tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76945778091541169922024-03-13T06:02:13.747-04:00just the three of usCarriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.comBlogger228125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-78111295509513368872013-06-07T08:17:00.000-04:002013-06-07T09:48:32.986-04:00Three years agoDear Michael, <br />
<br />
I can't believe three years have passed since you died. I still think of you every single moment of every single day. It's as if you are physically a part of me. You are my in my thoughts, in my breath, in my entire existence. Especially in my heart. <br />
<br />
So much has changed in the past year. In the past few months actually. I'm getting married. And Julia and I moved to South Carolina. It's a good thing for us. It took a while, but I am able to feel happiness again. And I am. Happy, that is. And so is Julia. <br />
<br />
I promise you that Andrew will take good care of our girl and love her as much as you do. She's better off with a father figure around. To be honest, I haven't been stellar as a single mom. I've lived in a constant state of being overwhelmed. I was working, going to school and at one point even doing an internship. All while trying to raise our daughter. It was so hard doing it alone. <br />
<br />
Despite my flaws, Julia is an amazing little girl. She just finished kindergarten. She is reading chapter books. She tells jokes. She laughs hysterically. She is eager to learn. But in many ways, she is still the same little girl you knew. She still likes her routines. She still eats the same food. She still won't try new things. She still takes Ella everywhere she goes. <br />
<br />
I try to tell her things about you. I told her about your white eyebrow a while ago. She thought it was funny. I'm doing my best to keep your memory alive for her. It breaks my heart that she won't know you. <br />
<br />
It's somewhat bittersweet, getting ready to start this new chapter of our lives. But I know in my heart you would want me to be happy. Because that's who you were. That's the kind of person you were.<br />
<br />
I feel so blessed to have been your wife. You taught me so much about how to love and be loved. Thank you for that. For everything. <br />
<br />
I miss you. <br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
<br />
Love, <br />
CCarriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-52406647531982301512012-07-20T22:39:00.002-04:002012-07-20T22:45:51.970-04:00Ashes at sea<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/AVvXsEj7L76gCmHYK9CsMKrOiyQ92NAIXm4WhnehQ0MGbNoJ4PsohDzc8-MTasBrF5FJ_FsKGpQWrzEOObayFj9VqnawZ1ZxES-fObBRO7-vP7DPkq93HI2WcdFQZYnryarP70GTwf4XuIncvX_F/s1600/flowers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7L76gCmHYK9CsMKrOiyQ92NAIXm4WhnehQ0MGbNoJ4PsohDzc8-MTasBrF5FJ_FsKGpQWrzEOObayFj9VqnawZ1ZxES-fObBRO7-vP7DPkq93HI2WcdFQZYnryarP70GTwf4XuIncvX_F/s320/flowers.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We threw flowers into the water and had a Bailey's toast.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Last month, a group of us boarded a boat in the Outer Banks and headed out to sea. We were there to scatter Mike's ashes. To honor his wishes. <br />
<br />
I wrote about my experience with Julia on the Daily Mail Mommyhood blog. You can read it <a href="http://blogs.dailymail.com/mommyhood/2012/06/26/saying-goodbye/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<br />
These are the words I spoke that night ....<br />
<br />
I know the exact moment I laid eyes on Mike Cherry for the first time. It was May of 2000 and I had just started as an intern at the Daily Mail. Mike drove by the newspaper in his brand-new Honda S2000. Another reporter told me: That's Mike Cherry. He covers WVU for us. He just bought that car, but he lives in an apartment without a stove.<br />
<br />
Two years later, Mike would give me the keys to that car, so I could drive here to the Outer Banks. The first night I got here we stayed up late, sitting on the beach, talking, and he finally kissed me. And that was pretty much it for us. This is the place where our story began.<br />
<br />
Over the years, we would come back here many times. We got married here. We brought our baby here for her first vacation. <br />
<br />
So it seems fitting that our story will end here. <br />
<br />
And while it didn't have the happy ending we wanted, our story had so much happy. So much happy. <br />
<br />
Today, I am feeling grateful to Mike for giving me all of you, for giving me sisters, for making me an aunt, and for giving me the most precious gift of all, Julia. <br />
<br />
I am grateful for all the moments in between.<br />
<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/AVvXsEhDrwwdg8LpIHnjpn80VQeInd4lYR04jMArGrJjTkgNvtxjvqhp1g7AUE11v0Y8GZwuUf3CrwpKYBRWgkUYvB8eGQ_h77rV8PyQkOgl87ILGmHsWxr6VFTYnuczFKaV0qWbWU49c-h46i20/s1600/sunset.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDrwwdg8LpIHnjpn80VQeInd4lYR04jMArGrJjTkgNvtxjvqhp1g7AUE11v0Y8GZwuUf3CrwpKYBRWgkUYvB8eGQ_h77rV8PyQkOgl87ILGmHsWxr6VFTYnuczFKaV0qWbWU49c-h46i20/s320/sunset.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The evening had been overcast, but the sun came out just as we were scattering the ashes. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-49310525121137250532012-06-07T06:30:00.000-04:002012-06-07T06:30:00.294-04:00Two years agoDear Michael,<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t believe it’s
been two years that I’ve been without you. Sometimes it feels like it just
happened. Sometimes it feels like it was a lifetime ago.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t lie. It’s
been a rough year. Maybe even harder than the first. I was still very numb
then. This second year, the reality set in that you are gone. You are never
coming back. I will never see your face or hear your voice again. What if I
live to 85? That’s 50 years without you. That thought is like a cold, dark
winter in my heart. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent the first
half of this past year bitter and angry. Pissed off. Robbed of my happily ever
after. I was mad at the constant feeling of being overwhelmed by life. I was
resentful of happy families. I pushed people away. I was distant to everyone. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You
wouldn’t have liked me.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I didn’t like me.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So I did some things to change. I got a job. I went back to school. A
whole new profession that I love. You always talked about the importance of loving
what you do. I moved us out of the big house that required so much work and
into a townhouse where I don’t have to worry about anything. I enrolled Julia
in preschool. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A calm started to set in. I finally felt some purpose, some normalcy
again. I am finally starting to get it together. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And I opened up my heart and let someone else in. I struggled at first
with how I could possibly have feelings for another man when I love you so
much, and when my heart is still aching. But my heart has room, you know. And I
know you would want this for me. He’s good to me. And he’s good to our girl.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still miss you
every single moment of every day. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I cling to things
that are tied to you. I have an old skirt. The orange one with ovals. I don’t
really wear it much anymore, but you loved that skirt. I can never get rid of
it. On cold days, I wrap myself in your Sports Illustrated sweatshirt. Julia
and I watch The Stooges. I can’t bring myself to toss Julia’s bathing suit from
two summers ago, green with white polka dots, because you knew her in that
bathing suit. You saw her wear it. I can’t throw it away. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You should see her now. You would be so enamored by her, I just know.
She’s going to start kindergarten in the fall. Kindergarten! Can you believe
it? She is a bit of a goofball, kind of like you. She likes to wear a cape and dig
for worms in the yard. She tells jokes that make no sense. She dances like
Elaine from Seinfeld. She’s quite the character. Quirky. Unique. A joy. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’s so smart, Michael. It’s scary. But really, did we expect any different?
