Today marks 5 months since Kate’s death. Five months that I never could have imagined on August 17. Our last days together were so calm and meaningful. We had taken Alison back to school and made the return journey home a slow and leisurely one with a stop at a wonderful bed & breakfast where they put us up in their best suite so we could celebrate our 24th anniversary. It was a good week, capping off a good summer. So much was going so well. Maybe the Gods saw some hubris in our actions and plans and decided to inject a reminder of who is in control. It certainly has felt at times like a poorly written Greek tragedy. I have thought a lot in the past several weeks about my need to play. I desperately want to have fun, to really laugh. I want someone to tell me to leave them alone and I want to gossip about the neighbors. I want to roll my eyes and have someone understand and I want to have an argument deteriorate into a joke and maybe a hug. I want Kate back. What I’ve found is that play is hard and while it provides a distraction, it doesn’t provide any relief. I want to play, but I need to have Kate to play with. Years ago I read “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.” It is a great book about a great romance, and I loved it. In it, one character says “When you fall in love, it is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake, and then it subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots are become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.” Over 26 years Kate and I grew deep roots. Above ground we were two trees, living side by side, each reaching for the sun. But beneath the surface, there was no separation. We had grown together into a single tree and now I have lost more than a friend, or a lover or a spouse. I have lost a part of me, no doubt the better part of me. And with her, she took additional parts of me. Among others, she took that part of me that could play, the part that was still a curious child, the uninhibited boy. I’m not sure he will find his way back. At 5 months out I know that anxiety has become an ever-present factor in my life. Maybe because Kate was the worrier, I never needed to. In fact, it was usually my job to help convince her that it would be okay. More likely, I worry because I have lost my insurance. I knew that Kate had it under control. If we went on a trip, Kate would have whatever I might need, so I didn’t have to worry about what to pack. If we went shopping, she knew what the best deals were and I didn’t have to worry about a better price elsewhere. If there was a better price, we would be at a different store. I never thought about buying q-tips or coffee pots or scheduling appointments for the kids. These things just magically happened. Now, there is no one to even discuss coffee pots with. So the anxiety washes over me with each decision as I try to determine how or if life should proceed. Life proceeds, but living does not. Every day is a process of existing as I move from getting out of bed until I can get back in. Weeks are a process of making it to the weekend. Weekends work because I am with the kids and they hold me together. How many others go to work each day with a smile and a greeting and are empty on the inside? I’ve heard it said that reality doesn’t sink in until 6 months. Prior to this the emotions are too raw too process, the future too distant. I hope those pundits are wrong. In the last few weeks I have become more fully aware that this is my life, and that this may be my life for a very long time. I am lucky and blessed in some ways, but that doesn’t remove the loneliness, the emptiness and the bitterness. If it doesn’t come until 6 months, then I really don’t want it to come because my plate is pretty full right now. Some people say the grief never goes away. I don’t know if that is true. I do know that it changes: like a mutant virus that can’t be killed by antibiotics but keeps mutating to extend its life. One month ago I was drowning, being tossed around in the surf and struggling to breath. This month the monster has snuck up on me, so slowly and stealthily that I really believed I had it under control. I really believed that I was doing better. Then suddenly I realized that I was standing alone in the middle of a vast, dark pit. It is so wide that I can’t sense there are any boundaries, and it is so dark I really can’t see beyond a few feet on any side. What I know is that it is the loneliest, coldest spot I’ve ever seen. The darkness has shrouded my hope, and the vastness has robbed me of my motivation to try and walk out. Today, I just am. Biologically I exist. But it is very hard to find any more. First and foremost I need to know my children are okay. Nothing else really matters does it? They are the legacy that Kate has left; a legacy that she is so proud of. I need to know that they are going to continue to grow and find their way and be happy. Second, I need to find myself. I must still exist- but I do not know where or how. I try to believe that someday the light will shine again, and when it does I will be able to see myself. That in that light some passion may grow, some desire may return. I need my friends and family to know that I am not okay and I am okay and I have lost all my faith and I believe that it will be ok. I am where I ought to be and I am doing what I have to do. I do not have the energy to do this anymore and I am so tired. But I will get up and fix breakfast and collect a paycheck and pretend in public that I am strong and functional and my life is ok. I need my friends to know that I don’t really know how to reach out. I really am more of an introvert than anyone knows. But I live to get an email or see a message on the answering machine, or even get a call late a night. A letter, a card, a coupon- these things have meant so much. And I need the world to remember Kate- my beautiful wife, mother to our kids. I need to know that people think of her and cry, tell stories and laugh, remember and are sad. Here in the little snow globe where I live, as the world moves around us, we remember and grieve every second of every day. (written 1-18-08; posted 1-24-08 because the server was down)