LIFE WITHOUT DAVID, Chapter 6

I find writing in this blog to be amazingly ironic.  When someone asks how I am doing, I tell them I'm doing fine, doing good, everything is okay...and that's true.  I am.  It is.  But that is the extent of my comfort level when it comes to talking about my emotions.  I really feel better talking to them about things going on in their lives.  But when emotions and feelings start bringing me down, I find so much comfort and relief in laying everything out in this blog journal, which goes out into the world for anybody to read.  Go figure.
     As soon as I can teach myself how to create another blog, put all of my journaling about David into it, and just link it to this one, I am going to do that.  This appears on my home page, so it is the first thing shown on here, and there is more to me than this.  There is more to my life.  I feel like I will be forever missing David, but my life does have other portions to it. 
     And I am going to rename this journal.  I have come to realize that my life will never be without David.  He will always be a part of me.  Sometimes that makes the loss more painful, sometimes it brings me warmth.  But it all seems to come down to which pieces of David I get to keep and which ones I have to give up.  So it will be called Pieces of David. 
     It is so hard to let go of anything.  There is much that I have no choice about...his physical being, of course...his presence, his vitality...his voice...his touch...our future together.  And there is much that I can keep with me and feel as often as I want...the memories, the love we shared, the love he had for his family and friends.  But there are so many things here, both his and ours, that require a decision on my part.  Frankly, I don't want to make any of those decisions, but letting it all get packed away and put into storage is making a type of decision and not a practical nor a healthy one. 
     There are days when I am overwhelmed with the enormity of this moving thing and all that I need to do.  I look around and see so much stuff in this house and, knowing my limited energy and stamina, feel like it is an impossible task.  But I have my goal of being done and out of here in November.  If I don't have a deadline, it will just get put off indefinitely, and that is not an option.  Where is that fairy godmother, the one that is supposed to appear and poof!, it will be all done?

