tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47849961857070711912024-03-04T21:10:16.639-08:00Sunny Sings The BluesCultivating plucky blooms from the fertilizer of griefSunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-14958054531713941192011-09-14T18:09:00.000-07:002019-11-14T21:35:54.471-08:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Thanks for visiting! </span>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-16594367282019534112011-06-17T06:24:00.000-07:002011-06-17T06:24:15.136-07:00Time Goes ByThere's a new post: <a href="http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/2011/06/time-goes-by/">Time Goes By</a> on the new blog <a href="http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/">http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/</a>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-27094467547481449122011-06-12T12:33:00.000-07:002011-06-12T12:33:52.478-07:00The First of a Few Good Memories<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPG4c-5dG5hY1mONpG1rLXkkPnR2iddfaCvafre3yhXWgdPDFZYFI-FP1RlcXE9rM0b2PGwlNMFYOc4gZowWAS2uvyuRjT37nHpMTiYmGth6favY4cErTzFssHetK2YXpukD2MByJT_vQ/s1600/55+Arleigh%2527s+Birthday+2001+Leaving+Macaroni+Grill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPG4c-5dG5hY1mONpG1rLXkkPnR2iddfaCvafre3yhXWgdPDFZYFI-FP1RlcXE9rM0b2PGwlNMFYOc4gZowWAS2uvyuRjT37nHpMTiYmGth6favY4cErTzFssHetK2YXpukD2MByJT_vQ/s320/55+Arleigh%2527s+Birthday+2001+Leaving+Macaroni+Grill.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I wrote a new post on the new blog about remembering the good times..Dont forget to update your bookmarks and blogrolls with the new link: <a href="http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/">http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com</a><br />
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Here's the direct link to the new post: <a href="http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/2011/06/the-first-of-a-few-good-memories/">http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/2011/06/the-first-of-a-few-good-memories/</a><br />
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Thanks!Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-5692477317232699032011-06-03T21:50:00.000-07:002011-06-03T21:50:24.335-07:00A New Post On The New BlogHere's the link:<br />
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<a href="http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/2011/06/canistered-memories/">http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/2011/06/canistered-memories/</a>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-45188038947075642022011-06-01T11:13:00.000-07:002011-06-01T11:13:34.219-07:00Here's a Link to the New Post "Das Grief Zu Sprechen"The latest post is on the new blog. Come see and update your bookmarks...soon this blog will be obsolete! Click the link...<br />
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<a href="http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/2011/06/das-grief-zu-sprechen/">http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/2011/06/das-grief-zu-sprechen/</a>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-58512294098500885302011-05-29T09:18:00.000-07:002011-05-29T09:21:20.541-07:00Onward and Upward..<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flashcards.bz/Postcards/changeofaddressb.html" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-JIUxiZEKo6iF27FFksfeIyhvAlB3oWQTiZIPDWzybUVJK64VLmUgVcYt4qu_MVGK7v9S4k_nX5tiANShkp8LFwxYZzCYWxTVUDLg6PfB3GzGASU5jR_qkbe6IbuhsBd0EVX-8Iqizlo/s320/item5c.jpeg" width="222" /></a></div><br />
Never fear, I still have plenty more to say. But I've moved my blog over from Blogger's web hosting, to my own self-hosted WordPress site.<br />
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The new site isn't quite ready yet, but Blogger is frustrating me by not working properly and not letting some readers leave comments. It won't even let me comment on my own blog unless I use my phone to do so. Homey don't play that...Peace out, Blogger.<br />
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Luckily, I have Chris to help me. He's a website programmer and he's on it!<br />
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This site will remain up while I get everything moved over, but I will not be posting anything new here. New posts will only be at the new site.<br />
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Here's the link: <a href="http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/">http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/</a>.<br />
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When my next post goes up, I'll put a link here. Still though, don't forget to set your bookmarks to the <a href="http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/">new link.</a> Thanks for reading...<a href="http://blog.sunnysingstheblues.com/">come visit me at the new site</a>. It will load faster and be easier for readers to use..<br />
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Get ready...we're moving on up!<br />
<div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;"><img alt="" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=e297c330-892d-4c75-af34-c4cf0f2cfc95" style="border: none; float: right;" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/p9y4iXAso4I" width="425"></iframe></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-84683684303689524212011-05-28T12:27:00.000-07:002011-05-28T12:51:36.717-07:00Notes From Roman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjZENX3kn0IeZAwDgr8n8Blo-Gwd9AVrBGzu94WdwKePNIxsFItMdLSy9mtjF1FE9ZzhuMYUZfvgGMsK0mJ3kgNGWJCIGkZEAEzuW-IHT6wqr_uF4cz8iUwVdjPZf2HVoXof0PGHbBms/s1600/77+Wedding+Dinner.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjZENX3kn0IeZAwDgr8n8Blo-Gwd9AVrBGzu94WdwKePNIxsFItMdLSy9mtjF1FE9ZzhuMYUZfvgGMsK0mJ3kgNGWJCIGkZEAEzuW-IHT6wqr_uF4cz8iUwVdjPZf2HVoXof0PGHbBms/s400/77+Wedding+Dinner.JPG" width="266" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I threw away all of Roman's hand written notes to me in my fury over my confrontation with the other woman. They wound up in our apartment complex's dumpster because they were the closest thing to his heart that remained after his death. And since he was not around to account for his actions, disregarding his letters into the filth of the trash gave me a sense of restitution at the time. Looking back now, perhaps my actions were too hasty. Though I decided then and there, that his notes to me would never lift my spirit again like they once had. To that end, I still agree. Nonetheless, words from his personal notebooks survived my fit of anger. I came across two of his notes this morning and thought I'd share them before continuing on.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Looking at Roman's notes now, still brings up sadness for me. But also, they strike me as almost prophetic in a way. Further, they tell of a more vulnerable side that Roman rarely shared. Yet they also seem disconnected and abstract to a degree. It's that disconnect which highlights the difficulty he had with communication. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">His penmanship was exquisite, though leafing through his notebooks reveals page upon page where he practiced each letter repeatedly and meticulously. Roman's genius made things appear easy to the outside observer, and he held tightly to that positive perception from others. Yet, his notebooks tell another story.<br />
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He was indeed human.<br />
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Brilliant handwriting was clearly something he coveted and worked for. Likewise, the fact that he kept the first draft of the note he later gave to me, only supports that notion. Roman worked at appearing gifted.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">True, Roman was very bright. He was also detached, and in life he claimed to embrace both with ease...Though in truth, he manufactured much of people's views of him. I believe he did that because he did not know who he really was.<br />
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Nowadays, I also think that his lack of self awareness was at the core of his inability to communicate effectively and was the primary cause for my inability to reach him. Roman was a moving target.<br />
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He was a target for which he himself could not hit, let alone anyone else - least of all me. And at the time of his death, he was still trying to understand. Today, in reading these short notes, the moving target I sought for so long appears in fuzzy focus...Like a snapshot taken of a person in motion.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">In his own words, these notes allow Roman to briefly touch on what I have been explaining to readers all along. Written in 2003, they are ironically meaningful and honest. What's more, they are what remains and they deserve to be shared. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><u>The first draft: Part of a note written to me after an argument</u></div><blockquote>"This kitchen is hot, even at night. I kind of wanted to share that with you...Here I find myself wide awake, writing in the darkness, very much missing you...I know you are right up in the bed, but for some reason I know it would be nice just to talk with you right now or even just give you a kiss. I would just stand by the bed, but I am afraid after the movie, that if you saw me just standing there watching you, you might not like it so much. But I miss you, and writing will have to substitute for you right now...I miss you but I'll write instead. </blockquote><blockquote>Given the darkness in the house I remember when I was afraid of the dark. I felt alone then. Not lonely, just alone, like there was no protection from me just becoming part of the dark. </blockquote><blockquote>"Turn off the lights, my ass." My mom used to freak me out when she would say that, but off go the lights and the world would vanish.</blockquote><blockquote>I think that's why I am so friggin afraid of blindness."</blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><u>Roman's detached concept of time:</u></div><blockquote>"What time is it? </blockquote><blockquote>I find myself wondering often. </blockquote><blockquote>It does not really matter...time has no meaning save that which we apply to it...and I apply nothing because I do not apply myself. </blockquote><blockquote>It is quite possible that I am, at best a fool with a preconceived condition for self loathing. But I feel this to be inaccurate, for I loath no one and I do not hate myself for thinking such thoughts. </blockquote><blockquote>Times such as these were no different than any other times which make the nothing at all in standard practice of this word...If that truly be anything, or nothing, does not matter...but for all time. </blockquote><blockquote>And in love, so I felt alive...this due in no small part that during this period of nothing, I was not dead."</blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="249" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Hr0YZzL8KCI" width="300"></iframe></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-81281502956948814542011-05-24T22:23:00.000-07:002011-05-26T17:38:30.166-07:00The Nesting Birds of Denial<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyFk5_JFGCDOEnwggdCEtmuyXB8z0ODFtDlaga8GYNT_pJDoD31LJqmCW_aOnFWTYaxtoCTqflS7VMGuu6S2osDLPPfNIb1JWF9OWAf5-9BBN2sgjuYFwPWHNlukPyIdcfJoiz5_V4xI/s1600/IMG_1574.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmyFk5_JFGCDOEnwggdCEtmuyXB8z0ODFtDlaga8GYNT_pJDoD31LJqmCW_aOnFWTYaxtoCTqflS7VMGuu6S2osDLPPfNIb1JWF9OWAf5-9BBN2sgjuYFwPWHNlukPyIdcfJoiz5_V4xI/s400/IMG_1574.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<br />
There is an old Chinese proverb that says, " You cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair."<br />
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I loved that saying after Roman died and took it mean I needed to embrace inner calm if I was to silence the chatter of grief. Around that time meditation became a major coping tool. Making the best of the changes that came from loss, I often reminded myself of my newfound mantra. I tattooed a blue butterfly on my wrist where I could easily be reminded. And as it turned out, when I returned to work in the fall of 2007, I used it often. But before returning to work, Chris and I took a trip to the Hawaiian islands where I got the chance to really quiet the monster known as grief. In fact, I silenced it to the point of forgetting it was there.<br />
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Kauai was divine and the serenity that came with it gave me an unexpected sense of purpose. The feeling I got was healing, though paradoxically, while I had already reached the "acceptance phase" in acknowledging the reality of Roman's passing, my trip back to the islands also made it all that much more unbelievable in a way.<br />
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Roman and I were married in Oahu and honeymooned in Maui. Accordingly, my time in Kauai brought with it reminders of Roman's life and sudden death.<br />
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It turns out that the commonly held notion of grief occurring in phases is too simple. As was the case for me, the phases occurred simultaneously as well as sequentially. They also recycled and returned anew like the waves in the sea; as do recurring dreams or vivid memories. And achieving what I thought was acceptance gave me a false sense of security.<br />
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Grief was not gone...far from it.<br />
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I've said before that my recollection of the time following Roman's death is hazy. Our July 2007 trip to the tropics was no exception. I drank only a few cocktails the entire time, and yet my memory in hindsight feels almost drunken.<br />
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The warm surroundings were pristine. They calmed me, yet the rush of new love, combined with sting of constant reminders, made me feel intoxicated somehow. Detached in a way; not quite able to grasp it all...I was a bit in denial.<br />
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This I know now.<br />
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Hours during that trip were spent lying on the beach in silent meditation, just listening to the ebb and flow of the tides. I remember hearing them at night too as we fell asleep. Mental weightlessness washed over me with each swoosh and was a welcome contrast to the heaviness of my recent loss.<br />
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Still, even with the comfort of my new relationship with Chris and the joy that came with vacation, grief lingered in wait.<br />
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While grief took a quiet seat in the back of my mind, I was finally able to relax. And once we returned home from the trip, I was at ease enough to stop taking the antidepressant medications I started after my confrontation with the other woman.<br />
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Between the time spent on the beach and the happiness that came along with Chris's move to California, I felt calmer than I had in years.<br />
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I was still green when it came to grieving, though. I simply did not know it at the time.<br />
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The stress-free days of summer convinced me that I had turned a corner. And I had. But it was the first of a maze of corners...of countless corners.<br />
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Unknowingly, I was adrift with the false notion that I was "over" my loss. In fact, the thought almost makes me laugh today, especially in light of the challenges I faced once I returned to work that fall.<br />
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It didn't take long for me to realize that grief was alive and well within me. And because of its verve, my ability to cope with the demands of my job were compromised. Behaving uncharacteristically short tempered, I snapped at people over nothing and fought pointless battles that I once knew better than to choose.<br />
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On a particularly bad day at work, my difficulty became glaringly apparent. Being irritable and not realizing it, I had two confrontations, back to back with colleagues. Confrontation hadn't t been something I engaged in regularly prior to Roman's death - let alone twice in one day. Naturally then, I assumed that the others were to blame for our disagreements, so I attempted to to blow off steam by venting to a teacher about what happened. I was angry and as I spoke, I suddenly became aware of how little control I had over my emotions.<br />
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My voice cracked.<br />
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Tears streamed down my cheeks.<br />
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My colleague's face was compassionate, but I was mortified nonetheless. I couldn't keep it together. I wanted to climb from my own skin as I recognized my tears. I wanted to make it stop and make it all better, but I couldn't. And as a once type-A, perfectionist personality, such a thing had never happened to me before.<br />
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I could see in my coworker's expression that she was pulling for me. She was uncomfortable too, but no where near as uncomfortable as me.<br />
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It was the first time I cried openly at work. I was embarrassed and confused.<br />
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I had no idea how I would manage through a whole year, when I was already so frustrated in September. My mind was scattered and my skin felt too tight. At once, I was angry, sad, and anxious. My reactions had me vexed in light of the joy I felt during my time alone with Chris. Further, meditation and relaxation had served me well over the summer, but they were no match for the demands of my career. I felt like I was being engulfed by an invisible force.<br />
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What's more, by the fall, the one year anniversary of Roman's death was approaching and many of my co-workers knew that I had a new boyfriend. I started to feel pressure therefore to keep up appearances...to show others that I was handling things. I was moving on; I was strong. I had weathered a brutal storm. And though most people had no idea about Roman's affair or my impending divorce, I wanted to feel their respect. I wanted to exude professionalism. So even though I didn't feel at ease on the inside, I did my heart's best to keep from showing it. Tears and snap confrontations were not an option.<br />
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At the time, I didn't know I was allowed to have a breakdown.<br />
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With that, I made an appointment to see my doctor and got back on medication immediately.<br />
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It helped. I managed to make it through the second year after Roman died without another tear in front of a colleague. I was making strides. Keeping moving, I figured I was sure not to let those proverbial birds make a nest in my hair. I was surviving...Yet, I didn't understand why I felt so damn tired. Though, now of course, I know it was grief.<br />
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Grief was never silent.<br />
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It was me who was silent. At the time, I just wasn't ready to admit it.<br />
