I have been spending a lot of time trying to collect everything I can which relates to Karen, from notes she wrote, pictures, or just those random tangible things that remain from she and I sharing this time together. In a way there isn't very much because we had such a short time together, but on the other hand there is so much because of how close we were and how much we shared.
What there is very little of are things that mark James' life. For him, everything was the future. Despite being born and dying on November 16, 2008, I requested that the hospital not issue a birth certificate, and consequently a death certificate, because had this been done he could not have been buried with Karen. The thought of them not being together sickened me, as did the notion of seeing two coffins at the funeral. Thus the decision was, among all that I had to make during those horrific days, an easy one for me to make.
What this decision means now is that I am struggling to preserve the memory of James' short life in any way I can. The hospital took a photograph or two and made footprints, but I have not had the strength to look at either. Even looking at the sonogram pictures is exceedingly painful for me.
The reality of this is becoming more acute as February 13 approaches. That was the due date we were given by our doctor, although Karen was utterly convinced that he would be early. She was so sure of this that she asked her mother to come up to New York in mid-January so there would be little chance she would miss the birth, and Karen absolutely LOVED being pregnant. Many an hour she spent laying on the sofa or bed rubbing her belly. We had even been talking to him so that he would begin to know the sounds of our voices. Me speaking in English about how much I was looking forward to meeting him and apologizing in advance for the Mets, Karen speaking in French convinced that it would instill in him an early understanding of the language she loved.
For as long as I've ever known Karen she possessed a radiance, but in those 6 1/2 or 7 months of pregnancy she positively glowed. She moved through the day with a sparkle in her eyes and infectious smile on her lips. These were never more so than at the instant that I opened the door to our apartment to find her on the sofa. Despite whatever kind of day she might have had, her face lit up every time I opened that door.
Now each time I come to the front door and put my key in the lock I pause momentarily before pushing the door open. I hesitate in part because of the impossible, and perhaps irrational, hope that she will be inside. But more so I wait that brief moment to think about all those times the opening door would reveal her on the sofa laying back rubbing her ever growing belly, surrounded by her students writing, or just relaxing watching TV. Whichever way she was at that moment, her head would invariably turn at the sound of the door and whatever expression she might have had on her face was instantaneously replaced by that radiant smile.
Now the sofa is empty, only my memories of her being there are left and I surround myself with pictures of her smile and sparkling eyes. What they capture, however, is only a fraction of the woman she was and life she led.
Now there is no belly to rub or to talk to about the Mets, and I have no memories of James in life. Instead all I have left are a series of amorphous dream-like visions, sounds, and emotions acquired through my tears during the one and only time I held him. The only images are from the sonograms and hospital, which merely serve as a reminder of a life that should have been filled with happiness, hopes, dream, and love, but was so unfairly ended shortly after his mother’s.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
On every block a memory
Today it occurred to me just how enmeshed my and Karen's life became in such a short amount of time and how much we lived and loved. On the one hand this can be measured simply by what we did in those 14 months: we re-connected, feel in love, got engaged, moved in with each other, started a family, and was married. There are also the vacations we took: Las Vegas a mere month after we met; St. Martin where we said "I love you" to each other for the first time; Florida for me to meet her family; North Carolina, twice, for two weddings; and Canada for our honeymoon. All these things would be a lot of things to happen in two people's lives if they were spread out over several years. But something struck me tonight while I was walking home from the subway on Flatbush avenue.
The route along Seventh Avenue from the subway to our apartment is about seven blocks. As I walked it today I realized that just about every block had a strong memory of Karen for me. I hope you'll indulge me recounting them briefly here:
Park Place to Sterling Place -- About a month into our relationship Karen, who had also just started at PS 321, was invited to a girls-only party at a colleague's house. I remember going there to meet and her telling me, with a great amount of excitement, about how glad she was to be getting to know the other teachers at a social event and how comfortable she felt among them. I just felt wonderful getting to wrap my arms around her.
St. John's Place to Lincoln Place -- Chiles & Chocolate is a fantastic Mexican restaurant, specializing in Oaxcan cuisine. We first ate there on our third date, when we sat in the front by the window. The second time was on Valentine's Day, the only one we celebrated together, the night before we left for St. Martin. Each time the food was amazing: flavorful and spicy, just the way Karen liked it!
