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I was on a short road trip with a couple of my derby peeps today. At some point, someone said to me something about my posts on Facebook being more relaxed, calm and more at peace with being alone.

I sorta had to stop and think about that for a minute.

I am at peace with being alone.  I am at peace with not having someone to snuggle up to every night.

I am not lonely. Not right now. I am not struggling with how to do everything on my own, and who am I going to share my life with.

I have 2 beautiful, intelligent, articulate, funny and amazing young men I get to call my sons living with me.  Some days they are more than enough company. Some days they drive me nutty.  But I like just the “them and me” parts of our lives.

I wish they were a bit smaller, but then if they were.. .they wouldn’t have gotten as much time with their Dad before he died.   So I’m glad they’re not.

But they are amazing. And when they give me their time and attention, it’s an awesome time.  My Andrew is so funny and so fun to be around.  Luke is mostly his awesomely sweet self (unless he’s in hell monster teenaged mode)

But for the most part, I’m good with my time alone.  I get to control the TV.  I get to control the music.  I get to decide if I want steak or macaroni for dinner.  I paint the walls the colour I want.

I don’t feel a desperate need to find someone who wants to fill the hole because the hole HAS been filled.  I filled it.  I filled it with memories that make me smile, joy in my children, a life I love, and enjoyment of my own company.

Life is truly good.  And I don’t know that I’d trade what I have for what I had.  I miss him terribly.  But my life is GOOD and that’s amazing.


(disclaimer: I’m a widow, with widda brain.  I reserve the right to feel completely the opposite tomorrow… LOL)

How Old Was He?

Such a simple question.

How old was he when he died?

I’m sitting in a coffee shop, connecting with a new friend.  She’s just recently lost her partner. I had met her before he died, and was looking forward to getting to know her.  Then he died.

She’s a nurse.  I’m a nursing student.  It gives us slightly different perspective on death and the process.

But now we both belong to the club that no one wants to.   And we’re talking about her loss, we’re talking about my loss and then she asks:

“How old was he when he died?”

I had to think.  I’m 42.  It’s been almost 4 years since he died. So I was 38. He was 11 years older than me.  Which made him 49.

I had told the joke may times about how he was going to be 50 before I turned 40 but then the fucker died at 49 and got the last laugh.

And I had to run through the process of how old was I.  How long had it been.  The whole gamut.

For a minute… I forgot how old he was when he died.  Just for a minute.

How could I forget?  WHY didn’t it just come to me as quickly as breathing?

I don’t know.  But for a moment, I panicked because I couldn’t remember how old he was when he died.

He would have been 53 this year. But he is forever 49.

Mark & Wade

The Shows He Watched

There is very little that I avoid any more.  But one thing I do avoid is some of the shows he watched.  Or the shows we watched together.  Or the few shows that I would have loved to see him compete on.

One of those shows is Jeopardy.  That man had an almost idetic memory. He had bits of trivia that would put almost any of those contestants to shame.

So I don’t watch it. I don’t want to be reminded of him.

But my mother is here visiting.  And she loves the damn show.  So we watch it.  And I hurt, a little. There’s a little hitch of pain while I watch.

And at the end… I got the Final Jeopardy clue.  And I wish I’d been able to share that with him.

But I only knew the answer because he died. And I moved up here to be with someone.  And then went back to school.  And asked my teacher about it.

So I wouldn’t have known where this…


… came from.  So now…

Keep Calm

But I would have correctly answered the Final Jeopardy question…



My Soul is Crying

I have been going through some severe anxiety lately.

I could come forth with a number of different reasons and excuses as to why it is happening, but what I think it comes down to is…

My soul is crying.

I don’t know what feeds my soul anymore.  What keeps her happy.  What keeps her sane. What gives her light and life.

She’s crying.  Sobbing.  And every once in a while, she overflows into my consciousness and causes me pain.

It may have started before Mark died, but truly… it became unbearable after.

Because my soul is crying and she demands to be heard.

She demands to feel joy.  She demands to feel passion. She demands to love and be loved fiercely – by me.

She is doing everything she can to be heard and I have been ignoring her.

I have been drowning her in mindless TV.  I have been suffocating her with time spent scrolling through Facebook and other websites.

I have not been doing the things that keep her nourished because I was wrong.

Anxiety isn’t the symptom.  Anxiety isn’t the problem.

The problem is that I don’t do the things I used to love.  I am not discovering new things to love. I have not because the anxiety has been overwhelming me, pinning me to the couch, the chair, the bed and what I thought was an inability to cope with life was my soul SCREAMING at me to do something. Love something. Engage in something.  Be PASSIONATE about something.

I played my piano for about 10 minutes tonight. I have had this piano for 13 years. In the last four years, I have played it maybe five or six times. I used to call music my passion; but I stopped playing.

Tonight… my soul was soothed… if for only those 10 minutes.  Because I fed her what she needs.

I fed her with love, with joy, with beauty.  I ignored the anxiety and played anyhow and the screaming stopped for a while.

My soul is crying… and it’s time for me to love her again.