Do you remember how you got your ass out of bed this morning?

Most of us don't. Why would we?  

It's new year's eve.  Traditionally, symphonies perform Beethoven's Ninth Symphony Ode to Joy to welcome in the new year.  The subscribers email from the Seattle Symphony reminded me it's the "last chance in 2014 to see this performance live!"  The email reminded how I got my ass out of bed every morning for two straight months, after Eric died.  

Most things have become a blur, but some remain starkly clear.  Like the millions of stars in a moonless, cloudless night.  Perhaps in Montana.  Every morning, I blasted Ode to Joy.  It shook the walls.  My poor neighbors.  It worked like heroin being shot in the blood stream, I think.  When the chorus sang, I looked for that one small gleam of sunlight in the distance - that would be my sign.  I command myself, "get your fucking ass up."  

I didn't crawl out of bed.  I got up.  With my head high, back straight.  Tears would run down my face, but I stood up.  

I must not ever forget how to be courageous.  I have my mother to thank: she is the epitome of titanium backbone.  Lucky for me, I simply have the best example to emulate.

Every morning, for nearly two straight months.  That was how I got my ass out of bed:  Beethoven.

The Beethoven mornings are long gone.  I rarely think about them, but when I do, I shed tears of gratitude and commend myself with intention, "you have out done yourself, Daisy."  I reserve that comment for my proudest efforts, such as baking the most magnificent loaf of golden brown cinnamon raisin challah, or the tender mixed-berry pie.  

Or, about my retirement. 

I have ten more work days left with Starbucks before I look at corporate America in the rear view mirror.  It's time to be useful elsewhere now, I said.  Truth is, I don't know exactly where or precisely how I will be useful, but I think it is plenty smart to leave room for the unknown.  

I surmise I will miss nothing about the office, but I will think about everything in the office.  Is it ironic?  

I'm not certain how I will create my 2015, and I'm completely at peace with it. Luckily, I am pretty sure who I'm kissing to ring in the new year!  Lucky dog!!

Meet Me at the Library

There are days I would feel pronouncedly alone.  Not lonely.  Alone.  I feel I have to engage in a battle against the world, alone.  But, there is no battle.  There isn't even a squabble.  This charmed life I live has no real struggle of any sort.  

A few days ago, my mind wandered to emergency preparedness.  We had a meeting place in case "shit happens."  Eric, Katie, and I would meet at the library on 35th should something happen and we couldn't get home.  The library was our meeting place.  My mind wandered to the library but I realized, I no longer need a meeting place.  In fact, I must find my own way home if shit happens.  I need to remember the location of the water main and the gas shutoff.  The breaker.  How to operate the fire extinguishers.  My emergency bag and batteries and lighters.  The need to consider everything and make every decision on my own frustrates me and suddenly maddens me.  It maddens me, rational or not, that I am "abruptly left alone" to consider these decisions on my own.  

I realize millions of people - men and women - make these decisions, alone, everyday.  But that's not the point.  I was mad that I was left with "all this work" to do…  Alone.

That same day, I panicked that I have "forgotten" how old I was when Eric died.  I had to count.  I was 45.  I was 45 when my husband died.  I didn't know why, but that fact maddened me, too.  

"There is no right way to grieve, and you have to let people grieve in the way that they can.  One of the things that happens to everyone who is grief-stricken, who has lost someone, is there comes a time when everyone else just wants you to get over it, but of course you don't get over it.  You get stronger; you try and live on; you endure; you change; but you don't get over it.  You carry it with you."  ~Poet Edward Hirsch, author of Gabriel:  A Poem

I don't know if I am still grieving.  I know, however, that even I want me to get over my grief.  When I listened to the NPR interview with the poet Edward Hirsch, who lost his son Gabriel, the words struck me really hard that apparently I will NOT get over the death of my husband.  I will carry it with me, but I will not get over it. It comforts yet frightens me.  How long do I carry "it" with me?  What the hell does that even mean?  Why should I carry it with me?  I never asked for this burden nor did I sign up for this grief; yet, it landed on my lap.  Solely.  Squarely.  Solidly. Why is this mine?  Who died and made you king?  I was mad again. 

