All Aboard the Crazy Train!

I was walking the dogs in my still-new-to-me 'hood last night, talking to my mom on the phone—that is my morning and evening ritual: walk the dogs, call mom . . . we were marveling at the amazing weather of this winter, yet another unseasonably warm, snow-less day, comparing it to last year, and the year before. . . I changed the subject, started telling her about the latest blog entry I've been writing, about a magazine article I'd found online that, to my surprise, included an interview with Bob! I was sharing the gist of the entry, when she interrupted. "I don't mean at all to sound disinterested in Bob, but when are you going to start writing about you, Jen? Isn't this new blog about you and your experiences in this new journey?" Her comments jarred me into silence (my mom rarely has the ability to do this to me—shut me up, that is), as she continued, "Bob definitely has a place in your writing—I mean, his death is why you're writing your blog in the first place—but in the heart of your grieving and the journey you are traveling, you already have some wonderful stories to share—funny ones, even—how you're surviving, the astounding things you're experiencing, that you are living, even deeply steeped in mourning . . ." Busted . . .

But, but—I have so many stories to share about Bob, I weakly protested, too many stories that have been buried and nearly forgotten, in the looming shadow of the hell that was his last months on earth . . . who wants to hear the pathetic little stories of a widow ridin' the rails of the Crazy Train? yuck, awkward, uncomfortable . . . truth is, I'm afraid if I start, I might not stop . . . but she's right. This is a new blog, with a new purpose, I said so, myself, at the end of the Sofa King, at the beginning of this one. . . and, you know I will continue to write about Bob, always weave stories of him within my story, till I run out of stories, which will be never . . .

I'm slowly learning—too slowly, in my opinion—that there are no rules for widowhood, for grieving and mourning . . . pretty much anything goes, no boundaries, no timeline, no patterns, no predictability, endless instances of ever-so-cautiously thinking, "Hey, today was a pretty good day—maybe I am getting a little bit better," only to be sucker-punched, knocked down, yet again, as though someone is trying to tell me, Give it up! You will never get better . . . followed again by one really good day—a day that blesses me with a very real, beautiful sign that Bob is well again and always with me, or a wonderful, soul-sharing lunch with a friend, or receive the nicest phone call or letter in the mail from another dear friend, or it might be a day, a moment in a day, that I truly feel the impact of Bob's presence in my life and feel so mercifully light and blessed to have had our time together . . . all of which makes this damn journey at once, oddly freeing and a holy frightful terror, if you can wrap your mind around that concept . . .

If this isn't insanity, it's as close as I'll ever come to it . . . ridin' the waves of grief, trying—or not trying, really—to allow them to wash over me instead of crashing into them, my feeble attempt to reduce the battering and bruises . . . many days I still tense up, instinctively, every muscle fiber taught, every neuron firing, bracing, steeling against the waves that crash into me, but end up being recklessly battered, in spite of the fighting . . . the hardest thing on this journey is learning to let go . . . and, learning that I get as many redos as I want, need, have to have, try things out, discard, try again, as many times as I need, before life starts feeling "right" again, if it will, ever . . . redos are okay, necessary, on this foreign path, to figure out what's truly right for me . . .

So, for my first major redo (or would this be considered the second?): four and a half months into my self-imposed exile in St. Paul, I've decided to move back to our house, the "Country Estate," as I've started calling it. Gave it the ol' college try in "The City." Or not. Who cares? No rules, right? Redo! Actually, I love St. Paul and would love to stay, but the big reason pushing me is practical. A little of the fog clearing . . . Yea! This week, I'm thinking in practical concepts! Progress! Quick—act on it!—before I'm yanked back into the abyss again . . .

Let's be real. I'm paying for two houses and I can't keep going about like this forever, as much as I'd like to. Would sooo love to keep up this little City Girl fantasy, pretending I am a completely different person, with a whole new life, while keeping Wrenwood on the back burner as Plan B, my connection to a past life . . . but the fun is wearing off, I really need to cut the sabbatical short and start dealing with things . . . in this time in the city, I've explored several options regarding our house and each has proven to be fraught with issues, and when I say, "fraught with issues," I mean, "seriously fucked up." Follow me, if you will, on just one leg of this "little" grief journey . . .

