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?

Cindy's Famous Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Cookies

Cindy only ever baked once a year and when she did it was to make pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. During the Halloween/Thanksgiving season, Cindy would stay up until 3am (on a work night) in order to make these cookies. The reason for the all-nighter was not because she was baking hundreds of cookies at a time. It was because Cindy wouldn't start making the cookies until 11:30 at night. Then, at 11:45pm, she'd realize that she needed baking soda or more chips and I'd be forced to throw on a coat over my pajamas and drive to the store. So, the actual baking didn't begin until midnight at the earliest.

The first batch was often burned when she missed the timer going off. Normally, after she placed the cookies in the oven, she distracted herself by playing poker on the computer, talking to her LA friend Jamie on the phone, or browsing eBay. After seeing that the bottoms of the cookies were burnt, she designated those as our cookies and would then begin a new batch for her co-workers and friends. The last couple of years, I actually wound up making the cookies for her. When it came to baking, Cindy felt like everything had to be measured and executed with the utmost perfection. So, what should have only taken a couple of hours always took her four.

In honor of Cindy, I am making those cookies tonight. Here is the recipe in its entirety with some color commentary.

Ingredients:
-->1 16 oz can Pumpkin Mix
[Note from JM: Serious bakers will know that standard cans of pumpkin come in 15 oz. This missing one ounce drove an anal cook like Cindy bonkers. So, to ensure a perfect execution of the recipe, Cindy bought 2 cans (only taking a couple of tablespoons from the second can). Then, she'd Saran Wrap the top of the can and it'd sit in our fridge for 12 months until the next season whereupon we'd toss the bad pumpkin mix in the trash.]
-->2 eggs
-->2 cup sugar
-->1 cup oil
[Note from JM: Another point of annoyance for Cindy was that this recipe did not specify the type of oil. I remember I lied to her and told her that when a recipe does not specify the type of oil, you can assume it means canola oil by default.]
-->4t baking powder
-->4 cup flour
[Note from JM: Each year Cindy would pause for twenty minutes at this point in the recipe and try to deduce whether the flour should be loose in the measuring cup or packed.]
-->2t cinnamon
-->1t salt
-->1t vanilla
-->2t baking soda added to 2t milk
[Note from JM: One year Cindy mixed up baking soda with baking powder resulting in disastrous consequences. It took months for Cindy to forgive herself.]
-->1 bag chocolate chips
[Note from JM: Cindy preferred the Ghiradelli milk chocolate chips as opposed to the semi-sweet.]

Instructions:
Preheat oven at 325 degrees. Combine wet ingredients together in one bowl and all dry ingredients in another. Mix dry into wet a little at a time until well mixed. Add 1 bag chocolate chips. Drop on lightly greased cookie sheet & bake 10-12 minutes.

Enjoy!

---

P.S. I actually need to reference Cindy's friend Barry B. here because I believe that this is his recipe. I don't think Barry ever knew how much Cindy thought of him when she made these cookies each year. I don't keep in touch with Barry, but if anyone who reads blog this does, let him know that his recipe was put to good use.

365 Days to Zion

A year ago today I knew that I would be traveling to Zion.

Even though I always talked about wanting to visit Zion National Park in Utah, it was a place that Cindy had no intention of ever stepping into. But, at that moment, after the doctor turned off the respirator of my partner of almost eight years, the vast solitude and quiet that Zion offered seemed the perfect choice for me.


But, I was not ready to go there in the weeks right after Cindy died. Instead, I chose Joshua Tree National Park where I would be welcomed by thousands of outstretched arms ready to take me in and show me how to survive. As far as role models go, the Joshua Trees were quite successful. After all, they endure not just one year, but year after year of the most challenging and cruel conditions. Not only that, those trees have to remain standing amongst those that have fallen. What struck me most was how even the departed could help facilitate life among those still living. The lessons I learned in Joshua Tree carried me into the year, and eventually into Zion.


I often walked alone in Zion and I knew that’s just how it would be. Cars are not allowed deep into the park, the tourist season drops off, and the only sound you hear is that of your own breathing getting heavier as you hike into the higher altitude. When you walk around Zion, and especially when you hike into its neighbor park, Bryce Canyon, you feel like a dwarf amongst giants. Those rock formations, evolving for the past 150 million years, tower over you, close in on you, and render you speechless.