LIFE WITHOUT DAVID, Chapter 5

I planted some fruits and vegetables in hanging containers this past week.  Another new thing for me to try.  Sometimes the new things I do are so satisfying and full of promise; other times, depressing; and many times, both sensations all at once.   Growing things have always had erratic results for me.  If these are successful, I think it will give me a great sense of accomplishment, something that this new Carol did well.  If not, I'll just have to chalk it up to a slightly brown thumb.  My mother could stick something in the ground, and it would grow.  I don't know what her garden in Hawaii looked like, but here, she had pots and pots of all kinds of things growing everywhere.  David and I had tried two or three times to plant a garden, and all that each of them produced were lots of memories that we looked back on and laughed about.
     My sister told me about someone who had lost her husband five years ago, that the first year was full of "firsts."  That is just. so. true.  Nothing can ever be the same again.  I think that might be the most hurtful, the hardest to accept.  That everything we had and did together is over, cannot be brought back, cannot be reconstructed, just can never be again in this world.  So everything has to be done anew.  Without David.
     Sometimes I feel very lonely.  But not the alone type of lonely.  I don't ever feel alone.  And I have always enjoyed being by myself, enjoyed my own company...still do.  It's a being without David lonely, a hole that no one else can fill.  We were a joined-at-the-hip couple...definitely a case of two becoming one.  Even when he was driving over the road, or when I had to travel for my work, we always had a sense of the other being right there, wherever we were.  Now, the David part of me has been severed.  And I feel that loss constantly.  Is this how a twin feels when the other dies?  Like a chunk has been taken out of one's being?
     It's still difficult for me to realize that my time is totally my own.  Some friends asked me to go to lunch with them the other day, and my initial reaction was that no, I want/need to get back home (which I usually did because David was here).  I rarely did anything at the spur of the moment, only when it was planned.  But the realization came to me that I am free to do whatever I want at the moment.  There is no one waiting at home for me, except my dog and cat.  This just feels so strange.  So not only did I enjoy the lunch, but I signed up for some short-term volunteer work at the local art gallery, a once-a-week acrylics class, an 8-week sumi-e course, an 8-week watercolor class, and started back with my 3-times a week water aerobics group.  Never let it be said that I do something half-heartedly.  What did I learn after my first full week of being gone every day?  That I also dearly loved just being home; that I missed the peace of puttering around the house; that I was too worn out to get lost in my painting here at home; and that I missed spending down-time on the couch (my girl-cave) with my dog.  And that the tears still trickle down my face when they darn well please, no matter who I am with or what I am doing.   Rather awkward. 
     It also occurred to me that my living arrangements can be changed to suit me, no matter if it looks funny.  The first floor is completely open, and the furniture creates the kitchen/living room/dining room/studio/small office boundaries.   So I rearranged to make a smaller living room area and expand my studio.   I think I may even have enough room to stretch out my Total Gym that we bought a few years ago.  We were so excited about getting that...we were going to use it everyday and maybe look like Chuck Norris and Christie Brinkley!  First problem:  it took up so much space when it was opened up that we had to step over it to get to our TV chairs and couch (no easy feat).  Second problem:  after I had used it a couple of times, I was showing David how to get on it, do some exercises, and get off (that's how we did things---I did something or tasted something first, then he felt okay to try it.  My big wuss).  He got on okay, did a few exercises okay, but wouldn't get off in the way that I told him and ended up getting tossed off onto the floor.  He swore he'd never get on that thing again. Okay, he just thoroughly swore.  It has been folded up against the wall all this time.  Maybe another first for me will be actually using that piece of equipment.  David would have been pleased with the living room arrangement and my bigger, neater studio.  He used to come to the walking-in part of my studio, pretend he was knocking on a door, ask permission to come in and look at what I was painting...no matter that my painting table faced his TV chair so that we were only about 15 feet apart.  Yes, he would definitely like my larger studio.  But there is no way he would appreciate that dangerous Total Gym being open again.  I know that I will smile each time I pass that spread-out monster.
     Those memories are so very special to me.  It keeps part of David with me.  I baked a loaf of bread today and cut the end -- my favorite part-- to eat.  It reminded me of the times we would go out to eat and, no matter who might be with us, he would grab the little loaf of bread as soon as it was put on the table, slice and butter the end, and hand it to me.  If someone else ate the other end, he would ask the server for another loaf of bread just so he could give me another end piece.  How precious is that?  Although nobody ever said anything, they possibly thought he was a little greedy.  Well, I guess he was....greedy on my behalf.  Did I ever tell him how much that meant to me?  I thanked him, of course, but I don't think I ever said anything more about it.  I wish I could put all of those things I never said to him, all the ways I silently appreciated him, and some extra back scratches and leg rubs in a container and send them to him.
     And yet, as warming as the memories are, I still cannot go back to doing something with David's clothes.  I touch them and, instead of those keep-David-close-to-me memories, I get heart-hurt and missing and tears.  I know it's only been a little over three months, but it feels like forever.  I'm just tired of crying.  The tears don't take the pain, the missing, away.  They don't fill the empty hole in my heart.  They don't give me relief.  What good are they?