I moved from Wrenwood to St. Paul in August, after what I believe had to be as close to a nervous breakdown as I have ever been. It might very well have been a breakdown, there was no one else around to witness this terrifying event that I will never, fully be able to put into words. . . our house became a dark vessel, filled with nothing but horrific images of Bob suffering, endlessly; after he died, I was drowning in a deluge of sadness. . .it was all I could see, all I could think of, all I breathed, soaking, choking me to my core. . . drowning under the weight of the immense heaviness, I did the only thing I felt I could do to survive: got the hell out of Dodge. But at least one thread of sense remained, one that told me I needed to do something with our house, I couldn't let it just sit. I'd drive out several times a week, crying all the way out there, crying as I walked through the house, checking on things, crying all the way back to St. Paul, trying to decide what to do. . .

After agonizing for several weeks, in September, I finally implemented Option A: I hired a property management company to try and rent our house (I think it was September, might have been October; my memory is ridiculously unreliable lately, might be forever . . . my dear friend, Lisa, who lost her beloved Sam just six weeks before Bob died, told me just last night, that she read that memory issues are a very real and necessary physical response to grief. The brain shuts down some functions, in order for other functions to take over and operate on over-drive in an attempt to process/handle/get through the huge loss . . .)

The thought behind renting our house was to buy myself some time, a year or so, till I'm in a better frame of mind to handle the serious decision of selling. I quickly learned, however, that our neighborhood is not a highly-sought-after rental area. The few who did contact the management company tried to dicker the rental rate even lower that its already below-my-mortgage payment rate, among other (in my not so humble opinion) unreasonable demands; one potential renter had a misdemeanor domestic assault charge that was "in the process of being cleared" from his record (triggering visions of a Fatal Attraction ex showing up and torching our house) . . . suddenly, the idea of being a landlord became even less appealing than being a widow with an empty house . . . which lead to . . .

Option B: I then listed our property myself, with a For Sale By Owner company. By selling it myself, I could offer an attractive price, and still give myself flexibility in negotiations, and very optimistically break even. I owned my own business for eight years—I can do this! Do a few showings, hire a real estate attorney or title company to handle the paperwork, easy-peasy! (Blatantly discounting the fact that I did not run my business in the wake of my husband's death . . .) In trying to be creative and flexible in this shitty market, I also made the (in hind-sight) huge error in adding a "lease to own/contract for deed" option on my listing. I get it that it's a crappy market. I get it, that many very good people have fallen on difficult times, due to circumstances beyond their control, many of whom are working hard at getting their "stuff" back on track. Hell, this could have been Bob and me, had he lived . . . with this in mind, I was hoping/dreaming for that perfect person who couldn't secure a conventional loan for whatever reason, to magically appear with a nice chunk of change and a serious intent on buying my house . . . instead, every person in the tri-county area who should never consider purchasing a house contacted me. . .

The first couple I dealt with tugged at my heartstrings—he was a cancer survivor/heart patient on long term disability, she owned her own dog grooming business. We talked at length the first time they called me (huge down-side to FSBO—dealing face-to-face with potential buyers and being subjected to every last detail of their personal lives), and was told they had to foreclose on their house and declare bankruptcy due to his lengthy illness, and they were trying to piece their lives back together, rebuild their financial history . . . I so get that song and dance, on endless levels . . . as they poured their hearts out to me, I kept thinking, "Had Bob survived, this could easily have been us—we very likely would have lost our house, lost everything . . ."

But, the more I talked with this couple, the shit just got deeper and the red flags more plentiful, things they were telling me just weren't adding up, even with my creative math skills . . . there was no money to put down on my house—they wanted to rent for an indefinite amount of time, till some magical, mysterious pensions came due "sometime" next year when he retired (couldn't tell me when, couldn't give me any current statements showing how much . . .)—at that time, they could put a down payment on the house, and enter into a contract for deed for five years at 4% interest—in other words, they, with the worst credit history in the history of credit histories, wanted me to be their bank for 5 years, and give them a better interest rate than what real banks are giving real people with real, stellar credit history; they gave me a proposal, I showed my attorney, we countered with a more realistic offer; they declined and offered another option, still much to their benefit, so not to mine; it was Thanksgiving weekend, my attorney was gone for the holiday and told my new friends that I'd have to wait till Monday to give them an answer about their counter offer. . .

