New Years 2009

I wish it could be 2008 for a little longer. The year was not supposed to end this way.

For 15 months, Cindy maintained a 40-hour work week while also attending an intensive full-time nursing program. When she wasn't in nursing school, she worked at the hospital, she read the heaviest medical textbooks ever, she attended non-nursing classes at the community college (for fun in fact--classes like Intro to Tagalog, Cultural Communications, and Film Theory), and she frequently traveled down to VA Beach to care for her family. From the beginning, Cindy and I understood this would significantly limit the amount of time we could spend together. But, we knew it was relatively short-term. I said to her, "Cindy, we have the next 40 or 50 years together, 18 months is a drop in the bucket."

The end of September, before the aneurysm struck, we were heading into the final home stretch. Even Cindy knew she was so close to finishing this grueling routine: "I can get three more B's and even fail one test and still pass the program!"

2009 was going to be "our" year.

A few people have inquired with me about the next blog posting since the time between entries has definitely increased. To be honest, I have tried to write one everyday, but as the end of 2008 gets closer and the beginning of the new year approaches, the torment I am feeling about Cindy's death is rendering me incapable to connect even the simplest of words together.

How do I convey the guilt I feel about being the one left behind to live here on Earth? We all know Cindy was the one better equipped for caring for and loving people with her whole heart and body. Her smile was infectious, her hands always warm, and her voice always honest.

When I imagine the patient lives she won't get to improve, I feel a sadness for them. I think about the smiles she would have put on their faces and the laughs she would have inspired in them. Only Nurse Cindy would leave a patient's room and then stop at the door, turn around, hold her hand up to ear like a telephone and say, "Call me!"

My mind feels the heaviest when I think about Cindy's godchildren as well as our friend's children whose time with Cindy has been cut short. When I was cleaning out Cindy's car, I found so many bags of toys, books, and baby clothes that she had bought to be ready whenever she visited a friend's child or baby. For the parents who read this blog, can you think of anytime ever that Cindy didn't come bearing a gift for your child? There are tons more of these gifts all over the house too. And no matter if you had the most unruly kid or the sweetest baby, Cindy loved and held them all equally. When I think about these children, I don't have words strong enough to articulate the anguish that settles inside me.

And you would think that going back to the house in Arlington would get easier with time. But, it does not. Each time I ride down 16th Street, I feel like someone who has been bashed in the stomach with a rubber mallet. It's gotten to the point where I have to leave the car running and the door open in order to run in and get what I need out of there, or else collapse on the floor crying.

For the past week, before bed each night, I study the hundreds of photographs I have of her and I can't believe she is no longer with us. I mean, she was just here in late September. She took pictures of my friends at the Ragnar Relay, she went with me and some friends to see Kathy Griffin, she gave me the best pizza party for my birthday. How can she not be here with me now right before the start of the new year? Is this even possible?

So, I don't accept that 2008 is ending. I don't want 2008 to leave us. I don't want to be asked when my partner died and have that answer be "She died last year."