Chapter 51: The Tchaikovsky between us

I know I lead a charmed life.  I have never grieved for anything except the death of my dog Jack, a Pembroke Welsh Corgi, who lived like a king for 13 years and one week.  I put Jack down because he stopped eating.  And Jack did virtually nothing but eat.  So clearly, he told me it was time. 

Now, suffice to say, I have no idea what "greets" me from day to day.  Now, I am forced to face the rawest emotions and the biggest grief that turns my charmed life into something entirely not charming.  Something so foreign that I even find it repulsive.  

I find grieving for the death of my husband exceedingly exhausting.  Deeply personal. Heart-breaking.  Suffocating. All consuming.  

I also find that the strength I muster up everyday, piece by piece, morsel by morsel, can all turn into dust with no warning. With seemingly no reasons. Sunny days or stormy nights.  Sometimes, when the tears come, I feel like I am drowning.  

Then I try to apply that "cup half full" thing.  At times, even that sounds annoying and repulsive to a perpetually positive and optimistic person like myself.  Tomorrow is only one night away, I would remind myself.  Tomorrow is not "better." Tomorrow is just that, tomorrow.  But tomorrow *CAN* be better.  That is to say, I won't know, until tomorrow.  

I still have the power to create a brave new day - tomorrow.  I dare say, I still lead a charmed life; although I admit, it is a vortex in pure hell.  I don't recommend it. 

More than just a new page, I call my each new day a new chapter.  At least in the book that I am now writing.  I am the author; the creator; the editor.  Heck, I am even the customer; I have to buy my own book.  I write it however I want to.  I can have as many chapters as I want in just one day.  Who is going to stop me?  I dare anyone saying "no" to a widow!  That's another thing.  The word widow.  Not exactly charming either.  Whether I call myself a widow is not the point.  The fact is, I am a widow.  No difference than I am a woman.  Yet, the word elicits such automatic sorrow and sympathy and "ooohhhhh" and silence.      

And so I wrote Chapter 51 today.  It was downright an exhaustingly tearful chapter.  There was no plot that made today extra sad, but there was the Russian composer Peter Tchaikovsky.  Our last text conversation would involve Tchaikovsky's masterpiece, his one and only Violin Concerto.  And it was vivid.  

"It would bring me tears if I close my eyes while listening to this piece."
"I know.  Me too..."
"He's not human!"  (Followed by a few "LOL") 
"The third movement feels like thousands of horses galloping, crossing a huge plain!  I want to jump up for the finish!  Somebody just interrupted me.  I hate being interrupted when I listen to music."
"My favorite is the first movement." 
"Masterpiece!" 

I debated whether to post this blog entry.  I was always reminded that whatever you post in the internet stays with you forever.  Like a brand on your body.  Too late.  I am now branded.  

May my ability to hear and appreciate music be the very last thing to go, until you hold my hands ever, ever so tightly next to you again.