Then came the barrage of phone calls and e-mails from them over Thanksgiving weekend: "We just bought Christmas decorations for the house!" and "We were just at your property, walking around, trying to figure out where to put the kids' trampoline!" and "We met some of the neighbors! They're all so nice! We're going to get along great with everyone up here! We really hope you accept our offer!" Suddenly, I felt like I was starring in a twistedpsycho-sexual suspense thriller (tossin' in a Bob-ism, there) . . . the topper was, "It's a win-win situation for you, Jennifer—if we default, you get your house back!" In the near blinding fog of grief, I still had the tiniest bit of rational brain left, which tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, "Whuuh?!? I don't want my house back! Who plans their own bailout, if they're truly serious about buying a house? A delusional someone who can't afford to buy a house, ever, that's who . . ."

Then, the true epiphany: No. This would not have been Bob and me! We never would have tried to buy a house if we didn't have any money. We would be renting, until we got our shit together, not trying to sweet-talk a vulnerable widow into being our personal bank for five years. Period. Thank god for real estate attorneys whose job is to charge lots of money up front to confirm these suspicions and save me from losing far more than just money down the road . . .they were so disappointed when I called them on Monday to relay my decision: no deal. "But we love your house! We really, really wanted to be moved in before Christmas! We're so disappointed!" they lamented, they pressed, they actually whined, over the phone. "We really meant to accept your first offer! Won't you reconsider?!" Yeah, well guess what? Sometimes life doesn't work out the way you want it to. I really, really want my husband back and that ain't ever gonna happen, no matter how disappointed I am , not matter how much I whine, cry, plead, beg or barter. . . get over it. It's just a house, was my final answer . . .

And don't even get me started about the yahoos who moved to Woodbury, from Iowa a year and a half ago—ooops, too late—they were "very serious" about buying a home, they told me, had been researching the local market and really liked the looks of our house, 'cuz they both grew up in the country and are sick of renting a townhouse in Woodbury and would really, really, really want to find a nice country home close to work, at 3M! And yes, they were pre-approved for a home loan! A match made in heaven! After showing our beautiful little house to them, and several phone calls/e-mails later, I learn that yes, they were pre-approved for a loan—eighteen fucking months ago, in rural Iowa, for $150,000.

And (there's always an "and," isn't there?) after divulging this, hubby still has the cajones to e-mail me: Now, your price seems fair for the area, buuuuut, we could get a bigger home—newer, even—for a fraction of the price, back in Iowa. . .

"You ain't in Kansas anymore, Dorothy," was the gist of my answer. "First of all, as if I should have to tell you this, but evidently I do—the market is very different now than it was 18 months ago—even in Iowa. Second, you're not in Iowa. Third, if you are truly serious about buying a house, go to a local Twin Cities bank and get pre approved, in this lifetime, for a loan. And last, but not least, good luck finding your beautiful country-dream home, in move-in condition, for $150,000 anywhere in the metro area, country or inner-city. You'll be commuting from International Falls . . ." and finally, on to . . .

Option C: I finally admitted that I'm in no condition to play realtor—my tolerance for idiots is wearing dangerously thin, likely exacerbated by other, underlying issues. I decided to hand it over to a real professional, once and for all. . . so, I sat down with a realtor, who drew up three different sale price scenarios and outlined all the fees, what she would make, what I would "make" with the sale of the house. Now, if the For Sale By Owner experience taught me anything, it's that real estate is an ass-backward racket. With FSBO, I did all the hard work—took tons of pictures of our house, created Pulitzer-prize worthy descriptions of each room and the property, set up my listing online, filled out my disclosure reports, researched well and septic information, paid for a full inspection, paid for numerous little repairs, and dug up all the information pertaining to our house/property, printed flyers, put out signs, advertised on the MLS, Craigslist . . . then, I did all the showings, met with realtors as well as solo buyers . . . had I been given an offer, I'd have paid my real estate attorney a small sum to look things over, we'd find a title company and wrap things up, neat and tidy.