Lincoln Place to Berkeley Place -- While we went to Chiles & Chocolate only twice, we went to Santa Fe, either for dinner of just for drinks, numerous times. I have many memories of Santa Fe from over the years, but the strongest and most lasting are of sitting at the bar with Karen, sharing guacamole and an entree, sipping cold Dos Equis. Also on that block is Mister Wonton, our favorite Chinese take-out and one of the places Karen would go to for lunch, often times calling me while she was there to say hello and see how my day was going.
Berkeley Place to Union Street -- On this block is Roma Pizza, not the best in the neighborhood but where we grabbed a couple of slices while we were at a framing store (on Union Street) picking out matting and frames for several pieces of art. There is also the dinner at which we used to eat brunch after yoga and the dry cleaner where she brought two pairs of maternity jeans to be hemmed only a week before she died.
Union Street to President Street -- Seven Nails, upstairs from the street, is the salon Karen took me to for my first manicure and pedicure. It was the day after I gave her the engagement ring - yes, Virginia, I proposed without a ring - and she wanted her nails to be as pretty as the new ring on her finger. She was positively glowing and radiated throughout the room. I should also point out that I gave her the ring while we were having dinner just steps down Union Street from Seventh Avenue.
President Street to Carroll Street -- Park Slope Copier has been a fixture on Seventh Avenue for almost as long as I can remember and it was were we spent quite a bit of time in the days before the wedding finalizing the program cards. As often happens before any type of party, we had several last minute things to address. Some of them with the potential to cause tension between us. But this never happened. Even when we had to correct the layout, paper, and format several times, we worked as one to have the program card done perfectly with nothing but smiles and good nature because, as I've said about other things, we were doing it together.
Carroll Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues -- On the corner of Carroll Street and Fisk Place is a tree whose blossoms and leaves cascades over the sidewalk creating a natural archway. Perhaps a quarter of the times we walked along that block, which was literally dozens of times, Karen would comment about how she had her picture taken under the tree many years ago and how amazing it was to her to be living just around the corner from it. She would also say how beautiful it was. I still walk under that tree and think of her each and every time that I do.
I could go on, noting locations on nearly every block along Seventh Avenue that evoke powerful memories of Karen. However it is not only in Park Slope. As I walk throughout other parts of Brooklyn and Manhattan I am constantly passing places and sights that remind me of times spent with Karen. The sources of memories are all around me, not just in the pictures I keep in our apartment but in nearly every step I take.
The simple act of going to the subway or the store becomes, in a literal sense, a stroll down memory lane for me. The path, however, has changed now that I walk it alone. The Carroll Street tree remains, but the beauty of it has faded slightly. The Park Slope Copier's storefront is unaltered, but now I think of it as where the memorial card was printed. Seven Nails still does manicures and pedicures, but I can't imagine the room is as bright now despite the floor to ceiling windows on two sides. Roma is just another pizza parlor and Mr. Wonton is just another take-out Chinese restaurant. Savory smells waft from Chiles & Chocolate and I can almost smell their homemade hot sauce as I walk by, but the front table merely reflects against the glass of the window.
Of all the spots along Seventh Avenue only Santa Fe, where I worked many years ago and drank and ate for many more years, remains relatively unchanged in the wake of what has happened. I've been back there several times and found the warm embrace of old friends there, as well being able to feel and remember the times spent there with Karen.
Every block contains a memory of her. Now I face all these reminders consistently throughout each and every day - from the moment my eyes open to see the empty spot on the bed next to me where she laid, to the routine act of trying to move about the city, to coming home at the end of the day to an empty apartment. Even were I to want to avoid the reminders of Karen I don't believe it would be possible to do so. Make no mistake, the memories are of happy occasions and activities. Yet it is the knowledge that those times are forever gone and all my plans for the future are lost that is my struggle now.
The route along Seventh Avenue from the subway to our apartment is about seven blocks. As I walked it today I realized that just about every block had a strong memory of Karen for me. I hope you'll indulge me recounting them briefly here:
Park Place to Sterling Place -- About a month into our relationship Karen, who had also just started at PS 321, was invited to a girls-only party at a colleague's house. I remember going there to meet and her telling me, with a great amount of excitement, about how glad she was to be getting to know the other teachers at a social event and how comfortable she felt among them. I just felt wonderful getting to wrap my arms around her.
St. John's Place to Lincoln Place -- Chiles & Chocolate is a fantastic Mexican restaurant, specializing in Oaxcan cuisine. We first ate there on our third date, when we sat in the front by the window. The second time was on Valentine's Day, the only one we celebrated together, the night before we left for St. Martin. Each time the food was amazing: flavorful and spicy, just the way Karen liked it!