Emotions are mysterious.  I don't feel "grief" daily, but still, everyday - everyday - something will hit me and I shed tears over it.  Everyday.  I cannot label those emotions, nor is it necessary.  Perhaps, that's when I "carry" it with me.  I carry those sentiments when I go on with my day.  They may be sentiments of gratitude. Thankfulness.  Anger.  Abandonment.  Humor.  Memories.  Love.  Sorrow.  And yes, grief.       

I never regretted marrying my husband.  Never.  But how about that emergency bag?  Wish he had packed that damn thing.

Happiness is a form of courage

Courage is my character of choice. Everything I do, want to do, plan to do, I give partial credit to "Courage."  It may have something to do with Amy Cuddy's TED talk I watched long time ago.  Although her phrase "fake it 'til you become it" doesn't resonate with me very much, as I dislike anything fake - fake smiles, fake eyelashes, fake butter, fake boobs, fake characters - I understand her point.  I prefer "do it 'til you become it."  It infers a series of mindful actions rather than deliberate deceit.  Regardless of the word of choice, courage drives the doing.  

That brings me to Happiness.  

Is happiness a form of being?  Or do you create happiness?  Or both?

The Friday before Memorial Day weekend in year 2000, at the SeaTac airport, while waiting for my flight home to Boise after a long day of meeting, this man was eyeing me at the gate.  This man eventually became my husband.  He chatted up the gate agent and switched his seat so he could sit next to me on the Horizon flight.  Exit row.  

That weekend, we went for a hike at Camelback Mountain with Kida, the Black Dog.  The man discovered that I'm a classical pianist.  I discovered he spoke Russian fluently.  I also made belief he was a spy… 

A month later, I announced that I was moving to Seattle to chase the Green Siren (Starbucks) and to become a Purple Dawg (UW Business School).  August, we went our separate ways, with our respective dog.  That was the end of our summer romance.  

Four months later, the man got a job with Alaska Airlines flying MD80, based in Seattle.  The dogs were reunited, as did the man and the woman.  The rest was history.  Until the day my husband died, he said I created this whole thing.  

Best 13 years of my life.  BUT - but - the best, and the happiest, must still be yet to come.  It is yet to be created.  

Happiness is a form of courage.  

Happiness is shooting bull's eye

The Evolution of Me

I stumbled upon my Facebook entry from a year ago.  I remarked that I began to feel quite human again for four days in a row.  That was April 25, 2013.  My remarks prompted me to revisit my blog so I can appreciate the progress I have made, and the evolution of myself.  

Apparently I made hummus a la Eric's recipe for the first time.  It wasn't terrible, but it wasn't great.  It certainly didn't taste the same.  "What do you know; even garbanzo beans felt the void," I noted.  

I am grateful that I was able to express those vivid and raw sentiments so openly and honestly.  I think my ability to do so is a tremendous gift from the Universe. The way I express grief helped me evolve.  It continues to help me relentlessly focus on only the important things and my gratitude in my very charmed life, rather than Eric's death.  It was just so big to wrap my mind around the loss of a good man, my good man, in this world.

What a difference a year makes.  I feel very human.  Everyday.  I am acutely aware of Eric's absence AND presence in pretty much everything I do.  It is not a sad sentiment; rather, the awareness allows for a continuous evolution of my being.

I find that to allow myself to evolve, which is much more than to emerge from grief, gives me the courage to live All In with very little fear and reservation of the "what if's."  

My evolution gives me the courage to transform my living space from "our" home to "my" home.  It gives me room to uncover and develop my hidden talents.  It gives me the hunger to volunteer and serve at the Puget Sound Community School.  My friend Sieglinde asked why I continue to be involved in PSCS.  I think it's because PSCS brings out the best in me.  When I am at my best, I help others to bring out their best, to be at their best.  I feel strongly that "to help others to be at their best" has become my mission of my existence.  I am very grateful for my discovery.  

My evolution also opens windows and doors so I may enjoy a loving relationship with Ken, a very good, kind, generous man who, rightly so, thinks I am the best thing since sliced bread.  I feel fortunate that he also thinks I walk on water; I'll work on that, too.  More importantly, I feel peaceful and right.  And happy.  There is a loving sentiment of joy.