We often wonder what it takes to move mountains. In Zion, one of the biggest forces of nature is water. The power of that fluid in association with gravity, centrifugal acceleration, and electromagnetism create some of the most colorful, soaring, and imposing rock formations found in the United States. I wondered about the amazing geologic magic tricks these rocks must have seen over the years and how lucky I was to be able to witness the effects of this geology with my own eyes.


Being a mere 35-year old walking in and out of formations that are still kicking millions of years later make you feel significantly insignificant. After all, my time in Zion was so minuscule compared to how long many of the rocks, plants, and spirits have been there. I am not even a blip on the Zion radar. However, no matter what, I did step into Zion. My footprint is there. It’s like my buddy Ron Franz told me, “I came to Zion to be a part of eternity.”


Throughout this year, I’ve tried to share so many memories of Cindy. Those who know me well know that I have the worst memory. Because of this, I’ve been so fearful of forgetting things about Cindy. This blog has been my outlet for committing those memories to some semi-permanent space. When I cleared my things out of our house, the first items I grabbed were my journals, my photographs, and my videotapes of Cindy. But, the fear of forgetting, not just by me, but also by others terrified me. I remember recently I asked someone if they still thought about Cindy everyday and that when that person said no I felt a stabbing pain in my stomach.

I know I am not alone in this. Our friends who have children, particularly babies, often shared with me the sadness they felt thinking about their kids growing up and not recalling this affectionate, sweet, playful Filipina that their children called “Tita” and who showered them with baby clothes, toys, and kisses. Cindy loved these children unconditionally, so I can’t help but feel disappointed that they may eventually forget her. Something about that just doesn’t seem right.

Since Cindy died, I’ve had this urgent desire to memorialize her. I had a running shirt made with her picture on it. I created bumper magnets with her face on it for my scooter. I developed this blog. I posted pictures of her on my Facebook. I tried to not go a day without mentioning her name in conversation. Similar to my Ron Franz who created a Web site to post his wife’s music, I have done all of this in an effort to give Cindy an immortality.

For the past 365 days, I have been racing against the clock of forgetting and believing that immortality is the answer. But, what I learned in Zion is that all of that is inconsequential. Things in life change, they evolve, they come, and they even go. The absence in our individual lives is inevitable. At some point, something will change, someone may change, you may change and that is the nature of things.

For example, the formations in Zion used to be under water. But, slowly over time they lifted up to 10,000 feet higher. Another example, in Bryce Canyon, the “hoodoos” are actually believed to have once been joined together in arched formations before the effects of erosion rendered them separate.

It’s no wonder that when hiking in Bryce, I felt a discord. While the silence and isolation of Bryce inflicted me with intense feelings of loneliness, I felt a kinship with my fellow widowed hoodoos in the canyon. I took comfort in knowing that we have all experienced the inevitability of separation. And we are still standing.


Cindy is no longer here. But, I am here. You are here. Your children are here. Does that make up for her absence? Hell, no. Will she be forgotten? Not today. Not even tomorrow. We’ll still talk about her as long as our memories are here. But, 100 years from now, will people still talk about Cindy? Maybe? I don’t know. But, should that matter to me? No, because I won’t be here in a 100 years. I am here now. Today, I will find peace in remembering Cindy and celebrating Cindy. For the forseeable future, I will laugh at the stories of Cindy and her schemes. I will smile at the images of her holding her friend’s children. And it will feel bittersweet, witnessing for Cindy, the triumphs of her best friends.

We should keep Cindy with us as long as we need her. I will need her for a long time. You may need her for a long time too. And some may only need to call up her memory when the moment is right. But, do we need immortality? Probably not. On the road to Zion, I took in every sight, sound, and smell that I needed at that moment. And I will draw upon those memories when I need Zion to help me through the day.

Cindy led me to Zion. Cindy led me out of Zion. And she will continue to lead me as long as I need her.

My Ron Franz

Ron Franz and I had been hiking up the trail for about 1.5 hours when we hit a crossroads. The last half-mile of the trail requires you to navigate a thin slice of ridge (only 2 feet wide) with drop-offs of 1500 and 800 feet on each side. Then, there's a 100-foot climb over a steep rock face to complete before you reach the summit of Angel's Landing in Zion National Park. Since 1989, five people have plummeted to their death on this portion of the trail. When we reached this section, Ron Franz looked back at me, "Jennifer, it looks like you have two choices. Are you going to choose courage or sensibility?"