LIFE WITHOUT DAVID, Chapter 4

What a weepy week this was.  I feel like I've gone backwards in this grieving process.  I've felt like crying every few minutes.  I have to keep finding things to do to keep my mind active so that it doesn't have time to think about David.  Part of the problem, I'm sure, is that I am working on our clothes.  Getting mine altogether so that I can get rid of everything except those things I really want to keep...there is only so much closet space in the motorhome.  But also getting David's clothes together, taking them out of drawers and closets, trying to decide what to do with them.  And crying and crying the whole time, remembering when I bought them for him, remembering which were his favorites, where he wore them.  The sorting process is so painful.  I know I could just put them all in a bag and take them to the senior center, but I'd rather share the better things with family and friends, if they want anything.  No, that's not correct.  I'd rather just put them all back and keep them.  Take them out sometimes just to look at them and remember.  Maybe they might still smell like him.  But that is just not practical or healthy.  I need to move on.
     Yesterday, I made the mistake of opening and smelling his favorite aftershave.  It smelled so like him that I could almost feel his face, right there, ready to kiss.  More crying.
     Another part of the problem was Easter.   He really enjoyed holidays, even if it was just the two of us celebrating.  Holiday eating was something he would look forward to for days.  I would always prepare something special for him.  So I thought if I would cook a meal that he would have enjoyed, I would feel better about today.  Wrong thought.  The food was great, the company was pathetic.  I learned some new things today.  (1) One cannot cry and eat at the same time.  It may not be physiologically impossible, but it was not something I could accomplish.  (2) Fixing and eating a full dinner for oneself is depressing.   (3) I need to find new things to do on those days that David loved to celebrate.
     Today brought back so many memories.  Memories of the Easters when the kids were little, when we had to stay up so late after they went to bed, fixing baskets, stuffing plastic eggs.  We would sit on the bed, I would put the grass in all of the baskets and dump each bag of candy and all the chocolate bunnies in their own piles.  They had to be kept separated so that David could fill the baskets (five of them) a piece of candy at a time, so that each one had exactly the same amount...even the jelly beans.  My OCD man.  Then he got the change jar and filled each plastic egg with different amounts of money, not one egg could have the same amount as the other, so he could hide it all in the morning.  It took forever to do all of that, and I was always so tired and wanted to hurry up.  But that would have spoiled it.   I'm glad now that I didn't try to get him to hurry. 
      Memories of all the special meals we had by ourselves and those with family.  Today I could hear him say, "You fix a pretty plate, momma.  Thank you for doing this."  He always thanked me for fixing his meals, even if it was just a sandwich.  And when we had family together, how he loved for me to fix these huge meals, and how he loved for everybody to eat lots and lots of food.  It would actually disappoint him if someone didn't eat as much as he thought they should.  Even these past couple of years when he felt so bad, when he spent most of his day in bed, he would always come downstairs to eat with all of us.   And if there was something in the meal that wasn't one of  his favorites, he would say, "Oh no, no, I can't eat that, I'm not allowed to eat that, it will make me fat."  That would be, of course, right before he had a huge helping of desert.
     Oh, how I need for him to hold me.  I need his big hugs so much.  I need to hear his voice.  I just need him to be here again.   
     Some days ago, I had the weirdest dream about David...he was back with me, looking much healthier.  But, in the dream, I kept wondering how he could be back again, he died.  And I felt bad because I didn't want to tell him he had died, I didn't want to tell him I had taken his "mad money" out of his money clip and counted it.  I wish that, in my dream, I would have just held him.
     Writing in this blog is supposed to be cathartic.  I've cried through the whole thing.  I'm sick of this crying.  I sure hope next week is better.