I got some books to help her learn to read before kindergarten and she sat
down, opened the book and read them. Just like that. Her teacher says she
really likes science. She likes to investigate and explore and get her hands
dirty. I’m hoping this means she won’t be a journalist. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I haven’t been the best mom to her. But I’m getting better. We’ve gotten
into a nice groove and have a good little relationship going. She’s scared something
will happen to me. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I needed you this year when her preschool teacher thought there might be
something wrong with her. She wasn’t very social in school and had some odd
behaviors. I had to get reassurance from the doctor and a grief counselor because
you weren’t here to tell me everything was ok. It’s just her personality. She’s
fine. I can almost hear you saying it.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’m afraid she doesn’t remember much about you. I keep talking, hoping
she’ll know you through me. I told her about you getting the snake out of our
house and how you rode your bike across the country and how you had a funny
tennis serve. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In a week or so, we’re going to be scattering your ashes in the ocean
along the Outer Banks. It was such a happy place for us and I know you’ll be at
peace there. But I still like to think of you watching over us, looking down at
us, smiling, shaking your head perhaps. I wish you would come to me in my
dreams though. I would do anything to see your face and hear your voice. One
more time</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; tab-stops: 387.0pt;">
Love, C</div>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-23288299041058773682011-12-10T22:45:00.007-05:002011-12-11T11:13:46.306-05:00Every ornament has a story<span style="font-family:arial;">It all started in Hatteras. If I close my eyes I can still see the light from the Hatteras Lighthouse blinking in the distance the night Mike kissed me on the beach. I was wearing a gray sweatshirt. We were drinking wine. I still have the cork. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWpMAeP49g3m_DG-JtuAM4vHb7Q0H8WkY2Y5vNYLWVbkizog-yxSmA2ndUzqcoH6ypyrQmrT8cHhdty9wTOz1KdFbmYf-9aco-K0UGWMUJzzscS2z_4jCl7oKvNwCfgcfRmWzWzM3RfydZ/s1600/hatteras.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684712424003201282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWpMAeP49g3m_DG-JtuAM4vHb7Q0H8WkY2Y5vNYLWVbkizog-yxSmA2ndUzqcoH6ypyrQmrT8cHhdty9wTOz1KdFbmYf-9aco-K0UGWMUJzzscS2z_4jCl7oKvNwCfgcfRmWzWzM3RfydZ/s400/hatteras.JPG" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A few months later, we took our first trip to Savannah. We would go back many times over the years, even got engaged there. We bought this ornament of the famous Waving Girl the day after he put his mother's diamond ring on my finger. That night at dinner, Mike kept fidgeting with his shoe. He had put the ring in his sock. Don't ask. That was just Mike. He got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I couldn't finish my lobster bisque.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUrQGhUVKXTMofEDm_tAby7kiGobMt8aEY2MmQBR9eqIyZoiRE4C501Np7um_kyREq-fPcEd8wnDLY9G-9vSn_sI10Ac7J4x2GXvrMuvnNIcE6Blj5bTwaZy_epjpax3FuylSaBDWJyESh/s1600/savannah.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684712821900381954" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUrQGhUVKXTMofEDm_tAby7kiGobMt8aEY2MmQBR9eqIyZoiRE4C501Np7um_kyREq-fPcEd8wnDLY9G-9vSn_sI10Ac7J4x2GXvrMuvnNIcE6Blj5bTwaZy_epjpax3FuylSaBDWJyESh/s400/savannah.JPG" /></span></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We would go back to the Outer Banks to get married. Hurricane Alex (or was it Isabelle?) had done some major damage to Hatteras the year before, so we got married in Duck. We bought this sand dollar ornament the day after we stood barefoot in the sand and said "I do." We had just climbed the Currituck Lighthouse. We felt like we were on top of the world. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2HZUwbaYmVV8fZxBnh6GIi_Uevr8TAeZLL7SLRIReUMe_5RhnJAwkiNDH95w4gtPO0A6y0TQpvq7z-FzYekPpUlPLu5rpLFSmjTnbBL1v9b9sPewFDRe73mbePY929TTejYS5dY1P7kV/s1600/currituck.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684897311855540898" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2HZUwbaYmVV8fZxBnh6GIi_Uevr8TAeZLL7SLRIReUMe_5RhnJAwkiNDH95w4gtPO0A6y0TQpvq7z-FzYekPpUlPLu5rpLFSmjTnbBL1v9b9sPewFDRe73mbePY929TTejYS5dY1P7kV/s400/currituck.JPG" /></span></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We honeymooned in St. Thomas. We snorkled for the first time. I loved it! Mike, not so much. He couldn't see all the fish without his glasses, but he indulged me. He also tolerated the Jimmy Buffett that played everytime we went out on the boat. Once, while the boat was docked offshore, we jumped off and swam to the beach. I don't ever do anything like that! I remember lying there in the sand, without even a towel, and thinking if I died now, I would die happy. I didn't think anything better could ever happen to me.<br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-8r7DijJP21dDaVK6Tj2l1uOVBMvriycTA3aEVlg2tneOZ40NbY9_yswAzFs2Ow6oi-JbudafoV7TtfeWViEAQe8EPrlTKYqe2kkkudytkH2zetZyT582DhW4ai-_Jj-3N8ZNV-ZUrO2/s1600/st+thomas.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684712826453232770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ-8r7DijJP21dDaVK6Tj2l1uOVBMvriycTA3aEVlg2tneOZ40NbY9_yswAzFs2Ow6oi-JbudafoV7TtfeWViEAQe8EPrlTKYqe2kkkudytkH2zetZyT582DhW4ai-_Jj-3N8ZNV-ZUrO2/s400/st+thomas.JPG" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">April and October meant horse races at Keeneland. Sometimes we went alone. Sometimes we went with friends. Mike had an elaborate system for betting. He liked to pick jockeys. I bet based on horse names. Our wins were about equal. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlbUQdnZ15EMLTAxc8p-r3ApILSXoa6UU9fK1JuTkOEbCWdRhqhCyM3Z7Tujcrz5oFA4MX6gSpcsRUD4Ma39xyv9jppD8rlqWkKsGghRN-Kumcz212Ibmd88gMonLEVft1Gp-oqSSc-z5/s1600/keeneland.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684712821988563186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqlbUQdnZ15EMLTAxc8p-r3ApILSXoa6UU9fK1JuTkOEbCWdRhqhCyM3Z7Tujcrz5oFA4MX6gSpcsRUD4Ma39xyv9jppD8rlqWkKsGghRN-Kumcz212Ibmd88gMonLEVft1Gp-oqSSc-z5/s400/keeneland.JPG" /></span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">We spent a long weekend in the other Charleston. We fell in love with it and wanted to make it our home. We tried. But it didn't quite work out, work wise, so we had to move on.<br /></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJ82YMzjy7jHlViiNqHekF6IvmHbP8sf8Y3p4muRxwnanNq1vz8k7BmzgZUX-vkTwbVfyj01rNvsGZKYGc-dhOcTaYkrgYBIaiLo9B2pLg31YRl-sboEuCFOGWJevbiAlw64_Ho3j0iJH/s1600/chas.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684712408428184210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUJ82YMzjy7jHlViiNqHekF6IvmHbP8sf8Y3p4muRxwnanNq1vz8k7BmzgZUX-vkTwbVfyj01rNvsGZKYGc-dhOcTaYkrgYBIaiLo9B2pLg31YRl-sboEuCFOGWJevbiAlw64_Ho3j0iJH/s400/chas.JPG" /></span></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">For Mike's 50th birthday, we went on a cruise. Right after I booked the trip, I left AAA and stopped at Publix for a pregnancy test. It was positive. I was about four months along by the time the cruise rolled around. Mike thought it would just be the two of us (actually, the three of us) but once we boarded, he was surprised to find his sisters and brothers-in-law on the ship. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinPo2_LgfLjMdPyir7KhWTt3QHQ0Ponw-vgSoiT0uexWSqa6ZfGU-FblS-0rCEjQKdoDCIU2eEB2SMIzAAe5NGNOwy6csjzdm7Wmwqtx7d_P-7aSN7c4ypxvQUzJ7uiDwIagcnHdClICSg/s1600/cruise.