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Denial got me by and served me well. Meanwhile, the birds of sorrow nested comfortably in my hair.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="249" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/5MCe7-58QqY" width="300"></iframe></div><div class="zemanta-related"><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0 0 0;">Related articles</h6><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/05/post-loss-distractions.html">Post Loss Distractions</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/05/forgiveness-part-5-kindness-speaks-in.html">Forgiveness Part 5: Kindness Speaks in Whispers</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
</ul></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-57420690611557302142011-05-22T10:11:00.000-07:002011-05-23T09:19:49.351-07:00Here's What's Cooking..In case you missed it, I was a guest on <a href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/feistywoman/2011/05/22/signs-of-a-falling-marriage">The Feisty Woman Show</a> on Blog Talk Radio on Sunday 5/22. On the show we discussed my experience with infidelity and I gave listeners my advice for avoiding a failed marriage. In case you missed it you can listen <a href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/feistywoman/2011/05/22/signs-of-a-falling-marriage">here</a> or click on the player below.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.adobe.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=9,0,0,0" height="105" id="196521" name="196521" width="310"><param name="movie" value="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/btrplayer.swf?file=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogtalkradio.com%2Ffeistywoman%2F2011%2F05%2F22%2Fsigns-of-a-falling-marriage%2Fplaylist.xml&autostart=false&bufferlength=5&volume=80&corner=rounded&callback=http://www.blogtalkradio.com/flashplayercallback.aspx" /><param name="quality" value="high" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><param name="menu" value="false" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><embed src="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/btrplayer.swf" flashvars="file=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogtalkradio.com%2Ffeistywoman%2F2011%2F05%2F22%2Fsigns-of-a-falling-marriage%2fplaylist.xml&autostart=false&shuffle=false&callback=http://www.blogtalkradio.com/FlashPlayerCallback.aspx&width=310&height=105&volume=80&corner=rounded" width="310" height="105" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" wmode="transparent" menu="false" name="196521" id="196521" allowScriptAccess="always"></embed></object></div></div><div style="font-size: 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"> Listen to <a href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/">internet radio</a> with <a href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/feistywoman">FeistyWoman</a> on Blog Talk Radio</div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
Also, this week I guest posted at <a href="http://vivelenerd.blogspot.com/2011/05/guest-post-sunny.html">Vivelenerd</a> on a topic completely unrelated to grief or relationships; my experience of witnessing my baby sister's birth back in 1991. It was ghastly and horrifying for me at the age of 17, however now that I'm 37 years old, it's actually pretty funny. I wrote all about it <a href="http://vivelenerd.blogspot.com/2011/05/guest-post-sunny.html">here</a>. Please check it out and let me know what you think. Writing comedy is fun, yet is far more challenging for me than the serious griefy stuff.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Soon I'll also begin guest posting from time to time at <a href="http://wordsinsync.blogspot.com/">Wordsinsync</a> on topics related to mental health. I haven't contributed anything yet, but I have a few ideas cooking. I'll keep readers up to date when I post a piece over there.<br />
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And finally, just in case you missed it, I was also on another Blog Talk Radio show back in March with <a href="http://extremewritingnow.com/featured/not-down-and-out-memoir-prompt/">Extreme Writing Now</a>, where we discussed my husband's sudden death, his infidelity, and my thoughts about grief. If you'd like to listen to that show, you can click <a href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/extremewritingnow/2011/03/06/sunny-b-memoirist">here </a>or on the player below.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.adobe.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=9,0,0,0" height="105" id="136571" name="136571" width="310"><param name="movie" value="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/btrplayer.swf?file=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogtalkradio.com%2Fextremewritingnow%2F2011%2F03%2F06%2Fsunny-b-memoirist%2Fplaylist.xml&autostart=false&bufferlength=5&volume=80&corner=rounded&callback=http://www.blogtalkradio.com/flashplayercallback.aspx" /><param name="quality" value="high" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><param name="menu" value="false" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><embed src="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/btrplayer.swf" flashvars="file=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.blogtalkradio.com%2Fextremewritingnow%2F2011%2F03%2F06%2Fsunny-b-memoirist%2fplaylist.xml&autostart=false&shuffle=false&callback=http://www.blogtalkradio.com/FlashPlayerCallback.aspx&width=310&height=105&volume=80&corner=rounded" width="310" height="105" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" quality="high" wmode="transparent" menu="false" name="136571" id="136571" allowscriptaccess="always"></embed></object></div><div style="font-size: 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;"> Listen to <a href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/">internet radio</a> with <a href="http://www.blogtalkradio.com/extremewritingnow">Alex Crabtree</a> on Blog Talk Radio</div><br />
Thanks everyone for your kindness and support!<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="249" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Eqjttpl3peI" width="300"></iframe></div><div class="zemanta-related"><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0 0 0;"><br />
</h6><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0 0 0;">Related articles</h6><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/03/roman-used-to-say-i-worried-too-much.html">Attention Is Scary To Those Who Worry</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/04/grief-coping-and-guest-posting-sunny.html">Grief Coping and Guest Posting: Sunny Part 1</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/05/do-you-see-old-lady-or-young-lady-both.html">Perspectives Reframed</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
</ul></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-56378827140371667912011-05-18T23:07:00.000-07:002011-05-23T09:38:05.431-07:00There's No Place Like The Yellow Brick Road<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRvQmF83wNDak8rJWjeDfkmW2yNSNEYK4DCVkSfMZ85LIj321Y5E-K1MElSzjZY69lAUPegIA6i2fajXN7mUuRHED9BqtriBANBYRGMCENEZirKANxu2LoF9UOnVCzi7fH1xDnD1xglw/s1600/IMG_03461.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRvQmF83wNDak8rJWjeDfkmW2yNSNEYK4DCVkSfMZ85LIj321Y5E-K1MElSzjZY69lAUPegIA6i2fajXN7mUuRHED9BqtriBANBYRGMCENEZirKANxu2LoF9UOnVCzi7fH1xDnD1xglw/s200/IMG_03461.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Me, scratching my head (I think?)</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Walking down a beach path during Chris's first visit.</span></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Within a few months of being introduced, Chris and I met in person, in April 2007. He actually made a few trips to see me around that time. They were all noteworthy visits, but meeting him at the airport when he arrived here for the first time stands out distinctly in my mind as the beginning of the story.<br />
<br />
Upon entering the baggage claim, I scanned the sea of unfamiliar faces for the one I recognized from our correspondences. At first none were recognizable, but then I heard the familiar call of my name.<br />
<br />
"Sunny!"<br />
<br />
He said it with a spark.<br />
<br />
Finally seeing him in three dimensions, combined with hearing the sound of his voice right then and there, was sort of like the moment in the Wizard of Oz where the movie suddenly turns from sepia to technicolor. It was surreal. But I was thrilled to finally meet him face to face.<br />
<br />
I remember he was dressed up. Aside from being happy that he indeed looked handsome like in his pictures, it was his outfit that grabbed my initial attention. In snapshots I'd seen, he usually wore casual t-shirts and shorts. Though on that day he clearly was making an effort to impress me by dressing up.<br />
<br />
It worked.<br />
<br />
I happily noticed.<br />
<br />
Immediately reaching out to hug while he stood near his luggage; we both smiled with nervous excitement as we processed each other's presence. Apprehension no doubt had taken hold of us both for the moment, yet it didn't last. By the time we made our way to lunch for the next stop, it was as though we'd known each other for ages. And our comfort was evident in our choice of cuisine...Mexican food. <br />
<br />
For our first meal together we grubbed on burritos, chips, and table-side guacamole. While probably not the most glamorous meal we could have opted for, it was not our concern since it felt like we had already known each other at the onset. We clicked. And given what I had been through just a few short months earlier, I grabbed at the chance to feel so at ease with someone new. Likewise, Chris was relieved to find a girl who was not particularly worried about making impressions. We simply enjoyed the moment for what it brought; filling food, flowing conversation, and laughs.<br />
<br />
It made for a fun first date. Besides, we had plenty of time for fancy meals. Those came later, once Chris moved here. At the time I was far more concerned with really getting to know him than I was with awkward formality. So after lunch, we went to the movies and saw the comedy "<a class="zem_slink" href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0445934/" rel="imdb" title="Blades of Glory">Blades of Glory</a>." At the show, I remember noticing Chris's contagious laugh. The movie was funny, but his laughter truly made me smile. It was those kinds of little things that brought a welcome lift to my much downtrodden spirit, and were the perfect antidote to my months of ambivalent grief.<br />
<br />
Forgiving Roman for his actions was still difficult for me back then, but I felt better when I was with Chris. We brought out a side in each other that was genuine and I was eager to continue the easy momentum of his visits. With that, after just a few visits, I mailed him a key to my apartment for him to move in with.<br />
<br />
It was the same apartment I had once shared with Roman. Repeatedly after he died, I sat alone and fought back the silence in that space. My feelings about it were mixed. I wanted to use it make new memories...Still, bringing Chris into my life in such a big way, so soon after my loss was scary. I don't think I would have been as bold back then if he hadn't been living on the opposite coast when we met. And as I've said before, I was well aware that I could have been stepping into a messy rebound. Weeding out caution from life infringing fear, I did my best to move ahead with my life after Roman.<br />
<br />
Chris and I brought out the best in each other. Our dynamics were what I consciously sought if I was to invest in another relationship. Surprisingly, the universe brought me what I wanted quickly. And after going through the trauma of Roman's death and infidelity, along with the insult of confronting his mistress, I was tremendously grateful to have found a person I could be so at ease with. It had been a long time since I'd smiled like I had with Chris. What's more, I dont think I ever felt that kind of authenticity in my prior relationships with anyone before. So I took a leap and embraced the moment like it was a wild ride to be enjoyed. Wild, yet simple all the same. It all came down to trust and opening myself up to new experiences.<br />
<br />
I used my intuition, my gut, and my higher self as a guide. Our decision to jump in feet first sounded crazy, I'm sure. Both of our friends and families checked in with us regularly to be sure we hadn't lost our marbles. But it wasn't lost marbles; it was new love.<br />
<br />
So in June 2007, just seven months after Roman died, Chris bought a one way ticket from New York to California. I came home from work the day he moved in to find him in our newly shared apartment. It was the first of many times to come. By being there, he brought me my first real sense of comfort after loss. Though, more than that, he brought me a sense that the path I had taken to getting him there was guided by something larger than me.<br />
<br />
The entire period felt like a dream happening in real time. And looking back now, my memory of it feels like I was a traveling down a version of the Yellow Brick Road. Though, once Chris came home to Cali, our next stop was not Kansas - or even New York. It was Kauai, and it danced... <br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="249" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/8kB-kep46Yc" width="300"></iframe></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-32987636506642268072011-05-15T20:40:00.000-07:002011-05-22T18:01:34.701-07:00Perspectives Reframed: Dating Again<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVTclpTpnPDBtjCUIvosRay-lDyZsTPCBH34Yu5BAs9ax0zcDzTklulcdvcTE0fGplZImQ_28RKQwPG_vKPaQ0pvZCRUiAHHjLOb3UYDnHXiAremBdFAN1-NWmceQCcWTU60Qx-x_kPs/s1600/ChrisandMe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbVTclpTpnPDBtjCUIvosRay-lDyZsTPCBH34Yu5BAs9ax0zcDzTklulcdvcTE0fGplZImQ_28RKQwPG_vKPaQ0pvZCRUiAHHjLOb3UYDnHXiAremBdFAN1-NWmceQCcWTU60Qx-x_kPs/s200/ChrisandMe.jpg" width="168" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris and me at a Scottish restaurant in New York City. <br />
We weren't vegetarians yet and just had our minds blown by haggis.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">During our first few correspondences, Chris did not have his photo available for viewing online. Regardless, we clicked right away, and soon it became clear that he was different compared with other's I'd been involved with before. He brought out a side of me that was more comfortable. Mind you, "comfortable" is generally not a term I use to describe myself very often. But Chris was (and still is) very easy to talk to about everything that I went through with Roman. Also being a talented musician who once taught Latin, he was educated, articulate, and funny. With those qualities, I was willing to wait a little while on his photo. Truthfully though, I was really dying to see what he looked like.<br />
<br />
In retrospect I was still very vulnerable, though I did not admit it to myself at the time. I think it was a shift in my priorities, along with some intangible guidance from above that protected me from potential emotional annihilation. Potential negatives like a bruising rejection or a tangled rebound could have been crippling, though I reasoned that nobody new could hurt me half as badly as Roman had. So even though I was aware of the emotional tightrope I walked by dating quickly after his death, it was my sense of protection that empowered me to focus and keep moving forward steadily.<br />
<br />
With my change in priorities, I considered the qualities of new people only to the degree that they affected me. I knew that the guy I ended up with did not have to be perfect, he just needed to be right for me. Never again would I invest my energy into a relationship with someone who did not bring out the best in me, or vice versa. It was a logical way of thinking that also required a great deal of trust in my intuition to make the right choices. But even so soon after his death, I had already learned a lot about my past mistakes.</div><br />
Roman's lack of communication and ongoing platitudes made me feel quietly neurotic. Since his behavior on the surface was as it should have been however, I was often vexed over my own reactions. Roman went through all of the motions perfectly. He courted me when we dated. He called, pursued me, put a ring on my finger, and constantly told me what I wanted to hear. In return I was good to him; yet he still cheated. But at the end of the day, his actions were not a reflection of me or my worth. <i>Now I get that</i>.<br />
<br />
Communicating his thoughts without turning things into a joke, a debate, or simply stopping cold was difficult for Roman. My attempts to address it only made him more standoffish. And because of differences in how we communicated, Roman probably needed someone less attuned, while I in turn needed someone more emotionally available. Looking back, it's really no wonder he hit it off with Erica. She validated the side of his character that I disliked. To her, the same traits that I considered weaknesses, she considered attractive. Her angle complimented him better than mine. But Roman didn't necessarily do it for me either. It wasn't until after he died, that I realized why.<br />
<br />
Working on forgiveness showed me that our incompatibility was not personal; we simply were not right for one another at the onset. We never really brought out the best in each other and should never have gotten married to begin with. Roman and I both felt trapped at times. Trying to see various perspectives helped me better understand myself and Roman in order to heal some of my lingering heartbreak.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzVEC3rdFBcfSRoZ5cKu64K3lNKZRa7e-V3RrqoMRUK70JwHcu3C5VuJSqqlb5MAzWf6EnNzbrXuf0sfzP9iS4LgyIvSuENWSb0bkmYG8m3JYcDRL3mc9YWqtMRpmPVHNtjVSg6sbCymE/s1600/gestalt.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzVEC3rdFBcfSRoZ5cKu64K3lNKZRa7e-V3RrqoMRUK70JwHcu3C5VuJSqqlb5MAzWf6EnNzbrXuf0sfzP9iS4LgyIvSuENWSb0bkmYG8m3JYcDRL3mc9YWqtMRpmPVHNtjVSg6sbCymE/s200/gestalt.gif" width="185" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old lady or young?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>I was, and still am a caring, conscientious, and intuitive person. However, when that side of my personality is not validated, it could be viewed in other, less complimentary ways. Depending on the other person's viewpoint, those same traits could seem intense and neurotic. When I care, I can be very focused. That attention can feel warm and fuzzy to some or uncomfortable and piercing to others.<br />
<br />
Both views are probably correct depending on the point of view being taken. It's like the famous Gestalt picture of the old lady and young lady... They both exist. Though I am hardly alone. Most human traits could be viewed as strengths or weaknesses, simply by the light that is cast upon them. Perception is subjective. Attractiveness is simply dependent on the lens of the person doing the viewing.<br />
<br />
So as I started meeting new people in the days after Roman died, I kept perspective in mind and also shifted my thinking about myself. Instead of feeling bad about my quirks, I reframed them into strengths in my mind and looked for a person who would also view them accordingly.<br />
<br />
With that, the instant a new guy said something that rang of poor communication or of subtle criticism like Roman's frequent words, "ahhhh Sunny, you worry too much.." I politely moved on...<br />
<br />
...Next!<br />
<br />
I trusted my instincts, opting to invest only in a relationship where both of our characteristics would be complimented positively by the other person. And as it turned out, Chris fit the bill. Luckily too, I liked what I saw when I finally saw his picture.<br />
<br />