LIFE WITHOUT DAVID, Chapter 3

I have been giving some serious thought about the ongoing changes in my life, the obvious external ones and, more intensely, the internal movements.  I have been giving more attention to my appearance when I go anywhere...using makeup again...wearing my pretty rings and earrings...buying and wearing different styles, things that make me look more feminine, more put together.  I haven't cared about that for two or three years.  But then, I am feeling physically better than I have for that long period of time (long, when you don't feel good), so that is probably the basis for those changes.  I just wish I would have felt this way while David was here---he loved for me to put on my makeup, my jewelry, wear something besides t-shirts---he would be very pleased about this, although he never complained.  In fact, he would tell me I was beautiful even when I looked disgustingly Not.  Actually, I think I am just fed up with seeing that sickly looking face in the mirror.  
     I have always been grateful for the everyday blessings in my life.  Now, doubly so.  The oncologist and the Rituxan.  The peacefulness in this house.  The security and low-stress quality of my days.  My painting.  My dog and cat.  But most of all, the love and support from God, from family, from friends.  And this is the reason for a large part of the changes within me.  I have always had lots of love in my life, and I feel so privileged to have known that much love.  It is so much easier to love myself when I know others love me.   But the awareness of the unexpected extent and depth of the love I am experiencing is causing me to open up, to drop those walls I have kept built up all these years.  Always the I-can-do-this-without-asking-for-help, the Don't-let-anyone-so-close-that-they'll-see-how-vulnerable-you-are, the Give-but-don't-take person.  (Except with David...he wouldn't allow me to keep those walls between us.)  But now, my family and friends have so been there for me, have given so much of themselves and their valuable time, have become so close, have blanketed me with their love, that I am being re-created.   I feel so much more worthy.  It still causes some discomfort  to ask for and accept help.  And I am always afraid that I may be taking too much...I feel like I must remain the strong one, the one that does for others.  So I am unsettled, but very, very thankful.  I am reluctantly accepting that I cannot, or at least don't want to make it on my own, a kind of a John Donne, no man is an island, realization.
      I am also realizing, in retrospect, how great it was to have David love me the way he did.  We all just take so much for granted until life slaps us in the face.  Even though I thought, as David and I grew older, that I knew how numbered our days were and knew that the day would come when one of us would have to go on without the other, I truly did not know the fragility of hope until that happened.  I always hoped that David would get healthier, hoped that we had many more years together, hoped for this and that, lots of hopes, hopes that shattered like thin glass when he died.  When we lived with each other day-to-day, we had routines, good moments and bad moments, worries and joys, but we still had each other, although sometimes, in bad moments, reluctantly.   But now I know how precious it was to have David and his love, and I feel like I am so much better for it.  And, wondrously, I am learning how much those who knew David loved him.   Another of John Donne's thoughts was that when one man dies, a chapter is not torn but translates into a new language.   And so it does, albeit not the language any of us had wished to learn. 
     Not only am I learning the new language, but I'm learning the new me.  My forever friend Joann reminded me that when David and I married, I changed and learned to be the other half of us, and now that David is gone, I am starting all over, learning to be a different me.  Now I know, though, that I have helpers in this journey...friends and family that love me and support me as I am going through these changes.
     They would like to help me with the hurtful parts, too, but that's something I have to handle alone.  I know that the tear-my-insides-out pain that hits me frequently is part of the grieving process but how I hate it.  Crying is supposed to make a person feel better, to release emotion and hurt, but it doesn't feel that way.  It seems like crying begets more crying, hurt incites more hurt.  I will be so glad when the pain ends, or at least eases.  Self-patience has never been one of my virtues.
     And my heart hurts for the others grieving for David, missing him.  My empathic side feels their pain and wants so bad to be able to absorb it, to take it away.   But it has to find its own outlet.   I tell our daughter to call me and talk her pain through with me until it eases.   I write in this blog.  Our sons, though, and David's good friends, his "bro's"....they call to check on me but never to release their pain.  I worry about them all.  I wish I could just hug them and hold them until it all went away. 
     I've been told that anger is part of the grieving process, too.  I haven't felt any anger yet and just can't see that happening.  Who would I be angry at?  David didn't want to die that morning.  The paramedics that came were wonderful.   David's doctors always did what good doctors do.   Certainly not God...I never understood why anybody would do that.   Who's left---me?   That would be ludicrous.  I wanted David to be with me forever.  There is no blame...anger would be pointless...just a highly unwanted negative emotion.
     Besides, I am trying very hard to not dwell or even linger on the memories of that morning.  I want so much to remember every good part of our life together, even a few of the not so goods.  It's very frustrating to have 40 years of being us in my head and not be able to remember all the details.  I love it when someone says, "remember when..."  because it's another little piece of him returning to me.  I want the warmth those memories bring, not the destructive heat of anger or coldness of regrets.
     Here it is the wee hours of the morning, and I'm still missing that phone call from upstairs telling me to come to bed and wondering if that is one memory that will be there at 1:30 every morning for the rest of my life.  Another piece of David that I can keep.