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684712415884440930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinPo2_LgfLjMdPyir7KhWTt3QHQ0Ponw-vgSoiT0uexWSqa6ZfGU-FblS-0rCEjQKdoDCIU2eEB2SMIzAAe5NGNOwy6csjzdm7Wmwqtx7d_P-7aSN7c4ypxvQUzJ7uiDwIagcnHdClICSg/s400/cruise.JPG" /></span></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Five months later, Julia was born. She was only two months at her first Christmas. Her gift was Goodnight Moon. I still read it to her.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAksuFz9UBaBFpP_8KSg4yGLmNTxbpIQUrlhtaoZIqajDlKo2migDQv9n_WPC8fYOg5KdwmUo0YcBAMKU4pie68gjhHK0cByXF1vGF0nKSAXyfD5ngLg9ccTU-I0erJYw3XmXvccBO2wNV/s1600/baby.JPG"><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684712411413284034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAksuFz9UBaBFpP_8KSg4yGLmNTxbpIQUrlhtaoZIqajDlKo2migDQv9n_WPC8fYOg5KdwmUo0YcBAMKU4pie68gjhHK0cByXF1vGF0nKSAXyfD5ngLg9ccTU-I0erJYw3XmXvccBO2wNV/s400/baby.JPG" /></span></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">When Julia was nine months old, we flew into Washington DC, the closest airport to Canaan, where our good friends Marina and John were getting married. It was our first trip away from the baby. Our luggage got lost somewhere. So instead of driving three hours into the mountains and then having to come back, we decided to spend the night in DC. We checked into a hotel, closed the blackout curtains and napped for hours. It was bliss. Mike bought this ornament when he went to pick up our bags. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5684712418531872898" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wIWecbWa6le014FmUqR_Z2yWKmuJahyAOdtUPE-Y8oQlWstTx-oO4Fo9CKc-UqH1EsvU1wW3MvJ8hEphlKYf5I5HlNy6cJvdBaQ_YJUCM8gufnPqE92TFAMZymTb0_iEXBLc-tkgSlao/s400/DC.JPG" /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">This is why Christmas is so hard. </span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-47853795260856357462011-12-02T17:31:00.003-05:002011-12-08T18:41:11.418-05:00The stockings were hung...<span style="font-family:arial;">I wasn't going to hang Mike's stocking this year. I felt like it would seem weird. And that it would invite pity. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Julia noticed the two stockings.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">Why are there just two?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></em><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Well, I was thinking we wouldn't hang up dada's stocking this year. What do you think?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><em><span style="font-family:arial;">I think we should hang it up. He's still a part of our family.</span><br /><br /></em><span style="font-family:arial;">You're right, baby, he is. </span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwIHWCTwLWmnnY-3E9TEzp9Jd-z1zQSdPVUBy8nrfRGPh91uMyxSooiWxU2BGk1CvEEGCRArs3GZFgrDG9w0xVMY_waplaKnNWyVKXswSujJMOdMYKKGqvP30WwjMBaeNpagEpTiMaeFXS/s1600/stockings.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681662465286403074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwIHWCTwLWmnnY-3E9TEzp9Jd-z1zQSdPVUBy8nrfRGPh91uMyxSooiWxU2BGk1CvEEGCRArs3GZFgrDG9w0xVMY_waplaKnNWyVKXswSujJMOdMYKKGqvP30WwjMBaeNpagEpTiMaeFXS/s400/stockings.JPG" /></a>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-3264325110476342532011-11-26T22:35:00.002-05:002011-11-26T23:04:40.232-05:00Thankful vs. unthankful<span style="font-family:arial;">I really want to feel thankful this time of year. I have so much. A beautiful daughter. A new home, a townhouse that requires NO lawn maintenance. A mother who lives close by and is a tremendous help. Health. A job I love. Working on a new degree. My sisters-in-law and extended family. Good friends. Food. Clothing. Wine...<br /><br />But man do the holidays make that hole in my heart even bigger. Mike's absence is so much more pronounced around Thanksgiving and Christmas. He was the center of our little family, the glue that held us together. The one who made us laugh.<br /><br />It's hard to push through. It's hard not to pull the covers over my head. It's hard to feel joy. It's hard to make these special days seem more than just another day.<br /><br />On Thanksgiving morning, I lay in bed trying to remember all of the Thanksgivings I spent with Mike. I wanted to write them down so I wouldn't forget.<br /><br />In 2002, our first holiday as a couple, I took him home to Moundsville to meet my mother. My great aunt talked his head off the entire time, but he was gracious and kind to her.<br /><br />In 2003, we made another trip to Moundsville for Thanksgiving. The details are hazy though.<br /><br />2004 was our first married Thanksgiving, but we lived apart. He in Charleston, WV. Me in Charleston, SC. I flew, alone, on Thanksgiving morning to Pittsburgh where he picked me up at the airport and took me to my mom's for dinner. I remember he had to leave that afternoon to cover the WVU-Pitt Backyard Brawl.<br /><br />In 2005, we were in Florida. And I had to work Thanksgiving night. It was our first holiday away from family. I was determined to make an entire dinner from scratch, all before I went to work. I got up at the crack of dawn and slaved over a hot stove all day. I don't even think the food was that good and I was exhausted by the time I got to work. I do remember I managed to get Mike to peel the potatoes. He wasn't the handiest in the kitchen.<br /><br />The next Thanksgiving we had Julia. She was only five weeks old and I had this insane notion that now that I was a mother I needed to prepare an elaborate, multi-course meal from scratch, served on a Martha-Stewart-like table. I thought Mike could take care of the baby while I was cooking. I emerged from the kitchen to find her in her car seat facing the dining room wall while Mike sat in the living room watching football. A huge fight erupted. I blame the hormones and lack of sleep.<br /><br />2007, the last Thanksgiving before cancer. We took a walk with Julia in the stroller that morning. And had dinner with my mom that evening. We ate during Julia's nap so we could have a peaceful meal. It was rather uneventful. Perfect, really.<br /><br />By 2008, Mike had undergone several rounds of chemo. He was bald. He was nauseous and couldn't eat much. But we had just come back from seeing Dr. Greco in Tennessee and had some hope that things were going to get better.<br /><br />2009. Our last Thanksgiving. Mike had a good year. We celebrated the holiday with friends at our house. I said grace. I thanked God for health.<br /><br />When I write them down like that, I feel thankful that I had all those years with Mike. And I feel thankful for the friends who took Julia and me in the last two years, so that our hearts wouldn't be so empty. </span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-55831782243342971512011-10-29T23:18:00.006-04:002011-10-30T11:05:10.389-04:00On death and dying<span style="font-family:arial;">I've been thinking a lot about death lately. And a lot about what ifs. When someone you love is dying of cancer, there's a lot of second guessing.<br /><br />A woman we used to work with left her job recently because doctors told her there was nothing more they could do for her cancer. She was out of options and she wanted to spend her remaining time with her family. I didn't know her all that well, but she and Mike used to talk, commiserate about chemo and the like.<br /><br />But it got me thinking. If we (or was it me?) hadn't pushed for that last chemo, maybe Mike would have had a few more months to spend with his family, to enjoy his little girl, to write a letter for her, to say goodbyes.