Today is 7 months since Kate passed away. Every month is different and unique. Every one finds its own way to torture and torment. Month 7 was no different. Month 7 has been the loneliest month perhaps of all. Endless days and endless nights that string together with no clear differences. At points during the month I have caught glimpses of my future as I try to make a life alone, seeing the kids when possible and trying to fill days with whatever takes up the time. If at 6 months realization dawns as some say, than the realization this month is that I am alone. Truly alone. I have had the opportunity to find myself in the middle of groups both small and large, and I remain alone. One of the learnings of the month, or perhaps a re-learning is that being with others does not take away the loneliness. Human connections are emotional and not based solely on proximity. Alone in ways that the existentialists have identified, and the rest of man has rebelled against, I have also been reminded that each person is born alone and must die alone. I was lucky to spend over half of my life to date connected, but those connections have been stressed and strained. I try to remember that I was loved and that I have loved, but that doesn’t seem enough to provide succor or solace. At times I wonder if the pain is not deeper because of that lost love. Having never experienced love, I would imagine someone would never feel the depth of the loss or feel the fragility of life that is left. I should appreciate the years that I had, the support and love I received. And in truth I do, but it doesn’t ease the pain. The first 10 days of the month focused around work issues, an offer of a promotion, and a need to make quick decisions about whether or not I could handle a new job. On February 29 I wrote to a friend: “I am doing surprisingly well. Thanks for asking. A lot of confusion in my life as I sort through the future and try to make sense of where I want to go and what I want the future to look like… except that I've lost my wife ….everything really is going pretty well. The kids are both doing well and school is good for each. My promotion at work is overwhelming but a real positive in terms of my career and future opportunities….while I am lonely and sad, the truth is I have much to be thankful for. The very fact that I can say and believe that suggests that I am doing much better” That lasted maybe 48 hours, and on March 1 I wrote to another: “I am so tired tonight. I am so tired of trying to go on and trying to look like it is all ok. I don’t even want to believe right now. I just want to lay down and let the pain wash over me. I want to cry and hurt and sob. It just feels like … I don’t know. It just hurts so much tonight. And there is no one to tell, no one to talk to. I’m just alone. I am so tired of being alone. How the hell could this happen? How did we end up here? I hate being needy. And I hate having no one to go to. I just need it to be over." Month 7 has been the month of being alone. The phone stopped ringing completely. Email messages have vaporized. Andrew and I have become lost on our own island. There is a world, I read about it in the papers and hear about it on the radio, but I am completely disconnected. And I largely don’t care. Other than the killing in Iraq, nothing sinks in, nothing matters. Weekends have become little nightmares mashed in between weeks of pretending that life is good. The boss is happy that I am not depressed and can cheer on the team, but the price is high and I pay for it nightly and doubly on the weekend. I am stuck somewhere between the depths of my grief and moving forward. I don’t know how to move on. I don’t know how to continue life without Kate. Sometimes I can see that there is a future but to get there I have to let go of my love and my life and I can’t do that. I won’t do that. So I hold myself back and wonder if I will ever find a way to truly move forward. At the same time I know I will. I watch others who have and I know that in my own life I have made progress and reached out to others in ways that continue to surprise me. I have come to rely on the support and strength of others who have lost. I have come to think of us as an invisible minority. No one sees us in the grocery or on the street. No one knows the pain when they pass us on the sidewalk. My fellow travelers almost universally comment on the many times they are told by others how strong they are and how well they are doing. And universally they agree that they are neither strong nor doing well. Like falling down a hill, its not hard to keep rolling. The sun comes up so we get out of bed. The clock rings 7:00 so we go to work. The world doesn’t stop, and we don’t stop. But we have. In our minds, in our emotions, in our dreams, we have stopped. The world goes on around us in spite of everything. But we are slowly falling behind. I need contact with others more than ever I think. Perhaps I need to hear those thousands of words Kate and I exchanged every day. Perhaps I need to feel the emotional connection to others. I reach out to others in many ways to communicate and share. It provides some relief. Not enough. I need to regain my life. I need to learn that it is ok to be happy and to live, to have friends and paint the house, to plant flowers Kate didn’t want and to remove curtains that she did want. I need friends to call and inundate me with conversation and messages and contact so that I can pretend that I have some connection to something in my life. I need to see my kids happy and social and believe that they are handling this better than I am. I need to talk to Kate and tell her that I love her, and that I miss her, and that I will always hold her in my heart- forever and ever and 2 weeks.