Tonight I learned that a girl who was friends with several of my friends died.  She was 41, I believe, and died of spinal cancer, after a run in with breast cancer that resulted in a mastectomy.  She was paralyzed from the armpits down.  She left behind two children – and a blog.

For the first time since Luke’s passing, I sat down and read a first-person account of what it’s like to be the one dying.  I read the whole thing in one sitting, as I know many of you have done with this blog.  It was breathtaking and devastating, and thought-provoking, not only because this woman was an excellent writer, but because of her honest approach to her situation.  She had frank conversations with her doctors, her family, her children, her readers. . .and hopefully herself.  I can’t say that it was very clear; she seemed to go back and forth on where she was with her acceptance of dying, but as I often said about Luke, how are you expected to come to terms with something you’re not programmed to accept?

I felt very vulnerable while reading her blog.  I think it’s because it was a cancer blog, similar to this one, but from the writer’s perspective.  She and I are also very similar in our thinking.  Part of me almost felt like I was reading my own journey into death, though quite frankly, I don’t imagine I would approach it as gracefully as Dominique did.

She asks this question in her blog, “If you could choose which way you wanted to die, would you choose a long, drawn out (and possibly very painful) death through illness, or would you prefer to die quickly with no warning through a car accident or something similar?”  My Dad and I had this discussion recently, in comparing the slow, painful death of my husband with the sudden, unexpected death of his wife (quite the pair we make, eh?), but replaying the conversation in my head, it was still addressed from an outside perspective.  We ask, “what’s worse?” but I ask now: worse for who?

Death is for the dying.  Yes, the process, the aftermath, and the pain of experiencing your loved one dying is for the survivors, but the truth is, none of us can know how we’ll really feel until we’re in the exact situation where it’s too late to decide.  Like straight or curly hair, perhaps we’ll naturally want “the other option,” regardless of what hand we’re dealt.

How do you want to die?  At this exact moment, I can say unequivocally that I want a sudden death.  Take me in my sleep.  Give me an aneurysm.  Anything to not be aware that my days are limited, because I’m tortured enough with my privileged view of life, somehow convincing myself I have another 50 years, and that’s still not good enough.  No, don’t give me time to dwell on the experiences I’ll never have.

I remember when Luke and I were talking one day, post diagnosis, and he said he was bothered by the thought of how many more sunrises he’d see.  How many more rainy days.  How many summers.  Perhaps it is selfish of me, but if I can escape this existence without ever having to dwell on those questions, I’ll take it.

Yet there is still the question of those left behind.  Not being able to tell my daughter I love her one last time.  I  am so grateful that Luke’s last words to me were “I love you,” and I would give anything to be able to give that same peace to my Dad.  On the flip side, there are things I will forever be haunted by because of Luke’s suffering.  It’s kind of a toss up, isn’t it?  People who die suddenly leave a lot of unanswered questions that can certainly haunt their loved ones, too.

My point in all this is actually a positive one.  To borrow from the country song, perhaps it’s time to really live like you’re dying.  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to die suddenly, if your affairs were already in order, if your loved ones knew without a doubt where they stood.  Too often, we wait until someone is dying to say all the things we should have said in life.  When Luke died, I remember people going into our room one by one, to say their final peace.  I wonder why we wait until life is over to tell someone what they mean to us.

One thing Luke intended on doing was writing letters to those he loved, but the cancer moved too quickly and he was unable to do so.  Wouldn’t it be something if we didn’t wait until we were dying to tell the most honest, epic love stories?  To lay it all out there and leave ourselves vulnerable?  I wonder how many people take their true selves to the grave when they die, never speaking their truths.  I don’t know.  Maybe instead of “live like you’re dying,” it should be, “give it all away like you have nothing to lose.”

Perhaps it’s time to write some letters.

Perhaps it’s time to stop waiting until it’s too late to tell someone how you feel.

