Happy Birthday Cindy (A Nocturne in E Minor)

Tonight I sit at the computer like a pianist in front of her instrument. I crack my knuckles and roll my neck around my shoulders in preparation for the solo performance. I raise my hands high above the keys as if I am about to commence a dramatic Mozart concerto, but at the last moment I shift gears and opt for a pensive Chopin nocturne instead.

Although the distance between blog entries increases, I am not without moments and thoughts that imprint my widowed soul. In the past couple of months, I have been on the receiving end of some anger-filled sentiments and doubts about my grieving process. Many times I have wanted to run to the blog and slam my fingers on the keys as I rail against those who truly know nothing about my experience.

But, if there is one thing that I have learned from the last five and a half months, it is that people experience grief in a variety of ways. Bereavement is a subjective experience complicated by the passage of time. On the one hand, our wounded bodies appreciate the blunting that naturally occurs as the distance from the death increases. But, on the other hand, our minds agonize over losing the vividness of our memories of the deceased with the passing of each day. I am sure this contradiction causes some mourners to respond with anger and frustration.

From the beginning of my journey, I explained that I faced two options for dealing with Cindy's death: 1) despondency or 2) self-preservation. I chose the latter. At some point during my travels in the desert in November, I realized that celebrating Cindy and honoring her legacy gave me a purpose to my own life. Some may see this as a temporary crutch, but I see it more as one tool in the widow's toolbox for working back towards a meaningful life.

Cindy wanted two things in life: she wanted people to be kind to each other and she wanted people to be happy. And for those that Cindy left behind, particularly those who were with me for those 14 days at the hospital, she would demand that we continue living and that we remain kind, not just to others, but to ourselves as well. Each day that I can make another person smile or each morning that I can wake up and feel thankful for my life is a gift that I can give to Cindy.

Today would have been Cindy's 41st birthday. This time last year I threw her the biggest party our house had ever seen. When I began the party planning for her 40th birthday in January 2008, I thought for sure that Cindy would want to micro-manage each and every detail. However, out of love and respect for me (or due to the fact that she was on her feet and in demand 16 hours a day), she did not interfere in my work. In fact, she had a huge nursing exam the day of the party and had not slept more than two hours the night before.

Friends from high school, college, work, and all over attended the party, appeared in the photo slide show, and/or contributed to the memory book I compiled for Cindy. I remember, at one point during the slide show, a photo of Cindy and me appeared on the screen as Queen's "You're My Best Friend" played in the background. Everyone watching did a collective "Awwww" and I thought to myself that this must be what it feels like when you kiss the bride at your wedding.

Cindy always appreciated artistic pieces that were "bookended." She loved stories that established themes at the beginning of the story that were then re-invoked at the end of the story. Or, the musical composition that echoed measures that were introduced to the listener at the beginning of the piece. Something about completing a full circle gave Cindy peace and tranquility. I should then feel blessed that in my lifetime I have had the opportunity to not only organize a celebration of her birth, but a memorial to her life and legacy.