LIFE WITHOUT DAVID, Chapter 2

     It's now been two months since David died.  "Two months" does not feel like a real measure of time.  It could be two days, or two years...almost like I'm moving in a kind of time warp.  It's just a very odd,  indescribable feeling.  Some days I feel my usual joy of life, as if everything is normal; other days, just sort of lost somewhere.  I find that I do a lot of staring into space, but I'm not sure why I'm doing that.
     Actually, there are a lot of changes going on inside of me that I'm not sure about.  Of course, I have changed in many ways through my life; I am no longer the same person as I was in my 20's, my 30's, my 40's, or my 50's.   I can look back and think of those Carols in the third person, as entirely different people than my 60's self.  I feel like I have changed that much over the years.  But this is not quite the same.  I have to think about this some more before I can put it into words.  My sister, Paula, sent me a wonderful book called "The Dance" which says that writing is a way of searching, of opening to possible wisdom.  So I need to think about these changes for a while, then later write about them, so that maybe I will find some understanding.
     It's very hard to stop thinking "our" and just think "me."
     I realized the other day that this is the first time in my whole life that I am single.  That I now make all of my decisions about my life by myself.  That I am entirely responsible for me.  That the only discussion about exactly what to do tomorrow, or next week, or next month is in my head.  It's a bit unsettling.  Major decisions give me no problem--it's those everyday things that bother me.  Which is odd because I made those daily decisions on my own throughout my whole marriage with David.  For most of my life I have been strong, self-reliant, independent.   My forever friend JoAnn told me the other day that she was so proud of me for the way I handled trading in two of our cars for a new one. I didn't quite know how to respond because I never doubted that I could take care of that, never second-guessed anything about that procedure. Yet it broke my heart to lose those two vehicles.  David loved his Yukon and the little Jeep.  I cried and cried the next day because a few more pieces of him were gone.
       I think I just miss talking to him about things.  I could talk to him about anything.  I could share my ideas, my worries, my personal thoughts, and he listened.  He usually went along with whatever I wanted to do, but it was a sharing, nevertheless.   When he did have an objection, it quite often turned into an argument with no resolution. We were both too stubborn to give in, so we both just gave up because we hated the conflict.  (I don't believe I miss that.)  Since he died, I have tried talking to him out loud but it just makes me feel ridiculous; talking to him in my head is almost as bad.  The first few weeks, I felt like he was still here, but that feeling has dwindled away.  I know that he is not here anymore.
     I trusted David with my thoughts.  He always respected what I had to say, even though I know he had selective hearing.  But we had a telepathic connection that always amazed us.  I would be having a random thought, and a minute later, he would start talking about that very same thing.  I often wondered if I was a strong sender or if he was a strong receiver.  It very rarely worked in the other direction. 
     Every night when I go to bed, I make myself shut my eyes and picture kissing him and telling him goodnight, telling him that I love him, feeling his sweet kisses, hearing him tell me goodnight, that he loves me.  I am SO afraid that I will forget his kisses, his voice, his face, his touch, that it will all fade away with time, like it has with all those others I loved dearly...my mother, grandpa, grandma.  I can handle anything but that.
     I am doing better every day.  Developing routines.  Taking better care of myself.  Eating.  Sleeping.  Keeping busy.  But that hole in my heart just stays raw and open and keeps the tears just under my eyes, ready to come out at every moment. 
     Spring has been very slow this year, but the signs of new growth are happening.  I think it got tired of waiting for me; my winter is not quite over yet.