I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't terrified over pursuing a relationship with him. But I'm <strike>stubborn</strike> resilient, and have consciously refused to stop growing or be defined by loss. However, I also know that denying my prior ordeal is no more beneficial than perseverating on it. Like it or not, my scars are still there. Thankfully, my relationship with Chris over the past few years has helped me accept my experience as a whole. My grief is the same, I'm just more comfortable with it today because perspective has to helped transform my loss into something useful.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjx41t92ijwasoweEcvsQ8ghMRCyPNsojdGMbRoX7XEI2pnxxrXZjpVMEYZPrgNihX5iRPNXbQGi_yS_Jw4Zcc9V36H8eGbMIn6xKnPz30asp6VeqzGPghGORu7u8uDK219FpnVbY43m0/s1600/n1763310546_7581_795081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjx41t92ijwasoweEcvsQ8ghMRCyPNsojdGMbRoX7XEI2pnxxrXZjpVMEYZPrgNihX5iRPNXbQGi_yS_Jw4Zcc9V36H8eGbMIn6xKnPz30asp6VeqzGPghGORu7u8uDK219FpnVbY43m0/s200/n1763310546_7581_795081.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 1st photo I saw of Chris after I met him on eHarmony. <br />
"Yay," I thought, "He's cute AND he likes animals!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="zemanta-related"><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0 0 0;">Related articles</h6><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/05/forgiveness-part-5-kindness-speaks-in.html">Forgiveness Part 5: Kindness Speaks in Whispers</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/04/forgiveness-part-2-actions-in.html">Forgiveness Part 2: Actions In Retrospect</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
</ul></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-37612221910070947792011-05-13T10:44:00.000-07:002011-05-20T14:40:56.846-07:00Distractions<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGzNfbbfLYWG3li12lPqa9SS9BijvppJ2nwNuzCUeaQaLfY0sc2YO54dYfggVerWs3xdwqG9uUI_ETU5fWxXOmTlzmynT185ZUtozrtMVm4ZSlgw336tN4ppIDODbUvZ31lGDjlSH1vs/s1600/me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoGzNfbbfLYWG3li12lPqa9SS9BijvppJ2nwNuzCUeaQaLfY0sc2YO54dYfggVerWs3xdwqG9uUI_ETU5fWxXOmTlzmynT185ZUtozrtMVm4ZSlgw336tN4ppIDODbUvZ31lGDjlSH1vs/s200/me.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, distracted in 2008 or 2009.<br />
I don't remember the year...Its all a blur.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I'm not exactly sure when "cultural night" started. Maybe two weeks or so after Roman died. Since then, time has been a blur and event sequencing is something I continue to struggle with to this day. Days and weeks blend into years, with November 2006 as the marker. Nowadays, I know if things happened before or after Roman's death, but my recollection is general according to details like seasons or who was being a huge pain in the ass at work around a specific time. Other than that, it's a big foggy haze, so I just recall that cultural night began at some point before Christmas 2006, shortly after Roman died. But I'll come back to that momentarily..</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I waited some days after the funeral to let my friend, Manna, know about Roman's sudden passing. She had just given birth to a son and I did not want to burden her pristine new world with the news of Roman's death. I told her why I decided not to mention it right away, but still she said she wished I'd told her sooner. Rationally, I wanted to...but I stopped short because of the baby. It sounds strange probably, but that was my thinking at that time.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">The day that I told her about Roman, I had been in my office at work..spacing out - unable to focus. Roman consumed my thoughts and realized that trying to do anything other than think about him was futile; so I decided to finally let Manna know what happened. I knew I couldn't keep it to myself forever, new baby or not. I remember she cried softly as I explained that he had died. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Manna and I were friends from grad school. Our friendship had been casual in the past, and was largely based on our shared career interest in school psychology. However, after Roman died, she became one of my dearest friends. Manna came through for me back then.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span">"What are you doing after work..?" she asked with concern. "Come over on your way home..Just come on over.." She clearly cared and for that I was grateful. Her invitation was a welcome relief.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span">While I did not want to burden her, going home to my quiet apartment was awful. My thoughts raced, and the silence did nothing more than wave the checkered flag for them to rev louder. To this day, in addition to time, I also struggle with silence. Nowadays, listening to music is a tremendous comfort. Though, back then I could not enjoy music like I once had. I'd loved it practically since birth, so losing my interest was like another personal loss...but I digress.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">After that day, I spent a lot of time at Manna's house after work. She had a good marriage, a nice home, and an adorable new baby. Being there felt like a small vacation from my troubles, which thankfully, Manna welcomed. She was a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><b><i>huge</i></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">support to me when I needed her most.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">My experience showed me that people really do show their colors during times of crisis. With the exception of one friend (who is no longer a friend), every single person I reached out to at that time, took my hand and held it during those moments of horrible silence. Their kindness was often unexpected and is probably a major reason that I had the counterintuitive reaction of becoming more open after Roman betrayed me. True, some people simply are not nice and are not worth the time of day. However, grief has shown me that most people care and want to do well by others. My friend, Manna, was no exception. And with that, "cultural night" was born.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">We named it accordingly because every Friday night, I joined Manna, her husband, and their baby to try food from a new ethnic restaurant. The new tradition was not only fun, it was also comforting. Like a bad magic act, my previous world was yanked from underneath me. Not surprisingly, I was eager to replace it. Cultural night gave me something new to call my weekly norm, which was needed and healing.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">As I said at the start of this post, I'm not sure when we began the tradition or exactly how long it lasted, but after a few weeks of culinary exploration, a new adventurer, Janet, joined our group. She was another friend of Manna's who had just ended a long-term relationship and was going through a period of grief as well. Janet was in need of a delicious new tradition as well, so she began coming along. It was then that I re- dubbed our outings, "Manna's Lonely Hearts Club." And so of course, in order to continue keeping ourselves distracted in the time in between Friday nights, Janet and I both joined eHarmony.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">I can't speak for Janet, but initially for me, it truly was that - a distraction. Being just a short time after my loss, I hardly felt like quality dating material. Likewise, beginning something new at the risk of further emotional injury did not sound like good times. Yet, after I signed up, I realized 1) I was not digging ANY of the guys it was matching me with, and 2) I had just gotten back from a section of emotional hell and was keenly aware of my strength to pull myself up by the bootstraps if needed. With that, I reasoned that there was actually little risk in my newfound venture.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">Back then, though it consumed me, I wanted nothing more than to forget, so I avoided my grief at every turn. Instead of worrying about getting hurt, I focused on welcoming whatever came from it.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;">In hindsight, the correspondences ended up being somewhat healing for me. I could not sit down and focus well enough to write lucidly in my journal, and talking about it did not quell me even though I was attending counseling. Yet as it turned out, the emails I exchanged at that time were like cathartic little journal entries for me, though I was unaware of it at the time. As I said, eHarmony was there as a distraction at most...Never did I anticipate it leading to anything worthwhile.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', Times, FreeSerif, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The universe has a way of handing things to us when we least expect it though. And fortunately, by then I was used to rolling with the tides, because in late February 2007, I was introduced to a guy I liked named Chris, from Long Island, New York.</span> In meeting him,<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> suddenly my intended "distraction" came sharply into focus.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="249" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/mA0fydaciIQ" width="325"></iframe></span></div><br />
<div class="zemanta-related"><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0 0 0;">Related articles</h6><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/03/being-angry-at-dead-person-for-dying.html">Being Angry At A Dead Person For Dying</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/04/forgiveness-first-of-few-to-come.html">Forgiveness: The First of a Few to Come..</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
</ul></div><div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;"><img alt="" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=ce9e4fac-669a-4d86-b1a8-9586aa5a532c" style="border: none; float: right;" /></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-20436179905636180452011-05-09T21:57:00.000-07:002011-05-20T14:38:47.977-07:00Lessons, Legacies, and Relationships<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5sXARE8vvzWErNO9n8kkSzZ87dzajursv45cwpjUraXRqMRCGAhtEzNmQZTlNGwNBpbJtP35m4J-8WfIPu_5QhwBRjEBTP1Qz6nI_nbML_7I1foOhmath47QCI0UtC-PCbSXzEFZa34/s1600/CJJamSmall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM5sXARE8vvzWErNO9n8kkSzZ87dzajursv45cwpjUraXRqMRCGAhtEzNmQZTlNGwNBpbJtP35m4J-8WfIPu_5QhwBRjEBTP1Qz6nI_nbML_7I1foOhmath47QCI0UtC-PCbSXzEFZa34/s320/CJJamSmall.jpg" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chris.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
In February 2007, three months after Roman died, I met his one and only friend for dinner. Initially, when I called to break the news about Roman's sudden death, his friend, whom I'll call "Craig," saw Roman's name pop up on the caller ID. He answered the phone, not with "hello," but instead picked up and exclaimed, "Dude! Are you still alive?!" Obviously it had been some time since Roman gave Craig the time of day, making for a very uncomfortable conversation following his telephone greeting.<br />
<br />
"Uh, hi, Craig..It's Sunny, actually; Roman's wife." My tone was somber. He didn't know me well, but he could clearly tell by my voice that my call was serious. Likewise, he sounded dazed as he processed the news. I asked him and his wife to come to the funeral and he gladly obliged.<br />
<br />
Craig showed up at the funeral, along with his wife and several other of Roman's former co-workers. Roman and Craig worked together in the years prior, and Craig actually joined Roman and I for a few nights out back when we were just friends - in the days before our relationship became romantic.<br />
<br />
I always liked Craig and wished that Roman would have been nicer to him. Though for all the people that Roman spoke ill of, he never had anything bad to say about Craig. He was more indifferent than anything. Still, indifference does not foster relationships, so it had been some time since they had contact.<br />
<br />
In the days following Roman's death, I ended up becoming friends with Craig and his wife. In fact, I probably spent more time with them in the span of a year that Roman did in their entire friendship.<br />
<br />
Craig understood Roman though, so he never seemed to take Roman's arrogance personally. He seemed to accept Roman for being who he was..Much in the same way I did when Roman and I were friends.<br />
<br />
I mention Craig now because I came across a journal entry I made one night after meeting him and his wife for dinner. That night, we spoke about Roman's intelligence, his choices, and what I thought I had learned from it all. Craig mentioned that I should start a blog, but at that time, I could not bring myself to such a public display. Afterall, it had only been three months. Up to that point, I still wasn't sure what I had learned. <br />
<br />
Since then though, the lessons have become more clear to me. And as I look back on this little entry, I am surprised at how concise my thoughts were; especially considering how dazed I felt mentally and emotionally.<br />
<br />
Stylistically, I don't think it is my best piece of writing, but at that time I was not concerned about presentation...only content. I did not want to forget what I had learned, lest I should be cursed to repeat it.<br />
<br />
This entry dated is dated February 13, 2007<br />
<blockquote>Relationships are what truly matter in life, as they are your legacy. Never forget that. Never forget what is most important when you begin to feel overwhelmed by the little things in life. At the end of the day, those things do not matter. Perfection in the petty details will not define you when you are gone. People will only remember your spirit, your strength, your compassion, and your humor. They will remember the lessons that you taught, how you made the world a better place, and how they felt when they were with you. Be kind because acting out of fear only reinforces and empowers the fear itself. Self awareness and honesty are the key to meaningful relationships. Without those traits, you cannot truly see others for who they are and likewise, they will not be able to see you. If you are not aware, you will not hear the whispers being spoken through you. Without those whispers, you will not know your true value, the value of others, or what you were put on Earth to do.</blockquote>The timing of my journal entry is interesting to me now. Recognizing the value of relationships, be them family, friends, or significant others, was at the core of the of the entry. I must have listened to my words, because I reconnected with several friends I had lost touch with. I also made several solid new friendships in the years since Roman died. And most notably, I met my boyfriend Chris, just seven days after I wrote that entry on February 13th.. Chris and I are still together to this day.<br />
<br />
In June 2007, he picked up and moved from New York to California to begin a romantic relationship with me. While no relationship is perfect, since then we have built a solid foundation together. Chris has been a big support to me in healing from the pain that Roman left behind. Still, I don't want to give the impression that meeting him was my big simple happy ending. To me, that sounds trite. Personally, I <i>hated</i> "<a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eat_Pray_Love" rel="wikipedia" title="Eat Pray Love">Eat Pray Love</a>," both the book and especially the movie, for that very reason. Life continues to present challenges regardless of having found "Mr. Wonderful." And as a once betrayed widow, I certainly came with my share of unfinished business to contend with.<br />
<br />
My grief for Roman is separate from Chris's place as my current love. Therefore, grief has continued to run it's course regardless of the unwelcome intrusion on my new life. Unfortunately, the fact of the matter is, grief operates on grief's terms. Part of what makes my relationship with Chris work so well though, is his ability to recognize that my healing process is not about him. And because of that, he has always been supportive, rather than temperamental and egoistic in response to my prior loss.<br />
<br />
Chris is self-aware and honest. In choosing him, I guess I took my own advice. Now, I find the clarity I had at that time in choosing a good person to be somewhat remarkable. Easily, I could have rebounded into something messy, given my vulnerability. I didn't though. Instead, I learned, listened, opened up, and trusted my instincts and wound up with someone who brings out the best in me. Likewise, in return, I bring out the best in him. Although, certainly not without struggle, today I'm better for it; giving me faith that things happen for reasons that I do not need to know in the moment.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/2UZsIGQaLKI" width="300"></iframe></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-85817362837928406932011-05-09T00:25:00.000-07:002011-05-10T09:26:56.508-07:00The Hidden Killer<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwaodJI3zU8jG3GSimoD_BgciFN9P2JmvT2a3nXArz0sY3SWEfulBUAPIR6EWQj-Um-PAAFsnfPN1Ga_4Nw2IJTJarPh9z_0sBk9-F3XNP5s_mb1asHUh_DX6RIHQtMpRkdP0ni56tkA/s1600/118+Playing+on+the+Elevator+to+Pass+the+Time.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjwaodJI3zU8jG3GSimoD_BgciFN9P2JmvT2a3nXArz0sY3SWEfulBUAPIR6EWQj-Um-PAAFsnfPN1Ga_4Nw2IJTJarPh9z_0sBk9-F3XNP5s_mb1asHUh_DX6RIHQtMpRkdP0ni56tkA/s320/118+Playing+on+the+Elevator+to+Pass+the+Time.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aug. 2005, Carnival Cruises. Passing the time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
"Extreme exercise induced <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cardiac_dysrhythmia" rel="wikipedia" title="Cardiac dysrhythmia">cardiac arrhythmia</a>" was the cause of Roman's death.<br />
<br />
For those of you without a medical background, a cardiac arrhythmia is an electrical problem in the heart where is does not coordinate beats properly. In layman's terms, the final cause of death was basically, "his heart stopped when he was running."<br />
<br />
The autopsy report concluded that other factors contributed too. Specifically, a congenital small <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Right_coronary_artery" rel="wikipedia" title="Right coronary artery">right coronary artery</a>, <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Left_ventricle" rel="wikipedia" title="Left ventricle">left ventricular</a> myocardial hypertrophy, and terminal hyperglycemia. Though, in all, I was struck by the simplicity of the report. Mostly it just confirmed his overall health, with the exception of three contributing factors. All of which were determined based on the autopsy exam itself. So when I finally received the report just after Christmas in 2007, I could not believe it took so long to complete.<br />
<br />
"They must have been too busy to complete a decent report.." I thought; especially since I'd called several times to let them know Roman's history of physical oddities. The investigator I spoke to was the same one I'd yelled at the night of his final collapse. The same one who left me a pamphlet on bereavement along with her business card. The same investigator who delivered the reality blow that night. Roman was really gone. Deceased. Roman was now officially "the decedent." And I called the number on the business card several times for information. Mostly, though I called to <i>give</i> information, not to receive it.<br />
<br />
"Roman was a vegetarian," I told the investigator. "His hands were cold a lot..he used to say 'cold hands warm heart' a lot...He was always tired before he died."<br />
<br />
I probably rambled on and on. In truth, now I remember little about the conversations other than the snapshots taken in my mind. My memory of that time is like a movie played on a screen behind a flashing strobe light. It's choppy. My scribbled notes are what I have as reminders for this post about what I said on each call.<br />
<br />