When a realtor "represents" me, he or she, who really knows or truly cares very little about my house or all the assets or the insider scoop about the area, does nothing to promote my property personally, other than throwing my listing up on the MLS (I know it's a little more to it than that, but I learned that it's very formulaic and little more). Then, she sits back and waits for other realtors, who know and care even less about my house, or what we've done to the place, or what the neighbors are like, or that owls live in our backyard, to bring in a mystery buyer and, with this nonexistent information, and like magic, they fall in love with my house based on a 10 minute walk-through and some MLS stats! It's a freakin' miracle houses are even sold at all, based on this jacked set-up. Anyone else see the bizarre, ass-backward structure of real estate transactions, or is it just me . . . I know I'll probably hear it from realtors for this rant, but I stand firm in my assessment. Even the realtor I was working with sheepishly admitted that yes, it is a little backward . . .

So, I looked at all the numbers my realtor has presented to me, and it dawned on me that 1.) the market might be even worse than I so optimistically believed, and 2.) no matter what I sell my house for, she will walk away with anywhere from 12 to 16 thousand dollars while I, very likely, will end up paying thousands of dollars (not a couple—we're talking possibly 30 grand or more) to sell our adorable house. Suddenly, I get the proverbial slap upside the head. I don't have to sell. I wanted to sell. . .

At the same time as all of this house stuff has been going on, I've also been seeing a grief counselor through Fairview's hospice program, I've been meeting up with other widows, am a part of a grief group, am hanging out and talking with an awful lot of others who are also dealing with (such an understatement) the awful, great loss of a beloved. And I am learning so much from these scarred, beautiful, shell-shocked survivors . . .that in the face of utter tragedy, humans are astoundingly resilient . . . What I'm also coming to terms with is that for the first several months following Bob's death, I was in shock and needed to do something for self-preservation; I don't remember much of that time, and in many ways, feel as though still am in "that" phase, but in the tiniest of increments, there is evidence that I am moving forward, not in a discernible, predictable manner, to the naked eye, but there is forward movement . . .

Our house, Wrenwood, to me, was 19 months of a living hell. . . as much as I graphically wrote about Bob's ordeal, I left out so very much of his endless suffering, as there was no way to fully make anyone, even those by his side for the whole ordeal, even me, truly grasp what was happening to him . . . but I am also learning from others who are also on this grief journey, is that somehow, someway, we all are having to rebuild from ashes. Even if we chose to do nothing, we will still be dragged forward, like a stone under a glacier. . .

But even if we chose to "work through" the grief, it's a helluva process, such hard work, takes every fiber of my being to do things differently, but with no guidebook, no rules, no blueprint, no fast-track, no Cliff notes. . . I know other widowed friends who are carving new lives in houses where their husbands died, some quickly, some after long, difficult illnesses. My friend, Lisa and her husband are living in the house that she and her husband specially outfitted for their beloved son, Sam, who lived his life in a wheelchair and had so many physical difficulties in his earthly body, the same house where Sam loved and was loved so deeply and purely, died so unexpectedly, so traumatically; they have no intention of moving any time soon . . . people are picking up their shredded lives, and piecing them back together, in the homes in which they shared with their loved one . . . I also know that some people have to move, for endless reasons, even if it's temporary, even if they have to continue moving, again and again. . .no rules . . .

Now that I have a little bit of distance—both physically and chronologically—between our house and Bob's death, I am slowly coming to see it as our home again. Maybe not my home forever, but at least for now. For the present time. Practical, logical reasons are turning me back in that direction, immeasurable love is solidifying the decision. I am still wrestling with the whole concept, am scared, I know it won't be easy, the memories will still be there, but I feel at least a little better equipped now, to ride the waves. . . that with every crashing wave, there is a reprieve, a time to catch my breath, feel a sliver of peace, before the next one hits. . . slowly getting my sea legs . . . seven months ago, I didn't know this, the dam had broken, choking and drowning under the crushing weight of the deluge. . .

Over Christmas weekend, I told my mom of my decision to move back to our house. She didn't seem too surprised. I explained that now, not only do I see that house as a place filled with endless months of endless physical suffering, I am slowing, once again, starting to see, to know, that in the midst of suffering, it was, even more, a home so richly, deeply steeped in, entwined in, enveloped in, immense, endless love. . . huge, authentic, genuine, soul-filling love, so evident in all his parents did for Bob and for us, so evident in the immense support and love from all our family members, so evident in the love, kindness and generosity of our neighbors, our friends, strangers, so evident in our love for each other . . . my hope is that as time goes on, the love will continue to move in and take up more and more space as the horrors slowly recede, dissipate . . .