KIKEA'S BLOG

Hi.  I'm Kiki.  Since Mom is now writing in her own blog, and not paying attention to me, I thought I'd write about me.  As you can see, I'm absolutely adorable.  I'm a miniature australian shepard, and both of my eyes are blue.  Mom says I'm too cute and too smart for my own good.   I really have no idea what that means, but I do generally figure out how to get what I want. 

     I came to live with Mom and Dad last April when I was about five months old.    I got to travel around with them in our motorhome all last summer until Mom had to start her chemo treatments.  Traveling was so much fun.  I got to go to lots of places, meet a lot of people...I love people; meet a lot of other dogs...I love dogs; chase a lot of birds and squirrels....I love birds and squirrels.   Dad's gone now, so I don't think we'll be traveling in the motorhome anymore.  I miss Dad.  He made me feel safe.  When I got scared, I ran and curled up next to him, and I knew nothing could get past that big man. 
     But I take care of Mom now.  I make sure she gives me lots of exercise, whether she wants to or not.  And I make sure she gives me lots of loving, even if she's busy doing something else.  Here's how I do it--take note, it works everytime:  I start by standing really close to her and pushing against her arm.  I slowly keep pushing and pushing until my face is in her face, so she can no longer see her book or the computer screen.  Then (and this is the real clincher), I slip my arms around her neck and lick her all over her face.  I make myself as strong as a stone statue so she can't just push me aside.  The only thing she can do at that point is to put away the book or computer so she can use both hands to pick me up to get me out of her face.  Am I good, or what?  The key is persistence...giving up means failure.  I could probably teach that technique to other dogs and make lots of treats. 
     I have lots of toys to play with, but my favorite thing to play with is the cat.  At least, I try.  The cat refuses.  Mom says it's because the cat is 14 years old and has a heart problem.  But I feel sure the cat will come around (remember the key to getting what I want?...persistence).  So I keep taking my toys to the cat and getting in the cat's face, but so far all I've gotten back is hisses and scratches.   I like to herd her to make her go where I want her to go (after all, that is my heritage), but Mom says I'm being a bully.  It doesn't matter...the cat goes where she wants to go, anyway.

     My BFF is Jennie.  She spends nice days in a big fenced-in area right next door.  Mom takes me in there to play with Jennie.  We run together, and jump all over each other, and smell each other's private parts, and then go get a drink of water together.  We give each other kisses when it's time to say goodbye.  Mom thinks we are sooo cute.  I love playing with Jennie.

     Another favorite thing is going outside.  There are so many things for me to pay attention to:  bugs on the ground, bugs in the air, worms, frogs, lizards, not to mention all those birds and squirrels.  And the smells!  I never get tired of all the many smells.  And sometimes I find holes to stick my nose into.  And places to roll around on.  And all kinds of things to taste.  Mom gets disgusted and says I'm such a dog.  Well, duh...