Apparently I wrote down bullet points before calling so I wouldn't forget. Yet inevitably, after finishing one call, I'd remember something else..so I'd call back and tell her. I'm sure I sounded neurotic. She'd probably heard from crazed widows thousands of times. Nonetheless, she was polite and seemed interested in what I shared. Taking down the information, she consistently assured me she would share it with the forensic pathologist conducting the autopsy.<br />
<br />
"He hadn't been eating well before he died...He had a really fast metabolism," I told her on another call. "It was really, really, really fast.." I explained.<br />
<br />
When Roman and I got married, I gained 20 pounds right away. I'd started cooking dinners and eating more regularly than I had in the days when Roman and I were just dating. Extra calories stuck to me, but had no visible impact on Roman's weight. We assumed the difference was due to the five year age difference I had on Roman. Plus, he was a runner..We thought nothing of it....Sort of. We just didn't know <i>what </i>we were looking at.<br />
<br />
But when we went out for sushi, Roman could eat so much food that servers regularly asked if he was sure he wanted to order so much. They mistook him for a sushi newbie who was without knowledge of how filling sushi rolls are. Roman already knew that though. He loved sushi and could easily eat five rolls himself, in addition to soup, edemame, and dessert. He ate so much once in Vegas that the server showed the cleaned plate to the other employees. She probably lost a bet on account of him. He didn't look like it, but Roman could eat. It was funny how much he could consume, but afterward he often got what I termed, "the hacks." Roman developed phlegm in his throat after eating and cleared his throat to the point that it was gross for an hour after a meal. I never hacked like that. Not only did I find it unappetizing, I also thought it was peculiar. <br />
<br />
The investigator wrote my input down. I could tell by how she paused and asked questions. When she was ready, I continued onto the next bullet on my list...<br />
<br />
"And he used to make this smell..It was the weirdest smell.."<br />
<br />
Readers, believe me when I tell you, as a self-proclaimed potty humor enthusiast, I know how that sentence sounds. Roman and I used to joke about his "smells." Yeah, Roman made smells alright. He even had a special corner by the front door that I'd relegated him to whenever he was inclined to make said smells. But I wasn't talking toots when I called the investigator. I was referring to something chemical that came from his pores after he ran. It was alarming to me because it was so unusual.<br />
<br />
My best description of it is bleach mixed with smog. That's what it smelled like. It wasn't nose pinching like punky B.O. It was more caustic, like a diluted Clorox mixture.<br />
<br />
Roman couldn't smell it on himself. However, on occasions when he left his sweaty running clothes in the empty washer and the scent fermented; then he could smell it. It reeked! The neighbors could probably smell it (okay, not really, but it was strong..) True to form though, Roman thought nothing of it. I did however, and as long as I live, I'll never forget that smell. In fact, knowing how I burst into uncontrollable tears when memories are triggered, I would not be surprised if the odor reduced me to sobs upon recognizing it again.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgflFkvjso5POJPUOhg7U6on_m6L9A3hZL-fyFH9edgDT7Ce1EMe_e7v78Ary17wHrmJjff-QgLlxxw7uxodoIKuCGvsStGAVr7ap46k8JOqnNweRRhabUKdxY8HO3r9imOdk9lKiuTr-M/s1600/86400ab3c72e4eb8a5764060c3341657_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgflFkvjso5POJPUOhg7U6on_m6L9A3hZL-fyFH9edgDT7Ce1EMe_e7v78Ary17wHrmJjff-QgLlxxw7uxodoIKuCGvsStGAVr7ap46k8JOqnNweRRhabUKdxY8HO3r9imOdk9lKiuTr-M/s200/86400ab3c72e4eb8a5764060c3341657_7.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of my reminder notes for a call to the coroner.<br />
Oops..I scribbled "vegetarian" wrong.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And I told the investigator all about the smell and the funky fermentation it did when he tossed his running clothes in the washer, without washing them. And as usual, she listened politely and took down the input for the pathologist. "Oh and then there was the sweating bursts that he had after running...he only had them near the end of his life...they were strange.." I rambled.<br />
<br />
In an earlier post I told how I bought new clothes for Roman on my credit card shortly before he told me of his affair. His first sweating episode occurred that day, before we went shopping.<br />
<br />
He'd gone running that afternoon. As usual, he came home and showered once he returned. About 30 minutes out of the shower, after getting dressed to go, he burst into beads of sweat all over his chest and back. The temperature was comfortable and he had been home from his run for an hour or so by then. Yet, for some reason beads of sweat burst from his pores like pellets. I could see the roundness of the beads of moisture in the way that his t-shirt became soaked with it.<br />
<br />
Odd, he thought, though he didn't make much of it initially. Instead he simply changed his shirt and left the house with me to hit the mall. And then it happened again.<br />
<br />
"Fuck...What the hell?!?" I remember he said as he turned around to go inside and change his shirt for the second time..<br />
<br />
I told the investigator all about that. I also told her about his deteriorating vision and how we thought he just needed new glasses. Then there was the constant water drinking that I figured was healthy, and the bottle of Advil we found in his backpack the night he died.<br />
<br />
"Roman never got headaches.." I continued, "...he must not have been feeling well."<br />
<br />
She thanked me and assured me she'd pass it along. However, when I got the final autopsy report there was no mention of my calls or of Roman's history. Nothing about the hacks, the smell, the sweat, the vision, thirst, or anything. It simply states their examination and toxicology findings in a matter of fact fashion. The final conclusion being arrhythmia. His heart stopped.<br />
<br />
Well, duh.<br />
<br />
But obviously, I needed to know WHY for certain, even though after his death, his symptoms became painfully clear. He definitely had diabetes. Actually, my theory is type 1 pre-diabetes.<br />
<br />
In retrospect, I think he was teetering on the edge of it for a long time. Our separation was stressful though and he wasn't eating well. In our parting words before he died he mentioned that he'd lost weight. It was something that haunted me and part of why I think I was so intent on informing the coroner of every single detail I could recall. Guilt ate at me. I was trying to do the right thing, even if it was a day late and a dollar short.<br />
<br />
Roman's "hacks" were due to his difficulty metabolizing carbs. The smell was <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ketoacidosis">ketoacidosis</a>, the sweating was an adrenaline misfire, and thirst, vision, fatigue, poor circulation, and body aches - all common in diabetics. Some symptoms were typical while others were not; though all subtly indicated a serious diease. And in hindsight, I think Roman felt worse than he let on. Roman was stoic. Complaining about ailments would have been too pedestrian - too human.<br />
<br />
These days, I wonder if his declining health contributed toward his irritability. Partcilarly because he was so quiet about what he was feeling psysically. For me, I know I get cranky when I get sick. Considering all of the symptoms he had, it makes sense that it would've affected his mood. Who knows? I'll add it to the list of questions that will never be answered. Although, in my gut, I feel there is truth there.<br />
<br />
In the end, it didnt matter that I called the investigator with his history. Well, it didnt matter to the outcome of the autopsy report at least. The autopsy report was slim, however, I suppose it was sufficient in doing it's job of identifying the cause of death. Diabetes came through in the toxicology reporting like it was being highlighted by a giant spotlight. He ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, washed down by a Gatorade. Roman said he was told by the doctors after his first collapse to drink Gatorade prior to running, to maintain electrolytes. Fine for a person in good health, but for a diabetic, that meal was practically arsenic.<br />
<br />
Normal blood sugar is around 100. Roman's postmortem blood sugar was 596; a number that high is lethal all by itself. Never mind the added heart problems he had in addition. Without medical intervention, Roman's days were probably numbered.<br />
<br />
It's possible that I helped prolong his life by cooking healthy food for him for so long. I'll never know for sure. But no doubt my crazed calls to the investigator were part of my guilt as well as my continued need to take care of him. Perhaps they were also my intuition repairing me to better understand Roman's hidden killer. I wish he would have listened to the signs. He didnt though, so the rest is history. He chose to be silent and stoic. Nothing can be done for Roman, "the decedent," now; but for readers today, things could be different.<br />
<br />
If you are reading this thinking his symptoms sound familiar; consider this the whisper you've been waiting for. It's time to do a favor to you and those you love, and follow up. Doing so could save your life. You've been nudged. Now go.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1HLauVEMK2o" width="300"></iframe></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-76590696976151571402011-05-07T18:21:00.000-07:002011-05-08T12:25:51.368-07:00Forgiveness Part 6: "Just Do It!" The Last of the Series.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRLrVMSKOiLekyQD3-3nHScwQ8o0L_r2nRYg934JV1JWAeVPbpxymOW0eS6CocznUFt30hDftpHAI_76S1HnuIX9FaPF7xqRN8jGFHwEeSB9jHPgSmmgXAKBdIK1Yy5s44WV2DfcPHl-4/s1600/moth-cinema-thermal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRLrVMSKOiLekyQD3-3nHScwQ8o0L_r2nRYg934JV1JWAeVPbpxymOW0eS6CocznUFt30hDftpHAI_76S1HnuIX9FaPF7xqRN8jGFHwEeSB9jHPgSmmgXAKBdIK1Yy5s44WV2DfcPHl-4/s400/moth-cinema-thermal.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Metamorphosis is worth it. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
I think I can, I think I can...<br />
<br />
Sometimes I dont want to though. In fact, most of the time, I'd really rather not.<br />
<br />
Untangling my memories of what happened and then trying to make sense of my ensuing grief has felt a little like trying to comb through hair matted with dreadlocks. Yeah, I can comb and pick at it until it's unsnarled...But who wants to? Not me.<br />
<br />
Still, I've described my experiences in the days leading up to and following Roman's death. I told how each sequence of events unraveled my sense of wellbeing and normalcy with a swift series of figurative kicks to my psyche, until eventually I was left feeling fragmented.<br />
<br />
It was difficult to live through, and at times no less difficult to look back on - let alone write about in detail. Now, I'm in a different place though, which is why I am able to look back at all. Triggers still pop up without warning. They leave me reliving the anger, sadness, and confusion as I've said before, but for the most part, I live day to day just like anyone else.<br />
<br />
For me, forgiveness is about allowing myself to feel whatever is brought up when grief revisits, but then remembering to let it go. Forgiveness, being a process, is about choosing not to perseverate on my pain. Conversely, it's also about choosing not to ignore it. Instead, to me, it's simply about accepting that things happened - good or bad - for a reason.<br />
<br />
What reason...I don't know; though I certainly have my theories. And all of my thoughts about the purpose brings me back to something that is much larger than Roman, Erica, or me.<br />
<br />
Forgiveness has allowed me to stop feeling victimized so that I could learn from my loss. I imagine I could easily have slipped into a self-defeating spiral of pity. But I know that would not do me, those around me, or Roman's legacy any good. Nor would it change what happened or give me any real sense of closure. Though, I have come to accept that Roman's final words to me were the closest I will come to "closure," when I pause to think about it, his words are less important to me. My words to him are where the closure actually is.<br />
<br />
Roman repeatedly lied to me.<br />
<br />
Not only that, I think he lied to himself up until the day he died. Specific words he did or didn't say hold little weight in the grand scheme. What matters to me is how I handled things. My behavior and my words are what have helped or haunted me the most.<br />
<br />
Nowadays, I no longer ignore that tiny whispering voice in the back of my head. When it prompts me to act, I listen. It's simple intuition. We all have it, and I believe it is there to guide us. Ego, I think, is intuition's polar opposite. People do shitty things when guided by ego. They also justify their shitty actions with their warped perceptions created by their egos. Roman was no different.<br />
<br />
So how could he possibly give me piece of mind? He couldn't. Not when he was alive and certainly not in death.<br />
<br />
Roman was on his own path. He made his own choices. Many of his choices hurt me, but they do not define me. They only define him.<br />
<br />
Recognizing that made it easier for me to finally tell my story, when for years I protected it. I protected him. Eventually that led me to a bearkdown. Protection led me to a breakdown...Ironic, yes. Though that is only because within that "protection" there was also denial of reality..and denial is exhausting, yet no less understandable.<br />
<br />
It's easier to look away.<br />
<br />
Painful memories are like looking at an eclipse, so over the years I did various rituals to skew my gaze. I held onto, then got rid of Roman's clothes. eBay kindly took the jewelry he gave me, including my engagement ring. I bought new clothes, threw away old ones, redecorated my apartment, went out with friends, started dating, and threw myself into my work. Likewise I read, wrote, cried, joked, watched TV, over-ate, prayed, cussed, vented, distracted myself, procrastinated, slept too much...you name it. No doubt, I've been carrying some "stuff" that I've tried to forget. Nonetheless, some actions brought reprieve in the moment and others did not. Mostly though, they simply gave me more ambivalence and prolonged the sting of looking into the sun.<br />
<br />
The third anniversary of his death finally brought me the ability to scatter Roman's ashes. I'll probably share more about that process in a future post, but suffice it to say, my feelings were mixed. Scattered in tide pools about 30 miles from here, I havent worn the shoes I was wearing since that night. Those flip flops are still covered in sand from the Pacific and will forever remind me of letting his physical being go. It was sad and unsettling to me, even so long after the fact. That's what I mean about the lingering nature of grief.<br />
<br />
I did what I needed to do...I "let go."<br />
<br />
Mostly.<br />
<br />
But not that instant. It's been gradual and I'm still working on it.<br />
<br />
The three weeks that saw the loss of my marriage and Roman's life were traumatic. If it were as easy as scattering his ashes, saying a prayer, and as Nike says, choosing to "just do it," then I'd have "just done it" ages ago. <br />
<br />
And I did...<br />
<br />
Just as I continue to do. Oh, If only buying a new pair of shoes could do the trick..Well then I'd be set. True, rituals are helpful for letting go, but they are only part of the process. Denial too, has it's place. People who have not experienced trauma do not understand that.<br />
<br />
Many mean well, but they simply do not know.<br />
<br />
Bless them for that.<br />
<br />
I wouldnt wish this kind of learning on anyone. Though sometimes I think that the most entitled among us are the ones in the most pain. The most ugly among us are often the ones struggling the most. And as a school psychologist, believe me when I say, I see some <i>ugliness</i>. But inner pain is no excuse for giving up, continuing to look away, and embracing nastiness. I don't want to leave that legacy behind when I'm gone. If given the choice, I often wonder if Roman would have too.<br />
<br />
It is not easy, but I'd rather spend a lifetime learning to let go of my loud ego and accept the reality beyond my own eyes. I'd rather keep trying to forgive and do better than how I was done onto. To me that is truly kind. To me that is at the core of forgiveness. It's certainly, something that requires ongoing effort; much like living with loss while finding the strength to grow.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">That's all I have to say about forgiveness. My next blog post will continue unsnarling the heady tangled mess we call grief. But for now, I've finished wading through the dreadlock of forgiveness. Though, as one final comb through on this strand, instead of a song, I'd like to leave readers with one of my favorite pieces of writing. This pretty much says it all...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">"Desiderata" by <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Max_Ehrmann" rel="wikipedia" title="Max Ehrmann">Max Ehrmann</a></div><blockquote>Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love, for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.</blockquote>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-39797485802254710042011-05-05T16:03:00.000-07:002011-05-09T12:03:45.191-07:00Forgiveness Part 5: Kindness Speaks in Whispers<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS1UBGj3CdM-P08oBTfmThEiiqm0OSjx3y_xZNvwcXpkGK6qiPN9vsX3H_xgr6KUnjq6ejMkuDZXCvey1J4Evj9AAzjJ5aRRq098IxnG69Z149uj-Ewkcsdy-nCddhWRqKheFhMNBT21g/s1600/vA_640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS1UBGj3CdM-P08oBTfmThEiiqm0OSjx3y_xZNvwcXpkGK6qiPN9vsX3H_xgr6KUnjq6ejMkuDZXCvey1J4Evj9AAzjJ5aRRq098IxnG69Z149uj-Ewkcsdy-nCddhWRqKheFhMNBT21g/s200/vA_640.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A 2006 BMW 325i whispered more than "buy me!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Roman's infidelity was my way out of a marriage I no longer wanted, with a person I, sadly, no longer believed in. That is why I was so quick to ignore my ranting ego and turn the other cheek toward an amicable separation when it was obvious that he was going to clutch onto his bogus "Borders" story like it was a child's security blanket. At the time, when he was still breathing, I could see that insecurity in him.<br />
<br />
That's why I stopped pressing for the truth in favor of my own needs and instead looked toward the new life that lay ahead for me.<br />
<br />
Emotionally, with an impending divorce, I was anxious but confident. In truth, at that time, I was primarily concerned about being financially secure. Especially since Roman talked me into buying a brand new car just three-weeks before he confessed his affair to me.<br />
<br />
I needed a new car back then. Driving my old Honda Civic with 100,000 miles plus on it, 50 miles a day during my commute to and from work, was not going to last. Moving was not an option, and I was finally making money after finishing grad school.<br />
<br />
I wanted the nicest car I could get, but also aimed to be realistic about what we could afford. With that, I planned on getting a Jetta, though what I <i>wanted</i> was a 3 series BMW.<br />
<br />
So, long story short, I got the BMW.<br />
<br />
With two incomes, we could afford it without a problem. And everytime I mentioned getting the Jetta, Roman would say something like, "You don't want the Jetta...Get what you want!" Always...He said it constantly.<br />
<br />
It was like I was trying to be sensible in satisfying a craving by eating a some Oreos, while he offered up a fudge sundae, saying "You know you want some..!!"<br />
<br />
Uh, yeah.<br />
<br />