Ron Franz was not really his name of course. If you have read the Jon Krakauer book or have seen the movie, "Into the Wild," then you will remember that Ron Franz is the name of the 80-year old man that befriends 24-year old wanderer Christopher McCandless. Hal Holbrook played Ron in the movie. Anyone who has seen the film knows that one of the sweetest scenes is when Ron offers to adopt Christopher before his tragic trip to Alaska. Hal Holbrook may not have had much screen time in the film, but his tender performance sticks with you long after the movie is over. So, when this older man asked me if I wanted to join him on this long hike, I instinctively said yes knowing that he would be my Ron Franz.

Ron had recently lost fifty pounds. About five years ago, his doctor warned him that if he didn't take better care of his health, his life would be in serious jeopardy. Without thinking twice, he made some immediate lifestyle changes starting with exercising and eating better. When I asked Ron if he would be able to handle the steep inclines, he pointed to his knees, "They're made of steel now! Got 'em both replaced. Good as new!" A year or so ago, Ron had both knees replaced and focused every ounce of energy on physical therapy. During his rehabilitation, he promised himself that if he got strong enough he would return to Zion to hike Angel's Landing.

He lives in Idaho, but he happened to be in Utah this week for the World Senior Games. He figured since he had a day to kill before his racquetball event, he would hike more than a thousand feet up one of Zion's toughest trails. On our way up, he made one request, "Just make sure I don't have a heart attack." I said that sounded fine as long as he made sure that I didn't fall off the ledge.

Along the way, we talked, we rested, we talked some more, and we took lots of pictures. An amateur photographer, Ron advised me that when taking a photo with people in it, never place them in the center of the picture: "The people are oftentimes the least interesting thing in the picture."

When Ron asked me if I was married, I changed the topic: "So, what do you do for a living?" Ron is a music engraver. When he asked me if I had children, I replied, "How many kids do you have?" He has two kids and five grandchildren. There was a moment where I thought that he might be a widow too since he had not mentioned a wife. I was actually about to open up about Cindy, when I learned that his wife was, in fact, alive. However, she was in poor health condition.

Unlike Ron, she responded to her doctor's health warnings by abandoning all hope of getting better. She continues to eat food not recommended for diabetics and refuses to exercise. "I just don't know how to convince her not to give up," Ron stated as we walked up the steep switchbacks. "We used to do stuff together. Now, it's just TV and potato chips. It's like she's just biding time until the end."

I asked Ron, of all the places he could try his new knees out on, why he chose Zion. He pointed to the rock formations, "I don't think we can ever fathom the amount of time it took to build these canyons. I just wanted to be part of eternity." In my mind, I contemplated the forces that brought me to Zion of all places.

During our lunch break on Scout Lookout, we talked about faith. A former devout Mormon, Ron explained to me the spiritual crisis he went through after 9-11 and the ostracism he encountered from within his own community when he started openly questioning things. "Between me and you Jennifer, now that I am retired, I regret the amount of money I gave to the church. And for what?"

Although I did not share this with Ron, I have been questioning many things myself since Cindy was taken away from us all. She was one of the good ones. I still can't accept it. There was so much more she wanted to do. She wanted to be a nurse. She wanted to write a Hollywood script with her friend Jamie. She wanted to open up a high-tea place with Liz. She wanted to know what the Barrett kids would grow up to be. She wanted to open up a Smoothie King with Rocky. She wanted to see Hamp finally marry Chris. She wanted to be there when Beth Boobs gave birth. And, I wanted all those things for her too. But, then she was taken away from us. Cindy. The sweetest, kindest, most loving person each of us ever knew. I'll never be able to make sense of it.

After I returned from the Summit an hour later, Ron put his arm around my shoulder: "Well, it looks like you chose courage Jennifer." I smiled. "I don't know about that Ron. I just wanted to keep going."

During the journey back, Ron expressed relief that I did not fall off the landing. I replied by thanking him for not having a heart attack. I also thanked him for waiting for me on the Lookout while I left him to complete the scary part of the trail. Ron smiled, "Of course. We were a team and you helped me get as far as I did. I completed my goal and now I can brag about it to my physical therapist." When Ron asked if I wanted to come see him play at the Senior Games. I could tell it broke his heart a little when I turned him down.

Nearing the end of our hike, I did reveal one fact about myself to Ron. When he asked what I do for a living, I mentioned that I help people build Web sites, to which he enthusiastically responded, "I built one too! I placed my wife's music on it [she plays piano]. I just wanted to give her an immortality, you know?" I told Ron I knew exactly what he meant.