I know, I know.  We all say we’re going to “really live,” and we post all these witty, regurgitated quotes from Rumi and Oscar Wilde, reminding us – while we’re burying ourselves in Facebook and the internet – that there’s a whole beautiful world out there, somehow justifying it to ourselves that we may never actually see it.  We promise ourselves we’re going to love like there’s no tomorrow, and dance like no one’s watching or whatever, but isn’t that kind of a lot to take on all at once?  It’s like dieting – you can’t just cut everything out at once; it’s better to start slow, like cutting out your grande latte.  If you try to change everything in your life all at once, you might as well be a different person.  Instead, maybe start small.  If pouring my heart out to those I love makes the possibility of sudden death more tolerable, I’d say that’s two for two.  Who knows, maybe it’s something that will improve the rest of my life, the living part – for however long that may be.

I’m posting this early, in anticipation of hibernating on the actual anniversary, as I tend to do.  It is easier for me to deal in my own time, and the pressure of this looming date makes me want to avoid it.  Sometimes I don’t know if I’m really feeling certain emotions, or if it’s the impending milestones that make me feel them harder. For the past month or so I’ve felt like this anniversary was something I was fully prepared to deal with – at least to the healthy, normal extent one can deal with something like this. I had been mentally composing myself in advance, as I tend to do, and was filled with uplifting thoughts about growth, moving forward in a positive way, and learning how to cherish the lessons I learned from Luke.

But as these days creep by, as the biting cold of November really sinks in, and strikes home, I realize I was viewing this upcoming day from a very removed place. It’s like saying you wouldn’t be homesick if you traveled abroad for a month – you may think that now, but once you’re in it, down in those trenches, only then will you really know how you feel.

And now, against my will, I’m being forced to relive it. If I could move to Hawaii for the winter, I could avoid it, but of course avoiding it isn’t what I need to be doing either. It’s just the damn cold. The way the wind smells as it blows leaves down the street. The familiar orange and red, more recognizable now by the feelings of sorrow they bring to my heart. The last time I stood freezing on a corner was when I was rushing to be by my husband’s side in the hospital. At least that’s the last time I remember. I know there was a December and a January, which must have been much colder, but they did not make it past the strict boundaries of my awareness.

I do believe it is hitting home now, finally. I keep getting these flashes of images, words that were said, things that happened, and I almost view it from an outsider’s perspective. That poor woman, how did she go through those things? There must have been a strength I didn’t know I had; and I wonder, did I really have it, or did some greater quality in me rise up and take over this fragile heart, because there’s no way I could imagine surviving it now.

My husband died in my arms. I have to let that sink in. Who was that woman who guided him calmly into death, breathing his breath with him, eyes focused intently on his chest, waiting for his heart to stop beating? Was I really under so much duress leading up to that moment, that I could handle what was to come next? If you were to take me back there to that room, to those moments, and drop me in the middle of it, I believe I’d run screaming, unable to handle watching someone I love so much die.

And I think of him. I think of the times before he got really bad, when he would tell me how much he loved me, desperate panic in his voice. Removed from that now, not in the trenches, I wonder who that woman was who was so lucky to have had that. I have not forgotten his love, nor mine for him, and in many ways I talk about him as though he’s still alive, because my love has not faded one sliver. That is truly something permanent. But the pain and the love go hand in hand, and I cannot remember one without the other. I know that will always be there, and I understand now what it means to have a hole in your heart that can never be filled. I’ll have to ask Nickle what his great metaphor was for that feeling, something about the knots on a tree; they don’t prevent the tree from growing, majestically even, they simply become a part of it.

I can’t hear his voice anymore, or remember his laugh. I have a couple of his voicemails saved, but those have now become too familiar, memorized, rote. There truly is no more newness now, save the few pictures I get to see that others have found, or the things of his that were in the last drawer I finally went through, about two weeks ago. It took me a year, but I wanted to wait until I was ready – and I was. I laughed when I looked at some of the things in there, just little reminders of who he was. It was a joyful experience, just he and I alone in my room, laughing and reliving the memories.

