A Decade of Memories: New Year's Eve 2009

2001: The year I meet Cindy. Rocky introduces me to her over lunch and I am so instantly smitten that I can't even look her in the eyes. Instead, I bury my face in my sandwich and just keep shoving food in my mouth. Cindy asks Rocky whether I've eaten in the last 3 days.

2002: Cindy takes me to Las Vegas for the very first time. Within 2 hours of arriving, Cindy introduces me to the wonderful games of roulette and Texas Hold 'Em. I win $314 and take us all out to a steak dinner. Later that weekend, Cindy, along with Rocky and Gloria, watch me finish the Las Vegas Half Marathon. This is also the year that Cindy and I move in together.

2003: Cindy and I visit Mt. Rainier. In the gift shop, we buy each other matching $7 rings and exchange them with each other during one of our hikes. For Cindy's Christmas present that year, I commission a stained glass artist to create a stained glass piece that depicts the scene (shown below) where we exchanged rings.

2004: For my 30th birthday, Cindy takes me to Las Vegas and surprises me by inviting my closest friends to join us. This is also the year that Cindy and I adopt our dog, Vegas.

2005: For Valentine's Day, Cindy replaces my $7 gift shop ring with a silver Tiffany ring. I buy her the same ring for her birthday and we wear them on our wedding ring fingers. Later that summer, Cindy and I bump into CAROL CHANNING in the bar at the Watergate Hotel. For a Broadway lover like me, Carol Channing is a god. I start freaking out when I see her and Cindy tells me to pull myself together and directs me to get her autograph (which I do). Then, one of the gay boys in the bar starts playing the first few notes of "Hello Dolly!" on the piano and, in a rare and unexpected moment, Ms. Channing gets up and starts singing the song. Cindy captured the photo shown below.

2006: We purchase our first Vespa scooter from eBay!

2007: Cindy enrolls in an intensive 18-month full-time nursing program while also working a 40-hour work week. When the Queen of England visits Washington, DC this year, Cindy skips work and, after dodging security and hiding out in the bushes, takes the awesome photo shown below (l. to r. George Bush Sr., The Queen, Barbara Bush, and Prince Phillip).

2008: In March, I throw Cindy the biggest party ever in our house for her 40th birthday. Later that year, Cindy passes away from a brain aneurysm. About 250 of our closest friends and family attend the funeral.

2009: This blog, inspired by Cindy's memory, provides me with an outlet to deal with the pain and helps me to survive the first year without her.

Christmas 2009

Did you ever see that episode of “Family Ties” where Uncle Ned (played by a young Tom Hanks) finally admits that he has a drinking problem? With each painful scene, you know that the eventual train wreck will be catastrophic. Ned starts drinking beer as soon as he arrives at the Keaton’s house. He then drinks a six-pack during an innocent game of Trivial Pursuit. In the middle of the night, Ned downs a bottle of whiskey, some vanilla extract, and a jar of maraschino cherries. He turns up drunk playing Tina Yother’s clarinet at a job interview. When the Mr. and Mrs. Keaton finally confront Ned about his problem, Ned bitch slaps Alex in retaliation. After this last humiliation, Ned admits his problem and calls AA.

Wouldn’t it be great if all our problems could be solved in 22 minutes?

For the past 2 months, I’ve been on this Uncle Ned trajectory. In my case, my addiction is not to booze, but in feeling sorry for myself. Obama said “Hope is on the way,” but on the way I lost all of mine. There are times when it feels like I am watching myself on TV and I want to scream at the main character.

Did you know that I came this close to committing petty larceny? Before you call me Winona Ryder, let me explain.

Next to the mailroom at my building, there is an apartment occupied by two very festive men. On December 1, to set the season off on a good note, they placed a musical wreath on their door. Anytime a person walked by the wreath, the song “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” played in its entirety (only imagine a high-pitched muzak version played through your old Radio Shack computer). There is no way to enter the mailroom without passing by the door of this apartment. Believe me, I tried everything: ducking under the wreath, running by it very quickly, and even walking on tip toes. This wreath apparently has infrared, CIA-grade motion sensors. In fact, even after you left the mailroom, the song kept playing as you waited for your elevator. I can’t pinpoint exactly why this wreath upset me so much, but on Dec. 26th I resolved to take it down.

