The melody of my life

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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. ;-)