Give me permission for an indulgence and I'll find it hard to resist even now. Back then..forget it.<br />
<br />
And when Roman told me that he cheated, I realized that I had just bought that damn car. I knew better than to buy such an expensive car too, but I ignored my better judgement once again. What's more, I knew he was lying about hooking up with someone randomly at Borders. I knew in my gut that he had been encouraging me to buy the BMW when he was cheating all along. And that pissed me off.<br />
<br />
It really...<i>really</i> pissed me off. Though actually, I was mad at myself for not listening to the voice in my head. The same voice that vaguely questioned if I could afford the car on my own, without Roman's financial support. A doubting thought which came to me in whispers..but was there regardless. In fact, when I applied for the loan to purchase my new car, at the last minute I changed my mind and went for the longer payment option. I told myself that Roman and I would still make the higher payments, but "just in case" I didn't want to be saddled to such a high monthly bill. Yeah, the question was there..<br />
<br />
"Just in case.."<br />
<br />
And the night Roman told me of his indiscretion, I thought my intuition was right. I figured I must have sensed a divorce in my future. Good thing I went for the lower payments! Nonetheless, I was pissed off at Roman for encouraging me to buy it when he had a secret troll under his bridge. Roman also knew better.<br />
<br />
So honestly, before he died, I just wanted him to help pay off the car. If need be, that was the only thing I was willing to be a bitch about in the divorce. I felt he owed me that...And he conceded to my wish in our separation agreement, which I was happy about.<br />
<br />
Up until that point, I just wanted to be okay financially. I knew I would be okay otherwise. I didnt see the need to be nasty over the break up. I simply wanted out. That's why I was amicable.<br />
<br />
Though, I'm not exactly sure why I was prompted to go beyond that to the level of kindness that I expressed. All I know is I had a very slight whisper in my ear. It was faint, but thankfully I was listening because everything changed on November 6th, 2006 at 6:30 PM.<br />
<br />
<i>Everything</i>.<br />
<br />
Changed.<br />
<br />
Now, I no longer value material objects like I once did. I also no longer hold back kind words.<br />
<br />
Nowadays, If I think that someone is talented, interesting, or amazing in whatever way - I then I tell them outright. If those kinds of sentiments are what whisper in my ear, I never hold back.<br />
<br />
Whether or not the other person will "get it" or will reciprocate is less of a concern for me now. Since I worry less about how I will be received by others, I actually have made more new friends than ever before. Likewise, I also have become more trusting of people in the days since Roman died. An ironic reaction to betrayal, I know. But I have my reasons...and surprisingly (or not), most people to rise to the occasion when given the chance.<br />
<br />
I never needed to be so guarded in my earlier years. My reserve certainly did not protect me from heartbreak, disappointment, financial stress, or a life-altering series of proverbial roundhouse kicks to the heart, head, and gut. So, I let mistrust go along with Roman.<br />
<br />
But undoing a trait that took a lifetime to develop is a process, just like grief...Just like forgiveness. It requires effort. Unfortunately, there's no magic "I'm not going to be shy, reserved, and guarded" switch I can just flip inside my brain. However, thankfully, the Universe also gives me nudges when it whispers. Those nudges come with momentum to move me along. They teach me how to be better when I listen to them.<br />
<br />
All because I met and married a guy named Roman.<br />
<br />
Of course I forgive.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/DydELvXu10c" width="300"></iframe></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Thao+The Get Down Stay Down, "Know Better Learn Faster"</span></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-76449774803359426992011-05-03T20:16:00.000-07:002011-05-07T08:49:45.340-07:00Forgiveness Part 4: Would I Have Been Kind?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJxLTWljTUBTw6wfjsk_tSsDPrGpLnfmDGiRzz82n121f7nFMWQL5SPoWuVa4jrw-JzxiWwK3nhamgVRrKkyvyA3EKCgVPf8rxcW5pZ1dIlFn6BdcoJAwf7QQUdlsYS6Yu2ca49eN-uyo/s1600/tn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJxLTWljTUBTw6wfjsk_tSsDPrGpLnfmDGiRzz82n121f7nFMWQL5SPoWuVa4jrw-JzxiWwK3nhamgVRrKkyvyA3EKCgVPf8rxcW5pZ1dIlFn6BdcoJAwf7QQUdlsYS6Yu2ca49eN-uyo/s200/tn.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My ex-boyfriend and me at the first ever <a class="zem_slink" href="http://www.coachella.com/" rel="homepage" title="Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival">Coachella Festival</a> in 1999. <br />
Lessons from the past helped me forgive. </td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Being left to make sense Roman's mess had me reeling after he died.<br />
<br />
I was so angry after confronting his fling and discovered her to be so incredibly vile; words are just approximations to the experience. Language hardly comes close to conveying the depth of my fury after speaking to her. Anger ran so close to my core that I literally became nauseated when I recalled our conversation. Not surprising, in the days and weeks that followed, I couldn't eat, sleep, interact, think, or really live for all intents and purposes.<br />
<br />
My emotions consumed me whole.<br />
<br />
One way I coped at that time was by spending hoards of money on clothes from <a class="zem_slink" href="http://www.anthropologie.com/" rel="homepage" title="Anthropologie">Anthropologie</a>. My self-esteem had been annihilated, so indulging in pretty things was a source of comfort at the time. Being lied to and cheated on with someone of her character left me feeling worthless and disposable. Yet, while new clothes gave me a temporary sense of redemption, it did not last. Fortunately, raiding the racks at Anthroplogie wasn't my only means of coping back then. I also attended weekly counseling for a while.<br />
<br />
Talking did little to lift the burden I felt, but I stuck with it nonetheless. I continued mostly because I didn't know what else to do with myself. It seemed like what I was supposed to do. So I did...with what seemed like minuscule benefit.<br />
<br />
That is until my therapist asked me this simple question: "If you had known the complete truth about his affair, do you think your last words to him would have been the same?"<br />
<br />
My first inclination when she posed the question was, "Yeah..of course!?" But in truth, the thought gave pause to my obsessive anger and started to grow in my head like a planted seed.<br />
<br />
Through serious consideration, I came to the conclusion that I could not say for sure how I may have responded if I knew the truth before Roman died. In our last day together, I like to think I'd have said the same heartfelt things, but then I remember my ex - the one with whom I parted over a pointed, "fuck you..!!" I did not mince words in my final expression to him and he didn't cause anywhere near the heartbreak and frustration that Roman had. In the past I had reacted sharply to people who disappointed me and Roman most certainly let me down.<br />
<br />
Easily, I could have allowed my final words to Roman to be harsh, not knowing that he was about to die. And once my therapist posed the $100,000 question, I knew that if my last words to Roman had been cutting, it would have haunted me far longer than my anger over his indiscretion. Rationally, I knew that the sting of his actions would fade with time, but consequences of my own words might not. Grief in-and-of-itself had left me with lingering guilt and doubt. If my final words to Roman would not have been what they were, I could conceivably have walked away with even less closure and more sorrow.<br />
<br />
I could have walked away truly shattered as a person.<br />
<br />
As I processed the variables over how my last exchange with Roman played out, my anger, sadness, and guilt gradually alleviated to a point where I could at least function. Part of the burden lifted from my shoulders as I accepted that things happened the way they did. Period. Wishing it could have been different or painting myself into a victim's corner was pointless.<br />
<br />
I do not know why things happened the way they did. I will never know if I would have been kind to Roman if I knew the truth. I also do not know what might have become of him if he lived. Though I can now accept the reality as part of a larger plan. A plan that is bigger than Roman's lies and one that is bigger than my own ego.<br />
<br />
In the years since he passed, I have struggled with grief; though consciously, I have accepted that things happened the way that they did for a reason. It is a reason that I am not necessarily meant to know right now. That's okay. Acceptance of the plan gives me perspective in moments when old wounds are scratched. It has allowed me to let go of Roman's ghost and of many of my own regrets. But no doubt, it has been an ongoing process.<br />
<br />
Today I am a better person for having known him. In a way I am grateful for that because much good has come in the wake of his death.<br />
<br />
And never again will my last words to someone be "fuck you." Life is too short and uncertain...No disappointment from another person is worth that level of burden.<br />
<br />
I forgive Roman. Thankfully the Universe prompted me to let him know before he left.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/67bpqEZ_AlU" width="300"></iframe></div><div class="zemanta-related"><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0 0 0;">Related articles</h6><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://theangelicway.wordpress.com/2011/04/25/forgiveness/">Forgiveness</a> (theangelicway.wordpress.com)</li>
</ul></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-36002248141887013562011-05-01T18:05:00.000-07:002011-05-09T13:19:56.517-07:00Forgiveness Part 3: Character and a Complicated Legacy<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZz7RB4GVHMAhIV2naVskp6f1NpdEn7HQAtd57lKBLKAyYQaVwqn4tjX_SBmQ4NQT9BmpkEW8FrgpdPhj31X96oK_qXdggLGvmLwu_y3pvYPPLLr8PvkOTIixdMZ-Yl4dXfdAI0HM2gM/s1600/88+Inappropriate.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZz7RB4GVHMAhIV2naVskp6f1NpdEn7HQAtd57lKBLKAyYQaVwqn4tjX_SBmQ4NQT9BmpkEW8FrgpdPhj31X96oK_qXdggLGvmLwu_y3pvYPPLLr8PvkOTIixdMZ-Yl4dXfdAI0HM2gM/s320/88+Inappropriate.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Roman just being Roman. Hawaii, 2002.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
While at times funny, generous, and conscientious - Roman possessed a personality streak that I considered mean and inconsiderate. It was also a side of him for which he made no apologies.<br />
<br />
About a week before he gave the news of his affair, I received an online code for a free iTunes download. A few times he mentioned that he really liked <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bauhaus" rel="wikipedia" title="Bauhaus">Bauhaus</a>' version of "Ziggy Stardust," so I used my freebie to get him the song. When I told him about it, he responded, "what'd you do that for..??" To which I retorted something to the effect of, "when someone gives you something, you are supposed to say 'thank you'...!!" But that's just how Roman was. He was not an outwardly sentimental guy.<br />
<br />
I remember the day he dropped the bomb; earlier in the day we went to the grocery store. We had just loaded the car with our bags when we were about to drive away. As we backed out of the parking space, a man was returning his cart to the front of the store.<br />
<br />
Roman commented , "Look at that guy..! Look at him...his hair...! Look how he walks..!"<br />
<br />
Roman was implying that the guy looked stupid with his hair and his gait. There was a tone to his words that suggested judgmental delight. I did not see why Roman was so compelled to speak like that about a complete stranger.<br />
<br />
"What's wrong with him? He's just a regular guy...what's the big deal..??" I was irritated, but it was nothing new.<br />
<br />
Roman spoke like that often. Sometimes I defended the person in question like I did that day. Other times not. I think the only reason I remember that particular instance is because of the day in which it occurred. Likewise, it was when I started to realize that his confession of infidelity was my way out, that I reflected his recent comments at the store, and his crap reply when I gave him the Ziggy Stardust song.<br />
<br />
I was DONE!<br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, it was the side of him - the side I disliked - that found a connection outside of the marriage.<br />
<br />
Believe it or not, there is part of me now that is mournful on his behalf over never getting to fully realize whatever potential could have been in his extramarital relationship. By that, I mean there was a side to Roman that I found downright offensive. Yet there was someone out there who not only liked that side of him, she also identified with it proudly. There is a part of me that regrets he did not go on to see what would have become of their "connection" that she boasted about so emphatically.<br />
<br />
Make no mistake...at times I boil with anger over his behavior and how he treated me. However, as I have said repeatedly, my grief is messy. This is one example of how convoluted I feel at times. Sometimes, I grieve for what could have become of his life. Roman was so bright. I truly feel he was short changed in the end.<br />
<br />
If he sincerely did find his soul mate with that girl, there is a side of me that says, "more power to them!"<br />
<br />
Though that said, I do wish he would have been more honorable in his pursuits...Which brings me to another fork in the road of this multi-pronged process.<br />
<br />
Why would he have been more honorable?<br />
<br />
Up until the day he died, Roman simply behaved as the person he was. Lacking empathy for people. Ironically, human.<br />
<br />
Roman placated me in our relationship and put others down routinely. He showed his colors in his time with me. The character I find myself longing for now is the same one I sought during our marriage. If he would have demonstrated that kind of being in life, then this entire blog would likely not exist, nor would the blessings that have come to me in the days since his death. My life following his passing would have been very different.<br />
<br />
Moreover, being of the nature I was at that time, I certainly would not have been inclined to open up to the world about my experience. Not only would the thought have terrified me, I imagine it also would have seemed pointless. Instead though, now talking about Roman's life and legacy gives new meaning to it.<br />
<br />
Roman's mistakes left me holding the bag so to speak. Yet, forgiveness gives purpose to my grief so that I may use it for a greater good. I'm using it and people are benefiting. People contact me all the time to let me know. And that is what is now becoming of Roman's legacy.<br />
<br />
What an enormous gift he left behind.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6a_YQXFs7Ts" width="300"></iframe></div><div class="zemanta-related"><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0 0 0;">Related articles</h6><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/03/being-angry-at-dead-person-for-dying.html">Being Angry At A Dead Person For Dying</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/04/romans-first-collapse.html">Roman's First Collapse</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com/2011/04/forgiveness-first-of-few-to-come.html">Forgiveness: The First of a Few to Come..</a> (sunnysingstheblues.blogspot.com)</li>
</ul></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-61364038634881332132011-04-29T22:46:00.000-07:002011-05-06T09:50:06.137-07:00Guest Post - David: Loss Through a Child's Eyes<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span class="zemanta-img separator zemanta-action-dragged" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/17557997@N02/4047497444" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="French Horn Fingering Chart" height="200" src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2559/4047497444_db15e81c24_m.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; font-size: 0.8em;" width="137" /></a><span class="zemanta-img-attribution" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">French Horn fingering chart.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">I'm pausing from my series on forgiveness to bring readers this guest post..</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Joshua, from </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><a href="http://draft.blogger.com/goog_1496218933">Vive le Nerd</a>,</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"> wrote this moving guest post about his experience with loss at 13 years of age. As a widow, school psychologist, and as a human, I find his story compelling because of how well it demonstrates the complexity of loss. My experience has taught me that the common understanding of grief occurring in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/K%C3%BCbler-Ross_model">five discrete stages</a>, as proposed by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elisabeth_K%C3%BCbler-Ross">Elizabeth Kubler-Ross</a>, is <b>drastically oversimplified</b>. Her ideas are a starting point for understanding of the process, but that is all. It's only a start.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Grief is convoluted. The stages occur at once sometimes. It changes people. And when it happens to youngsters, it's even more vexing.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">Joshua's reaction to grief at the time of his friend's death is not surprising. Grief is difficult, period. The only real difference between children and adults is their ability to grasp the abstract finality of death. Children have less ability to process their thoughts and feelings about their experience. Adults struggle too, but children do not have the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;">capacity</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;"> to reflect on their behavioral responses in the way in which adults are capable. Though, as I mentioned before, there is no magic wand to make grief go away. Nothing but time and insight that comes from life experience makes it better. Grief is a painful part of life that shapes adults and children alike. Joshua's story is an excellent illustration of that.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you, Joshua. I am honored to have you posting here. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">*****</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;"><b><u>David</u></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><blockquote style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Some dates in life are fixed. Often people remember approximately when something happened, but truly extraordinary events—both divine and tragic—etch a specific number into your memory for all time.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">I, like others, have many of these dates in my brain. There are the dates we learn about in school (1776, 1941), as well as those we have experienced personally, whether as a collective public or as a family or with a few friends (1963, 1969, 2001).</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">As often happens in this life, sometimes these events simply change our mood or our collective thinking for a short period of time before returning to the status quo. Other events send shockwaves through your entire being, changing the course of your life forever. Maybe you can’t pinpoint that exact moment because it was a series of occurrences that led to a gradual change. Maybe it was a specific moment.