<br /><br />It would have been nice. But in reality, I don't know what I would have done if we (he) had ever stopped fighting. I don't know what I would have done if it came to a point where he had stopped treatment and came home to die. The only way for we (or was it me?) to continue to breathe in and out was to keep pushing forward. I think he felt the same way. There was a little girl. He had to do everything in his power, take every last chance, cling to whatever hope, to try to be there for her.<br /><br />There's a country song about a wife who is diagnosed with cancer. The husband tells her: When you're weak, I'll be strong/When you let go, I'll hold on/When you need to cry, I swear that I'll be there to dry your eyes.<br /><br />I can't bear to listen to it, because it makes me feel like I was never the strong to Mike's weak. He was never weak. And I wonder now, was it because he knew I couldn't handle it? He couldn't cry because he knew I would break. He had to keep going, for my sake. Maybe he, like the woman at work, wanted to stop and wanted to come home. And maybe I pushed him.<br /><br />So strong was my desire for our lives to be normal and to avoid the horror that we didn't even talk about the possibility of death. Mike had Stage 4 cancer and there was never once a conversation about where the important financial papers were located or what specifically he wanted in terms of a funeral. Denial? Maybe. But at the time, I just always felt like we were operating under the promise of hope and to talk about death would be like giving up.<br /><br />Did we do the right thing? I don't know. I hate what ifs.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-24935288670164589642011-10-16T00:01:00.001-04:002011-10-16T00:01:01.185-04:00My baby is FIVE!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhv8wQUbR9nzniP-i5Ns6DwpsCNXWAOQe4iDgaC5madHgUFRO6QyALwU8yg65KrwY2tmRmWZczQ4-d7bCu7ONNqQgTDzL5660BBPL4g8KNnSTh2Lcppyz-JygsrUVg_WDmOY-HQg8WGM0M/s1600/tennis.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663911662870284754" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhv8wQUbR9nzniP-i5Ns6DwpsCNXWAOQe4iDgaC5madHgUFRO6QyALwU8yg65KrwY2tmRmWZczQ4-d7bCu7ONNqQgTDzL5660BBPL4g8KNnSTh2Lcppyz-JygsrUVg_WDmOY-HQg8WGM0M/s400/tennis.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVOZ9JtDT1KlwlRGd5F7p7WPDwcgoDw2CXea22kwLghNUvfYMFkaFbl88KcPbQZS5xcaU5aVnLWiP5mN5s_8Ew-_NUDf8Zf2hnYS5z_zRp6Ouqlg3xJQShZkkW4AQqxDj7rq4nHSPSHxX/s1600/steps.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663911658246960034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVOZ9JtDT1KlwlRGd5F7p7WPDwcgoDw2CXea22kwLghNUvfYMFkaFbl88KcPbQZS5xcaU5aVnLWiP5mN5s_8Ew-_NUDf8Zf2hnYS5z_zRp6Ouqlg3xJQShZkkW4AQqxDj7rq4nHSPSHxX/s400/steps.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqaDqZx459DpK5bCfTW3S1niPXtqN46_KqIpR4_tDVpKozF4WrmWDGCu5T0zvjQQ8gI8lhArWDWEg1WKO71HDtxZhyphenhyphen8ktOmKML9hiA0NGEfsph3qLGMF6-9GHcBLjh6JMysk77OVtWg0Vy/s1600/playground.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663911650472688706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqaDqZx459DpK5bCfTW3S1niPXtqN46_KqIpR4_tDVpKozF4WrmWDGCu5T0zvjQQ8gI8lhArWDWEg1WKO71HDtxZhyphenhyphen8ktOmKML9hiA0NGEfsph3qLGMF6-9GHcBLjh6JMysk77OVtWg0Vy/s400/playground.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Geeu4Pu_WiSIwx33XavRfzk5ECq4Irp2xTFEX0ZDRvylUDueBz6evYXS1w7pUNQMJuyExSTRvSmjB2o0gyELMlhVtL64LSIaO1xQGGbrfXeo236_oiYIHA-gtraZBpgXjqjNO5ictSum/s1600/leaves.PNG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663911645850332802" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Geeu4Pu_WiSIwx33XavRfzk5ECq4Irp2xTFEX0ZDRvylUDueBz6evYXS1w7pUNQMJuyExSTRvSmjB2o0gyELMlhVtL64LSIaO1xQGGbrfXeo236_oiYIHA-gtraZBpgXjqjNO5ictSum/s400/leaves.PNG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA27Uufz7qiN7mZAQMa9q6OCjwYDaZ7Jye_2iQsBtZBb7D3TElK0NGbE2PPClkR-xUAkNfVVOLdi_efuFAaY31EWBWz4fJ5B7kiLN4hkPDrjS4DZKaJ69W5yXpVR0YlpehN-pwxM90WezB/s1600/icecream.PNG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663911131772755298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA27Uufz7qiN7mZAQMa9q6OCjwYDaZ7Jye_2iQsBtZBb7D3TElK0NGbE2PPClkR-xUAkNfVVOLdi_efuFAaY31EWBWz4fJ5B7kiLN4hkPDrjS4DZKaJ69W5yXpVR0YlpehN-pwxM90WezB/s400/icecream.PNG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoo-BOQh2fZIh4AR0epwkpaSAbfHn5RIj11zqze85xgpMpYEwJ4E2L8p47yPLhIlN3Bnq3ouVJlslOptAoFtRxjmsrvEBvdPMRwHx5rMfR0_PXypjZYb1xXpWCSnh_S4X9viCaJXUQP6gg/s1600/dolly.PNG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663911118539997666" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoo-BOQh2fZIh4AR0epwkpaSAbfHn5RIj11zqze85xgpMpYEwJ4E2L8p47yPLhIlN3Bnq3ouVJlslOptAoFtRxjmsrvEBvdPMRwHx5rMfR0_PXypjZYb1xXpWCSnh_S4X9viCaJXUQP6gg/s400/dolly.PNG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzv6vsPtIkQPWwHyB_VxYB-EcL9g6cLa6m5fRMqCdd0mEoBmwjmH4TRZrAZV25q-iUoFTrXFZRXRfFH_Nv7tjPxpsr9gd9WT6tJMhE3JxTPhqFyxuzZjLDMOUGM1WHI4BSLRi73Qd9DUb/s1600/bubble.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663911114036327026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCzv6vsPtIkQPWwHyB_VxYB-EcL9g6cLa6m5fRMqCdd0mEoBmwjmH4TRZrAZV25q-iUoFTrXFZRXRfFH_Nv7tjPxpsr9gd9WT6tJMhE3JxTPhqFyxuzZjLDMOUGM1WHI4BSLRi73Qd9DUb/s400/bubble.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK8ay7h05H_uD-Ww8qW1TVD19d2znvbxz0JRI-Lzc6NT8h1UQw8ZF3Pzh-v_QJBcZMiRG6smervMbMW79JCxSFKC0XUv9B276R-0scPVHiOCWaqPLmyI_pSohyphenhyphenupLGFVpQCvwg0RMYdE8U/s1600/beach.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 265px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5663911113593262850" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK8ay7h05H_uD-Ww8qW1TVD19d2znvbxz0JRI-Lzc6NT8h1UQw8ZF3Pzh-v_QJBcZMiRG6smervMbMW79JCxSFKC0XUv9B276R-0scPVHiOCWaqPLmyI_pSohyphenhyphenupLGFVpQCvwg0RMYdE8U/s400/beach.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><span style="font-family:arial;">I can't believe my baby girl is five years old. I just can't believe it. I wrote about it </span><a href="http://blogs.dailymail.com/mommyhood/2011/10/11/happy-birthday-baby/"><span style="font-family:arial;">here</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;">. So I thought for this blog I would just share some pictures of this past year. When I look at them all together here, her beauty just takes my breath away. I know it would Mike's too. </span></p>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-3763816793290069852011-10-05T21:35:00.003-04:002011-10-05T21:56:05.722-04:00Irrational<span style="font-family:arial;">I hate the word "widow," but now that I am one, I'm having irrational thoughts. Most of them angry. Maybe I'm entited, maybe not.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">For example, as irrational as this may sound, it really pisses me off when people say things like "Mike's death really makes me realize how short life is and how I need to live every day to the fullest." I know people mean well. But you know what I think? I think, good, good for you, you go have a wonderful life, hug your husband tight, live happily ever after, yay for you. Meanwhile, Julia and I will just go to bed alone tonight with huge holes in our hearts. You, go, live it up. Glad Mike's death was good for something. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I've become an unkind person. But it's just how I feel.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And when I read recently about another young widow who was taken to the ER because she was catatonic, found completely unresponsive outside a coffee shop, instead of feeling sympathetic, I felt jealous. I told you -- irrational. This woman has two young children. I have one. How did she get the luxury of being catatonic? I sure wouldn't mind being completely unable to respond to the world around me for a little bit. To not have to think or do or speak. Just for a while. But I can't. I have to keep going and taking care of my daughter. Maybe I don't really want to be catatonic. But I wouldn't mind a whole day in bed. Alone. I haven't been able to do that in the 16 months since Mike died. