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.

---

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.

The Deep Sleep

Since Cindy's death, I have been on the run. I'm not sure where I've gone exactly, but according to my calculations, I've jogged about 450 miles (in addition to numerous un-clocked miles roaming the streets of D.C. and hiking the desert trails of California and Utah). In the past twelve months, I have been on an airplane about fourteen times. When I wasn’t too busy orchestrating some out-of-town event to get through a holiday or anniversary without Cindy, I was replying to a text to go out with friends. But, I can’t do it anymore. This week, my body revolted. Instead of going to the gym like I normally do after work, I went to bed around 9pm each night this week. On Saturday, for the first time in more than a year, I slept for thirteen hours. Today, I slept ten hours. I have to admit that I forgot what it was like to be stationary.

Sleep.

I have so few memories of Cindy actually sleeping. If you knew Cindy, you know that she rarely ever slept. If she wasn't working overtime, she was cramming for a nursing exam, running to Babies 'R Us to pick up some new outfit for a friend's kid, talking on the phone to her mom, lurking on the scooter discussion boards, or packing our latest houseguest an amazing bag lunch. I often fell asleep before Cindy--my arm wrapped around her stomach, my nose to her back. In fact, in all my years with her, I never had trouble falling asleep.

Since Cindy slept so little in the time that I knew her, it is easy to recall the couple of times that I did actually see her sleep. In February 2008, our friend Liz treated Cindy and I to a night at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel (the only 5-star hotel in DC). Cindy was a third of the way into the intensive nursing program and we were desperate for some quality time together. Knowing this, Liz gave us the best gift imaginable: a weekend alone, away from our house, and in a city that we thankfully did not need to explore.

I will never forget those 24 hours with Cindy. No school books or cell phones allowed. We lounged by the pool, ate at the hotel restaurant for dinner, had drinks in the cocktail lounge, and fell asleep in the huge king-size bed shown in the picture at the top of this entry. Before going to sleep that night, I remember joking with Cindy that it wasn’t too late for me to “carry her over the threshold.”

When I woke up that morning, I remember leaning on my side and staring at Cindy. She was on her back, snoring, and wearing her “Pig Pen” (the Peanuts character) boxer shorts. I watched her chest moving up and down and wondered if she were dreaming. And, if she was dreaming, what did Cindy dream about? Things that made her happy? Bacon? Double coupons? Laying on a beach? Me?

As the morning went on, I started to get sad because each passing minute drew us closer to check-out time. If only we could have stayed in that hotel room forever--barricaded from the reality of our lives.

Even as I write this entry, I find myself constantly looking back at the picture above (taken with our tripod). In that picture, I remember feeling content, in love, and at peace. Do you want to know what I feel now looking back at it? Cheated and naïve. I had no idea that our weekend at the Mandarin was going to be closest we ever got to a real honeymoon.

I had no idea either that eight months later I would again be watching Cindy sleep, except this time in an intensive care unit.

When I sat next to Cindy as she slept in the ICU, I often thought about all that she did for everyone during the course of her normal day (it will always be ten times more than any of us could do in a day). As I watched Cindy sleep in the ICU, I held her warm hand, kissed the back of it, and whispered in her ear, “Cindy, you rest as long as you need. You deserve it. Take your time--as long as you need to heal yourself. I’ll be here when you wake.”

By Day 10, I remember nervously joking to whoever was with me in the room, “I bet Cindy’s secretly happy she’s finally getting some peace and quiet.”

Born Again

I have lived in Washington, DC since 1996. I’ve seen the cherry blossoms a dozen times and ran around the Tidal Basin a dozen more. I’ve marched for gay rights, reproductive rights, Darfur, and gun control. I’ve eaten the half-smokes at Ben’s Chili Bowl, the truffle-mashed potatoes at DC Coast, the fried chicken at Georgia Browns, and the infamous death by chocolate pie at Kramerbooks Café more times than I care to acknowledge. How could I possibly find anything new about the city that I have called “home” for the past thirteen years?

I didn’t want to get up today. Although I saw the sun sneaking through the blinds, I thought to myself, "What's the point?" Which trail could I run that would be new? What museum could I walk to that I have not been to before? I threw the covers over my head and tried to go back to sleep. I wished that when my eyes opened again that I'd be back in my old bedroom. If Pam Ewing could have a yearlong dream, why couldn't I?

Everyone told me not to make any sudden moves the first year. Don't quit your job. Don't leave town. Save your money. Take it easy. But, I'm restless. I turn from one side to the other, throw pillows on the floor and all the while I am stuck with this annoying Proust quote in my head: “The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes.” Yeah, thanks Proust. I didn't ask for these new eyes. No one consulted me. There was not even a negotiation. I liked the old life that I had just fine. I'm tired, restless, and my heart is just not in it anymore.

Nonetheless, I decide to crawl out of bed and get the bike out. Could I ride around the District as if I were tourist seeing it for the first time?

If the first year was about survival, then this next year seems to be about awakening. I think I like the first year better.

I'm scared. Really scared. I don't have anyone to answer to. I make my own decisions. I am responsible for keeping myself warm at night. I cook my own dinner. I decide when to get up in the morning. I am learning these things for the first time--again.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote, "Sorrow makes us all children again, destroys all difference of intellect. The wisest knows nothing." Emerson's son, Waldo, had just died from scarlet fever when he wrote that. You think you have this life ahead of you. You see the future. Your course is planned. But, then your story is rewritten. What you thought you knew has been completely turned on its head.

You know I talk to Cindy? I ask her for advice. To tell me if I am doing the right things, making the correct choices. And I beg her to come back. I just can't believe that she left me here without her. The girl who couldn't bear not to talk to me at least 10 times a day on the phone. The girl who stayed up all night with me. The girl who promised me that she would never leave me. How am I supposed to do this? I know that the first year I sounded all kinds of smart and positive, but this second year I'm at a loss without her. It's like Emerson said. I know nothing anymore.

The first year I was surrounded. Crowded, in fact. But, I know in my heart that this next year needs to be me on my own. I have to re-learn, discover, and understand new things about myself. I used to tell people that I felt like an old soul since I had already experienced so much. But, now I am backtracking. I am a scared kid again--boarding the school bus for the first time and I want nothing more than to run back home.

I do want to go home. You actually don't know how bad I want to go back home--back to Cindy. I'm lonely. Cold. Tired. And I'm pissed that she left me behind.

This next year has me worried. Although, I emerge into it without any expectations, I am really scared. I thought the first year I was pretty strong, but this next year seems unpredictable. The only thing keeping me going right now? Curiosity.

Interestingly, during my informal bike tour around DC, I did discover a landmark that I had never seen before. As I was biking alongside the Lincoln reflecting pool, something new caught my eye. Hidden between the World War II and Korean War Memorials is a somewhat neglected dome temple commemorating the DC residents who served in World War I. It is also the only local District memorial on the National Mall. How many times have I run alongside the reflecting pool and never seen this structure between the trees? And why today did I finally notice it?