Lincoln Place to Berkeley Place -- While we went to Chiles & Chocolate only twice, we went to Santa Fe, either for dinner of just for drinks, numerous times. I have many memories of Santa Fe from over the years, but the strongest and most lasting are of sitting at the bar with Karen, sharing guacamole and an entree, sipping cold Dos Equis. Also on that block is Mister Wonton, our favorite Chinese take-out and one of the places Karen would go to for lunch, often times calling me while she was there to say hello and see how my day was going.
Berkeley Place to Union Street -- On this block is Roma Pizza, not the best in the neighborhood but where we grabbed a couple of slices while we were at a framing store (on Union Street) picking out matting and frames for several pieces of art. There is also the dinner at which we used to eat brunch after yoga and the dry cleaner where she brought two pairs of maternity jeans to be hemmed only a week before she died.
Union Street to President Street -- Seven Nails, upstairs from the street, is the salon Karen took me to for my first manicure and pedicure. It was the day after I gave her the engagement ring - yes, Virginia, I proposed without a ring - and she wanted her nails to be as pretty as the new ring on her finger. She was positively glowing and radiated throughout the room. I should also point out that I gave her the ring while we were having dinner just steps down Union Street from Seventh Avenue.
President Street to Carroll Street -- Park Slope Copier has been a fixture on Seventh Avenue for almost as long as I can remember and it was were we spent quite a bit of time in the days before the wedding finalizing the program cards. As often happens before any type of party, we had several last minute things to address. Some of them with the potential to cause tension between us. But this never happened. Even when we had to correct the layout, paper, and format several times, we worked as one to have the program card done perfectly with nothing but smiles and good nature because, as I've said about other things, we were doing it together.
Carroll Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues -- On the corner of Carroll Street and Fisk Place is a tree whose blossoms and leaves cascades over the sidewalk creating a natural archway. Perhaps a quarter of the times we walked along that block, which was literally dozens of times, Karen would comment about how she had her picture taken under the tree many years ago and how amazing it was to her to be living just around the corner from it. She would also say how beautiful it was. I still walk under that tree and think of her each and every time that I do.
I could go on, noting locations on nearly every block along Seventh Avenue that evoke powerful memories of Karen. However it is not only in Park Slope. As I walk throughout other parts of Brooklyn and Manhattan I am constantly passing places and sights that remind me of times spent with Karen. The sources of memories are all around me, not just in the pictures I keep in our apartment but in nearly every step I take.
The simple act of going to the subway or the store becomes, in a literal sense, a stroll down memory lane for me. The path, however, has changed now that I walk it alone. The Carroll Street tree remains, but the beauty of it has faded slightly. The Park Slope Copier's storefront is unaltered, but now I think of it as where the memorial card was printed. Seven Nails still does manicures and pedicures, but I can't imagine the room is as bright now despite the floor to ceiling windows on two sides. Roma is just another pizza parlor and Mr. Wonton is just another take-out Chinese restaurant. Savory smells waft from Chiles & Chocolate and I can almost smell their homemade hot sauce as I walk by, but the front table merely reflects against the glass of the window.
Of all the spots along Seventh Avenue only Santa Fe, where I worked many years ago and drank and ate for many more years, remains relatively unchanged in the wake of what has happened. I've been back there several times and found the warm embrace of old friends there, as well being able to feel and remember the times spent there with Karen.
Every block contains a memory of her. Now I face all these reminders consistently throughout each and every day - from the moment my eyes open to see the empty spot on the bed next to me where she laid, to the routine act of trying to move about the city, to coming home at the end of the day to an empty apartment. Even were I to want to avoid the reminders of Karen I don't believe it would be possible to do so. Make no mistake, the memories are of happy occasions and activities. Yet it is the knowledge that those times are forever gone and all my plans for the future are lost that is my struggle now.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The loneliness of being alone
I consider myself lucky. I have an extremely close and loving family, as well as countless wonderful friends who have and continue to lend me support. This has provided a measure of comfort, without which I don’t know how I would be functioning. Yet despite all these people in my life and living among millions of New Yorkers, I exist day-to-day with a powerful sense of loneliness and persistent undirected feeling.
Not long ago, two months a two days to be precise, I felt happier then I ever thought I could. Indeed, there were times when I actually felt guilty because things were going so well in my life. I had a good job, nice apartment, and was healthy. Most importantly there was Karen. Each day with her was, quite literally, better than the previous and it would be impossible for me to put into words the woman she was or to describe what we had together. It was amazing and to become even better, if that were possible, with James. But all that is gone now.