I got up around noon on Saturday, put on big pair of sunglasses, a ski cap and gloves, and headed to the mailroom with a pair of barbeque tongs (so as to not leave fingerprints). If I was to do this, I knew I’d have to do it fast. The blaring of the melody would soon bring attention to me. I stealthy walked over to the mailroom, but to my surprise, the song did not play. I surmised that the batteries finally died after all those hours of playing. A Christmas miracle indeed.

This entire season has been filled with moments like this, where I want to trip couples walking arm-in-arm in the snow, glare at people who I think have a charmed life, or throw my boot at the TV every time a movie comes on for Lifetime’s “25 Days of Christmas” extravaganza.

My roommate texted me on Christmas day to ask whether I had a merry Christmas. I don’t know what overcame me, maybe it was because I was on my third (in a row) viewing of “Bad Santa,” maybe it was because I was alone, or maybe it was because I was still steaming over that wreath. But, I texted her back, “This is the worst, most lonely day ever.” Who writes stuff like that?

You know, when I think back to that Family Ties episode, what made the Uncle Ned character so compelling was that he was an intelligent, well-educated man, and a genius in the field of economics. How could someone like him, with all his credentials, fall down so hard in life? Why couldn’t he just figure out a way to make it on his own without drinking?

And when I look at me, I get really angry because I should be smart enough to work my way out of this funk. I’m no dummy, right? I’m Phi Beta Kappa, graduated magna cum laude, I got my masters from Georgetown, and I’ve read every Encyclopedia Brown book known to man. Someone like me should be able to figure out a way to cope. But, like alcohol was for Uncle Ned, feeling sorry for myself and angry at the world is the easiest crutch to fall back on. I hate to say this, but it’s almost instinctual.

The final straw came for me last night when I was talking on the phone with one of my really good friends from Seattle (this is the same girl who fly to DC the second Cindy went into the emergency room and stayed by my side for three whole weeks). I think I spent the majority of the conversation just going off on everything and everyone. I was like, “This person forgot me! This person doesn’t call me anymore! No one wants to hear about it anymore! I hate people who cuddle.” Just really random, scattered, bottled up thoughts.

I’m angry. I have been angry. And I’ve been trying to hold it in, but I just let it out. And afterwards, I felt really ugly. I got off the phone with my friend and just started crying and this time the tears weren’t about Cindy. They were about me. I had become that angry, bitter person convinced that the world is against her. I hate that person. That’s not who I am deep in my heart. I’ve never been that person.

I think I’ve written this in the last three blog entries, but I don’t know what to do. I’m trying to draw upon what got me through the first year, but it seems so long ago. And like I said earlier, it is 100 times easier to fall back on the negative responses. So much easier.

But, I don’t want to live like that. It has to be about making choices, right? I get to choose whether I feel happy, right? I shouldn’t empower some freaky wreath with the ability to make me sad. I should be able to watch “Bad Santa,” one of the best holiday movies ever, and not turn into a misanthrope, right?

I remember seeing the movie “Vanilla Sky” with Cindy. Basically, in this film, Tom Cruise and Penelope Cruz fall head over heels for each other right away. All signs point to them having this amazing relationship, but then the next day Tom Cruise gets into a car accident and is horribly disfigured. The Tom Cruise character spends the rest of the movie sulking, lashing out, and wearing that stupid mask. The Penelope Cruz character does make an attempt to welcome him back into her life despite his disfigurement, but he still remains a jerk. When the movie was over, I turned to Cindy and said, “Why did he have to be such a jerk to Penelope Cruz? She would have gotten used to the face.” To which Cindy responded, “But, his heart was disfigured and that was worse than the face.”

Merry Christmas Cindy.

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P.S. How cute is that photo of Cindy above in the Santa hat? And I love that there is an angel on her shirt and spaghetti sauce on her face.

Palliative Care for Widows 101

There’s a song I found myself singing tonight as I ran through the streets of D.C. under the haze of a newly fallen snow.

You gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind music
Even if nobody else sings along

You’re gonna be knowing
The loneliest kind of lonely
It may be rough goin’
Just to do your thing’s the hardest thing to do

I actually have my college roommate to thank for turning me on to the sounds of The Mama and the Papas. When she popped in the greatest hits CD, I immediately fell in love with the voice of Mama Cass. Deep, warm, and folksy—her voice just draws you in and (I don’t know how she does this) for a short while you forget your problems. Songs like “Words of Love,” “Dream a Little Dream of Me,” and the song I was singing tonight, “Make Your Own Kind of Music,” contain deceptively simple, yet thoughtful lyrics.