So here I am at the year mark, and perhaps it’s a control thing, but I tend to fight back when things overwhelm me. The truth is, I don’t really have to deal with it until I’m ready. It’s just a date. Yes, it’s an anniversary of sorts, but this is the day he was taken from me, and I don’t give it credit. There are so many wonderful, important days in Luke’s life, and November 15th is not one of them. So you’ll have to forgive me if I am absent on this day.

And there are other ways I honor him. I love more fiercely now. He taught me to relentlessly pursue happiness, by being who you are and not living or loving in fear. I know I am not the only person he truly taught how to love. And I think of him when I’m feeling vulnerable, when I’m unsure, or feeling my walls coming up. He would have crumbled those walls like they were a house of cards, starkly and nakedly showing his truths, boldly looking you in the face and telling you his feelings. “I love you and I’m not ready for you to go,” he said to me once when I was falling apart on him. It was impossible to doubt his love. And that part of his character has transferred to me. I love fiercely now, realizing that every moment is precious, and life must happen now. I think we all know this not too far beneath the surface, but losing Luke has forced me to recognize it in a real and active way.

I suppose I never thought I’d be ok again. As I look one year in the face, I realize I did come out on the other side, and I didn’t lose my mind as I thought I would. While I still can’t look back with simply a smile and a warm fuzzy in my heart, those things are still there – they’re just accompanied by equal parts pain and aching. Right now, I feel like I’ll never shift that balance to only having joyful feelings, but I know not to try to predict the future anymore.

One year. I suppose this is the stark reminder of how time is relative, as it could just as easily be one month. Grief truly follows no timelines, but I was fortunate enough and truly honored to have shared my time with someone like Luke, who left a legacy of love and honesty, giving me something to hold onto, and the means with which to go forward without him.

Standing there this morning, it felt like no time had passed.   If I’d closed my eyes I could imagine it being last October.  The smell of a memory, undefinable on its own, it doesn’t smell like a thing, but a state of mind.  Panic, underlying despair, stress so high I was like a live wire.  I also felt the beach, a place I haven’t been to since our anniversary, and one I’m not certain I’ll be able to revisit again.  Is it not processing if I avoid the pain?  I’m going through my life, I’m truly living, I’m not unable to move forward. . . I just can’t do certain things, like listen to sad songs, or hear sad-romantic stories, or go to the beach.   I can’t tell if that’s “good” for still being in the first year.  I feel like it has to be.

As happens often with me, I had to think for a moment about what month it is, and realized September is almost over.  I started thinking about October, then November.  My thoughts led to the holidays, and I found myself wondering how I would handle my first Thanksgiving without Luke.  My heart raced and I felt despair, which was doubly impacted as soon as I realized this would NOT, in fact, be my first Thanksgiving without Luke. 

I’ve heard it said that the first year is the hardest, and the second year is harder than that.  I fully understand why this is now.  I’ve talked about the fact that I wasn’t present for several months after Luke’s death, and I realize that even more as I try to remember where I spent Christmas last year.  I was simply not present.  I wonder at some of the conversations I may have had, or decisions I made, as there must have been an instinctive survival version of me living my life in my stead. 

For some of us, it seems, the second year is really the first year.  One day at a time, it’s all we can do.

Last month Luke’s ashes were spread at Burning Man.  This was a bit of an adventure, as his ashes had been sent back to California with Dave, after he took them to Westport.  It was only a week before Burning Man when I realized I did not have them to give to the person who was supposed to take them to the burn.  Some quick phone calls, and we had people in LA driving to meet Dave, pick up the ashes and drive Luke to the Nevada desert.  Those he loved, the ones who in part made Burning Man “home’ for Luke, put his ashes in the Temple and he joined the many mementos, pictures, talismans and certainly other ashes of those who had also felt a great connection to this place.  The only part that hurt was not being able to tell him that we did this for him.  He would have cried.

Crying.  I don’t do that anymore.  Though, I still don’t listen to sad songs.  I still haven’t had my night of wine and sobbing, but I think I’m ok without that now.  