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And more irrational thinking -- my goodness, did I not love Mike enough? I didn't love him enough that losing him left me catatonic at a Starbucks. This other woman loved her husband so much that losing him made her break with reality. Am I doing this wrong?</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I hope Mike understands. I have to keep going. Keep moving. Keep taking care of our daughter and attempt to take care of myself. </span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-31493487065895478852011-09-19T21:56:00.003-04:002011-09-19T22:16:51.980-04:00Levon<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG-TdUWjFUZJ_TJvsTmYmlxQrcWg9slQ1WsksXoMor2k5Tx7VhqCe_NGuYS_8Zl-N_TWap0xstmCmteS4eGVOxnDf71BUFA1O3gUT7rFMV1Fxbeudzdf3arzlcpxzavkRNRnhVryKwqbGV/s1600/park.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 300px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654255048526447362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG-TdUWjFUZJ_TJvsTmYmlxQrcWg9slQ1WsksXoMor2k5Tx7VhqCe_NGuYS_8Zl-N_TWap0xstmCmteS4eGVOxnDf71BUFA1O3gUT7rFMV1Fxbeudzdf3arzlcpxzavkRNRnhVryKwqbGV/s400/park.JPG" /></a><br /><br />I haven't been able to listen to "Levon" since Mike died. One note takes me back to the darkest hours I've ever known and hope I will ever know.<br /><br />After the dust settled with the doctors and after the decision was made not to put Mike on life support, I had a chance to sit alone with him in the ICU. I was dressed in a yellow gown with gloves and a mask. He was asleep, or more likely nearly comatose, in the bed beside me. I held his hand. I listened to his labored breathing. I was watching him die.<br /><br />I thought he would appreciate some music. Mike loved good music. We had made a playlist of songs not too long before. His favorite was Elton John's "Levon." I can still see him singing and drumming on the steering wheel. I turned on my iPod and the room filled with music.<br /><br />Mike turned his head and opened his eyes. It would be the last time. Several hours later, he died.<br /><br />Any time I would hear it on the radio, I would have to immediately change the channel. It made me feel like I was sitting in that room.<br /><br />Fast forward 15 months.<br /><br />It is a beautiful day, almost fall. Sunny, breezy, 72 degrees. Julia and I go to the park. We played on the playground. We sat by the pond and watched the ducks. We put a blanket in the grass under a tree and read five "Curious George" books. It was a perfect afternoon. I snapped the picture at the top so I would remember it.<br /><br />But soon it was time to go home. Mine and Julia's lovely day had come to an end. We put the blanket in the trunk and got in the car.<br /><br />I turned the key and the music started playing. It was "Levon."<br /><br />But this time I didn't have the instinct to change the station. A feeling washed over me. This sounds nuts, but it was like a message from Mike. That he is watching over us. That he was with us. That he was part of our perfect afternoon. Even if it was just by playing his favorite song.<br /><br />I turned it up and sang at the top of my lungs.Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-37645774062843228972011-09-08T21:27:00.003-04:002011-09-08T21:34:57.979-04:00Overwhelmed<span style="font-family:arial;">You would think that after one year, three months and one day, I would start finding my own groove, learn how to handle things on my own. But I'm not. I'm overwhelmed. Overwhelmed with worry. Overwhelmed with stress. Overwhelmed with life.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Julia's left eye is doing a weird thing. I'm petrified she has a brain tumor.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I made a couple mistakes at work. I'm terrified I'm going to lose my job.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I went back to school. I'm fretting I've taken on too much.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Julia cries some days about having to go to school. I ache for her.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I started to like someone. I am incapable of moving forward. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I feel so alone. I feel overwhelmed. </span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-20137461203984044022011-08-03T22:21:00.003-04:002011-08-03T22:28:45.078-04:00Talking about Mike<span style="font-family: arial;">I was talking with a friend at a party recently. We were talking about Mike. She grew up with him and we were just standing there, sharing a few stories. Nothing I can specifically remember. Just Mike.<br /><br />And it was so nice. </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />My friend lost her daughter to cancer several years ago. She told me she wanted to talk to me about Mike because she knew that other people were afraid to bring him up. It's true. I guess it happens after someone dies. They fear saying his name in front of me will send me into a sobbing, snotty heap on the floor.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">It won't. I love talking about Mike. It makes me feel close to him. It brings him into the present. And I want nothing more than for Mike to be in my present. </span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-10563544509365073922011-06-21T22:45:00.003-04:002011-06-21T23:00:42.740-04:00My year of magical thinking<span style="font-family: arial;">I just re-read Joan Didion's "Year of Magical Thinking" and realized I've had some of my own "magical" thoughts this year. Didion writes about how she can't give away her dead husband's clothes because he'll need them when he comes back. She can't move because her husband won't know where to find her when he comes back. </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />I haven't really indulged in thoughts of Mike coming back, but I was overcome by a strange feeling at a restaurant recently. I was having dinner at a place on the beach where Mike and I once ate. Then, it was a cold winter day in Florida. It was raining and we had just gone out for a drive along the coast. Julia was just over a year old. We stopped for a bite to eat. I remember running through the parking lot because it was so cold. We hurried inside and got a table and ended up eating the best lobster bisque. The inside of the restaurant was kind of dark with kitschy beach stuff on the walls. It was warm though. I didn't want to leave.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />The other day, I was with someone else. Julia was there. We sat outside on a deck, shielded from the hot Florida sun. I could see the door that led to the inside. It was kind of dark with kitschy beach stuff on the walls. I couldn't stop staring every time it opened. If I walked through, out of the sun, would my old life be waiting for me? Would Mike and Julia be sitting at the table waiting for me, as if I had just gotten up to go to the bathroom? If we went out the front door would it be cold and rainy? Would we have to hurry to the car? </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />I could see it so vividly. The door was pulling me in. I wanted to go and see. But I knew I would just be disappointed. I had to stay focused. My old life was not on the other side of that door. No matter how bad I wanted. No matter how much magical thinking I did.</span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-8437083492337652322011-06-07T00:01:00.003-04:002011-06-07T09:17:38.744-04:00One year ago<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj6G01meFBJue9VF00AZPmOC2f1yPUBuuhg69RtbRFYg5HEv_GjJUKPHLU2UoVPUWSdwX_bRtfipgVgC8KPwzO5c_huYoSX8F-jFBN1cL9F9PVxK21wfVfnJI8emM8FRsUFhSuU-UJBJEm/s1600/DSCN1731_edited-1.