My evolution makes me face my passion, feed my hobbies, and refuse the myriad of excuses that are just that:  excuses.  To live in the present.  To not be attached to the outcome, but to go courageously into the journey itself.  All In.  Many would say "that's great, Daisy!  It's what Eric would have wanted you to do!"  That is wonderful.  But I think it's MORE wonderful and important that it is exactly what *Daisy* wants to do.  

I do know with certainty that Eric would say, as he always did, "very cool, babe. You have outdone yourself."  

Do you miss me?

Eric didn't use to "miss" me.  He didn't really "miss" anyone; he wasn't wired that way.  That didn't mean he didn't think of others, and it certainly didn't mean he loved me little.  He loved me plenty, likely more than anyone else he would and could love.  

I, on the other hand, used to miss him.  That's how I was wired.  

Now, I try not to miss him.  I had loved this man with every fiber and every ounce of energy.  Especially in the last few years.  It was profoundly powerful. Suddenly, I had an epiphany. Instead of missing him, I need to turn the energy around. Instead of focusing on his absence, I shall let his presence comes through.  I need to let his presence be my focus.  His laughs, his silence, his meditation, our conversations.  

I feel his presence in pretty much everything I do:  Every loaf of bread I bake, every round of skate on Alki, every French press on Sunday, every time I touch my bow and arrows, every piece of music I play on the piano, every piece of art I create, while I am in any corner of my house, when I ask "what should I do."  

I try not to "miss" him.  Me missing him somehow implies that I am focused on the past, what was lost.  He would not want me to "miss" him.  He would prefer that I remember him, but not "miss" him.  He would want that we apply what he has shared with us in our respective lives, in the best ways we know how.  He would not want us to miss him.  

Not "missing" my deceased husband, and putting it in writing.  That is so controversial.  And cold.  But it's not like that.  

It's about knowing that he is present.  

Then I discovered something I never considered.  What Eric and I shared was very powerful.  What I learn and intentionally apply from our love is more profound.  

My living may need to include not missing.  And that scares me shitless…  

My dear friend Janelle's corgi, Abby

"My Legacy"

A few weeks ago somebody at work asked what I would like to be remembered by when I leave my company.  "What do you want to be your legacy?" he asked.  It was one of those "self reflection" sessions at a meeting.  The kind you "take three minutes to ponder then write down your thoughts on a piece of paper" session. 

My legacy.  What does that even mean!?

I am not that ambitious.  I don't think about my legacy or what I want to be remembered by when I leave my company, or ever - it is just not that interesting and certainly not that important to me.  I try to make the best decisions for me, for my peeps, and and for the business.  That's it.  Why complicate things?  I stared at my note pad.  My mind wandered away.  I wondered what I should make for dinner; I wondered when it will finally stop raining.  I secretly chuckled how Eric would roll his eyes all the way to the back of his head if I asked him that same question at dinner.  Yup.  He, too, would consider this a frivolous question.  And then he'll say, "that's a deep subject."     

Tick tock tick tock.  I had better write something down.  I had one minute left. Still, my page was blank and I still couldn't think of what to make for dinner.       

I don't consider what I do for a living very important or meaningful in the grand scheme of things, although I would like to delude myself that at least a small portion of it just might be so.  That is, of course, if I assume correctly that there is indeed a "grand scheme" and that my presumed grand scheme is indeed THE grand scheme…  

I now had about 45 seconds remaining to scribble down something.  Quick!

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"I don't know what I want to be remembered by when I leave this company, or when I die.  I am a people connector.  I am to bring out the best in others in everything I do.  Let's not complicate things."   

Wild Camping with Eric between New Denver & Kaslo
(Beyond Jasper, Canada)
August, 2011

Random Babble

I made a decision last month that I don't want to count chapters anymore.  I think it also means I don't want to count 15th's anymore.  