And so, as I stared at our nation’s official Christmas tree, I sang this tune.

But, let me back up a bit and first tell you how I got here.

Since late November, I have been trapped in a dim, desolate mental place. So many texts, e-mails, and voicemails have gone unanswered because I don’t have the language necessary to explain what I am going through.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, then I’ll make it clear. Widows are the biggest liars in the world. Especially widows like me in our second year of the loss. You’ll ask us how we are doing, but we know you really don’t want an honest answer. I don’t mean to quote Jack Nicholson, but trust me when I tell you, you can’t handle the truth. You won’t want to handle it. The bleakest, least optimistic thoughts may be racing through our minds on any given day. So, when you ask us how we are doing, it’s just easier to keep the answer short and somewhat vague. You’ll get responses like, “Ehh, I’m okay” or “I have my ups and downs” or, my personal favorite, “I’m doing my best.” I love that response in particular because “doing my best” for a widow probably means that she succeeded in only taking one sleeping pill, picked herself up from a pool of tears off her bathroom floor, and remembered to feed the dog and put pants on in the morning.

Anyway, the day after Thanksgiving I was caught in a traffic jam that forced me to be stuck in my car for nine hours. With no one to talk to for hours, my mind immediately moved to Cindy. I don’t know why, but whenever bad luck comes my way, it’s so incredibly easy for me to use it as confirmation that misfortune is simply my lot in life.

I know, I know. It’s a little melodramatic. Okay, it’s completely melodramatic. But, I don’t tell you these things as justification for histrionics. I’m just trying to explain what goes through the mind of a widow. Our minds take rapid leaps in incredibly odd and disquieting directions.

For example, earlier this month I found myself watching “Bridget Jones’s Diary,” a movie that I have seen dozens of times without incident. However, during the scene when Bridget attends a friend’s dinner party filled with “smug marrieds” and she is the only single person there, I started to cry. Who the hell cries during Bridget Jones?

My mood proceeded to worsen in December as the holidays kicked in. I’d do my nightly, solitary jog in D.C. and have to weave around what seemed like hundreds of couples dressed up on their way to holiday parties.

I took two trips on a plane this month and, each time the plane touched down at DCA, I’d watch everyone around me race to turn back on their cell phones. But, I’d just sit and stare at the powered-off phone in my hand.

I’ve lost my way. In the first year of widowhood, I constantly tried to stay one step ahead of the suffering. But, it finally caught up to me and I can’t dodge it anymore. I’m scared. How do I alleviate the pain? Reduce the severity of the symptoms? Conceal its effects?

Without a formal plan of attack, I did what I’ve always done when I am at a loss, which is to go out for a run. When I started my jog tonight, it was in the low 30s and the snow had not started yet. By mile three, when my hands were shivering, I was ready to call it a night, but that’s when I felt the air dampen on my face. I looked up and saw the white flecks coming down like confetti in slow motion. I turned off my iPod and removed the headphones from my ears.

I decided to take a detour to the White House to see the National Christmas tree and the various state trees. As I jogged down 15th Street, the words of Mama Cass (herself a former resident of the Washington, DC environs) came out of my mouth.

You gotta make your own kind of music
Sing your own special song
Make your own kind music
Even if nobody else sings along

I’ve wanted to go down to see the trees all month, but I was afraid to go alone. You see, the trees are our equivalent of ice-skating under the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center in New York City. You share the experience with the person or people you love.

The loneliest kind of lonely

So, I kept singing that song and made my way down to the trees. While the big tree was impressive, I was fascinated with the state trees. This section, known as the “Pathway of Peace," contains 56 smaller, decorated trees representing all 50 states, five territories, and the District of Columbia. I got a kick out of the Arizona state tree because the ornaments (made by the Boys and Girls Club of Phoenix) had cotton balls glued to them to represent snow. The ornaments on the Indiana tree (prepared by an elementary school class) puzzled me because they were just leaves, which meant that by now they were dead leaves. Not to be biased, but I loved the tree decorated by a Girl Scout troop from the District of Columbia. Their ornaments were big, colorful, and plastered with glitter.