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615294243781830562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj6G01meFBJue9VF00AZPmOC2f1yPUBuuhg69RtbRFYg5HEv_GjJUKPHLU2UoVPUWSdwX_bRtfipgVgC8KPwzO5c_huYoSX8F-jFBN1cL9F9PVxK21wfVfnJI8emM8FRsUFhSuU-UJBJEm/s400/DSCN1731_edited-1.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Dear Michael, </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It’s been 365 days since you died. Three hundred sixty-five days since I saw your face. Three hundred sixty-five days since I sat next to you, holding your hand, listening as the time between your breaths got longer and longer. Three hundred sixty-five days since I leaned in and told you I loved you, promised you I would take good care of our baby girl and that it was OK for you to let go; you didn’t have to fight anymore.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I wish I could tell you in all those days that things have gotten easier, but I still miss you all the time. I miss you when I see something funny and want to tell you about it. I miss you when I walk into a dark, empty house. I liked it when you would wait up for me at night. I miss you on holidays. They have been so hollow, sort of pathetic, really. I miss you when Julia is wearing me out and I feel like a bad parent and I have no one to tell me that it’s going to be OK, that I’m doing the right thing. Or if I’m doing the wrong thing, no one is here to tell me what’s right. I miss you when my friends complain about their relationships, because even though I liked to bitch about you never once turning on our dishwasher, you really were a good husband. You loved and honored me as your wife, and as the mother of your child, and you never once spoke disrespectfully to me, even though I’m sure I deserved it on more than one occasion. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />And speaking of my annoyance with your lack of household help, I see now what contributions you made to our family. So I miss you when I’m pushing the lawnmower up the damn hill and taking the car in to get the oil changed and paying the bills.<br /><br />Sometimes I’ll come across something, like your handwriting or a photo, and it will literally take my breath away. I got my West Virginia license plate and on one side is the number 5, the other side, 30. Your birthday: 5/30. I like it. Feels like you’re with me. Other times, I feel a physical emptiness, a hole in my chest. I feel incomplete.<br /><br />But when I think about you, I think about how you were full of life. You loved life. You were larger than life.<br /><br />I envision you sitting at the Anchor, everyone gathered around, cracking up at whatever you were saying. And I felt so happy being the girl sitting next to you. The girl who got to go home with you.<br /><br />And I know that you would want me to live life. To teach our girl to live life. To love life. To get on with life.<br /><br />It scares me a little bit, because to let go of the pain would, in a way, be like letting go of you. But I will never let go of you. I’m working on separating the two. I’m trying to push those memories of you so sick, struggling to breathe, out of my mind. But oh, do they haunt me…<br /><br />I want to remember the you who still ate the key lime pie I baked for you, even after I dropped it on the floor, because you didn’t want me to cry. The you who took me out for a drive in your car with the top down on a Sunday afternoon. The you who saved the cork from that bottle of wine we were drinking the first night we kissed. I still have it, by the way.<br /><br />I want to remember you kissing Julia’s belly while she squealed with delight. And watching Eagles games with her. And pushing her around the neighborhood in the stroller.<br /><br />Oh, if you could see our girl now. You were always so eager to watch her grow and learn and discover new things, while I was the one who wanted her to stay a cute, cuddly baby. You would be beaming right now. She just finished her first year of preschool. She spent weeks watching caterpillars turn into butterflies. She can put together 100-piece jigsaw puzzles by herself. She’s finally starting to pedal on her bike and can successfully blow a bubble. And on this very day, she’s taking her first tennis lesson. I have to admit, it is pretty cool.<br /><br />She’s not into dolls or really girly things. She still likes books. She sneaks them into her bed at night. It reminds me of how you told me you used to go to bed with a radio to listen to Phillies games. She still eats blueberry Eggos and vanilla yogurt every single day for breakfast and still can’t drink through a straw.<br /><br />She can still test my patience, wear me out and get on my last nerve. The whining and yelling. Oh God, the whining and yelling. But we’re working on it. I’m trying to teach her to be a proper young lady. She’s so smart. And funny. And beautiful. But you already know that.<br /><br />Thank you for giving her to me.<br /><br />I feel like I haven’t been the best mother to her this past year. I’ve been distant, in a fog. But I want to snap out of it, and I know you would want me to snap out of it. You would want me to live. So I’m going to try. And I hope you’ll watch over us and maybe point us in the right direction. We’ll try not to disappoint. And I hope you know that you’re always with us. Always.<br /><br /><br /><div>Love, C</div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBP-81UExJ2FMb_YgNoceKmbB23TRZpkZY5elAvRkasAn2jMJbjhaLhvjHCeR9CbxwqjqnA0C_LL6r3BQyd3OuYoCeuKf3NX__yPPqUIA9eaynnnjo_5zs3bev48U8F2yaMhcOiDCkjF3/s1600/DSC_0065.JPG"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 261px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615294249778558914" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQBP-81UExJ2FMb_YgNoceKmbB23TRZpkZY5elAvRkasAn2jMJbjhaLhvjHCeR9CbxwqjqnA0C_LL6r3BQyd3OuYoCeuKf3NX__yPPqUIA9eaynnnjo_5zs3bev48U8F2yaMhcOiDCkjF3/s400/DSC_0065.JPG" /></a></div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu1Hwf7z612cbG2H7pXS_P0JPpzcYCfa-v7xcVvRzcAB2aBPfY1IMKw1aM8-ODuqNtTK8zo3Ey7FCEGeK9e9v3zjzu_VQLkqw-RJ0J2FnnFmJv3elhzMPygrCAnT0h26h4RhGgTwmvcWOx/s1600/DSCN0169.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615294252245024930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu1Hwf7z612cbG2H7pXS_P0JPpzcYCfa-v7xcVvRzcAB2aBPfY1IMKw1aM8-ODuqNtTK8zo3Ey7FCEGeK9e9v3zjzu_VQLkqw-RJ0J2FnnFmJv3elhzMPygrCAnT0h26h4RhGgTwmvcWOx/s400/DSCN0169.jpg" /></a></span></div>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-50538532873977072682011-05-10T09:37:00.004-04:002011-05-10T10:03:04.974-04:00An honor for Mike<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnmyQ0sg8sn8u68Qu2aaq75HDx9vWzFB2uwyMTu88icNTtIAMcj7azcNWfva0AWnqWATSR3kcukMd3wiyHTORc147jsmK00EX7H7Op4nTAUqXbleKHhkMQiPQjlNLtyeMVVa-SkGUBzT9G/s1600/tennis_0022.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnmyQ0sg8sn8u68Qu2aaq75HDx9vWzFB2uwyMTu88icNTtIAMcj7azcNWfva0AWnqWATSR3kcukMd3wiyHTORc147jsmK00EX7H7Op4nTAUqXbleKHhkMQiPQjlNLtyeMVVa-SkGUBzT9G/s400/tennis_0022.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605086924354327650" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpGoOlmG0PkBap0zJcoY_9NkeDqsy0fAxsICIVnRwqj-lbuApTT0oUIfztWpDIWqqv0wsMAOW9cqQyIX52PE9CQnefau3wF9bw0Bs32_OU8b7gSLQ1AGjM9HlrkwqaT_e_3d8ZBrK4uDu/s1600/tennis_0007.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJpGoOlmG0PkBap0zJcoY_9NkeDqsy0fAxsICIVnRwqj-lbuApTT0oUIfztWpDIWqqv0wsMAOW9cqQyIX52PE9CQnefau3wF9bw0Bs32_OU8b7gSLQ1AGjM9HlrkwqaT_e_3d8ZBrK4uDu/s400/tennis_0007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605086676057325602" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkr3aCEZeRYSp4tgWRDUp_ppp458eEf35eZLhyphenhyphenRytqUW86xwVzCtMbfh1yuGrM4FixSDYrtG3OScoVjINOfH6BMj9uty1XmQA4319pLVEyKabyrKUEXfM2wHZRAkwa-kZ2IZeeSuvhiGC7/s1600/tennis_0049.