying when the doctor stepped out of the room because he sat me in a chair. Then I was back at Richard's side. I remember how cold his hand was in mine. I reached down and opened his eye. Those beautiful, laughing green eyes were silent and his pupils were fixed and dialated. The family returned but I wasn't listening.

Then the doctor told me that they were going to fly him to another hospital within the next 10 minutes. I waited as they made him ready to fly. I made sure I kissed him last. I told him how much I loved him. And then they flew away.

Enough for now.....

Is that really me?

2009-08-17T20:00:00.000-07:00

Today has been a strange day. I find that the things that drag me into the hole in my soul are often small and meaningless to other people.
Early this morning, like at 4am when I couldn't sleep, I was cruising through the movie channels thinking I could find something so stupid it would literally bore me to sleep. So I settled on "Footloose." Could there be anything more inane and mind numbing. It was just at the part where Lori Singer falls to her knees in church and begs John Lithgow (her preacher father) for forgiveness and spits the "I"m not even a virgin!!" line at him. I did really well, almost dozing off until the last, obligatory prom scene when they were playing the title song and Kevin Bacon was shaking his money maker. It was at that point I flashed back to 1988 when Richard and I had the sunroof out of the RX-7 with my hair blowing in the wind. We were singing the "Footloose" soundtrack at the top of our lungs, laughing and smiling on Interstate 81 in Virginia. When I refocused my eyes they were filled with tears and I was swallowed again. Lost in yesterday because today is far to painful to remember. They aren't the soul wrenching sobs of the beginning but the slow steady heartbroken ones that come when least expected. So, I cried myself to sleep hoping to find solace in my dreams.
I awoke to the show on BBC America about the people taking their junk from the attic to the auction so that they may pay for something they cannot afford if they keep their treasures that are collecting dust. All really touching but I was in a hurry as I had to get ready for a job interview so sentiment was not paramount in my mind. I simply hit the high spots and ran for the door with a disposable cup of french roast coffee in my hand. As I drove to the interview consuming the chemicals, (caffeine and nicotine) that make me fit for human consumption these days, my mind was lost. Going over the correct things to say and what they would expect of me. Nerves jangling and checking my lipstick I pulled into the parking lot and put on my best work persona to have my best foot forward.
The interview went spectacular and I am a rockstar. They have already called and I feel good about the second interview. But, as I drove home, with the half hot coffee (as I do live on the sun it seems but at least the heat keeps the coffee hot) again my mind began to wander. How do I do this I thought? I turn my work persona on like she has a switch. My husband always said that my suits are like armor and I hide behind her mask. She is very career oriented and drives a hard bargain. Calm and collected, she never shows her emotions and argues with cold logic. Shes a stonecold bitch. But she is the rockstar that is gregarious and always has a good word. She inspires loyalty and leads by example. A perfectionist that expects no quarter and gives none. People like her. Hell, I like her.
What was quizzing my mind was is she really me? And how did I get so disjointed from myself that I can't see what everyone else sees? I have three close and dear friends that tell me they marvel at my strength. They see my heart and they love me anyway. How do I make the face I see in the mirror match the one that I show to the world? All I see is my weakness in my grief and my failure to stand up straight. My closest friend tells me that I will come out of this and that I will be whom I was again. But my life is forever changed and so am I.
My husband's illness was long and torturess. We fought agianst the dying of the light for over 13 years. Side by side and shoulder to shoulder, we made it work. We laughed and cried together. I would never say our marriage was perfect, but I would say that through all of the stress and strain we made it through together. And now he's gone. I wish were angry so that I could organize my thoughts and dismiss the tears. I wish many things. But like my sainted, wise grandmother used to say, "You might as well wish in one hand and shit in the other. See which one fills up first."
Well Granny, at this point, I've a hand full of shit.

trying to find my feet

2009-08-14T00:26:00.001-07:00

I have no idea who might read this or what they make think, but this is a fresh start for me. I would suppose in this entry I should tell you a little bit about myself. I just turned 42 on July 31. I live in the suburbs of Charlotte, NC and I have been here 15 years last week. I am originally from North East Tennessee. I have a 20 year old son and have been married 21 years. Or, I suppose I should say I was married. On Febuary 20, 2009 my husband Richard died. This is why I am trying to find my feet. I am lost. It is my hope that blogging will give me an outlet to the world as I work through my grief and find my independence in this foreign land.
Please do not think this is to always be sad with me crying and whining about my loss and my life. I tend to look at the lighter side of things in a strange and practical way. There are funny things that happen to me every day and hopefully I will put them here. I am very open to suggestions and questions as well so if you read it, let it rip.
At this point I am trying to find my feet financially. I am a typical southern girl who moved straight from my fathers house to my husbands. There are alot of things I have never done and I am unaware of how these things work from time to time. Now to my credit I have an IQ of 138. I am not stupid by any means and I have good common sense. I am the person that everyone asks every question. If anyone knows anything about this, 'buni will. But, I'll be damned if I can crack the code on being a widow at my age.
I have discovered that I cannot go to the local gas station/truckstop alone. Not because I am afraid, but because the filter in my head that used to keep me from saying things I shouldn't has disappeared. The first of a few incidents happened on a Sunday morning after a rough Saturday night. I was hung over and out of smokes when I woke at 11 am with a blinding headache. I jumped in my flip flops with my tshirt and sweats, hair in a birdsnest that had began Saturday in a chic ponytail, and huge rockstar sunglasses (used to hide Saturdays makeup that had turned into Sundays crackwhore) and hurried to my car. I was desperately in need of nicotine and caffine. I am not fit for human consumption until both substances are present in my bloodstream. Thats the set up. Now, I had just exited my car, which I had to park on the outskirts of the parking lot due to some unexplained Sunday morning festivities at the Wilco. I had literally stepped out of my flip flop and was bent over putting it back when I was approached by a strange man. He said to me, "Excuse me miss, have you ever had Anal Sex??" Needless to say, I was absolutely gobsmacked. I replied, "Not this morning ....... No" to which he replied "Well I know it suprises people but I am only 43 years old." My non existant filter did not stop me from saying "Well damn, I look good!!" I then got back in my car and went straight home shaking my head. No smokes and No coffee.