Midway through my stroll, I stopped in front of the Yule log to thaw out my face and hands. If you ever visit D.C. during holiday time, you must go see these trees and, most importantly, the Yule log. Their version of a Yule log is basically a huge fire pit. But, it feels amazing on a freezing night. The warmth felt so comforting that I did not want to leave. After fifteen minutes, I don’t know why, I felt compelled to make a wish in front of the Yule log. I actually made two wishes and then walked away.

On my way out, I stopped in front of the Massachusetts state tree, whose decorations were provided by the Hospice and Palliative Care Program of Southeastern MA. The ornaments consisted of simple brush and bristle tied together with a bow. Although not as bright and cheerful as the ones on the D.C. tree, there was something dignified about them. They may not have flash and glitter, but they did a solid job capturing the rugged spirit of winter.

As I jogged back home tonight, I knew that I still didn’t have all the answers. The path is still not clear to me. But, I do know that I felt the most peaceful and content, even if it was for a short moment, surrounded by the trees with the snow falling around me and the warmth of the fire on my face.

It may be rough goin’
Just to do your thing’s the hardest thing to do

Little Song #2

I walked by the Christmas tree in my lobby and stopped dead in my tracks. That scent. I knew that fragrance. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? That tree’s been there for a week. The smell went through my nose, into my head, and I closed my eyes. One moment I was on my way to the gym, and then, in the course of a second, I was back in my house in Virginia with Cindy and it was December 2002.

One night, on my way home from work in 2002, I decided to purchase a real live Christmas tree. Although Cindy said that we had a perfectly good fake one somewhere up in the attic (left there by the previous owners), I wanted a real tree. Cindy assumed that it was because I never had a real one growing up. But really, there seemed something prestigious to me about having a real tree. In my mind at least, procuring the tree, strapping it to your car, working tirelessly to prevent a sap seal, and setting it up in the home that you share with the person you love was a rite of passage.

You can’t tell this from the picture above, but we only had enough ornaments for the front of the tree. Cindy and I were not the type of people to buy ornaments randomly just for the sake of having lots of decoration. Therefore, for the first year, our tree was sparse. I didn’t mind this so much because I recognized that we were still a young couple and had decades more of Christmases together. In fact, I looked forward to the later years when we would have amassed hundreds of ornaments from our travels and our friends--each ornament telling a different story of our life together.

That evening, while we trimmed the tree, I suggested a Christmas gift alternative. Rather than spend lots of money on gifts for each other, I suggested that we do something creative for the other person. I loved this idea because I had fun thinking up unexpected, imaginative gifts for Cindy. One such gift that I am really proud of is visible in the photo above. In the top right corner, hanging on the wall, is a black and white portrait of us. That picture is actually made up of more than 1,000 tiny square Lego pieces (a gift that I had given her for our first Valentine’s Day together).

I had no idea what Cindy would come up with for me. Since she was a camera person, would she do something with photography? Would she play a song on a piano for me? Would she get me my favorite celebrity’s autograph? Even though I was 28 years old at the time, I acted like an 8-year old anxiously awaiting Santa’s arrival.

When she finally handed me her gift Christmas morning, it felt heavy. Could it be a book? A picture frame? I unwrapped the gift and took out the chocolates that she had used to weigh down the box. Underneath the box of chocolates, on purple card stock, was a handwritten poem titled “Little Song #2.”

As I stared at this most amazing gift, Cindy explained that it was only fitting that her Italian girlfriend should have an Italian sonnet written for her. When I asked about the title of the poem, she reminded me that the term sonnet means “little song.” I can’t recall why she titled it #2, but, knowing a perfectionist like Cindy, it was probably because she edited Little Song #1 to death.

As I read the poem, I could not believe how well Cindy adhered to the structure. Italian sonnets are typically 14 lines with a rhyme scheme like this: a-b-b-a, a-b-b-a, c-d-e-c-d-e. The first part of the poem describes the problem the poet is facing and then the second part offers some sort of resolution to the tale. What makes this gift so extraordinary was that Cindy was not a huge aficionado of poetry. She decided to do something way outside her comfort zone because she knew that it would be completely appreciated by an English major like me.

I debated whether to share with you something as cheesy as a poem. What seems romantic to us in our personal lives does not always translate the same way to the outside world. Nonetheless, here’s the poem:

Little Song #2
When I thought true love was so far from me,
into my life one summer day came you
Beautiful, charming, smart with eyes of blue
In front of me, was what was meant to be
Life with you is all I could ever see
Would you be the one? Could it become true?
My heart, my desires would be for you
Since that day, I thought of you endlessly.