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkr3aCEZeRYSp4tgWRDUp_ppp458eEf35eZLhyphenhyphenRytqUW86xwVzCtMbfh1yuGrM4FixSDYrtG3OScoVjINOfH6BMj9uty1XmQA4319pLVEyKabyrKUEXfM2wHZRAkwa-kZ2IZeeSuvhiGC7/s400/tennis_0049.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605086678710624754" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">We went to Florida last week for a tennis tournament. As a sportswriter, one of Mike's duties every year was to cover the MIMA Foundation USTA Pro Tennis Classic. It was one of the things he liked about his job. It seems he made an impact on them as well. They named one of the competitions after him: the "Mike Cherry High School Skills Challenge."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: arial;">Lisa, Madison, Julia and I attended the award ceremony. It was very nice. Such an honor. But also a little more emotional than any of us expected. As we get close to the one-year anniversary of his death, I'm starting to worry that I haven't really grieved. At least not properly. And I'm scared it's going to catch up to me.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />For one, I don't have time to stay in bed and cry. I have a 4-year-old who needs to be fed, dressed and tended to. I have to do some work keep a roof over our heads. I have to clean and do laundry and yardwork. But also, I try to avoid situations that will really let me feel the pain. I haven't had more than a couple glasses of wine at one sitting in a year because I'm afraid of totally losing it and being one of those sobbing, hysterical drunks.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />What I've just been doing this past year is moving. Moving. Moving. Moving. I don't sit still. It's all about constant distractions. This doesn't mean I don't think about Mike every second. And sometimes, something will stop me in my tracks and bring me to my knees. Like a few months ago, I came across his glasses and I was just standing there holding them in my hand. I started picturing them on his face and then I realized I couldn't remember which of his eyes was the lazy eye. He had one pupil that was a little lower than the other. It was barely noticeable. But I noticed. And now I can't picture it. And that was more than I could bear. Am I starting to forget? </span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-13326124552133550602011-04-01T23:14:00.004-04:002011-04-01T23:24:20.297-04:00Mad<span style="font-family:arial;">I took Julia to the dentist for the first time this week. Despite all the talking we did about it and the book we read, it was a disaster. She screamed, kicked, thrashed and ran away. She wouldn't let the hygenist clean her teeth and barely let the dentist even look at them. Total nightmare. <br><br></span><span style="font-family:arial;"></span><span style="font-family:arial;">We got in the car to go home. It was gray, rainy and cold. I started sobbing uncontrollably. I was mad. Not just at Julia for her behavior. But mad at Mike. Furious, really. Furious that he died and left me here all alone to deal with this crap. </span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-41337970299352422752011-03-23T22:35:00.003-04:002011-03-23T22:53:00.987-04:00Dreams<span style="font-family:arial;">I've only had two or three dreams about Mike since he died. I didn't dream about him at all for the first five months or so, which really upset me. I read some other young widows' blogs, and several of them have written about how they have these great dreams about their husbands, almost like they were there. A visit, of sorts. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I've been waiting for my turn. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In all of my dreams, Mike has been sick. In the one last night, we were in an airport. He wasn't obvioulsy sick, but I knew that he was. He was carrying Julia and walking in front of me, so I couldn't see his face. I woke up with such longing for him and such an emptiness. A punch in the gut. I couldn't shake it all day.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">In a previous dream, around the time I sold our house, I dreamed that Julia and I were getting ready to move. But Mike wasn't coming with us. And I was upset, worrying about who would take care of him. But he wanted us to go. That much I knew.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It will be three years next month since cancer came into our world. Have I forgotten the happy, healthy Mike? Do I not remember what it was like when we were just normal people in love with each other and our baby girl? I would give anything to dream about him, before cancer. To see his face and hear his voice. </span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-38307674735581913382011-03-07T21:57:00.000-05:002011-03-08T22:04:51.056-05:00Nine months<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6AUkuS5a2X2fHd3TbeFdUtIB7b77PaUNwbe5pyW6W4auzZrU9M0Y-aelZuiDI86daEIohlmhan84QTo2UByv_nbfNbENrnXFgz-TfyoUhQR1uLPO0Lyftt7uXyYCYk1Z09EGT03_ta6Zp/s1600/face.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 268px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581909008201045218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6AUkuS5a2X2fHd3TbeFdUtIB7b77PaUNwbe5pyW6W4auzZrU9M0Y-aelZuiDI86daEIohlmhan84QTo2UByv_nbfNbENrnXFgz-TfyoUhQR1uLPO0Lyftt7uXyYCYk1Z09EGT03_ta6Zp/s400/face.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I miss how he used to call me and Julia his "girls." </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I miss that hint of Jersey in his voice when he said my name. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I miss the mornings when Julia and I would pounce on him to wake him up. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I miss hearing him crawl into bed after Friday night football. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I miss shopping for polo shirts without any sort of logo because he hated logos. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I miss kissing his temple. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I miss sitting next to him on the couch. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I just freaking miss him.</span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-10638648375300788772011-02-12T15:22:00.004-05:002011-02-12T15:53:53.820-05:00Stupid cupid<span style="font-family:arial;">I don't know if it's all the Valentine commercials or what, but I've been in such a funk lately missing Mike. One in particular says Valentine's Day isn't for saying "I love you," it's for taking the time to say "I love us." And I really did love us. Mike and me. Me and Mike. We were funny and sweet. We laughed. A lot. We traveled. We laid in the sand. We danced in the living room. We ate good food. We made a beautiful baby. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">It's easy to forget "us" after having a whole other person to take care of. And then cancer. But I've been remembering lately. And knowing there's no more us is like a physical hole in my body. I don't even know who "me" is without "us" anymore. I don't even want to know. So far, she's not nice. She's not fun. And she certainly doesn't dance around the living room. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But I'm working on it. And looking at this cute face certainly helps.</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ48YwQ4ycF1DnB7ZwPfE-js-QAPa0xjpPnD6AcLZAMc10gfRNyp7Pc_SjLZuxyrI7GFNekPZUThf-y_JdzwOIEG1-NjHppz7hNfffkrs6uxgVFXcLk1UR_hNtxUg07EF2Uo4lr3itZPhN/s1600/read.