So, tune in tomorrow, when our weeping widow suddenly decides to move to New Mexico . . .

Happy Birthday . . .

I so love the person who captured my beautiful husband in this photograph . . . all I know is that it was taken at a winery in South America, maybe Bodega Norton, Argentina. . . in the past 20 or so years, I have had the honor and privilege to witness this breathtaking expression endless times, but who ever knew how valuable it would come to be, to have captured it "on film . . ." a gift that surpasses a price tag . . .

Today (December 27) is Bob's birthday, he would be 45 . . . this picture was taken when Bob went to South America in 2008, I was soooooo angry that I couldn't tag along for the ride . . . while he was gone, I managed to rear-end the Jeep, nearly killed a neighbor's dog when I let Gaia off leash just "to play," I painted the split level entry, wallpapered the basement bathroom, cut off my hair . . . recognize a theme here? I seem to lose my mind whenever Bob is gone . . . nice to know that some things never change . . . difference now, is, I have no one with which to temper these extremes . . .

Have been trying to write what the holidays have been like, the first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, blah, blah, blah, without the love of my life . . . no words . . . eight months, and I still have no words, nothing, to describe what it's like to live with a gaping, gasping hole in my heart . . .but I will continue to try . . . one of these days, the words have to make an appearance . . .

Hold your family close this Christmas . . .

I've been following the story of a friend of mine, two friends, really . . . I went to high school with Corey and Ronda (both a few years younger than I); Ronda's family were next-door neighbors to mine growing up, Corey and I were in speech and theater together. The most adorable couple, both so full of life, great sense of humor, have been such amazing sources of support for Bob and me during his ordeal, and continue to be for me . . .

Corey is a two-time cancer survivor. His first cancer, a brain cancer, occurred maybe seven or eight years ago. I feel bad that I don't recall all the particulars any more (but not surprising—I have a hard time remembering what day it is. Maybe it's time to get a real job, if for no other reason to know when it's at least Monday and Friday). Corey was gravely ill at that time, but went through the whole host of cancer treatments and lived to tell the tale. I don't know if was considered cured or in remission, but has lived a healthy, grateful life for several years beyond that first cancer diagnosis. This past summer, he started experiencing difficulties with motor skills and speech (Corey is a motorcycle designer, by trade), and was once again diagnosed with a brain tumor. I believe it's a different kind of tumor this time, a more aggressive type, extremely difficult to treat. After a litany of treatments—chemo, radiation, surgery, more chemo, seeing doctors in Kansas, the Mayo, specialists in Texas at MD Houston—Corey was recently told there is no more treatment available, and he is now home, in hospice care.

Corey and Ronda's story hits so close to home for so many reasons; being long-time friends, their story moves me. Corey is one of the funniest people I've met—seriously inappropriate sense of humor that very likely blows mine out of the water—in high school, he was a talented actor and so gifted as an artist, he was able to turn that a real-life, adult career—designing out-of-this-world motorcycles. My sisters and I logged endless hours playing with Ronda (and her siblings) as kids; Ronda's family were so incredible when my parents divorced—stepped in and helped us, without asking, without judgment, with pure kindness and generosity, it's how those Duerksen's roll . . . we all went our separate ways after high school—Corey and Ronda ended up in Kansas—but we'd run into each other now and then, when visiting family back home, and they're the kind of friends that we could just pick up where we left off, the years between visits melting away.

Through the "miracle" (. . . chorus of angels goes here . . .) of facebook, we all reconnected a few years ago, and have kept in touch via silly posts, sharing pictures of our lives, and occasional e-mail messages. It was through friends and family that Corey and Ronda learned of Bob's cancer, and last summer (2010), they carved out time from their schedule to come visit Bob and me out at Wrenwood (Bob was recovering from his second heart attack, we were patiently waiting for him to stabilize, gain weight, get stronger for his pending "curative" surgery; Corey and Ronda were in MN visiting family). Their visit meant so much to us, and Bob was so touched, that people he didn't even know, were rooting so hard for him, and would take time out of their travel schedule to visit us.