Walking has always been something I enjoyed doing, it is one of the wonderful things about living in New York City. Often after work I would walk through the city, sometimes for up to an hour all the way to the bottom of Manhattan before getting on the subway. I used to move with the joyous, floating steps of a man in love and happy with his lot. I reveled in the sights and sounds of the city, taking in and adding to the surge of energy around me.
Now I walk with the heavy gait caused by grief and sadness. No longer do I delight in being amidst the flow of other pedestrians. Rather I find myself following close to the edges of the buildings, avoiding the crowds and paths of those around me. The liveliness of New York still flows around me, but I do not absorb it. It swirls past me as if I were an eddy on the sidewalk. Try as I might to keep my shoulders straight and chin up, I slump with my eyes fixed to the concrete in front of my feet. When I do look up, my gaze invariably lands on a couple or family happily going about their life. At that moment my grief is replaced with envy and jealousy. Envious because that was what I only recently had and jealous because it was all taken from me. The question infuses my mind - Why do they get to have that when I don’t anymore? There is no answer, but the thought brings back the heartache and sadness. I focus my eyes on the sidewalk again, pull my coat a bit tighter around myself, and angle closer to the building. None of this brings any comfort, and only helps to navigate the new world in which I find myself.
Despite the comfort of my apartment, I am reluctant to come back to it because I know Karen will not be waiting for me and never coming home again. This means that my walks can be long, sometimes several miles in length, providing me with hours of time to contemplate what has happened. What I return to again and again is that even with people all around me – family, friends and strangers a like – I am alone. There is no life for me to "get on with" so now I move from one day to the next with only the memory of the hopes, plans, and dreams I once held. My joie de vivre replaced by loneliness.
Not long ago, two months a two days to be precise, I felt happier then I ever thought I could. Indeed, there were times when I actually felt guilty because things were going so well in my life. I had a good job, nice apartment, and was healthy. Most importantly there was Karen. Each day with her was, quite literally, better than the previous and it would be impossible for me to put into words the woman she was or to describe what we had together. It was amazing and to become even better, if that were possible, with James. But all that is gone now.
Walking has always been something I enjoyed doing, it is one of the wonderful things about living in New York City. Often after work I would walk through the city, sometimes for up to an hour all the way to the bottom of Manhattan before getting on the subway. I used to move with the joyous, floating steps of a man in love and happy with his lot. I reveled in the sights and sounds of the city, taking in and adding to the surge of energy around me.
Now I walk with the heavy gait caused by grief and sadness. No longer do I delight in being amidst the flow of other pedestrians. Rather I find myself following close to the edges of the buildings, avoiding the crowds and paths of those around me. The liveliness of New York still flows around me, but I do not absorb it. It swirls past me as if I were an eddy on the sidewalk. Try as I might to keep my shoulders straight and chin up, I slump with my eyes fixed to the concrete in front of my feet. When I do look up, my gaze invariably lands on a couple or family happily going about their life. At that moment my grief is replaced with envy and jealousy. Envious because that was what I only recently had and jealous because it was all taken from me. The question infuses my mind - Why do they get to have that when I don’t anymore? There is no answer, but the thought brings back the heartache and sadness. I focus my eyes on the sidewalk again, pull my coat a bit tighter around myself, and angle closer to the building. None of this brings any comfort, and only helps to navigate the new world in which I find myself.
Despite the comfort of my apartment, I am reluctant to come back to it because I know Karen will not be waiting for me and never coming home again. This means that my walks can be long, sometimes several miles in length, providing me with hours of time to contemplate what has happened. What I return to again and again is that even with people all around me – family, friends and strangers a like – I am alone. There is no life for me to "get on with" so now I move from one day to the next with only the memory of the hopes, plans, and dreams I once held. My joie de vivre replaced by loneliness.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Two months
My god, has it already (only?) been two months since that horrible day? Some days it feels like it was just moments ago and others it seems like a whole different lifetime. I continue to try to make sense of what happened but am left with only more questions. Recently I have begun to experience sudden, unprovoked, and very disquietingly vibrant memories of that day.