A few weeks ago I had some friends over.  We sat up all night drinking wine and talking, and the conversation turned to hospitals.  We were telling stories, and of course I have some of the best Luke stories.  As I told them, I felt the mood around me change a bit, to one of quiet respect.  As I told some of the funnier ones, we laughed, real, full body laughs, and it felt good to no longer be a victim of my own emotions.  Granted, there was a moment when the act of laughing could have quickly switched over to crying, and I sensed that in the group as well, but it was the first time I could find humor in those memories.  I know that is growth.

One day at a time.  I realize as we hit the 10-month mark, that there may actually come a day when the feelings I have seem to line up with the amount of time that’s gone by, though today is not that day.  It’s still very fresh, and as I watch the year race by I can’t help but wonder, am I really here now?

Packing and moving was stressful, of course, and when the moment came to close the door for the last time, it rocked me a bit, but I said goodbye, hurriedly shut the door and walked with purpose down the hall for the last time. 

To be completely honest, I don’t miss it one bit.  I think this move was exactly what I needed, as I immediately felt a  burden lifted, and every day brings me one step closer to acceptance.  I am no longer angry.  How can one be angry surrounded by the water?  When I think of Luke now, it is with a swelling in my heart, but the anger left the day I closed that door.  I’m far from acceptance, but I’m in the best place I can be for right now, and that’s good enough for me.

On July 31st, one of Luke’s oldest friends fulfilled Luke’s wishes to have his ashes spread at Westport where he used to surf.  This happened on the same day I moved onto the boat, and I can’t help but feel a connection to him in the water.  It has always been the water, with us, and it’s something elusive and vast enough that it’s easier to embrace the possibility of something greater.  We are both home now in many ways, still and always connected. 

I remember talking with him about how much time I’d have left on this earth without him; I remember it being a problem to solve, as though there would be a reunion someday.  I don’t believe in an afterlife, and I know I’ll never see him again, even in death, but I feel connected to him by honoring his memory in my heart.  He will always be my love, and the beautiful and wonderful thing is that nothing can ever change that. 

I’m finally to the point in my grieving process where I can stop putting him on a pedestal; he was human and just as flawed as the rest of us.  We weren’t perfect, and at times our love was exceptionally challenged, but I do believe it’s what love does under pressure that counts the most.  Can it withstand the harshest challenges?  Does it grow stronger, or wither in the face of difficulty?  

It’s hard for me, not feeling him here.  It’s hard for me to admit that it’s no longer about Luke.  He isn’t here.  Moving out of the apartment helped me realize that more, and I’m no longer living my life with the overwhelming feeling of him watching me.  It feels selfish to say, to feel, that my life is about me now.  Isn’t that strange?  Somehow it seems disrespectful to say that life is for the living, that I’m still alive and deserve happiness.  Is that what they mean by survivor’s guilt?  

Regardless, here it is, and moving onto the boat has helped me embrace it.  I am completely single for the first time in my life, I am living on a beautiful lake, and am actively fulfilling my dreams.  My career is only moving upward and I have the most amazing friends and family anyone could hope for.  I have love in my life, and burning passion deep in my belly, and as far as I can tell, that’s not a bad start. 

I’m moving onto a boat.  This is something I’ve wanted to do for a while now, and the perfect situation has presented itself.  I know some of you will think I’m crazy, but perhaps a little crazy is what I need right now?  I think in times of crisis (death, divorce), sometimes following your heart is the way to go, even if it seems different from what you’re used to.  I’ve been afraid of acting recklessly, of making a decision I can’t undo, but living in fear of my own decisions isn’t healthy either.  There comes a point where you have to go through it and see which new version of you comes out on the other side.  Life is not meant to be cautiously tiptoed around.   