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Mine came on March 13, 1993.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">As a resident video game nerd, movie critic, book reviewer, and personal reference library for the obscure and often inane, I'm sure it will come as no surprise that I'm also a band geek. In fourth grade, I started on the flute (for the sole reason that I wanted to be Ian Anderson from Jethro Tull). Two years later I switched to the trumpet; not that I minded being the only male flautist, but I was nine, so what did I know? David was my best friend, so I switched to trumpet so that we could goof off. A few years later, the director of our junior high bad convinced me to switch to the French horn section, so that we would have one.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Fast-forward one year. It was a Saturday morning and we had a band competition to attend that day. My school was three blocks away, so I walked it to catch the bus with the rest of the band. Exactly where we went is irrelevant; it was another school a bit of a drive from us; probably a high school since that's where most of those competitions used to take place.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Speed through the whole getting there, warming up, and performing part of the story. It, too, is immaterial.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Once we were finished performing, we returned our instruments to their cases, packed them away onto a bus for transporting home later, and were given liberty until the award ceremony later in the day.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">David and I were just walking the building, goofing around, when he started complaining that he had a migraine. This had happened before, and I was prone to them, too. Food usually helped to alleviate the problem for him, and I steered us toward vending machines.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">He stopped.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">I turned.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">His face was white. Pained.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Eyes rolled up, revealing only whites.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">And then he collapsed.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">His mom was one of our chaperones and quickly at his side. He was unconscious. Non-responsive. The ambulance came and took him away.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">I don't remember much after watching his mom climb into the back of the ambulance and it driving away. I got home, presumably on the same bus we took to get there. Mom cried when she heard what had happened. We got out of the house and went to my favorite restaurant, The Olive Garden. I remember getting home and Mom making me leave the room as she listened to the message on the answering machine. She was crying again. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">It was an aneurysm.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"></span></span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;">I didn’t go to school for a few days. Until after the funeral.</span></span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">At first, everything after was, and still is, a fog. A jumbled myriad of memories all seen through white-hot rage multiplied by general teen angst.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Have you ever read J.M. Barrie’s <i>Peter Pan?</i> Tinkerbell gets mad at Wendy and convinces The Lost Boys to shoot arrows at her. Barrie explained that, due to her size, Tinkerbell could only contain one emotion at a time; if she was happy, she was over the moon; anger came out as pure, unadulterated wrath. I was the latter for a while.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">So when the principal arrived in my 7th grade social studies class to escort me to his office where my parents and a police officer were waiting, no one was really surprised. All things being equal, my punishment should have been more severe. Four broken windows. Sandblasting to remove the paint. The Molotov cocktail hurled at the school’s brick façade did nothing more than singe the brick and pavement. Perhaps everything from the preceding months was taken into consideration when I was given a juvenile arrest record, released to my parents, and given a one-week, in-school suspension. Mom and Dad quietly paid the bill over the next several months.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Once returned to the general school population, I was still detached. I started blatantly not paying attention and falling asleep in class. I wanted to climb out.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Of school.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Of life.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">I started having sleep problems. Late nights, lying awake or reading or just begging for sleep. It’s a problem that continues today. Having kids certainly takes a lot of that out of you, but for the most part it still persists, and I often find myself up at strange hours of the night. Perhaps the two are linked, perhaps it's just coincidence. Regardless, it happens.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">I used to have the same recurring dream. David and I were back in the hallway of that school, chatting just like we were then. I turn to see his face go ghostly white, his eyes roll up into his head, and he collapses. I run down the hallway and round the corner to find myself walking and chatting just like we were then. I turn to see his face...repeat...repeat...<wbr></wbr>repeat...</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Until my alarm goes off and I wake up.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Every night that I could remember dreaming, this is what was playing. A haunting, looping, 3-D IMAX.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">It wasn't until my freshman year in college five years later, while taking an intro psychology course, that this problem started to abate. It still occurred, but with decreasing regularity. Again, perhaps coincidence, but perhaps not.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Even today I'll have this dream. But it only happens once, when it does happen. It never repeats. And it's not the same as it used to be. The passage of time, it seems, changes things. Memories become what you want them to be; fuel runs out; heat dissipates.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">In the end, you're left with the memory of a great friend, the best you ever had.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">It's not just one person or one event that shapes who you are, who you become. But there are times, like these, that alter the course of your life forever.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial;">Funny, maybe, that I still think of him now. But not with the same sense of loss and hurt that once was there. Eighteen years, it seems, is more than adequate time for scars to stop aching constantly.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Arial;">Postscript: Not very long after the events of March 13, 1993, Mom, Dad, Brother, and I were walking through Volo Bog, near where we lived in Illinois. Dad and Brother were ahead of me; Mom was behind. I was walking with my eyes turned toward the ground. I heard a noise and looked up. I saw Dad, and then I saw black. When I came to, I'm not really sure how much time had passed, and Mom was crying above me. Dad was holding me. And the first words out of my mouth were, "What the hell did you throw at me?" Apparently a rather large branch had fallen out of a tree and hit me square on the head. The last thing I saw was Dad, and it looked like his arm was out, as if he had just thrown something at me.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"> </span></blockquote><div style="text-align: center;">***** </div><br />
You can find Joshua's latest post "<a href="http://vivelenerd.blogspot.com/2011/04/thats-not-right.html">That's Not Right</a>" on his blog, <a href="http://vivelenerd.blogspot.com/">http://vivelenerd.blogspot.com</a>. He's also followable on Twitter <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/TechnicalParent">http://twitter.com/TechnicalParent</a>.<br />
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</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold;">Related articles</span><br />
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<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://andrewsullivan.thedailybeast.com/2011/04/metabolizing-grief.html">Metabolizing Grief</a> (andrewsullivan.thedailybeast.com)</li>
</ul></div><div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;"><img alt="" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=f10f84f7-4981-41f1-a435-cdb755f526d3" style="border: none; float: right;" /></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-64734497086648534532011-04-27T19:37:00.000-07:002011-05-06T09:39:44.005-07:00Forgiveness Part 2: Actions In Retrospect<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji7N8Uxb9Ix7XFYA5eMfJ95AxugKvS9rlsbsJfByTCJeTLuTMle1Y_s8IXOzUe-MQX9ocseZpRHDI7RfR0oJQEKRmvYynqzHpIbkgVSmOhry2VsITHfiXCD4VSkgBnDhVLAFv8PZyXavM/s1600/18+Being+Sworn+In.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji7N8Uxb9Ix7XFYA5eMfJ95AxugKvS9rlsbsJfByTCJeTLuTMle1Y_s8IXOzUe-MQX9ocseZpRHDI7RfR0oJQEKRmvYynqzHpIbkgVSmOhry2VsITHfiXCD4VSkgBnDhVLAFv8PZyXavM/s400/18+Being+Sworn+In.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting our marriage licence the day before we got married. The looks on our faces say it all. <br />
"We're doing what..??"</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
"Cold feet" is a good way to sum up my feelings about my wedding day.<br />
<br />
I was anxious and doubtful. Of course, I was always anxious and doubtful, not just when it came to marrying Roman. I suppose that is why I ignored the voice in my head that screamed at me to consider what a potentially huge mistake I was making. That stupid voice was always chattering on about something though, so I had gotten pretty good at tuning it out when I felt that another person's logic was better suited to the situation. I did not trust myself.<br />
<br />
Roman was so smart and rational; he was very easy to trust when it came to reason. Although, in retrospect, when looking at this picture of Roman and I taking an oath when applying for our marriage licence, I think it's safe to say that I was not the only one with doubts.<br />
<br />
But we both had our roles in the relationship. I was the worry wart. Roman was the problem solver.<br />
<br />
If he expressed his doubts to me about getting married, well then, he would have been stepping out of his designated space. Who knows how I would have reacted. He probably knew that, so he carried on with the plan and maintained his duty as the steady one in the relationship. I too carried on with the plan, choosing to ignore my own uncertain inklings, which I simply chalked up as irrational.<br />
<br />
In retrospect now, I see that was not being neurotic. My fears were valid.<br />
<br />
Roman and I had some serious communication issues that I couldn't put my finger on in the beginning. It wasn't until a couple years into the marriage that I really saw our disconnect clearly. But by then, I was invested...It was too late to walk away. Counseling was an option we had discussed, but never pursued. We had become complacent and I had gotten masterful at ignoring my better judgement. Which brings me to the point of this post.<br />
<br />
They say that how a person copes with change depends greatly on what they were like before the event took place. I think about that a lot as I wonder about how I handled news of Roman's affair. While I have always been a reserved, shy, outwardly stoic person, I have never had trouble expressing my pointed anger to anybody who crossed me.<br />
<br />
Two instances come to mind offhand. One was in high school when I confronted my neighbor for spreading rumors about me around campus. He lied and told people that he could hear me having sex with my boyfriend in my room, which was adjacent to his bedroom by just a few feet. After enough friends at school told me what he was saying, I went next door to tell him to stop. Only, when he was face to face with me, he wouldn't admit to his actions, so I slapped him in a fury right across his lying face. I slapped him so hard that my hand stung. He started to cry as he ran into his house. He also never said a word again about me at school.<br />
<br />
Another instance that comes to mind is my pointed way of breaking up with a long-term boyfriend whom I'd dated before I met Roman. Without going into tremendous detail, we went out for about two years on and off. I never felt that I had his full attention, so during one phone conversation when I'd had enough of feeling ignored by him, I snapped angrily "Fuck you!" as I slammed down the phone. With that, the relationship was officially done. We didn't speak again until six years later, after Roman died, when I called him to apologize for my lack of tact in ending things with him.<br />
<br />
At the time though, a reaction like that was not unusual for me. Reacting with force to people who upset me was how I ensured that my reserve would not be mistaken for weakness. It was not a tactic I used often, but when I did, my words and ensuing actions were definitely felt by my target. I was like that up until the day Roman died.<br />
<br />
So for me to decide quickly that I wanted to part ways with Roman amicably, even after knowing that he was unfaithful, and knowing in my gut that he was still lying, it came as a surprise even to me. My tongue could be sharp and my precisely chosen words could cut. Yet, even on the night that he dropped the bomb about his indiscretion, I was angry and I let him know, but I didn't lash out at him like I would have in the past.<br />
<br />
For some reason, I held back.<br />
<br />
And what's even more vexing is why I turned the other cheek so quickly after I finished expressing my hurt. The ego can be a monster that could have easily allowed me to become an angry, bitter, betrayed ex-wife at that time. But that was not how I was nudged to respond. In fact, quite the opposite was my inclination. The last time that I saw Roman, I told him I loved him. I told him I was going to be okay. I wished him well. I wanted to hug him but didn't out of fear of looking weak. Perhaps I had simply matured and recognized my ability to react with kindness as a strength.<br />
<br />
But why then?<br />
<br />
Why that day?<br />
<br />
For me, that is where the larger plan comes into focus and that little voice that was in my head, which I long ignored as irrational and neurotic, suddenly found it's place in my daily being.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/8jlLq7NKogU" width="300"></iframe></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-17662502845117617742011-04-25T21:46:00.000-07:002011-04-27T20:10:20.827-07:00Forgiveness: The First of a Few to Come..<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU7PJ8ZVl3mkCDqy0xn_-6gYoq5ZOrOzOlYLHwqzE3ReP4tA7G47OHtPkMp9wY3z5ZHE45beSViTh1NWMsV25yFuPc3TBDQISXDSypRjbMTtHUuBlgFXswDnkxhCSROpqBpky8a-QMng0/s1600/73+Wedding+Day+Aug+13+2002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU7PJ8ZVl3mkCDqy0xn_-6gYoq5ZOrOzOlYLHwqzE3ReP4tA7G47OHtPkMp9wY3z5ZHE45beSViTh1NWMsV25yFuPc3TBDQISXDSypRjbMTtHUuBlgFXswDnkxhCSROpqBpky8a-QMng0/s400/73+Wedding+Day+Aug+13+2002.JPG" width="263" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honolulu. August 2002. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Sometimes I just don't feel like talking about it. Actually, most of the time I don't. Like the subject of forgiveness; it's something that I have embraced, but similar to the experiences surrounding Roman's loss, my thoughts about it are very deep and even more scattered. I have six pages written about forgiveness that I started about two months ago. I have done everything short of burying it in the yard to avoid digging in and finishing it. Although it doesn't seem to matter how much I do or don't want to think about it - inevitably, somehow it manages to surface in it's own terms anyway.<br />
<br />
During those times, it helps me to give it some real thought as I write it all out. Putting pen to paper in a stream of consciousness makes the future emotional hoops a little bit easier to scale, while helping making peace with the ghosts that haunt me from my past. Ghosts not only of Roman's actions, which I have struggled to make sense of, but also actions of my own.<br />
<br />
Forgiveness is not just about letting go of the grief that Roman left me with, but also embracing the Universe's plan, while also letting go of the guilt I have clutched over my personal regrets. It's complicated to say the least. At times I am angry.<br />
<br />
The times when I feel damaged - reduced to tears because I feel like the world is about to crumble beneath my feet. On the rare occasions that I argue with my boyfriend, Chris, and break down into anxious hand flapping sobs because I fear he will leave without warning. Those nights when I dream about being abandoned or when I can't sleep because my wheels are spinning. Or on mornings when I wake up in tears because I no longer recognize myself; even all this time later. Those times when I grow impatient waiting for my new normal to finally arrive or when I hear stories that hit unexpectedly close to home. When I see a man who reminds me of Roman and I feel too uncomfortable to so much as glance in his direction. Those are the times that I have to remind myself of the process of forgiveness.<br />
<br />
"It happened. Deal with it" I say to myself.<br />
<br />
How?<br />
<br />
Well...that part is not as easy, but thinking of it in symbolic terms helps me process it easier.<br />
<br />
It feels like Roman left me holding a figurative bag of fertilizer. Fertilizer can be used by angry people to make bombs. Sure, I could be nasty and entitled and take my anger out on the living by blowing up on them on my bad days. But I don't. I could also stand idly without moving forward, holding the stinky bag of crap, and whine about how bad it smells. Okay, I have had my moments..I admit. I do complain sometimes, but I try not to indulge too often. Instead consciously, what I try to do, is use my grief to foster new growth. That is what this blog is intended to do. And embracing the opportunity to use my grief for cultivating something worthwhile is ultimately what drives my ability and willingness to forgive, even when it's difficult. It is what I use to remind myself that things happen for reasons I cannot comprehend, but can accept nonetheless.<br />
<br />
His willful actions hurt me, but his was his unwillful ones that broke part of me.<br />
<br />
But I know that Roman didn't mean to die. Obviously.<br />
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He didn't know that his thoughtless indiscretions would be his last. Roman had many good qualities, but at times being married to him was tough. And truth be told, if he hadn't died, I would almost have been relieved that he cheated on me because it was my "out" of the marriage. I had often thought about leaving him, but I didn't because of my vows. Words I spoke that day on the beach, which later felt like an albatross at times. There were moments when I wondered what I was thinking by marrying him. It's those moments, along with my doubt when we stood before the justice of the peace, that came to haunt me with guilt after he died.<br />
