My friend

I have a friend without whom I don't know how I would have survived these past months. She would be embarrassed to read that. She would demur and say, "That's what friends are for." But no one else has been there for me like her. She knows that she cannot fix or even fully understand what has happened to me, but she knows when to listen and when to speak. She is not embarrassed when I cry.

When I have been confronted by people who say insensitive things, she is, after Ken, the first person I think of to tell. I know she will commiserate with me and pronounce the insensitive person a total loser. When I am worried she always helps me find the positive. When I am sad she lets me be sad. When I am happy she is overjoyed with me.

I believe God sends people into our lives for a reason. I know why she was sent to me.

Bulwarks

We are going on vacation. I've been buying light timers and planning on how to secure the house while we're gone. I've asked a friend to come by and check on the house every few days. The kids have been curious as to why I'm on this quest to batten down the house. We've never gone to such lengths while we're away. I guess the house is a manifestation of the new responsibility I feel. I'm in charge and if something happens I have to deal with it by myself. That burden is heavy. And the opposite does not follow. When something goes right, when I make the right choice or when the kids achieve something, the burden and responsibility are not lightened. It is just a reminder that I don't have someone to share that joy and pride with.

almost four months

It's been almost four months since Ken died. I was so anxious at the beginning to get everything in order, to figure out the finances, to change the names on accounts. Now, if I make a phone call or send a letter, I feel like I've accomplished a lot. It looks like the insurance problem is finally settled. There are many other things still hanging, but I'm still standing so they can't be all that important.

I feel the loss and grief every day. Everything reminds me of him. I tell the children stories constantly about our experiences together. Those memories and stories are a comfort because they make him real.

I talked to a friend from graduate school recently. We had kept in contact over the last 20 years mainly by Christmas cards. She called to express her condolences, but took the time to tell stories about Ken. We both ended up laughing and crying, but hearing the stories was a joy. I can add her stories to my memory bank to draw on late at night when I can't sleep and all I can think about are those final painful hours with Ken.