Now I’m going through the process of packing.  The boat is fully furnished, so I truly am having to find a home for everything I own.  Jill has been gracious enough to loan me her basement for storage, so I can pick and choose what goes to the Goodwill and what stays.  I’m having a very easy time at it, not really hesitating on any of it, which surprised me.  I honestly thought sifting through everything would be really painful, and it’s not yet. . .though I haven’t had to close the door for the last time.  I imagine I’ll have to be carried down the hall.  

I made a firm decision to not bring anything of Luke’s with me, except a few pictures, the letters he wrote to me at Burning Man, and his antique Japanese box, which I still haven’t gone through.   Everything else has to go in storage.  It will sit there for a year, then when I revisit it perhaps I’ll be ready to part with silly things like his socks and receipts from Jai Thai.  I’m so thankful I have that option, to minimize and cleanse, but to not have to say goodbye to everything all at once.

As my apartment gets cleared out, piece by piece, I feel the impact as I realize I’ll have to say goodbye to this place where Luke and I shared our lives.  Our entire relationship, except a few months, all the ups and downs, the fights, the overwhelming love, the fear, the hope, the agony of his passing; all of it took place here, and it will be a bittersweet farewell.  

I know that if I’m going to be able to move forward with my life, I need to truly start fresh, and I see this as the first real step I’m taking into my new life.  Luke would never have lived on a boat.  This is 100% me, and yes it’s scary, but deciding to move in with Luke in the first place was scary, and look how that turned out (I wouldn’t trade it for anything). 

Last night as I was winding down, listening to music, Sia’s Breathe came on.  That song kills me, and the second it started I felt the tears coming.  I forced myself to listen, and not run to change the song.  It put me in the fetal position on the floor, and I am still amazed at how deeply I can cry, but admittedly, I felt better afterwards.  That’s the part I forget, that there’s a point to crying, it really is “getting it all out.”  I’m learning, slowly, to accept the emotions as they come.  My body knows what to do, my “heart” knows what it needs to go through to heal, and I need to trust that more. 

The only thing I am so sad to not be able to take with me is the beautiful mural Luke painted on our bedroom wall.  It’s set up to look like a screen, of a japanese cherry blossom tree, and he spent days perfecting each pink flower.  That is one thing I will truly have to say goodbye to, knowing that it will be painted over the next day.  Of course, that makes me think about the next people who will live there, and how they will have no idea the tragedy that was suffered there.  Ghosts.  How many ghosts lived there before me?  This reminds me that life is cyclical.  I find no greater meaning in it still, but somehow it helps me to remember that in 100 years, no one will remember this; no one will care and we’ll all be ashes.  It’s strange the things that bring me comfort.

My laptop at home is kaput, and this greatly restricts my blogging ability.  This should be remedied soon.

So a couple of milestones have come and gone, one of which was Luke’s birthday on June 12th.  The day crept up on me suddenly, as those anniversaries tend to do.  I waited until the last-minute to decide what to do.  Originally I was going to spred his ashes at our beach, but once the day came I realized I wasn’t prepared to do that just yet.  It’s not like I feel his presence in that box, or would even really have a problem with them being gone; it’s just the physical act of doing it that I am not ready to face.  It’s the emotional impact it will have that is just too much for me right now; apparently I feel safer in my denial.

His brother and best childhood friends did take some of his ashes up to Alpental on his birthday.  They hiked up that vertical mountain to bring Luke back to the place he spent most of his younger days.  I feel so fortunate to know he has such a great group of guys to take care of him, and I’m sure this was a very emotional trip for them to take.  I will get there eventually, I’m just not ready to deal with the emotions as of yet.

For as much processing as I do and have done, and how “good” I seem to be doing, in all honesty, I am very lost right now.  I am stagnant in my life, feeling like I’m just floating through my days.  I don’t feel like I’m an active participant in my own life, but rather that I’m being lived.   When you are with someone for a while, you make plans.  We had dreams.  Goals.  When Luke got sick, the goals changed; suddenly our entire life was focused on getting him better.  And when he didn’t get better, the focus became dealing with those emotions, learning how to merely cope without him.  And now?  Now all that has passed.  It’s been 7 months, and while I’m still processing his death, I’m also trying to redefine myself as a single person with my own goals. 