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At the time of my wedding, I found myself fighting doubt more than embracing my new life. I hate to admit it, but honestly I wondered if I was making a huge mistake. Not a good sign. Certainly not thoughts a bride should be having, if years of wedded bliss are in her future.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/KtRnKvuUEVo" title="YouTube video player" width="300"></iframe></div><div class="zemanta-related"><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0 0 0;">Related articles</h6><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://theangelicway.wordpress.com/2011/04/25/forgiveness/">Forgiveness</a> (theangelicway.wordpress.com)</li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://healinginhealthcare.wordpress.com/2011/04/23/find-freedom-through-forgiveness/">Find Freedom Through Forgiveness</a> (healinginhealthcare.wordpress.com)</li>
</ul></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-39325117553489336552011-04-20T11:30:00.000-07:002011-04-29T23:13:19.769-07:00Grief Coping and Guest Posting: Sunny, Part 1<div class="separator" style="clear: both; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span class="zemanta-img separator zemanta-action-dragged" style="clear: both; float: none; text-align: center;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Beer-Every-Day%21.jpg" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Beer-Every-Day!" height="320" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/e/e3/Beer-Every-Day%21.jpg" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; font-size: 0.8em;" width="213" /></a><span class="zemanta-img-attribution" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Image via <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Beer-Every-Day%21.jpg">Wikipedia</a></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Shortly after Roman died, a parent at one of my schools started paying regular visits to my office. Her visits were initially nonchalant; her tone initially casual - though on her second visit, I was sure she was going to ask me to test her kids, so I had my "referral for testing" schpeel ready to go. I never had to use it however. Instead, what she came to see me about was grief. Namely, her own, due to the recent death of her mother. She needed to know how to cope, so she came to me.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">At the time, I hardly felt like an expert. I was bogged down with my own grief, but I put that aside and listened to her talk. Listening really seemed like all she wanted from me anyway, so I gave her my time and my ears. In lieu of advice, I stuck with simply validating her feelings of grief. I related well to how she felt, which made that job easy. Though by the third or fourth time she stopped by, I started to notice a theme to her stories of how she was coping with her loss.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Beer. Her mention of it was casual, just like her visits. But it was there and it was clearly part of her grief coping repertoire. At some point she also mentioned her sister's concern over her new found drinking habit. The mother said a couple times that she had it under control even though I did not ask. She gave the impression that she wanted me to validate her drinking in the same way I validated her tears. Only I couldn't do that. So I spoke candidly as I felt was my personal and professional responsibility. My response to her back then is the same as it would be now.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">People cope with loss in all sorts of ways. No matter what maladaptive means of coping people choose - in her case, alcohol; I don't think anyone ever sets out to become dependent. Like the parent I am speaking of, people start out using alcohol to treat emotional pain in the same way they would pop aspirin for a headache. It seems innocuous enough at first. The goal is never addiction. Yet it's a slippery slope to the dreaded "ism" if it's used in place of a healthy coping mechanism. Especially during times of loss like after a death, or divorce, or what have you.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">And as I told that mother, drinking only prolongs the process and creates another source of pain in one's life, even though numbing coping mechanisms are pretty common. She stopped making visits to my office after that. Her kids were healthy and did well in school. She gave no reason for the school to suspect her of drinking so much that she neglected her children. I saw her around campus from time to time and chatted with her, but she never again brought up the subject of her grief, let alone her coping. Beyond what I could see and beyond what she was willing to share, I could only hope for the best and hope she landed on better choices after that.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Ultimately though, people cope, or don't cope with grief in all sorts of ways. Fortunately, I never found alcohol appealing, what with my already foggy mind and my propensity for vicious hangovers. Though that is not to say that I didn't choose my vices, I did. I just didnt choose any that made my ability to cope with the trials that come with daily life significantly harder. In addition to things like writing and counseling, I coped by doing my best to forget, moving reminders, burring myself in work, spending too much money on stupid crap, horking down lots of carbs (and gaining 30 pounds), and moving on quickly with my life.<br />
<br />
Because of his infidelity and the state of my marriage when he died, compared with most widows, it was fairly easy for me to move on romantically. I started dating again soon after Roman died and have been in a relationship with the same guy ever since. He has been a tremendous support to me and I'm lucky to have found such a quality person during a time when I was so emotionally vulnerable. Still, I have been unsure how to bring him up here on my blog because I don't want to give the trite impression that finding a new love has been a cure for my grief. It cannot nor could it if I wanted it to. Life does go on...Though magic wands <b>do not </b>exist. No drink, drug, food, cute pair of shoes, or new love can stop a process like grief from running it's course. It is a force to be reconciled with on it's terms.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I am still learning how to do that.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">My boyfriend has been awesome to have by my side, but life still presents struggles no matter how good our relationship is. With that, for anyone who is interested in learning more about how life has shaped, supported, and challenged me in the years since Roman died, I would like to share a link to a guest post I recently wrote on <a href="http://extremewritingnow.com/memoirs/not-down-and-out-memoirs/memoir-prompt-out-of-a-job-but-not-down-and-out/">Extreme Writing Now</a>. The piece is part of a memoir prompt I shared called "<a href="http://extremewritingnow.com/memoirs/not-down-and-out-memoirs/memoir-prompt-out-of-a-job-but-not-down-and-out/">Out of Work, But Not Down and Out</a>."</div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Friday night my boyfriend, Chris, came home with good news. The official letter was signed, sealed, and delivered; his job is finally permanent. No longer is he a probationary employee. After a period of two years of unemployment, the letter confirming his status might as well have been made of gold. Because for a while there, things were looking bleak…I was starting to wonder if he would ever find a job.</span></span></blockquote><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">About a year after coming to California from New York to start a new life with me, Chris lost his job. It was well paying with good benefits, but it was not a good fit for him personally. I knew it, Chris knew it, and apparently his boss knew it too. So just days before his probationary period ended, Chris arrived to work one morning only to be abruptly given the news of his termination. Just like that, he was on his way back home.</span></blockquote><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">He was never happy at that job, so it seemed like a blessing in disguise that he was let go. Initially it seemed like an opportunity to regroup and find a better fit for him personally and professionally. But what we did not expect was the downturn in the economy, which made what was supposed to be temporary derailment seem like a permanent ban from the rails.</span> <a href="http://extremewritingnow.com/memoirs/not-down-and-out-memoirs/memoir-prompt-out-of-a-job-but-not-down-and-out/">Click here to read more</a></blockquote>See Part 2 of this series in the post below to read about my guest blogger, Thom Davis, and his experience of turning to drugs and alcohol to cope with his trauma and loss..<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/LQAK4r5fxRY" title="YouTube video player" width="300"></iframe></div><div class="zemanta-related"><h6 class="zemanta-related-title" style="font-size: 1em; margin: 1em 0 0 0;">Related articles</h6><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://chrysalisjourney.wordpress.com/2011/02/20/invisible-grief/">Invisible grief</a> (chrysalisjourney.wordpress.com)</li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://www.yourmindyourbody.org/grief-is-a-normal-response-to-death-loss/">Grief is a Normal Response to Death, Loss</a> (yourmindyourbody.org)</li>
</ul></div><div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;"><img alt="" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=0560bc83-8295-4409-8eaa-5729d109d213" style="border: none; float: right;" /></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-37542165198421303422011-04-19T19:19:00.000-07:002011-05-06T09:52:38.188-07:00Grief Coping and Guest Posting: Thormoo, Part 2As I said in Part One of this series on coping, people handle their grief differently. The nature and complexity of grief a person experiences, combined with their ability to cope with stress prior to their loss, greatly affects their ability to contend with their post-grief reality. People don't generally talk about grief, so when it happens, it can be a scary and isolating feeling. If the bereaved is too overwhelmed by their loss, turning to drugs and alcohol for warmth, comfort, and reprieve may seem natural. Unfortunately, it is not that uncommon for some to turn away from their grief induced sadness, anger, guilt, and ambivalence by self medicating; as was the case with the parent who came to see me those times in my office. Accordingly, choosing to cope by not coping, or numbing, increases the likelihood that they will develop dependency. While I think the urge to do so is understandable, this avoidant style of coping only serves to prolong the pain and make furture trials that life presents feel even more insurmountable..<br />
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With that, I want to introduce you to my guest blogger, Thom Davis. Thom writes a candid blog called "<a href="http://swagbucks.com/?cmd=ct-rd-click&id=1751217&tp=w&ip=98.164.199.233&pd=false&b=1&hst=http%3A%2F%2Fthormoo.blogspot.com%2F&frm=http%3A%2F%2Fdsclick.infospace.com%2FClickHandler.ashx%3Fru%3Dhttp%253a%252f%252fthormoo.blogspot.com%252f%26coi%3D239138%26cop%3Dmain-title%26c%3Dprodege.meta2.swagbucks%26ap%3D1%26npp%3D1%26p%3D0%26pp%3D0%26pvaid%3D6be8fc56a713476ca95ad7a0ee43507f%26ep%3D1%26euip%3D98.164.199.233%26app%3D1%26hash%3D8828A96988D1D3AAB5EB16896F076571&ncc=0">Shell Shock Serenade</a>" about his experience with recovery from substance abuse. His story is compelling to me because much of what led him down the path of addiction was his struggle to cope with grief. He's a brave person for sharing his story of recovery, but even braver for his willingness to share the painful story of it's origin here on my blog. Here is Thom's moving and shocking story:<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">"<b>Good Grief"</b></div><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">Good Grief! Ah yes, the old familiar refrain from my man Charlie Brown. But did good ole Chuck have any idea what he was talking about, in this his most famous and repeated phrase? Is there such a thing as GOOD grief? I know as I have experienced grief in my life, at the moment I'm experiencing it there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of GOOD going on. Yet I know from experience that it is a necessary process for me and others of the human species or we'll simply implode or explode. And for me specifically, my grief…drowned in a river of booze/drugs, long ignored and suppressed, quite simply took me to the brink of self-destruction.</span></blockquote><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">Before I continue, let me introduce myself. My name is Thom, blog name is thormoo and I typically can be found at thormoo.blogspot.com writing a little ditty called Shell Shock Serenade. The original intent of the blog was to capture A Life, (in real time) of a recovering alcoholic and addict. Warts and all with nothing, absolutely NOTHING left out or overlooked. That particular person’s life (mine as it turned out, I was the only one who volunteered!) also included being sexually assaulted at the age of 12 and an attempted suicide amongst other life experiences. So I have experienced grief in several of its variations including 3 major events in my life, 2 of them occurring decades ago and one back in 2006: </span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">I lost 3 of my closest friends to an alcohol and drug related auto accident. I was 18 years old at the time and a Senior in High School. As a result of that accident, I spent nearly two decades of my life feeling somehow responsible for its occurrence and the emotional wreckage it brought </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">down on others as a result.</span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I've also felt the intense loss of innocence and youth after I was sexually assaulted as a dangerously naïve pre-teenaged boy, an experience that I basically kept secret for over a decade after it happened. As an alcoholic/addict, now in recovery for nearly 5 years, I have learned ever so slowly, over a long period of time how to deal with those emotions and how they affected me at the time they occurred. And even more importantly how they can still affect me and impact my life today.I simply had to find a way to deal with the lost innocence, the pain and heartache of those experiences for the rest of my life, so it was critically important that I find a way to co-exist with those ghosts and their memories as soon as I possibly could. Holy Crap I wasn’t prepared for how difficult that was going to be….</span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I do not think there really is a simple answer to the question I posed at the beginning of this post. Grief is unavoidable in life, at one time or anothe</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">r we will all grieve. It is a natural part of life, as long as w</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">e love, cherish and care about something…we will grieve the day when it is gone. So I’m not so sure that grief in itself can be good or bad, it just IS. But the experience of grieving is something else all together. Going through a period of grief most certainly CAN be a good experience in the long run if one is able to deal with it and process it in a healthy manner. It is my belief that we never really get over it or stop grieving…it is a life long process but that does not mean it needs to lead to life long misery either. I also believe that there isn't a magical way to process it and move on with life...it is different for each of us. And most certainly the opposite can be true as well: there can certainly be negative or BAD ways to deal with grief. Most of my experiences, at least originally would fall into that category.</span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #2a2a2a;">If I was to try to tell the complete story of my life, addiction and recovery…I would need more space and time then I have here today in a single blog post. I think the relevant factors to his post certainly are my alcoholism/addiction which basically IS the foundation story of my life and the incredibly painful impact of two major events in my life: Rape and the deaths of 3 close <o:p></o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span">friends and how I was changed forever by those two experiences. Plus the fact that I lived with those memories for all these years. In some significant ways, how I chose to deal (or not deal) with those events over the years impacted me in the long run almost as significantly as the events themselves did.</span></span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">For the sake of background, I will say that I was sexually assaulted by three grown men at the age of 12. It was unprovoked, unexpected and simply the single most violent and horrific experience of my life. I’d rather not go into specifics to when and where it occurred but I will say that it was a direct result of my addiction to drugs/alcohol, which was already a factor in my life at that normally innocent age. The men were never caught…basically because I never reported it. My black eyes, bruises and generally battered appearance were explained away to friends and family as the results of a fight with other kids on a Saturday night. My story was accepted at face value…what my family couldn’t see were the terrible scars that were already developing deep, down inside of me as a result of what happened that day.</span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">I don’t think I even so much as mentioned that experience for a full 12 years, until I became good friends with a survivor of Child Sexual Abuse: A young woman and co-worker who had been molested by her Dad’s sister from the age of 12 until she was 17. It was during long conversations over coffee that I unexpectedly blurted out that experience of so long ago…</span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">Today after much therapy and self-examination I now understand that I was dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I had lived with horrible nightmares for years, I was re-living the event over and over again almost daily in my head, I was Depressed, I trusted NO ONE and generally preferred to be left alone. Though already showing signs of alcoholism, I spent years trying to drink those terrible memories away yet those attempts to do so always proved futile in the end.</span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">As a result of talking about being sexually assaulted to friend from work, I sought traditional therapy from a psychologist who talked me through the experience, how I felt, how I thought it had affected me and my life, etc. etc. I really felt after over a year of sessions that I was better, that I had DEALT with the attack and had put it behind me for good. And I felt better at that time about things…the only problem is that you can never truly put an experience like this one BEHIND you forever or even for a little while. Plus I had not been completely honest in my dealings with the shrink. I wasn't forthcoming about how much I was drinking at the time and I was also specifically not addressing certain questions and issues that had bothered me since the assault had taken place. Issues/Questions dealing with my masculinity, was I a homosexual because I was raped by other men and the state of my over all self-image/self-esteem.