LIFE WITHOUT DAVID, Chapter 1

It has been four weeks since David died.  The first week was filled with family and friends and numbness.  The following week was continued numbness and total loss of focus.  Last week the numbness began to dissolve and emotion poured in.  And with the emotion came the words in my head...words that I feel I need to put in writing.  If I put my feelings, my thoughts, my reactions in this blog, it might help me heal.  I know there is a slight possibility that someone else will read these words, and that's okay.  That someone will then have a part of David, and David will not be quite so gone.
     There are so many things that I miss about David.  I miss the wonderful big bear hugs.  That was always the best place in the world to be...in his arms.  I miss the way he looked at me and told me I was beautiful.  Even though I knew I wasn't even within fifteen miles of being beautiful, he made me feel that way.
     I miss his silliness, the way he could get into a character and make me laugh so hard I was afraid to move for fear I would wet myself.  When he was alone with me, he was never afraid to show the real David.  I wish that others could have known that part of him.
     I miss having him calling me on our phone intercom at 1:30 in the morning, telling me to get upstairs and come to bed (even though that irritated me; I don't like being told what to do, and he knew it).  I miss laying in the dark with him and talking about important things and the most unimportant things until we fell asleep.  I miss our goodnight kiss.  I miss waking up during the night and seeing him sitting on the side of the bed.  He would sit there for long periods of time because he could breath better.  He said it relaxed him, that it was comfortable.
     I miss making plans with him about all the places we were going to go in our motorhome.  He loved making plans.  I miss that we will not be traveling to those places together.
     I miss going through cookbooks and cooking magazines with him and picking out new recipes to try.  He loved for me to cook for him.  I miss the comfort of reading with him.  Different books, different tastes, but still just doing it together.
     I miss his constant support of anything I did.  He thought I was the best at everything.  I was the best cook; the best college student; the best paralegal  in the state, that I knew the answer to any legal question; the best writer; the best painter.  He was so very proud of every accomplishment, of every picture I painted.  So what could I do but be the very best?  He gave me confidence; he made me feel that I could do anything I tried.  I know he was disappointed in my many, many UFO's (unfinished objects).  It was frustrating to him that I have so many paintings that are not quite finished or that never got started.   So I must continue to be my best.  I must finish those paintings.  I must photograph them, put them in this blog, hang them in a gallery.
     I miss holding his hand.  He loved to hold hands with me when we walked, when we sat and watched TV together, even when we drove in the car or motorhome.
     I miss being able to kiss his face all over after he shaved.  I miss the look on his face when I did that; he never wanted me to stop.  I miss him reminding me that I had not kissed him yet today (even though I had).  
      I miss most of all his love for me.  No other man could ever love me like he did.  I never understood why he loved me so much.  There is nothing special about me.  Yet, it was almost love at first sight.  Almost unconditional.   I remember our first kiss...he said he wanted to kiss me because he had read an article in a women's magazine that said you could tell what a person was like according to the way they kissed, and he wanted to see if the article was accurate.  And, of course, I had to give him that kiss; how could I refuse that logic?   How could I refuse a man that read a women's magazine?  How could I refuse this tall, lean, sexy man with beautiful, blue bedroom eyes who wanted to kiss me?   What a line.  What a kiss!   Through all of our life together, he never stopped giving me lots and lots of kisses, of telling me several times every day how much he loved me.  So yes, I miss all of that too. 
     David was not really an easy man to live with; we were opposites in most things.  Compromise was our daily practice.  But he balanced me...we balanced each other.  Now, I no longer have that balance; I feel one-sided.  I just miss him so very much. 
     My life is now full of constant change.  Nothing is routine.  I will be leaving this home we made together and moving closer to our children.  I am slowly going through all of our 40-year accumulations to throw away, give away, pack away.    I have not been able to go through his things yet.  The few things of his that I have changed or removed made me feel like I was giving up a piece of him, so it's being done piecemeal.  Smaller pangs.  Shorter crying time. 
      I feel different when I go out.  I feel like I should tell everybody that David is gone, yet I cringe inside when someone asks how my husband is doing, and I have to say that he died.  The dichotomy of feelings unsettles me.  I had my "maintenance" chemo treatment the other day, later got my nails redone, went grocery shopping.   The whole time, I felt that I was on the outside of a bubble in which everyone else existed.  That I was outside, looking in.  That I now live in a different part of the world.    I know that in time all of this will change, will settle, but for now, I am out of synch.  
     It makes people uncomfortable when they find out that I have cancer, that my husband died.  They don't know what to say.  Actually, there is nothing anyone can say at times like this.  I am also uncomfortable about what to say.  So I find myself consoling them.  I need to assure them that I am fine, that my cancer is under control, that I am not falling apart in grief, that I will be okay.  If I can make them feel better, I feel better.    With family and friends that are so close they have become family, it is easier.  I can say exactly how I feel.  I can cry when I talk to them.  I can laugh without feeling guilty.  I feel free to say this was a good day, or yesterday was a bad day.  They have been comforting.  I think writing in this blog will be comforting for me, too.