The problem is, I don’t know what those goals are now.  I’ve been having major struggles with my living situation.  I’m still in the apartment Luke and I shared, and while I don’t necessarily feel his presence there, I realize I am still living that life.  A very wise person I spoke with compared it to going back and visiting your grandmother’s house.  When you return to that environment, you might revert back to old habits.  I know when I go to my grandparent’s house, I instantly crave Ritz crackers, because that’s what I always ate when I went there as a child.  Is it possible I’m still residing with Luke, even though he’s not actually living there?  I don’t know, it seems relevant. 

To be honest, I’m feeling a strong drive to leave my apartment.  I keep thinking ridiculous thoughts, like, “Maybe if my carpet were steam cleaned I might stay.”  I was able to take a step out of that and realize that I was making excuses for my desire to leave.  I’m afraid that if I do leave, I will wake up one day and desperately miss my home, and by then it will be gone.  I’ve been realizing lately that the past 7 months have been a blur, and I’m not fully aware of everything I am doing.

I rented a piano, for example.  Why?  What possessed me to go out and make a major purchase of an instrument I have no idea how to play?  One day I looked at it and wondered how it got there.  This happens with a lot of things.  The other day I looked at my kitten, Bean, and wondered when I got him.  Had Luke met him?  I have to do math to figure out my recent past.  Then it made me very sad to realize Luke didn’t know this little kitten who is part of our lives, living in his home, playing with our other cat. 

I’m aimless.  Depressed.  I’m trying to go to the gym as much as possible to get endorphins flowing.  I’m drinking again.  This was a conscious decision, it’s not something I could just fall into after being sober for 5 years.  These things seem to be an answer for me right now,things I have control over in my life.  I feel like I’ve become a little reckless in my moral scope and my life plan.  I could just as easily quit my job and move to New York, as I could buy a home and settle down.  For the first time in my life I just don’t know what I want, and that’s new territory for me.  I’m always the girl with the plan. 

Now my plan is just to wait.  To see what happens.  This hands-off approach to my life is uncomfortable, I’m used to being very decisive, setting my sights on something and going for it.  Now, I float.  I’m considering a new tattoo.  It’s a daily struggle to not sell everything I own.  The only thing keeping me grounded is my daughter, who does not deserve to be a victim of her mother’s aimless whims. 

And I still can’t cry normally.  I had to go to court to fight a parking ticket, and since it had to do with Luke’s handicap sticker, the judge asked me where my husband was.  I am a very calm and collected person, but that question sent me over the edge, into sobbing hysterics.  I was humiliated.  I had to take the rest of the day off because I couldn’t pull it together.  Who is this woman I’ve become? 

I need to make a date with myself to sit and listen to all the sad music I’ve been avoiding; drink some wine; let it all out.  It comes in uncontrollable bursts, and I think I’d make a great actress right now because I can cry at will, but I know I’m avoiding this pain.  It’s like when you find out you’re pregnant, and you have this day looming in your near future where you know you will experience unparalleled pain; you dread it, but you know it’s something you will have to do eventually.  And the result will be positive, I’m sure of it, I just can’t willingly jump off that cliff.

How long can I go without doing that though?  I realize through my inactivity and my inability to make these decisions, I’m thereby deciding.  But it seems all I can do is wait it out, or risk making too drastic of a decision to recover from.  If home is where the heart is, and your heart is split in two, where do you go from there?

Well, it touched him.  When he got to the hospital he was in full kidney failure.  I have every memory of that day, and the next 9 days he spent in the hospital, burned into my brain in explicit detail.   

Now that it’s over, now that he’s gone, I can confess that I knew that day what the finale would be.  I saw it all played out before me, in an instant.  His life flashed before my eyes, all the way to the bitter end.  I didn’t see the details, of course, but I saw myself driving, alone, and that was all I needed to know.  I tried to ignore it, tried to be positive, but I knew that day that we were going to lose him.  He was so positive, too.  I remember him saying, “I’m not afraid of cancer, I’m just ready to get it out of me.”  I knew by how red the doctor’s eyes were that it was too far advanced.  Poor baby.