</span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">It would be another 18 years or so before I would even begin to deal with those issues and only after going to the very bottom of the despair barrel because of my alcoholism/addiction. At this junction in this little story of life and loss I think it is important to state that I don’t put my Alcoholism/Addiction, Sexual Assault, Grief and any other life experiences in their own little separate sections of my life or my experiences. They are irrevocable intertwined. I have always believed what the American Medical Association stated in the 1950’s: That Alcoholism is a disease, terminal but treatable by total abstinence. Some people vehemently disagree with this notion of alcoholism is a disease and that is fine with me, it’s their prerogative, they can think what they like. Me…I could care less what anyone else thinks about it only what I know in my heart is true. They of course, do not have to deal with my addictions: I do! It is my obligation and responsibility, especially now that I know that I have this illness to do something about it. And it’s worked for nearly five years now…</span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">Based on my experience in recovery and having not had a drink or a non-prescribed, correctly taken prescription medication since mid-2006, I don’t think my Alcoholism was caused by moral deficiencies, lack of will-power, my being raped, being adopted, losing loved ones in death or any of the other things I have experienced in my life. I was born with a pre-disposition to it, the signs were there very early in life. Certainly those experiences complicated and contributed to the total emotional CHAOS that is alcoholism. There is also no doubt that my coping mechanism for everything negative or positive in my life was to drink/drug, a behavior I assumed I learned as I went along: “My 3 best friends died so I’ll get hammered or it’s a glorious day, let’s PARTY!” Those were unconscious choices I made that were totally based on the way I chose to live my life…my alcoholic way of life.</span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">My life in recovery began 8 or so days after I tried to end my life by taking an overdose of Narcotics, Tranquilizers, Sleeping Pills, Muscle Relaxers, Anti-Depressants, Anti-Anxiety Pills and others. I recall four rather large pill bottles full of pills, separated by what they were. I had been stashing then for quite some time. It was late in the day…I had been partying, drinking heavily and snorting large amounts of Cocaine for several days and I just could not take living like I was any more. I was still having flashbacks of being raped, I was absolutely filled with guilt for things that I had done and not done, said and not said…I had arrived at a place where I hated myself so much and what I’d become that I truly believed I was doing my family and the few friends I had left a favor by ending my life. They wouldn’t have to worry about me any more and I would have to bother them ever again. It wasn’t hard to convince myself that others must hate me as much as I hated myself. So I made another drink and swallowed the pills down. I don’t recall much about that moment other then I was gagging some so I taped my mouth closed with Duct-Tape and laid on the floor.</span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">I woke up over a week later in the local hospital. That memory is burned, actually seared into my consciousness for all time. I was cold, the room was white though the shades were drawn and I remember realizing I was alive. And I just broke apart…I could not believe that I had failed once again. I was restrained by my wrists and ankles and quickly there were several nurses and a doctor in the room asking me questions but I couldn’t…er, wouldn’t speak. That was the single, lowest point Emotionally, Physically, Psychologically and Spiritually in my entire life. I simply didn’t know what to do…I was BROKEN, completely and totally HOPELESS.</span></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12.75pt;"><blockquote><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: inherit;">Little did I realize at the time that it was the beginning of a whole new and better way of life. Yep, it would be new and better but this different life would also be harder in one very important way: I would have to re-build myself from the ground up as I had lost everything. But I would have to do the Soul Searching, the growing, changing and starting over completely and totally SOBER. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to find a way to do that…..</span></blockquote>To read more from Thom's blog, go to <a href="http://thormoo.blogspot.com/">http://thormoo.blogspot.com</a> </div><div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;"><img alt="" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=208e8da7-e66c-4f12-a5f0-087e8aeacfda" style="border: none; float: right;" /></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-59954336652310374372011-04-17T14:36:00.000-07:002011-05-06T09:57:17.442-07:00Roman's First Collapse<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEhH5yAjcHMjJwcEqEx6qDMxvEIFOtfszr1IpR_6g_ekTJdWNVs1d8rVjfKuTzqlVNiuLoN9BHXxukj5kCJO5VzkTb35ebwC80SbDsn9zuInBGb5IdgK9vUtRcgMMkVsJNTy0zQCPnrc/s1600/0c5f6769869e4a729fe2f3356148f432_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEhH5yAjcHMjJwcEqEx6qDMxvEIFOtfszr1IpR_6g_ekTJdWNVs1d8rVjfKuTzqlVNiuLoN9BHXxukj5kCJO5VzkTb35ebwC80SbDsn9zuInBGb5IdgK9vUtRcgMMkVsJNTy0zQCPnrc/s200/0c5f6769869e4a729fe2f3356148f432_7.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near the spot where Roman lost consciousness and never awoke.<br />
This time nobody saw him fall.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Triggers, or traumatic reminders of Roman's loss, are all around me. Most of the time when they emerge, I sit patiently with the memory until it leaves my mind - usually without much thought. Other times, the images from the past come at me with such force that they hit like a left hook to the jaw - leaving me disoriented, emotionally fractured, and unable to redirect my heartbroken response. That is what happened last week during an appointment I had for blood work related to the rapid heart rate issue I spoke of in my prior post.<br />
<br />
I did not know it until I arrived at the location, but the lab I was sent to by my doctor is located next door to the hospital Roman was taken to by ambulance after his first collapse.<br />
<br />
The memory of that night is not one that I conjure up often. Though the other day, as I became aware of where I was, it was immediately all I could think of. The memory repeating on infinite loop in my mind as my eyes streamed tears beyond my control. Mental snapshots of Roman's scraped and battered face were all I could see that morning as I approached the hospital parking lot. And as I sat waiting for my appointment to have my blood drawn, the imprint on my mind was inescapable. <br />
<br />
The night of his first collapse in April 2004 did not pan out as usual. Always predictably routine, Roman called as he left work to let me know he would be going for a jog and he always got home around 7:30. I tried not over think it at first. I called his cell phone every half hour or so, but it consistently went straight to voice mail. So without a phone call or any word on his whereabouts, by 9:30 that night I was absolutely crazed with worry. Nonetheless, I did what I could to occupy myself that night; thinking that any minute, if I just stayed calm, he'd walk through the door with a logical explanation of where he had been. But as minutes turned to hours and the clock ticked away, so too did my imagination. <br />
<br />
I was sure he was out running around, losing track of time, because he was with some girl. Never before had I suspected him of cheating, but the later the evening carried on without word, thoughts of another girl seemed logical. Especially since I reasoned that if he were hurt, or in an accident, as his wife I'd surely be contacted. The phone had not rung at all though, so an accident seemed unlikely. That is until it finally rang sometime after 10:00 pm.<br />
<br />
It was Roman's sister, Erica. She was calling to see if anyone had contacted me. Nobody had, so by that time I was nearing virulence with the running of my imagination. Still, through my angry confusion, I listened as Erica explained how Roman had been out for a jog after work in their mom's neighborhood. Somebody watched as he collapsed suddenly. They called 911 and he was taken by ambulance to the hospital for tests.<br />
<br />
That is all Erica knew, though she assured "he's fine...I just thought you might be worried if nobody called you.." Apparently Roman called his mom to come pick him up from the hospital, which is how Erica knew what was going on and I did not.<br />
<br />
At least I finally knew something, but by then I was so upset for not receiving a courtesy call from Roman, since apparently he was "fine," I was fully prepared to hand him his ass the second he got home. "You collapse and go to the hospital and instead of calling your wife, you call your mom?!?" "It never occurred to you to call during those tests?!?!" "And another thing..!" Oh, I was ready...It was on. Roman was going to hear about what he put me through that night. I was armed, loaded, and ready to fire. That is, until he walked through the door and I saw his battered face.<br />
<br />
Roman had collapsed while running on the sidewalk. He landed face first on the concrete and the evidence was plain as the nose on his face. It was obvious that he was hurt, so right away all of my fury at his thoughtlessness gave way to concern.<br />
<br />
I didn't have to say anything. Roman was ready to explain.<br />
<br />
"I'm fine" he assured "Just low electrolytes...Doctor says to drink Gatoraide before I run..."<br />
<br />
He said that all of the necessary tests had been done that night at the hospital. He was fine. He assured me of that many times over.<br />
<br />
With no knowledge of his true state of being, his explanation made sense. I didn't suspect a need for more tests since he was at the hospital so long. I don't have any medical training. In retrospect it seems obvious that he should have followed up. And in fact, the ER doctor recommended additional tests. But Roman did not tell me that, so I did not nudge him to go. Had I known, I'd have made an issue of it, but I did not know. Nor did I have the slightest clue how close he had come to death that night.<br />
<br />
Roman told me he had no memory of falling. All he recalled was running off of the street, onto a driveway, and heading toward the sidewalk - then waking in the back of an ambulance. When he questioned how he ended up there, the paramedic stated that someone saw him collapse and called 911. Roman claimed that he felt fine and just wanted to go home but had to undergo tests.<br />
<br />
Later he would often joke about the thought of being given mouth to mouth by the stranger who called for help. The prospect grossed him out, though he did not know for sure if the good samaritan even went that far above and beyond to help. Envisioning the exchange of secondhand breath from a complete stranger as Roman lay oblivious made for a few chuckles. But in truth, whatever that person did that night likely saved Roman's life and gave him a few more precious months on Earth. To this day, I do not know if Roman had any idea that his life was saved that night. I certainly didn't.<br />
<br />
He stopped running for about a year after that incident and he began incorporating fish into his diet regularly after years of strict vegetarianism. He never followed up with a doctor and never mentioned to me that he was supposed to. On some level I think he had fears about what could have become of him that night, but ultimately denial won out.<br />
<br />
Knowing that he had no memory of losing consciousness gives me comfort that he likely slipped away peacefully. He probably embraced the other side without resistance. It happened easily without his knowledge; he had no reason to fight death. It came up beside him during his jog and calmly escorted him in another direction. I don't think he had any idea he was dying. That brings me comfort in moments when I am haunted my the image of his befallen face.<br />
<br />
And now that night, which was chalked up as nothing at the time, represents my first hints of infidelity. Subtle whispers I dismissed in place of guilt for having the thought when he was so clearly hurt; I was concerned for his health, which immediately silenced my suspicions. That night also represents the first indication by the Universe that he was fallible and could be taken in an instant despite his misguided reassurance. It represents my first real brush with the consequences of his lies and my complete helplessness to change anything that was happening. Roman kept me compartmentalized in a small corner of his life. His first collapse was one of the most significant indications of that. And yet, at the time, in spite of his ongoing reassurance, I felt it. I knew something was "off" - nonetheless, I had no idea why. I felt crazy and insecure and stupid for feeling that way. But I was right. Things were off. I learned just how "off" they were about a year and a half later, when he confessed his marital indiscretion then died during a jog shortly thereafter.<br />
<br />
The emotional trigger pulled by seeing the hospital elicited tears I was helpless to stop, much like the events that led him to that hospital in the first place. But the tears I cry when that part of my brain's circuitry is plucked are no ordinary whimpers. They are sobs. Heartbreak drives them like an engine independent of my will. They are always inconvenient, but the ones that surfaced the other day were also tinged with irony since my own heart has not beat quite the same ever since the day Roman's stopped.<br />
<br />
Even with the unexpected emotional detour, I managed to pull myself together and have my blood work done that day. I fought the haunting memory and did my best to smile at the phlebotomist who kindly joked with me about Dancing with the Stars as he tried to take my mind off of the needle that was about to pierce my vein. I was hardly enthused about the needle, but really it was the least of my concerns at the moment, given the emotional trigger that had just been pulled and tended to moments before.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/tPSyOlb2Pvg" title="YouTube video player" width="250"></iframe></div><div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;"><img alt="" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/pixy.gif?x-id=37395ba5-5233-4318-8767-f0fd7566bd50" style="border: none; float: right;" /></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4784996185707071191.post-81762770535726000082011-03-25T00:11:00.000-07:002011-04-26T11:05:18.185-07:00Irony<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="zemanta-img separator zemanta-action-dragged" style="clear: both; float: none; text-align: center;"><a href="http://commons.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:ECG_Principle_fast.gif" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Principle of ECG formation. Note that the red ..." height="200" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/0/0b/ECG_Principle_fast.gif/300px-ECG_Principle_fast.gif" style="border-bottom-style: none; border-color: initial; border-left-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-top-style: none; border-width: initial; font-size: 0.8em;" width="174" /></a><span class="zemanta-img-attribution" style="clear: both; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-small;">Image via <a href="http://commons.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:ECG_Principle_fast.gif">Wikipedia</a></span></span></span></div><br />
<br />
Before I went out on leave from work in December, I regularly had chest pain, high blood pressure, migraines, chronic fatigue, difficulty concentrating, and a zooming heartbeat that was so intense at times, I could actually hear it pounding in my eardrums. It usually occurred when job demands piled up, so I assumed that my physical symptoms were the result of anxiety, depression, and a diminished ability to cope as a consequence of my personal issues related to Roman's death. But whatever the cause, the symptoms became so intolerable that I could not keep up with my workload any longer.<br />
<br />
Around that time, I consulted two separate doctors, who like me, also chalked my combined symptoms up to anxiety and depression related to work stress and lingering grief. With that, treatment options cenetered around antidepressants for anxiety and stimulants for difficulty concentrating. However, when one of my doctors moved out of state, I began seeing a replacement doctor in January. Since I began seeing him, my new doctor has been regularly monitoring my heart rate and blood pressure in addition to my cognitive and emotional symptoms. According to him, based on my vital signs, I meet regular criteria for tachycardia and Stage 1 Hypertension. And given my time away from my stressful work environment, specifically when considered in light of my average height and healthy weight, my doctor has been alarmed by my functioning enough to refer me to a cardiologist to rule out any serious underlying heart conditions. Particularly before giving me anymore stimulant medications to address my inattention and inability to concentrate.<br />
<br />
So on Tuesday, I went for an EKG with the specialist - expecting fully for him to quickly see my results and send me on my merry way. Instead though, it was confirmed that my vital signs are of concern, so I was asked to come back for four more appointments to run a series of screening tests. Follow up appointments are now booked with my cardiologists through May.<br />
<br />
And in the meantime, no stimulants will be prescribed for inattention or fatigue, due to the increased risk for heart attack or stroke when combined in patients with similar heart symptoms. I must confess too, that going all the way until May, without any medication to help me focus, sounds like a long time to struggle with productivity. But given the potentially serious consequences of continuing, I understand the reasoning.<br />
<br />
That said, being a person who is generally not overly concerned with every little ailment, I likely would otherwise be willing to risk continuing to take my stimulant medications while participating in screening tests because stress, anxiety, and lack of adequate exercise could still be to blame for my symptoms. Though, given Roman's sudden death at the age of 27 of cardiac arrhythmia due to an unknown congenital defect, the irony of potentially having a heart condition of my own, is definitely not lost on me now.<br />
<br />
If Roman had followed up with doctors orders after he had his first collapse when he was told to see a cardiologist, it is possible that he would still be here today. Strangely, I am also now finding myself facing similar concerns with the functionality of my heart. But unlike Roman, I plan to follow up with testing to rule out or treat any problems that could potentially cut my life short without warning. How ironic that my husband died of an undiagnosed heart condition four and a half years ago, and now I am being examined to rule out similar defects. Really, I mean, he was 27 when he died...and I am now 37 - both of us vegetarian, nonsmokers, nondrinkers, with a healthy weight; both of us developing heart concerns. What are the odds that we would both have defects? Hopefully, slim to none - but still. They irony is definitely not lost on this widow. <br />
<br />
<blockquote style="text-align: center;">Recently <a href="http://www.studiothirtyplus.com/forum/topic/97">Studio30Plus</a> posted a writing prompt about irony.This seemed like the perfect opportunity to share my brush with the topic. </blockquote><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/pq-yP7mb8UE" title="YouTube video player" width="300"></iframe></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold;">Related articles</span><br />
<div class="zemanta-related"><ul class="zemanta-article-ul"><li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://r.zemanta.com/?u=http%3A//abcnews.go.com/Health/WomensHealth/heart-attack-symptoms-women-miss/story%3Fid%3D12823615&a=34497477&rid=3cc83a2a-5167-46e6-820d-96393de1b8ae&e=1837292a1b481c788bb67d23f81b5073">Heart Attack Symptoms That Women Often Miss</a> (abcnews.go.com)</li>
<li class="zemanta-article-ul-li"><a href="http://www.brighthub.com/health/heart-disease/articles/110695.aspx">The Relationship Between Stress and Blood Pressure</a> (brighthub.com)</li>
</ul></div>Sunnyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04017619331927690093noreply@blogger.com0