We are now one. How fortunate our fate
For here we are together everyday
No more nights without you or days apart
With you I have found my friend and soulmate
I am happy when in your arms I lay;
I am complete because I have your heart

--CMR 12/2002

I always thought that if we ever had an official wedding ceremony and Cindy was stressing about what to say for her vows, that she could just recite the poem she had written for me in December 2002.

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P.S. In order to take the photograph shown above, Cindy used a tripod and, after eight tries (keeping the cat still was a feat in itself), eventually captured this shot. We used this photograph as the basis for a holiday e-card. I thought it would be funny that our family portrait consisted of me, Cindy, our cat Mr. Kitty, and my beloved animatronic reindeer that I kept inside the house. On no account did I ever doubt that Cindy was my soulmate for she never questioned my desire to keep the animatronic reindeer in our house. After all, if they were outside the house, how could I enjoy the site of them in their neat red bows, moving their heads left and right?

The Fortress of Solitude

There’s a scene in Superman II when Clark Kent and Lois Lane are in a diner. This is right after their weekend in the Fortress of Solitude when Superman decides to do away with all his superhero powers. While Clark uses the restroom, one of the male patrons plops himself onto Clark’s stool and starts hitting on Lois. Seeing this, Clark tells the man to get out of his seat. When he does not move, a fight ensues. Clark hits the man hard but, without superhuman strength, the force of the punch actually hurts him. By the end of the scuffle, the man knocks Clark to the floor. Clark stares in wonder at his hands. The blood dripping down his fingers reminds him that he is a mere mortal now.

Did I ever tell you about the time that Cindy and I survived a near-killer shark attack? We were in Vieques, Puerto Rico snorkeling far, far away from shore. All of a sudden, thousands of small fish started swimming past us. The fish darted between our legs, through our swim shorts, and around our arms in droves. It was like an underwater version of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. Upon noticing this myriad of incredibly frantic fish, Cindy grabbed my shoulder.

CMR: Where do you think they are going in such a hurry?
JM: I think they're running from something. . .
CMR: Wow! You think we’ll see a shark?
JM: We need to get the f*ck outta here.

I felt my heart race uncontrollably as I swam faster than I had ever before in my life. About a minute into our escape, I turned around to look for Cindy. She was way behind me. I swam back to her.

JM: Cindy, you need to pick up the pace.
CMR: I am so mad at you for not bringing an underwater camera.
JM: Cindy, we need to get back to shore.
CMR: Yeah, I know. But think of the pictures I could be taking!
JM: Cindy, c’mon!

This went on for twenty minutes. I’d be swimming hard and then I would turn around and Cindy would be trailing behind. Each time this happened, I backtracked to make sure we were always together. Finally, I placed her arm around me and I swam for the both of us. I did not let Cindy go until we safely reached the shore.

This was not the first time I protected the woman that I loved.

Several years ago, a drugged-out intruder tried to break into our house as we slept one evening. We woke to the sounds of Vegas’s barking and a persistent knocking at the door. Thinking it was our current houseguest trying to get in, I went downstairs to open the door. When I got to the door (which was glass paneled with a sheer screen in front of it), I noticed the dark silhouette of a man. I quickly placed the chain on the door and ran back upstairs. The knocking intensified and then soon degraded into pounding.

JM: Cindy! There’s a man at the door!
CMR: Is it locked?
JM: Yes, it’s locked!
CMR: What do we do?
JM: Maybe he'll go away.

The man started kicking the door now.

I called the police. I went through a game of twenty questions with the dispatcher and begged her to send a squad car. After what seemed like five minutes, the dispatcher told me to go downstairs and to direct the man to leave my property. When I repeated her suggestion aloud, Cindy grabbed my arm.

CMR: Don’t do that. F*ck that. Don’t go downstairs.
JM: But, she’s telling me to do that. She says she doesn’t have a car to send out right now and this might get him to leave.
CMR: F*ck that bitch. You don’t know if he has a gun. Don’t go down there.
JM: (into the phone) Are you sure you want me to go downstairs? I mean, what if he has a gun? We have a glass door.
Dispatcher: (laughs) You must watch a lot of cop shows.
JM: Have you sent a car yet?
Dispatcher: Not yet. I’ll stay on the phone with you as you go downstairs.