At first I had wanted to try and remember all I could in an effort to recall each and every sensation of our last moments together. I tried to remember our exact words, precise actions, and every other specific instances of our final 24 hours together. I recalled my birthday the day before and all we did. How we went to bed, as we always did, in each other's arms after another amazing day spent together. I've often thought of the lazy morning we spent, having coffee, watching some TV, and lounging on the sofa before heading to my mom's for brunch. I've concentrated on the rest of the day, until the moment in the restaurant, to remember as many of the details as possible. In doing so, more details have come to me and each one is a treasure unto itself.
But the new memories, the ones about which I haven't consciously sought to think, deal with the moment in the restaurant and the agonizing hours that followed. I can see the light and life in Karen's eyes, which still brings a smile to my face, but then struggle to reconcile that with how it instantaneously went away. My mind lets loose a torrent of images, it floods me with the sights and sounds of my life crashing to pieces around. They do not come about from any discernible trigger, but rather out of nowhere and caused by nothing. (An experience I've heard described as "ambush grief," as if I needed any more.)
While the end of that day is blur to my thinking mind, my subconscious revives devastating facets of it. The loneliness of the waiting room at the hospital, despite having my entire family with me. The helplessness of not knowing what was happening, only to be replaced by the devastation of finding out. The unimaginable anguish of being brought to see Karen's body for the final time, followed later by unthinkable misery of holding James for the first and only time. The visions are disturbing in their clarity. Disturbing not because I want not to remember, but because when I see and recall them it brings me back to the utter incomprehensibility of what happened. In turn my emotions range from dispar, to anger, to numbness.
At some point during the week of the funeral I spoke with Rabbi Bachman, telling him that dispite my despondenence I sensed I had not yet reached my emotioal nadir. I was petrified at the contemplation of the days, months, and years to come. The resurgence of these memories and the emotions they produce confirm the fear I had, and yet I still feel I have not yet reached the bottom.
As I've said to so many in person and online, I continue to put one foot in front of the other and take it one day at a time...what other choice do I have? But I can not conceive of how to even do this without the continued love and support of my family and friends.
At first I had wanted to try and remember all I could in an effort to recall each and every sensation of our last moments together. I tried to remember our exact words, precise actions, and every other specific instances of our final 24 hours together. I recalled my birthday the day before and all we did. How we went to bed, as we always did, in each other's arms after another amazing day spent together. I've often thought of the lazy morning we spent, having coffee, watching some TV, and lounging on the sofa before heading to my mom's for brunch. I've concentrated on the rest of the day, until the moment in the restaurant, to remember as many of the details as possible. In doing so, more details have come to me and each one is a treasure unto itself.
But the new memories, the ones about which I haven't consciously sought to think, deal with the moment in the restaurant and the agonizing hours that followed. I can see the light and life in Karen's eyes, which still brings a smile to my face, but then struggle to reconcile that with how it instantaneously went away. My mind lets loose a torrent of images, it floods me with the sights and sounds of my life crashing to pieces around. They do not come about from any discernible trigger, but rather out of nowhere and caused by nothing. (An experience I've heard described as "ambush grief," as if I needed any more.)
While the end of that day is blur to my thinking mind, my subconscious revives devastating facets of it. The loneliness of the waiting room at the hospital, despite having my entire family with me. The helplessness of not knowing what was happening, only to be replaced by the devastation of finding out. The unimaginable anguish of being brought to see Karen's body for the final time, followed later by unthinkable misery of holding James for the first and only time. The visions are disturbing in their clarity. Disturbing not because I want not to remember, but because when I see and recall them it brings me back to the utter incomprehensibility of what happened. In turn my emotions range from dispar, to anger, to numbness.
At some point during the week of the funeral I spoke with Rabbi Bachman, telling him that dispite my despondenence I sensed I had not yet reached my emotioal nadir. I was petrified at the contemplation of the days, months, and years to come. The resurgence of these memories and the emotions they produce confirm the fear I had, and yet I still feel I have not yet reached the bottom.
As I've said to so many in person and online, I continue to put one foot in front of the other and take it one day at a time...what other choice do I have? But I can not conceive of how to even do this without the continued love and support of my family and friends.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
A Rejuvenative New Year
It has been a bit difficult for me to receive happy new year wishes over the last few days. More so I have rankled slightly every time someone adds something about how glad I must be for 2008 to have ended and that ahead in 2009 lies good things. Let me be clear, I know that each and everyone who says this does so with the absolute best intention and sincerity. The simple act of reaching out to me remains one of the most comforting things and I relish all such contact.