The parallels between their story and ours is uncanny. . . Corey was in the final interviewing stages for his dream job at Indian Motorcycle (with the possibility of moving back to MN) when his cancer (and its debilitating symptoms) reared its ugly head; Bob had barely started his dream job back at Surdyk's when his manifested . . . Ronda is a hairdresser; I was a hairdresser . . . Corey is a two time cancer patient, as was Bob . . . I could go on and on, but the particulars, the graphic details mean nothing to anyone who hasn't been on this horrific journey.

Being the wife of a cancer patient, and now his main caregiver, Ronda's role in Corey's situation instantly grabs my heart and doesn't let go. The most difficult job on the face of the planet, in my not so humble opinion . . . but also the best job I will ever, ever have the honor of being blessed with. Reading their brief posts on facebook and Caringbridge, they don't share too many details (not like Diarrhea Mouth, here, who flung it all out for the world to read. . .those things called "filters?" Ummmmm, yeah. . . not well-developed in some of us), but I read between the lines and simply know that this has been a road to hell for this beautiful family. They also have an adorable 9 year old son, Zane, another intricate layer woven into this already complicated situation.

I have no words of wisdom for this precious family. But I send them messages often. An e-mail here and there. A facebook message now and then. To let them know I'm thinking of them, always. They are never far from my heart. Several years ago, in an effort to curtail the out-of-control insanity of the holidays, my family gave up the gift-exchange between adults on Christmas and developed our own little "silent auction" event to replace it. In the past, we'd pick a local organization—say a food shelf—to be the recipient of our auction proceeds. This year, it was unanimous that Corey, Ronda and Zane would receive our proceeds. It wasn't a "windfall," by any means, but I'm sure it will help. Maybe with some groceries. Pay a bill or two.

I know it's so cliche, because I know we will all live our lives the way we chose to, not the way anyone else tells us to, but if I could just say one thing this Christmas season, it's something I've said before, and it's something I believe it with my whole being: Please. Peace, Love and take care of each other. Not just on Christmas, but always. In all ways.

A most blessed holiday season to everyone. . .

I'm dreaming of a brown Christmas . . .

. . . and a brown New Year's Day, and a brown Valentine's day, and a brown St. Patty's day . . . following a theme here? Wow, could I be any more anti-Minnesotan? My sincerest apologies to the industries that rely heavily on a hearty, snow-clogged "typical" Minnesota winter—I might as well march around with "I hate Polaris! And Ice Fishing! And skiing! Oh, yea—and Snow!" protest signs. . .

I've never really known what anxiety attacks were till the past few months, as winter has settled in. Oh, hell, what am I saying—that is so not true—when Bob had his "first" heart attack (second, technically, but first one during his cancer ordeal in May 0f 2010), he suffered many anxiety attacks . . . gripping, terrifying episodes that sent us flying to the ER on several occasions, erring on the side of caution that it might, just might be another heart attack. . . I guess what I meant was personally, I've never known what an anxiety attack is. . . this winter, I think I can say with at least a little bit of certainty, that I've come close.

This time last year—no, again let me correct myself—during Bob's entire ordeal—I didn't allow myself the time to think about panic attacks as they pertained to me, much less anything else, when he was so ill, every fiber of my being was so focused on him . . . A little synopsis of my mindset last year: Snowstorm, again?! For the eleventeenth time this season? How many inches this time?And I have strep throat?!? Fuck it! I can run the snow blower! We have a Jeep! I'll pop a few Excedrin—Bob's been in the rehab hospital for nearly four months—come hell or high snow, I will get to Bethesda, and I will be with him . . .

Such was our lives for almost the entire four months he was in rehab, for the next four and a half months he was home in hospice (winter started early last year, in October, took till April for the mountains of snow to melt, many of you may have forgotten . . . There. I am vindicated. Polaris—you had double-winter last year). Maybe some of these pictures will solidify how much winter terrifies me, to this day . . .

A repeat of last year, or the year before, for that matter, strikes terror in my heart. Even a shadow of last year is enough to keep me up at night these days, tossing and turning, as though my crazy mind doesn't have enough to obsess about . . . I thought it was just "me" being a freak, wondering, what the hell is wrong with me now? Get over this already . . . Bob and I used to love winter, embraced it with the most hearty of them—snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, winter weekends to the north shore . . .no matter the season, he reveled in an excuse to sling his camera bag over his shoulder and head out into the wilderness for the day. Winter provided a whole new canvas of photo opportunities, a whole new world in which to wander, lose himself, ponder life and the great big meaning of it. . .