One year.  I feel like it’s been one year since he died, and simultaneously one year since I met him.  When I hear people talk about events in their life now, like their husband going to the military for one year, I just laugh inside.  Literally anything can happen in that year.  In one year I became married and widowed.  In one year my husband went from untouchable superman to having a superhero book written about him, in memory of.  In one year we have all been shaken to the core, reminded to live and love NOW, don’t wait, because tomorrow you could be looking into the red rimmed eyes of a doctor who can barely spit out the words.

This is the year of firsts for me, and every day from here until November 15th will be a comparison, “What were we doing at this time last year?” 

We all have place holders in our lives; life changing events that we use as landmarks.  It could be the year you moved, the year your parents divorced, something to base your life on.  Mine was always 1996, the year my daughter was born.  Now I’m basing everything in months, increments of “before Luke died,” and “after Luke died.”   

It’s strange to think, “Was he alive then?” when trying to remember an event.  How can you not know that??  Because time heals wounds by dulling the pain, and unfortunately some of the memories get sacrificed as well.  Thankfully we have things like blogs and photographs and videos to help us remember, so for better or worse, I will always remember one year ago today.

I’m afraid to follow my instincts though, because I’m afraid I’ll wake up a few months from now and regret getting rid of anything.  It almost makes sense to me to get a storage unit to put half of my stuff in, where it won’t be forever gone and out of reach, but it won’t be present either.  Then I could see how I feel in 6 months or a year.  I don’t know.  Feels like I want to wrap his memory up in a nice little package with a ribbon, something I can open and view whenever I need to, but not have it surrounding me all the time. 

I guess that’s movement, though it kind of hurts to say. 

I expected to be in deep mourning for a lot longer than I have been, like the “not functioning” kind of mourning, and I’m just not.  I don’t know if it’s a strength thing, or if I am just so logical that my brain can’t linger too long on something it knows isn’t there anymore.  I am angry that he’s gone, sad that he’s not able to live his life; I feel he was so cheated, and he was such an amazing person to cheat, I almost feel like it was poetic.  I will always feel that way because the tragedy of his death is an indisputable fact. 

The rest is kind of in a grey area.  Is he here?  Is he not?  Does he see me and hear me?  When I think I’m feeling him, is that my own brain answering a need?  The physical fact remains that he is not here, and will never be again, and that’s a hard pill to swallow. . . but being a realist, I swallowed it the day he died, and I have a hard time holding onto things I know aren’t there.  Wallowing in misery won’t bring him back.  So I live.  And I make sure to really fucking live.   

The other day Audrey and I were pulling out of our apartment complex, talking about something inconsequential, when a motorcyclist rode by.  Just some dude on a bike.  We both stopped talking mid sentence and silently watched him pass.  I quietly said, “I hate motorcyclists.”  She nodded, “I know, me too.”  We both felt the same thing, anger and sadness that he will never ride a motorcycle again.  That asshole on the bike was an asshole simply because he is alive.  I reminded Audrey that even though it hurt, it’s good to see things like that because they keep his memory active.  Every time we see a motorcycle we’ll think of Luke. 

In the beginning, I doubted that.  I was afraid that after enough time, my memories would all fade and I’d be left with this hazy image of a beautiful man with deep eyes and a strong chin, but with no details.  I realized when I saw that motorcycle that that will never happen, because there are other people I’ve lost who I think of all the time when I see something that reminds me of them.  Silly things.  My Grandmother died 5(?) years ago, and still, whenever I see something in a particular shade of orange, I think of her.  Not sure why, probably something she wore or something in her condo, but that color orange is, and always will be, representative of her.

With Luke?  There’s a hundred things.  Countless, really, and while many of them will fade over time, there are some things that will remain his in my memory forever. 