In god's honest truth, I am physically tired of remembering Eric. Of compartmentalizing memories. Remembering is VERY HARD WORK.  I want to close the lid and say "I'm done."  I don't want to think about him.  I don't want to remember anything.  I don't want to talk about it.  I don't even want strangers to know that I had a husband.  Answering that requires factual information that is also respectful to his death.  Explanation requires lengthy sentences and careful thoughts.  Thinking gets better when there are good dialogues, but good dialogues are energy expenditures.  Now, I simply prefer listening to music over talking.  I don't like listening to my voice that much anymore.  

Perhaps it is a form of escapism.  I respect my need for space and an escape whenever I feel like it.  The fact is, I will never be devoid of memories of my husband.  An escape from it is not only smart and healthy, but brave.        

Ever feel like you're damaged goods?  I was talking about that with a friend and he said, "Daisy, we are all damaged goods one way or another."  There might be merit to that statement.  Since no person is "perfect," in essence, everyone is "damaged" one way or another.  It's not good or bad; there needs not be a value judgement.  

Winter Sojourn 2011
Ashland, OR

It will be Eric's birthday (again) in a few days, a day he never liked to celebrate in the recent near-decade because it painfully reminded him of yet another year passed and his inability to do anything he loved to do, to live life.  It was impossible for others to remotely comprehend even a hairline fraction of what that meant.  I hated answering the question "what did you guys do to celebrate his birthday?"  Sometimes I simply lied about it.  As much as I could, I avoided answering that dreadful question. Diversion is a great life skill.

I am immensely grateful that my husband is eternally free of agony of any form.  

Still, I find internal resentment that I cannot explain. I find myself extremely intolerant of whining, entitlement, laziness and incompetence.  Especially entitlement and laziness.  I find this world brutally unfair.  I feel Eric's life cheated and robbed.  I feel an overwhelming burden that I never asked for; cards dealt to me and a game I was forced to play in; strength and grace buried that would otherwise take me five lifetimes to uncover. 

I also honor completely that I have only one life to live:  mine.  There is no time to waste.  The illusion of control over one's own life is just that:  A complete illusion, and delusion.  The sooner we let go of the need to exert control, the sooner we can live.  It is that simple.     

Random babble. 

Ashland, Oregon
December, 2011

  

The counting has ceased

I decided I am going to stop counting chapters.  I don't need benchmarking anymore. I think I just made incredible progress.  

I went away for a few days for some sunshine and R&R in central California. Respite takes in many forms.  This is my fifth trip away in twelve months.  A friend asked how I feel coming home. There is no place like home, no matter what.  I follow my evening routine:  Open door, turn off alarm, wash hands, light candles in the living room, turn on laptop, select music.  It feels like a Taco Tuesday.  It's all good.  

You've got to leverage the good days to propel yourself to the next stage, or you'll risk being stuck wallowing in the same place.  Wallowing is bad juju.  

While watching the Winter Olympics games, I learned the story about Sarah Burke, a Canadian freestyle skier and a pioneer in superpipe, and her tireless work in lobbying the IOC to include women halfpipe into the 2014 Olympics games.  She succeeded, but died in January 2012 after a severe training accident in Park City, Utah.  At an interview, Rory Burke, Sarah's husband, said Sarah never asked why, but why not.  

Words to live by.  "Why not?"  Why not stop counting chapters?  

Why not a fountain in the backyard!?
Hearst Castle, San Simeon

    

Day 365: The dream

I've anticipated the arrival of Day 365, and it's finally here. 

I want to write, but I don't know about what.  I sit in front of my Mac and stare at the screen, wishing the Facebook "blip" would sound.  It would signify somebody makes a comment on my post.  Any post.  I take a sip of my coffee, let my brain runs around in circles.  It naturally goes to the warm, sunny day 365 days ago, and the Excel spreadsheet I worked on all afternoon…  The office was thinning out around 3pm - such would be the norm on a sunny winter afternoon - yet I decided to stick around until official quittn' time.  To finish the spreadsheet, I said.  At 5:15, I put on my turquoise Patagonia jacket, I waved "have a good weekend" to my gal pal Julie, and flashed a big smile.  I was going home to my husband.  My niece Katie was waiting for me downstairs; we were carpooling.  

I threw away the spreadsheet and I never looked at it again.  I secretly loathe Excel. 

