When G first died, I didn’t want to talk about it. I wrote about it, sure, but that and actually forming the words “My husband is dead” are totally different.

Then, I couldn’t stop talking about it. To friends, strangers, people I just met. I’d blurt out “I’m a widow” just like a normal person would say how great the weather was. I think I wanted to get it out there and maybe if I made people uncomfortably aware of it, they wouldn’t want to talk to me about it. My lame attempt at reverse psychology. Worked for awhile. The widow cooties are strong, not unlike The Force.

And then, just like that, the pendulum swung again and I didn’t talk about it. For a while anyway. Then I went to NYC and with the support of friends I sat on a dais surrounded by amazing people and talked about it, and I was alright with that in that moment.

But my daddy died. And I haven’t really talked about that yet.

I can’t.

I’m afraid I won’t be able to handle the hard truth that the most important person ever in my life is gone, and that will be the final shove that sends me off into the land of hoarders, bag ladies and people who get “crazy checks” as my aunt called them each time she opened hers.

My mother talks a bit too much for me sometimes. She has taken on this habit of telling everyone we encounter in inquisitive situations that she and I are both widows, and that I lost my father and my husband within 9 months of each other. Then of course I get the doe-eyes and the sympathy face while I squirm silently and nod my head while I’m sure my eyes glaze over like the cuckoo they think I am.

Lately she has become obsessed with things being “in order” and as she puts it – “making sure I am taken care of when she dies.” Even at the car dealership. While making sure she had the service records changed to her name, the lady behind the counter asked why. My mom teared up and turned to me, and on cue and like a robot, I responded “My dad died and she wants to put it in her name.” And as soon as my mom regains her composure? Yep. She says it. I know it by heart. I’m a widow, my daughter is too, she lost her daddy and her husband, yadda yadda yadda…and then she changed her game, put her hand on my arm and said “she’s got to get back out there.” Like the kids say, FML. At this point I want to just slide down into the floor and be done with the entire conversation. But, because I love my mother and in some strange way this is her way of coping with it, I stand there and smile and nod and glaze over like a Krispy Kreme.

Oh I’m “out there” alright. That just booted me straight into orbit.

Anyway, this conversation has happened several times, albeit minus the “getting out there”  and I’m not so sure what to do about it. Every time I try to talk to my mom about the whole thing she starts to cry, I start to cry, and I get a good dose of the guilt monster and I STFU.

It really grates on me, but I think about my mom, and the 43 years she and my dad were together, and I feel bad saying something. So then I make myself feel bad because I’m comparing my 6 year relationship with theirs and it’s apples and oranges and ohmygawd there I go making myself psycho in my head again. No wonder so many people are medicated, your damn mind can make you crazy (er).

So I write about it. I type my feelings here and sometimes I publish them and sometimes I don’t, but I get them out. I roto-rooter out the things that clog my brain and my heart and hope that one day, I can really talk about it.

I just hope that someone will be listening.

Today would have been my parent’s 43rd wedding anniversary. 43 years of marriage. They were married for 2 years before I was born. Tomorrow is my birthday. Talk about the GREATEST.ANNIVERSARY.GIFT.EVAH!

That’s what my dad used to tell me, anyway.

I’m going to spend today with my mom in Biloxi, and then she and I and some other family member’s are going to one of my parent’s favorite places, Mary Mahoney’s . We’ll toast my parents, miss my father and just be there, in one of their favorite places.

It’s hard to celebrate love when one of the ones you love is gone, but he taught us well, and we won’t let him down.

Love you Mom and Dad. Always.

P.S. – Apparently my comments are broken, but I’m trying to get them fixed!

A storm brews in my soul.

A storm that has raged inside of me for the last sixteen months, actually longer than that.

The waves began to churn and the horizon darkened when I found out my daddy had cancer.

The thunder rumbled as he began chemo, radiation, pills of all kinds, an endless parade of doctor’s.

Drops began to fall as quickly as the hairs fell from his head and the pounds dropped from his larger than life frame.

The rain blinded me and lightning struck when Gregory died, leaving me unable to see the shore.

The fog settled on me, pushing me down with it’s cold weight and blurring my sight of the life inside me that I thought surely was gone.

I sloshed along the shores of my grief and anger, often walking in circles again and again, looking for the sun, the moon, the light of anything good.

I began to see flashes along the horizon.

I felt the caress from a slight breeze of hope, a calm healing trade wind.

I began to feel the warmth of the sun, the goodnight kiss of the moon, the stars smiling on me.

I see the moon, and the moon sees me I would tell Gregory in my dreams.

Then the winds changed.

The clouds covered the moon, the sun, the stars.

The whitecaps returned.

The thunder grumbled across my mind like a hungry beast, it’s lightning flashing warnings in my brain.

Then the darkness came and took my father.

And the rain began again.

Slowly, but steady.

And it comes.

And it goes.

Like the waves, it comes crashing in and pulls back out, taunting my mind, my heart , my soul.

The storm brews in my soul still.

I will not drown.

I will not let it take me under.