I looked at Cindy and grabbed a baseball bat that I kept by the bed. Why did I keep a baseball bat by the bed? I always believed that two girls living alone in Virginia should have one handy in case of emergency.

CMR: Where are you going with that?
JM: I’m going downstairs. Stay where you are.
CMR: Don’t go. Don’t listen to her.
JM: Cindy, I am going to take care of this. Promise me that you will stay here.
CMR: Why haven’t they sent a car yet?
JM: I don’t know Cindy. I’ll be right back.
CMR: Wait!
JM: What?
CMR: Take a tennis racket instead. More aerodynamic.
JM: I love you.

I finally went downstairs and instructed the crazy man to leave the premises. Of course, he did not and continued to beat the crap out of our front door. This went on for several minutes until a squad car finally arrived and the police apprehended the intruder. After we got back into bed, Cindy wrapped her arms around me. When I woke up the next morning, Cindy’s arms were still around me and my arms were cradling the tennis racket.

For the past 53 days, since reaching the one-year mark, I have been feeling like Clark Kent in the aftermath of that diner scene: weak, wounded and, most significantly, mortal. I don’t know my purpose anymore.

When Cindy was around, my objective was clear. You love your partner. You care for and protect your partner. You plan a future with your partner.

Then, Cindy’s death forced me to change directions. I now had to take care of myself. For 365 days, I did just that. I traveled around the country, hiked in places I had never been to before, re-connected with friends I had not heard from in ages, and whatever else was necessary to make it.

Now I am at a loss. I am entering some new phase of this process that has thrown me for a loop. The superhuman strength that got me through the first year has gone away. In its place are pity, negativity, and cynicism. I am trying hard to fight them off, but I’m losing the battle. I just feel like lying on the floor like Clark Kent and staring at my hands.

Orientation (a Widow's Experience on Long Island for Thanksgiving 2009)

http://www.flickr.com/photos/75449583@N00/ / CC BY 2.0

Without us even knowing, we rely on landmarks, scents, and sounds to orient us to a particular place. The smell of the evergreen, for example, might remind you that you are back home in Washington State. The ringing of slot machines as you disembark in McCarran International Airport confirms that you are back in Las Vegas. For me, when I am traveling on the Grand Central Parkway and I drive past the old Unisphere, I know that I have returned to Long Island.

The Unisphere stands twelve stories tall in the middle of Flushing Meadows Park. Built to withstand rain and ice, the stainless steel globe remains a landmark to anyone traveling between Manhattan and Queens. When it was constructed for the 1964 World's Fair, it was meant to build upon the fair's theme of "Peace through Understanding." The Unisphere represented the need for global interdependence (as it related to the promise of the space age). Now, more than 45 years later, I merely use it as a visual cue to let me know that's it not much further to my parent's house.

This Thanksgiving was my first trip back to Long Island since Cindy's death. The trip, for me, was bittersweet. While I was excited to see my parents and childhood friends, I could not help but feel reduced in some way to be there without my partner. For several years, Cindy was more than just a girlfriend I brought home. She was treated like a daughter by my parents. My sister considered her a sister. If it were legal in our state, Cindy would have been my wife. I had a life and a future planned with Cindy. I am 35 years old. Now what? Downgraded.

Normally, when Cindy was with me, as soon as we got off at the Willis Avenue exit from the Long Island Expressway we'd make a beeline for Vincent's Pizzeria to get two slices of regular and a couple of Diet Cokes. On Black Friday, we'd get up at 6am to walk over to the Radio Shack in the Waldbaum's Shopping Center to take advantage of the sales. And, when Cindy was still smoking, I'd invent elaborate excuses to sneak her out of the house so that she could get a few puffs off her cigarette. Don't get me wrong, I never condoned her smoking. But, Cindy in the throes of nicotine withdrawal was not a pleasant experience (trust me). This Thanksgiving, I did none of those things.

Each morning I woke up on Long Island this time around, it took me a few moments to get my bearings. I am sure other widows have experienced this. It's not that you are completely disoriented and don't know where you are. But, there's a piece of you that is hopeful that you are waking up from a long dream. That maybe this is the day where you finally end the nightmare. This actually occurs no matter what city I am in--I turn over in the bed, stretch out my arms, and after I confirm that Cindy is not next to me, I spend the next several minutes trying to figure out how I am going to make it to the end of the day.