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For all our years together, I never dreamed about Eric.  Not once.  How unromantic!!  But, why would I dream about him when he was already with me?   

That is, until a month after Eric died.  He came to let me know, he was completely pain free.  And fine.

I blog about it on this day because I need us to know, Eric is completely pain free. And fine.  In whatever form he is.  Wherever he is.  My good friend Ginny said, that a person dies is not nearly as important as how the person lived.  

I am very comfortable talking about Eric's death - and using the word died and death in conversations.  My husband didn't pass on.  He didn't pass away.  There is no need to soften anything with me.  Facts are facts - we need to be respectful in handling them.  I can handle facts like a champ now. 

I used to sleep through almost anything.  Thunderstorms, howling wind, earthquakes, barking dogs, neighbor screaming profanities.  That is, until Eric died. Melatonin worked its magic every once in a while.  

The night Eric visited, I actually slept.  In the dream, I found my husband sleeping in blue striped flannel pajamas…  WTF.  He never wore pajamas.  He didn't own pajamas.  And FLANNEL?  Really?  Who dressed my handsome husband!?  I was not pleased…  I was about to stop my dream and go straight to the one in charge of the sleepwear department.

I turned on the light in his dorm room; he sat up and complained, "HONE, you woke me up!!!"  He hated being woken up, because it took him so much efforts to fall asleep.  What an oxymoron:  taking efforts to fall asleep.     

"HONE!  You woke me up!  I have a trip tomorrow morning!"
"A trip?  Where are you going?  How are you supposed to fly?"
Silence.  Smiled.  "What do you think?" 
Stunned. "Where are you flying to?"
Smiled.  "I'm trying to get on the same trip to Dallas with you!" 

I broke down and weeped.  For him to sit in the cockpit and fly my plane to Dallas, it could ONLY mean one thing:  my husband was no longer caged in like a zoo animal.  My husband was no longer in pain.  My husband was free.  

Eric was a "Water Rabbit" - he was a Pisces, born in the year of Rabbit.  While on my business trip in Dallas, the Water Rabbit came to see me.  One morning at four o'clock, as I stepped out of the hotel lobby and went to work - there it was, a big rabbit in the bush!  Just sitting there, waiting.  Then slowly, he hopped away…  Sixteen hours later, I returned to the hotel after a long-ass day.  There it was again, the freakn' RABBIT!  Sitting there again, waiting…  Then slowly, he hopped away again.  

I never talked about my dream or my Water Rabbit story.  They lived solely inside of me.  Until now.

I don't know how dreams work; I don't care.  I don't want any "expert" to interpret my dreams.  I don't even know if the rabbit story has the slightest significance to anything - but who cares!?  I'm not trying to cure cancer and save babies - that's not my gig.  My gig is to be a "teacher" through my unconventional experiences, a role I never asked for, but it's the cards I've been dealt.  That's my gig.  

Find-Your-Gig.  Express it fully.  Dive All In. 

On Day 365, a much anticipated day, the anniversary of my husband's death, I am strong, soft, brave, graceful, vulnerable.  I am sad, and I am relieved.  I am immensely grateful.  My Gratitude Cup has never been so full, and that it perpetually overflows day and night.  

Water Rabbit
Dallas, TX
May, 2013

Acceptance

I saw a quote by Michael J. Fox this morning on Acceptance.  He said "Acceptance doesn't mean resignation.  It means understanding that something is what it is and there's got to be a way through it." 

Yes, there's got to be a way through it.  

In exactly six days I would have triumphed over a very difficult event in my life for one full year.  365 days seems like a lifetime to be alive without my husband, yet I am immensely grateful to be still alive, despite his absence.  Not just to be alive, but thrive. Not just thrive, but to do so bravely, victoriously, triumphantly.  To be Daisy.  I am immensely, immensely grateful for the ability to evolve.  To evolve as a human being when I have to get through it all.  I am most, most grateful for my parents for raising a daughter who is smart, funny, beautiful, and brave.  

To be brave.  That's the only way to get through it.  

