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.