I went to an estate sale last weekend, and amidst the faded and dusty books there was a complete bow and arrow set.  I stood transfixed for a moment, caressing the leather, fingering the feathers, remembering the set we had on our wall for years, and how it was one of the only things he “willed” to anyone.  Memories of a life I never even lived surrounded me in swirls of images; Luke, young in the woods, just running.  Luke, a young man, 18 or so, carving arrows, imagining he’s a warrior in a past life.  Luke, an adult, showing his young cousins how to shoot, starting a new generation of fantasy hunters.  Luke, my love, showing me the proper way to hold the bow, creating a memory that would push its way through the dust years later, almost 6 months after his death.  

I see him sometimes on the street, too.  Only once was it heart stopping, where I actually lost my breath for a moment.  The men I briefly mistake for him are never as handsome as he was, though.  Funny how we can immortalize someone as perfect.  Sigh.  What I wouldn’t give to be able to see him old and falling apart.

Onward. . .

This writing is therapeutic, though.  Sometimes I feel like I’m doing ok, but when I come here I sound very sad.  It forces my deeper feelings out of me.  Otherwise, I’d just go along every day and not process.

It’s like looking at his pictures.  I see them every day, on my Facebook, in my phone, all over my house.  I can look at them and smile, but I’m beginning to think I don’t really look at them anymore.  My eyes flutter over them like they would anything else in my house, because they are not him. 

There are two pictures I like to look at, though, because they illicit a response from me.  Every time I look at them I get lost, and the feelings usually take over, leading to much-needed tears.

Sometimes I don’t even know I need to cry until I start.  I haven’t “just cried,” since he left.  Now it’s this all-consuming sob that obliterates everything except that pain, though only for a brief moment.  Shotgun tears.  I wonder if I’ll ever cry normally again; it’s a strange thought.  I imagine after some more time passes my pain will lose some of its attachment to Luke, and I’ll be able to cry about other things, like, you know, stubbing my toe.  Normal things.

Normal things. . .that word means something completely different to me now.  Nothing puts life in perspective more than death.  I am a lot more certain about my decisions now.  I have less confusion and distrust of myself.  I see through people more easily now.  I weigh options with more severity because I realize the impact my choices make.

Sometimes I feel like I’m asking myself, “What would Luke do?” but we have to remember the man was not perfect.  He and I battled all the time about the proper course to take in dealing with people.  He was too soft, I am too hard.  Now I realize I’m really asking, “What would I do through my experience of Luke?”

I’m living harder.  I’m making choices that bring my life more joy.  I’m not sweating the small stuff, as they say.  I’m cutting ties with emotional vampires.  I’m solidifying those relationships that have proven to be lasting and worthy.  I’m making those coffee dates.  I’m not letting other people’s ideas of what is right for me dictate my choices, because really, everyone has an opinion and they all seem to differ.  No one can know what is right for you, except you, because we have all had different experiences that led us to the point we’re at now in life.  Empathy only goes so far.

There’s a delicate balance though.  I realize I am a representation of Luke, in many ways, and I see that in people’s eyes.  What if the things that bring me happiness bring sadness to those who love him?  Like moving out, or dating someone new.  Will people judge me?  Will they be able to step out of their own attachments to “Luke and Erin” to realize he would want me to be happy, too? 

I’m building a home base around myself, with people that have been in my life, or recently come into my life, whose intentions are pure.  They’re the kind of people you want to tell your secret plans to.  I’m making it my goal to not have anyone in my life that doesn’t meet that criteria, and so far it’s brought me joy.

I think I need an overdose of joy after the past year.  I think we all do.  I hope that people in some ways are still affected by losing someone so close, someone in our community, someone so young, and of course someone as dynamic as Luke.  I hope the experience has touched you, and you are able to carry a little of that into your lives, because I think this was a stark reminder of how suddenly life can end, and to question whose life you’re living.  Are you living according to you?  You are already everything you want to be, you just have to embrace it, and for me, that time is now.