But then I got a message from a dear friend who had lost her husband in March, unexpectedly, massive heart attack while attending their son's hockey tournament . . . her beloved husband was just 47 years young . . . she had to take her son to a hockey tournament a week or so ago, less than a year after her husband's death. Circumstances similar to when her husband died, she and both her kids went into panic mode as they approached the weekend, all so fearful that something would happen to one of them, as it had happened to their dad, her husband, so afraid something tragic would happen, filled their entire weekend with dread. . . this is what "they" call post-traumatic stress, peeps. . . flashbacks, nightmares, all-consuming images of the trauma of the 19 months Bob was so very sick . . . flashbacks, nightmares, all-consuming images a father and husband so unexpectedly ripped from their lives . . . I could share countless stories like this, not just my own, but of the many wounded survivors who are taking their first, second, 100,000th step alone, without their beloved by their side. . .

But these are the same people from whom I am gathering courage, hope, understanding, compassion . . . in some ways, I feel an odd sort of—what—relief? Is that the word? Comfort? Bizarre sense of camaraderie? I so hate to say, "Misery loves company," because that is so not what I mean and is sofa king trite and insulting and offensive, all at the same time. Unless one has walked this path. . . then the few words, the complete loss of words sometimes, make complete and utter sense to those who are walking without loved ones at their side. Wonderful translators of the Language of Grief. Profoundly adept at filling in the blanks . . . who know exactly what I mean when I say, "I hope, truly hope, this year, we have a brown Christmas this year," and not feel like a Grinch because I'm "wishing" a white Christmas away. And they're teaching me, whether they know it or not, that it's okay to not "get over it, already," just yet. Grief happens on its own time, its own schedule. Ebbs and flows to its own rhythm . . . right now, my job is to try to ride the waves. Hoping for a few less injuries that way . . .

New digs . . .

Wow, is this intimidating . . . to be writing in a new "house," so to speak, maybe even to a new audience. The Sofa King has been running nearly two years, it served its puprose above and beyond what I ever intended, but I've decided it's finally run its course and needs to be peacefully laid to rest, with respect and dignity. I am infinitely blessed and grateful for the outreach Sofa King was able to accomplish, on behalf of Bob and his journey. What started out as a simple little gesture to keep family and friends in the loop about his condition, blossomed into an infintely reaching vehicle that kept him connected to friends, family, neighbors, co-workers, even total strangers. Along the long journey of his battle, I constantly struggled with keeping up with the blog, but whenever I asked Bob if he wanted me to quit writing, quit putting his stuff so "out there," as I had been, he always said, "No, keep writing. It's good for you, and it's the only thing keeping me connected to my friends and family. . ."

He was so violently ripped from the world as we know it, for a year and a half, and other than me, his parents and the medical community at the U of M, he had little contact with anyone else. The Sofa King blog accomplished things I could never have done on my own . . .it was a therapeutic outlet for me, a place to vent, to share Bob's experience, to sort and process the events of a 19 month nightmare . . . it became a source of immeasurable support, spread like wildfire via word of mouth, a way for loved ones—friends, family, colleagues, even complete and utter strangers—to send us messages of love, strength, prayers . . . for all of that, and endless other reasons, I will carry The Sofa King blog close to my heart, forever.

Please. Give me a little time, to gather my bearings here. Get used to the new digs, to orient myself to the new direction I might take. Moving is always a bit stressful, as we all know, and it might take me longer than expected, to settle in, accept and embrace this step (you should have seen my epic meltdown when I moved to St. Paul. . . .on second thought, I'm glad you didn't). My hope is to update this blog regularly, again to share my continued journey that started long ago. Then again, this widowhood stuff is still pretty fresh for me, the rules continue to change on me, without notice, and there might not be another entry after this. We'll see what happens.

Thank you, each and ever one of you, for being with Bob and me for the year and a half that he fought so valiantly for his life. And, for continuing to follow my journey, without his earthly presence at my side. I miss him with every fiber of my being, but I am also very cognitive that the love Bob and I shared on earth continues even though he's not physically with me. I am blessed with signs of this every day. Love is all around. And love is all we need.

Peace, love and please, take care of one another. It's really that easy.

xxoo,

Jen