Looking back, I have the faintest idea when mourning ends and acceptance begins. I know it was not sequential.  I don't think grief ever ends, but acceptance does begin.   I believe when grief becomes more familiar, acceptance sprouts.  When acceptance grows, you begin to get through it.  You muster up everything, every fiber in you - love, strength, courage, sticktoitiveness, friendship, faith in yourself, faith in others, faith in humanity, distractions, sheer stubbornness - and you trudge through it.  The process is like shampooing hair:  Wet.  Lather.  Rinse.  Repeat.  

To accept.  It's the beginning of trudging through it all.  

It probably wouldn't be an exaggeration if I call last year "the most horrendous experience" of my life, but that is not all accurate.  Yes, PART of the year was horrendous.  True, getting through it was f'nkg hell.  Too many days, I simply didn't want to get through it.  I wanted to dig a hole, jump in, and call it forever good. Like burying a dead gold fish.  My bones physically ached.  It felt like blood should pore through my skin.  Accurate, I could not possibly go through the loss of a husband again.  But through my spiral vortex I am emerging as the most beautiful human being I could possibly be in all my years combined.  

It wasn't my doing; the credit didn't belong to me.  It belongs to my family and friends who surround me with the most profound, unexplainable love.  Those who tell and show me over and over and over how much they love and support me; those who remind me repeatedly how much Eric loved and adored me, and all he ever wanted was for me to be completely happy.  My growth belongs to the Universe. My Universe.  The Universe that always provides.   

To know that you are enough.  It's the path to get through it. 

I have a fresh perspective on love.  On relationships.  
I have a fresh perspective on how to love, how to accept love, and how to ask for love. 
I find it perfectly acceptable and reasonable to ask for love.  In fact, humble.
I have a fresh perspective on life and death. 
MY life.  
I have a fresh perspective on living with courage in spite of fear.  Everyday. 
I have a fresh perspective on me. And what I am capable of.  
I have a fresh perspective on my desires.  
I have a fresh perspective on acceptance.  
I have a fresh perspective on my husband.  My love.  My hero - a term he would never accept.  
I have a fresh perspective on my husband's life.  And his death. 

I have developed a perspective on what it means to "get through it all."  

In six days, it appears I would have to relive all the moments on that sunny day.  I would remember our texts.  I would listen to Tchaikovsky.  And I would remember our final discussion on this great Russian composer.  His abnormally large hands, we joked.  Then I would watch the clock and count the minutes.  And I would hear my piercing screams replaying themselves like a broken record.  I would see what I saw. I would feel my body going into complete shock.  And I would cry.  Perhaps weep.  I would remember my breathing stopped.  The controlled chaos.  I would remember I wish I were dead, as well.  I would have to relive it all, minute by minute.  What I wouldn't give to bribe someone to knock me out cold with a two by four, just for a couple of hours.  But that's not Daisy.  It's not her style.  She will face it.  Minute by minute.  Head on.  And go on.  

She will look herself in the mirror, say, "you have done exceptionally well, triumphed victoriously, and gotten through it all.  I am very proud of you.  May you continue to discover fresh perspectives for another 365 days."  

She wouldn't have it any other way.  She is, after all, her husband's proud wife. 

Eric climbing at City of Rocks

  

     

The Bandwagon that served many purposes

For weeks and months leading up to Super Bowl XLVIII, she declared herself a bandwagon Seahawks fan.  And owned it.  This proud 12th Man flew the Seahawks flags on her Soobie Outback.  Her Mojo Toes had a fresh coat of OPI blue nail polish every ten days for three months, with a "12" written on each thumb and big toe. For days, she never bothered riding on someone else's bandwagon.  She owns her own wagon.  She is her own wagon.  

Her friends are gracious people.  Some are perplexed. A few are stunned.  Most just play along, thinking it's the best thing since sliced bread that she let her hair down a bit and have a grand 'ol time.  Women joined her insanity and painted their fingernails and toenails Seahawks blue and green with "12" written all over. Wives of coworkers; daughters of acquaintances. Checkers at the grocery stands.  If you want to start a movement, go grassroot… 

I am that Bandwagon.  