No doubt, 2008 was a roller coaster ride the likes of which I doubt many people ever see let alone live. Over the past 12 months I became a divorcee, engaged, remarried, and a widower. I also became an expectant father, only to bury my son with in my new wife's arms. On a more pedestrian level, I moved into a new apartment and changed jobs. I am not sure there are any other life events or stress causes that I could have experienced. Given the way the year ended it is easy to see why one would assume I am glad to see the calendar change. However, for me 2008 remains the undisputed BEST ten and half months of my life. Because it ended with the absolute worst month and half does not negate the majority of it. Nor can I let it.
The other part of the new year messages that I've been getting has been a hope that 2009 brings better times, peace, and happiness. Again a good and well meaning sentiment, but one that rings a bit hollow in my ears at times. As much as I appreciate the support intended in it, all I can think about is that the change of the calendar, much like any amount of grieving and progress through it, will never result in my having her or my son back again. It is, therefore, so very difficult at this point to imagine how happiness will come merely with a new year. Perhaps the pain and sadness will begin to subside some and I will even have good moments, but happiness? No. That is not something I can conceivably see on my 2009 horizon. Just as the life I knew is no longer and needs to be made anew, so too do I need to reestablish and rediscover what happiness means.
So what do I hope for in the new year? That it be a rejunetive one or more precisely that it continues the healing process. It is the best I feel I can look forward to. I recognize that I'm at the beginning of a long, long journey that I never imagined I would be embarking. However, just as I reflect back on the invisible hand that helped bring Karen and I together after nearly two decades, so is there forces beyond our comprehension that provide guidance during times of such overwhelming pain. Indeed it might be at just such times that it is most pronounced.
I hope that my comments here will in no way dissuade people from providing the messages of support that have helped me to this point. Despite the difficulties in hearing "happy new year" and other such words of affection, I remain very moved by them all. My only point of this was to let you know how I am feeling in as open and honest a way as possible.
So to you all I wish you a happy new year and a rejuvenative one for me.
* * *
I wanted to finish by passing along a song lyric that has been running through my mind quite a bit over the last few weeks. It sums up much of the feeling I've been having in the wake of Karen's and James' deaths. From Coldplay's "Viva La Vida," which roughly translates to "live the life":
One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand
No doubt, 2008 was a roller coaster ride the likes of which I doubt many people ever see let alone live. Over the past 12 months I became a divorcee, engaged, remarried, and a widower. I also became an expectant father, only to bury my son with in my new wife's arms. On a more pedestrian level, I moved into a new apartment and changed jobs. I am not sure there are any other life events or stress causes that I could have experienced. Given the way the year ended it is easy to see why one would assume I am glad to see the calendar change. However, for me 2008 remains the undisputed BEST ten and half months of my life. Because it ended with the absolute worst month and half does not negate the majority of it. Nor can I let it.
The other part of the new year messages that I've been getting has been a hope that 2009 brings better times, peace, and happiness. Again a good and well meaning sentiment, but one that rings a bit hollow in my ears at times. As much as I appreciate the support intended in it, all I can think about is that the change of the calendar, much like any amount of grieving and progress through it, will never result in my having her or my son back again. It is, therefore, so very difficult at this point to imagine how happiness will come merely with a new year. Perhaps the pain and sadness will begin to subside some and I will even have good moments, but happiness? No. That is not something I can conceivably see on my 2009 horizon. Just as the life I knew is no longer and needs to be made anew, so too do I need to reestablish and rediscover what happiness means.
So what do I hope for in the new year? That it be a rejunetive one or more precisely that it continues the healing process. It is the best I feel I can look forward to. I recognize that I'm at the beginning of a long, long journey that I never imagined I would be embarking. However, just as I reflect back on the invisible hand that helped bring Karen and I together after nearly two decades, so is there forces beyond our comprehension that provide guidance during times of such overwhelming pain. Indeed it might be at just such times that it is most pronounced.
I hope that my comments here will in no way dissuade people from providing the messages of support that have helped me to this point. Despite the difficulties in hearing "happy new year" and other such words of affection, I remain very moved by them all. My only point of this was to let you know how I am feeling in as open and honest a way as possible.
So to you all I wish you a happy new year and a rejuvenative one for me.
* * *
I wanted to finish by passing along a song lyric that has been running through my mind quite a bit over the last few weeks. It sums up much of the feeling I've been having in the wake of Karen's and James' deaths. From Coldplay's "Viva La Vida," which roughly translates to "live the life":
One minute I held the key
Next the walls were closed on me
And I discovered that my castles stand
Upon pillars of salt and pillars of sand
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