On my way out of town, I took 495 West towards midtown Manhattan. As I got closer to the city, I could not help but remember how often I traveled these roads as a child with my family. And I recalled how the view of the New York City skyline never failed to amaze me. The Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, and the Twin Towers stood out amongst all the other nameless buildings to me. Interestingly, one of the coming attractions shown at the 1964 World's Fair was a model of the World Trade Center. The original purpose of the Trade Center, which was to bring together entities involved in the business of world trade, seemed a perfect compliment to the Fair's mission, which was to highlight "Man's Achievement on a Shrinking Globe in an Expanding Universe."

As I drove towards the skyline this Saturday, I thought how disorienting it must have been for commuters used to seeing those two towers every morning on their way into work. In the days, weeks, and months after the Towers fell, who else traveled these roads hoping to see these buildings magically reappear? How many people, like me, used the skyline to orient themselves while traveling in New York City? Who else relied on the Twin Towers to tell them whether they were correctly heading downtown? And what could we rely on now?

Help the Homeless Walkathon 2009

When Cindy died, I set 3 rules for myself. My rules were so simple that I am slightly embarrassed to list them. But, here they are, in order of importance.

1. Don't get fat.
2. Don‘t become selfish.
3. Don't kill yourself.

I unintentionally came upon the first rule. Even before becoming a widow, I’ve always said that grief and mono are two of the world’s best diets. I dropped almost twenty pounds in the weeks that Cindy was in the ICU. If not for all the different kinds of pudding in the hospital cafeteria, I most certainly would have fasted the entire time. But, once the weight was off, I knew that I could not allow myself to put it back on.

Believe me when I tell you that when you lose the love of your life, you will need to draw upon every single ounce of strength and energy to not break rule #3 from above. To battle a grief as deep as widowhood, you need to be in tip-top shape both physically and mentally. Everyday your mind wants to trick you into thinking life ain’t worth living. People talk at you, but it’s so hard to focus because all you can do is see the face of the person you are grieving over. Your alarm clock goes off at 7am, but your body doesn’t want to move. Food is put in front of you, but even the thought of chewing tires you out. Negative thoughts come at you from every direction. I swear, since Cindy‘s death, I’ve been in a never-ending bereavement video game jumping over despondency, swinging above despair, and judo-kicking misery in the face.

One of the things that I’ve always found really infuriating about depression is the inherent selfishness that comes along with it. So, I knew going into this that I would need a way to combat those self-centered tendencies. I sought out places to volunteer in my community. To be honest, a homeless women’s shelter was not my first choice. I actually tried to volunteer at hospitals, hospices, and places like that, but none of them would take me on account of me being a recent widow. The only place that took me without question was the shelter.

I’d love to tell you some Hollywood story about how I got through my grief working with those less fortunate than me. Or weave you some yarn about how the women at the shelter taught me how to appreciate my life. But, none of that happened. I’m no Michelle Pfeiffer from “Dangerous Minds.” The shelter is under-funded, there are holes in the wall, and bedbugs in the dorm. Many of the women battle addiction problems, struggle with diabetes, and have inherited serious financial burdens. I used to think that if a person worked super hard, then eventually they’d be able to support themselves and get out of poverty. But, I know women in this shelter who work three jobs a day from 6am until 10pm at night and it is still not enough to rise above their economic situation.

Last month, the DC government slashed the homeless services budget, which boggles my mind since job rates are frighteningly low and the shelters are packed. In particular, Calvary Women's Services, where I volunteer, will face a $75,000 loss to its existing contract. This amount astounds me because Calvary already runs a super lean operation and trust me when I tell you that it‘s no-frills there. In an attempt to battle this shortfall, Calvary is hoping to raise some funds through the Help the Homeless Walkathon taking place this Saturday, November 21st at 9am. I will be marching on Saturday and I was hoping that you would consider making a small donation and earmarking it for Calvary specifically. To sponsor me, click here.

As for rule #3, I don’t have much to say. I loved Cindy with all my heart. I fell in love with her the moment I met her (my friend Rocky can attest to that, she was there) and I expected to spend my life with her. She made me laugh, she inspired me to do good things in my life, and she taught me everything I needed to know about this wonderful thing called empathy.

I’m still trying to figure it out. But hey, I’m still here. So, maybe there is one thing I am learning at the shelter: resilience.