My bandwagon makes me remember - and thirsty - for the stuff I did, not that long ago.  I want to be able to intelligently discuss a Tchaikovsky composition and just as comfortably, rock out at a rock concert.  I want to play Chopin, write Haiku, shoot my arrows and fire my guns.  I want to climb; I want to golf; I want to ski; I want to fly kites.  I want to lie on the warm sand like a beach whale, and hang-glide off the cliff.  I want to go to the opera house looking drop-dead gorgeous in my heels, and road-tripping in my van without showering for three days.  I want to eat caviar, drink champagne from a flute, and skin a fresh turkey with my bare hands.  I want to whisper ever so seductively in somebody's ears, and swear my head off at a bunch of 300# men dog-piling each other wearing colorful tights.  My bandwagon poignantly reminds me - I have only one life to live. Waiting for anyone - anyone's - approvals or endorsements is a luxury I can never afford.  My Bandwagon has served its purpose of letting me see ever so clearly.  

NFL Second Round Playoff
Seahawks 23-15 Saints
January 11, 2014

My bandwagon is also my best distraction of all distractions.  If you have ever had a need for temporary distractions, you would understand.  Distractions are like oxycodones.  Narcotics.  Narcotics don't stop the pain; they merely take the edge off.  They provide temporary relief.  At some point, the relief stops and the edge returns.  In my case, the distraction worked for two full months and stops just after Super Bowl XLVIII on February 2.  My bandwagon has served its full purpose of diverting my attention from my loss to considering what I just might have gained.  

My bandwagon gave me a different perspective on people and relationships. 

My bandwagon also represented many personal things to me.  It served many purposes. It took on a life of its own.  My bandwagon gave me hearty belly laughs.  It made my friends cheer.  It made me feel wonderfully silly and remarkable.

I haven't had this much fun for a long, long time.  And I am very grateful for my courageous bandwagon. 

Chapter 344: Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock

0345.  Tonight, my intermittent love affair with insomnia is at the "on-again" stage. Therapists or column-writers would heed warnings on all "on-again, off-again" love affairs.  Including one with insomnia. 

The cheap alarm clock in the bathroom articulates tick-tock-tick-tock every second. It's an annoying sound.  It reminds me of time lapse.  It reminds me of the infiniteness of time.  It reminds me of my husband's death.  Actually, that's not true.  It doesn't remind me of Eric's death.  To remind implies a stage of forgetting. I don't need anything or anyone to remind me of my husband, but the tick-tock in the stillness of the night brings his image, all images, forward.  

The tick-tock exacerbates everything. 

The tick-tock replays our chapters.  Human memories suck. We remember events as we choose to remember them, not necessarily the ways they actually happened. The tick-tock replays the years of incomprehensible agony my husband endured.  It reminds me of all the disagreements we have had through the years, yet he never, ever, raised his voice at me.  That he would never engage in a fight but approached every conflict in the most - I kid you not - annoyingly rational discussion…  The tick-tock reminds me of our most invaluable Couchsurfing experiences that led me to the most amazing people and self discoveries; it reminds me to never let fear dominates my decision.  The tick-tock reminds me of Eric's moodiness, his constant needs for intellectual challenges, his passion for graceful movements; his mandate for living life fully.  The tick-tock reminds me of my bossiness, my optimism, my plea to the worthless gods who turned their eyes from sufferings.  The tick-tock reminds me of something extremely important:  I was the best wife I knew how.  I did my best. And that I couldn't have done any better.  

The tick-tock also replays one of our last walks around the neighborhood, and our conversation.  It reminds me how much my husband loved me, in the most unconditioned way.  Not unconditional, but unconditioned; to me, it was more meaningful.  The tick-tock reminds me of the Sunday afternoon preceding my husband's death.  I wanted to go for a skate, but was preparing a Japanese dinner to celebrate Chinese New Year - we were a United Nation family after all.  When I finally got around to it, I missed the warm sun on the skate path.  Eric said, "Moral of the story: When the sun is out, drop everything, go do stuff."  

The tick-tock speaks simple facts. When Eric died, he chose to remember that he had a great life with great friends.  He lived his life in the moment; all-in.  That my husband left no stone unturned to get well, or get better. That I, his wife, was one of the most precious people in his life.  His wish was always for me to be happy. That he loved me, without any bounds.  

