I Don't Care that Michael Jackson is Dead

Before becoming a widow, I used to wonder what possessed people to reenact Civil War battles or what compelled someone to camp in a "pretend" ditch while reenacting a World War I battle. War is horrifying, rather indescribable, and I would think that the majority of people who went through it for real the first time would not want to relive it. But yet, some people want to know what it "felt" like. How heavy did the clothing feel on their bodies when it was pouring down rain? What was morale like when half the battalion was shot down? Or, more importantly, what did the food taste like?

But now that I am widow, I finally understand the drive to reenact. There is something powerful about not forgetting--about walking over fading footprints. Since Cindy died, I often relive in my mind those 14 days in October. I force myself to remember how soft her palm felt in my hand when we went to sleep at 11:58pm. Who could predict that the aneurysm would burst at 11:59pm? I cannot allow myself to forget that final moment of tenderness between us. I am obligated to reenact that minute in my mind.

I recently looked up an old friend from Cindy and my past. She was someone whom Cindy and I lost touch with, but always thought of over the years. For the last three months, I have scoured the Internet to find out her whereabouts. She was the only person I failed to contact in October to break the news about Cindy's death (I had an old e-mail address for her). It drove me crazy that she had no idea that Cindy had died. I started running by her house in D.C. during my evening jogs in hopes that I would see her sitting in the window and could "bump" into her. Finally, last week I found her on LinkedIn and reconnected with her.

I don't know how to explain the next part (I wonder if other widows have gone through this). But, I was anxious/excited to tell her about Cindy's passing. When I knew that I was going to see her that evening, I was counting the minutes until I arrived at her house and sat on her couch. By that time, it was at least 260 days (or 8 months, 17 days) since Cindy died. That amount of time to me is ludicrous, but also frightening. I don't want anyone to forget Cindy. Soon, we are going to hit the year mark and people will have moved on. How can this be? I still cry about Cindy. So, it felt like I was downing an elixir when I shared the story of Cindy's passing with this old friend of ours. Something about remembering, reliving, and narrating the story of Cindy's time in the ICU and her subsequent death keeps Cindy present--it keeps Cindy's memory alive on Earth. I am so grateful to this friend who probably had no idea that our conversation was a salve to my frantic, anxious mind.

It's no secret that I see a therapist once a week to deal with my loss of Cindy. And each week I tell her the same thing. I can't get through a day without mentioning Cindy's name once to someone else. What's even better is when people initiate a recollection about Cindy to me. I don't feel as guilty when someone else mentions her name first. It's the first and only addiction I have ever had in my life. But, I am concerned that I am going to alienate friends, turn off people who can't "go there" again, or worse, become that Debbie Downer that everyone avoids.

I wish I could just pay someone 50 bucks a week to reminisce with me about Cindy for an hour. What can I say? I miss her. I miss her friendship. I miss her advice on how to not be so "stiff and white." I miss her guidance on how to be more affectionate with my friends. I miss her knowledge of 1980s alternative music. I miss her unconditional support of my career and my writing. I miss her ability to eat any leftover regardless of discoloration and smell. I miss her soft hands. I miss her voice. I miss her generosity. I miss the sight of her holding a baby. Oh boy, do I miss the sight of that. I miss her shouting "People!" through the Barretts mail slot (as opposed to knocking on the door). I miss her presence at my family gatherings. I miss her Sanford and Son car. I miss her little Fred Flintstone feet. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her.

I want to tell you that after 266 days that it gets easier. And sure, the passage of time helps me move forward with my life. But, it also lunges me into a defensive position where all I want to do is prevent Cindy's footprints from fading.