My latest piece, entitled “Today Is Not My Day. And Tomorrow Isn’t Looking Good, Either,” is up on the Huffington Post. I hope you’ll take a moment to read it and leave a comment on the site itself. Thanks!
I love my little community. I think ninety percent of the people here showed up for my husband’s memorial service last spring, and not one of them has forgotten that next month marks the one-year anniversary of his death. I guess I’m thinking about this today because last night was the first flag football practice of the season, and I got to see my crew — the moms whose kids play football and flag football with my younger son, Cuyler. We sat on the sidelines, watching and raving about each others’ boys…
Where’d Bryan’s baby fat go?
Look at the size of James’s feet!
My God, Michael is even more handsome. Has Joy put bars on his bedroom windows yet?
And of course they asked me the same questions they’ve asked since Stu died…
How are you?
How are the boys?
You think you’ll stay?
Almost twelve months into our “new normal,” with the fatigue and its lovely partners panic, anxiety, and sleeplessness, finally starting to lift, I can honestly say…
My boys are getting better.
And you bet we are.
We’ve suffered a catastrophic loss. There’s no way we’re leaving all this love.
My new piece on the Huffington Post, “The Morning I Removed the Rings,” is raising a bit of a ruckus. As I write this there are just about 117 comments and I’d love yours. Feel free to leave it here or on the Huffington Post site. Thanks!
and to tell you how fun it was to drink Bloody Mary’s all day on the beach, dance ’til the wee morning at Mango’s, recover with a sixty-minute massage, and then do it all over again, but I made the mistake of opening my email.
One of my husband’s dearest friends was just diagnosed with inoperable pancreatic cancer. His doctors have given him 90 days. Frankly, I am sick at the news. Sick at the memories it brought back. The feelings of helplessness, and disbelief, and fear so deep I thought I was going to faint in front of the surgeon.
I will never forget that day. And maybe tomorrow, when I’ve forced this pain that’s bubbled up back in its little box, I’ll take a stroll down South Beach memory lane. But today I’m going to pray for Don. Thank you for doing so, too.