The tick-tock says:  I allow nobody to judge him and his death.

The tick-tock continues at 0615. 

Chapter 335: That's Eleven Months

The last time I felt the need to count Chapters was May 27, 2013, after my gruesome and exhausting business trip to Dallas.  That was Chapter 100.

On Chapter 100, I did three things:  I rearranged the living room furniture, which took all of 18 minutes.  I threw away a few bottle of pills that belonged to Eric.  I re-read each condolence card, one by one, then meticulously  bundled and put them away in a dresser drawer.  There was a mountain of condolence cards.  I remember saying to myself:  "You are so lucky, Daisy.  You are so loved."  That sentiment was the absolute truth.  

Significant progress has been made since Chapter 100.  I am now on Chapter 335. Today is another 15th - the last one before the first anniversary of my husband's death.  

I am unable to entirely comprehend, still, the magnitude of this loss.  It is not simply sadness.  It cuts deeper.  The "Five Stages of Grief" do not seem to all apply.  I do not think I will ever reach Anger.  That is fine - I don't mind being a bit odd and unconventional.  

The more I try to de-emphasize February 15, the more I fear its arrival.  And, the more I resist.  The only solution is to face it head-on.  The concept of embracing the arrival of the second hardest day of your life is at best, warped.  But it is zen and peaceful.  I try not to slap a label on those feelings.  February 15 will be here in 30 days, ready or not. Being still and level-headed pays dividends.

There was not a day went by that I did not feel Eric's absence.  That does not mean my life has a hole or a void.  It means Eric is physically absent, and I am very keenly aware of and acutely sensitive to it, every breathing moment.  Since his death, I have established New Normals. Accumulated new experiences. Developed new friendships and relationships.  I am proud to say that I have not needed to create a "new me" - I am simply evolving.  

Here comes the next 30 chapters.  There will be unannounced tears.  There will be laughs. I will feel moments of great pride.  Others, not so much.  I will feel fear.  And I will feel no fear.  There will be courage, like that of a warrior woman.  And, there will be the Superbowl and the bandwagon - important moments of distraction.  

The only truly important thing is to continue to believe, and remember, with no uncertainty, that I shall triumph and emerge victoriously through it all.  That Eric's life and death holds a purpose.  That his love for me was, and will always be, Without Bounds.

I am ready for the true count down. 

No, thanks. I don't need a "better" year.

New year's resolutions.  I have stopped making these wishes years ago.  I think new year's resolutions are wonderful, just not for me.  I don't like working so hard to put myself through this much thinking and wishing.  That fact is, nobody ever wishes for a bad year.  

I look at 2013 in the rear view mirror and I feel nothing but profound wonderment and gratitude.  And good fortune.  I lead a charmed life and have always had great fortune.  2013 was no exception.  I should have been crumbled to pieces, but I wasn't.  Not even close.  I should have fallen into depression, but I was too stubborn.  It would have been acceptable by all standards for me to remain at the bottom of the vortex, but I was too proud.  Right or wrong, I needed the world to know, Eric didn't marry a sissy.  Necessary or not, I wanted to do Eric proud, even in his death.  Why is it important?  It isn't.  It's neither important nor relevant.  It's my ego I needed to feed, and my pride I needed to nurse.  

Simply, I do what it takes to survive it all.  I earn my survivor tattoo one stroke at a time.  I wear my ink proudly.  Humbly but proudly.  Softly but permanently.     

I don't wish for a "better" year.  I didn't have a "bad" 2013.  Instead I had an unbearably difficult year, which didn't make it "bad."  It just meant the year was unbearably difficult, and that I don't have much in me to go through another one. In the most humble sense, I learned that I am my own hero - my heroes are those who discover that inside, we're all capable of surprising ourselves.  I surprised myself for not only surviving my husband's death, but embracing the lessons he's left me.  I surprised myself for not only recovering from my loss, but emerging beautifully and victoriously.  I surprised myself for my openness and vulnerability to grief, to share, to write, to cry, to connect.  I surprised myself for my relentless determination to get well, to ask for help, to graciously receive, to generously give back.

No, thanks.  I don't need a "better" year.  I just need to remember, I've already earned my ink.