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572904554008298274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ48YwQ4ycF1DnB7ZwPfE-js-QAPa0xjpPnD6AcLZAMc10gfRNyp7Pc_SjLZuxyrI7GFNekPZUThf-y_JdzwOIEG1-NjHppz7hNfffkrs6uxgVFXcLk1UR_hNtxUg07EF2Uo4lr3itZPhN/s400/read.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhnR_y6K8aE8oAjkC4bUaB-Z_pi4MGzaaplHy2auJs3kVwX12qFwDqTMlGn_TGvFl50m2417Kioe49ffosNct40rnP6Oh3gOzNw5msIH1KvfajaEFgGOv1A8oIKtZoJve5qkrEXF8qGkF/s1600/snow.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572904549226621970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXhnR_y6K8aE8oAjkC4bUaB-Z_pi4MGzaaplHy2auJs3kVwX12qFwDqTMlGn_TGvFl50m2417Kioe49ffosNct40rnP6Oh3gOzNw5msIH1KvfajaEFgGOv1A8oIKtZoJve5qkrEXF8qGkF/s400/snow.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZPeDqePcHs5-tBrMOvp3ghJ8NDR_i-piU1iAucS-FNdOyZsTjq2F-WJMVleRgoY3BitGgRMWH6vN9WWUsT9AMAh_-s1LphMRo60GzTp-k4axXE2tu98CAuySISFumBtBIjIWUyOcQTZK/s1600/kroger.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572904544303214002" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZPeDqePcHs5-tBrMOvp3ghJ8NDR_i-piU1iAucS-FNdOyZsTjq2F-WJMVleRgoY3BitGgRMWH6vN9WWUsT9AMAh_-s1LphMRo60GzTp-k4axXE2tu98CAuySISFumBtBIjIWUyOcQTZK/s400/kroger.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuRBIlhXA7mz-8zddfnOpFInSe6GVs505m2EpzX9APPdfEwZr9_5jYXVY4GupshbCOoOBXw-jNl5DS96N1Zztsdh5Mz1ZX0847vzO7sk9CpUhR8lro52phSyKxcWixu9m3pR58IJ83tmXE/s1600/desk.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572904537854357394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuRBIlhXA7mz-8zddfnOpFInSe6GVs505m2EpzX9APPdfEwZr9_5jYXVY4GupshbCOoOBXw-jNl5DS96N1Zztsdh5Mz1ZX0847vzO7sk9CpUhR8lro52phSyKxcWixu9m3pR58IJ83tmXE/s400/desk.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPzzQocrAME-HwrUqGpznKjhCwrTVDYI14m-Yen7pQkifAYlGSQQwFeqMIQSjzxnxSJrPAjxUfUngp3ve8nfgqQDfaktdrsAmRokZAfwUWT1-oX_ykw-j4gXWPpHWa2mNF3pPKer6T90L/s1600/charlie.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572904533874019666" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHPzzQocrAME-HwrUqGpznKjhCwrTVDYI14m-Yen7pQkifAYlGSQQwFeqMIQSjzxnxSJrPAjxUfUngp3ve8nfgqQDfaktdrsAmRokZAfwUWT1-oX_ykw-j4gXWPpHWa2mNF3pPKer6T90L/s400/charlie.jpg" /></a>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-66600314124310525652011-01-11T21:51:00.005-05:002011-01-11T22:26:28.939-05:00A new year<span style="font-family:arial;">Wow. 2011. A new year. A new house. And Julia's getting to experience something new: snow!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Our holidays were a bit all over the place -- we had our closing on Dec. 21, visited family in Naples, camped out at my mom's house for a week and then made our way north. I'm grateful for the chaos on this first Christmas without Mike. I didn't have much time to dwell. Or get sucked into the sadness. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">So far this year, I've been busy trying to get us settled into our house. We're seeing old friends, sitting in front of our giant picture window watching the snow fall and playing lots of board games. And of course, we're taking many trips to Target for shopping and soft pretzels.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">The other day, though, I couldn't shake the feeling that our house didn't feel quite like a home yet. I went to Pier 1 and bought some stuff for the wall. Still not right. Then it hit me. The reason it doesn't feel like a home is because part of us is missing. Mike is not here. It's going to take some getting used to. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;">Here are some pics of what we've done so far:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The living room:</span><br /><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1dDL7PZgh3XSWeGSXmuYAeoRwcpGrJAj2HALuu42_UvcUcvM9Z_3mIVarnbB7T-yN_q8Mb9EHxZFS91lpF8U_FnTNBZA9iEbjfYR-3HiaOQyokQEE-0-qet7Jpe2Sy1-SU7yVStGFGns/s1600/livingroom.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561126988698664210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv1dDL7PZgh3XSWeGSXmuYAeoRwcpGrJAj2HALuu42_UvcUcvM9Z_3mIVarnbB7T-yN_q8Mb9EHxZFS91lpF8U_FnTNBZA9iEbjfYR-3HiaOQyokQEE-0-qet7Jpe2Sy1-SU7yVStGFGns/s400/livingroom.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The dining room:</span><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk77_z6k3j96gTcLOgo_12_QNYqbWLLyHFStgHfaiF7lpPq60ngCHTOkZUw-kyBRiBILuB2gxVeGjoC1QtiHiOGLT7b6HIn-Xco9oxI7YhAPlcm71ObJUa15L8OiPD5c0uet6K6lqEt34O/s1600/dining.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561126700842647522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk77_z6k3j96gTcLOgo_12_QNYqbWLLyHFStgHfaiF7lpPq60ngCHTOkZUw-kyBRiBILuB2gxVeGjoC1QtiHiOGLT7b6HIn-Xco9oxI7YhAPlcm71ObJUa15L8OiPD5c0uet6K6lqEt34O/s400/dining.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">The kitchen:</span><br /><br /></div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghSFIIrlzkaLyCS6obeMUdEgWqxPvTn3tDP1v5C8CfwDbNakZSkS6ybazfCtXAk9SMnvUG-iWtdkqzwA-eD_eEtXSiPbp018kz_LDu4rw1S43g9KaVBMOF0H0FVVUIsd15u0ezdK1YhKk9/s1600/kitchen.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561126713687366306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghSFIIrlzkaLyCS6obeMUdEgWqxPvTn3tDP1v5C8CfwDbNakZSkS6ybazfCtXAk9SMnvUG-iWtdkqzwA-eD_eEtXSiPbp018kz_LDu4rw1S43g9KaVBMOF0H0FVVUIsd15u0ezdK1YhKk9/s400/kitchen.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Julia's room:</span> <br /><br /></div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOKH3VXatSrVKl1w1s2AJnZCMgeUlXV9YpLMhHf2R_5IUC4ZFPcWHM18V0H8NKvYM8Lmi2AnSgt7peQqigw3uuNOD3gN1dKMc0Gn9jaXgUAP83tcqX0SPd7eyb-TPgnRXgj-xHeCaNwlN/s1600/jsroom.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561128058183973730" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaOKH3VXatSrVKl1w1s2AJnZCMgeUlXV9YpLMhHf2R_5IUC4ZFPcWHM18V0H8NKvYM8Lmi2AnSgt7peQqigw3uuNOD3gN1dKMc0Gn9jaXgUAP83tcqX0SPd7eyb-TPgnRXgj-xHeCaNwlN/s400/jsroom.jpg" /></a></div><div> </div><div> </div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Back half of the downstairs family room, also known as my work area and Julia's play area:<br /></span><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyhozK4UULFKfnrvtagBdk2P-lQLyOixcmysQ1aURSav0Sv4ETgaEP3zTdGNl1eseVjw2BPN63dm6URL6cleM_wuidgsu10kzCMbSGgAGV841bQhlRR-4wJ1BholFPMu8qlCoGvwLiwwKy/s1600/downstairs.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561126704836521234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyhozK4UULFKfnrvtagBdk2P-lQLyOixcmysQ1aURSav0Sv4ETgaEP3zTdGNl1eseVjw2BPN63dm6URL6cleM_wuidgsu10kzCMbSGgAGV841bQhlRR-4wJ1BholFPMu8qlCoGvwLiwwKy/s400/downstairs.jpg" /></a> </div><div> </div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Built-in bookshelves in the front half of the downstairs family room (new furniture including a lovely red couch will arrive Thursday...):</span><br /><br /></div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNpVZ6T8arEpb1kr1x-UNyhiu6_ZnUETT8etIDotcmJRSvTK340ZJRnaCtZJTcsZVpnSqLVesL0lBXvvCLZaKgn_yhh5MbYAUI7WP15_6e95rD-rzF6ypbOvVUoyqC75M5NFLkzxYdQFX/s1600/shelves.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561126890053270146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbNpVZ6T8arEpb1kr1x-UNyhiu6_ZnUETT8etIDotcmJRSvTK340ZJRnaCtZJTcsZVpnSqLVesL0lBXvvCLZaKgn_yhh5MbYAUI7WP15_6e95rD-rzF6ypbOvVUoyqC75M5NFLkzxYdQFX/s400/shelves.jpg" /></a></div><div> </div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Downstairs fireplace:</span><br /><br /></div><div> </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32hCWOcLblRwblJIzXfnSYPizsBtdwuu7BKWCjXpeGYbMQrXgF03hy5bv85j2uTknUHBws8nngRBe-4YfKYaBL4IX3ArXs-qvmb0oxmRpGlVeKKv-uXD_vNNYCcsu7EEU79jXnzwoCQif/s1600/fire.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561126706124758706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh32hCWOcLblRwblJIzXfnSYPizsBtdwuu7BKWCjXpeGYbMQrXgF03hy5bv85j2uTknUHBws8nngRBe-4YfKYaBL4IX3ArXs-qvmb0oxmRpGlVeKKv-uXD_vNNYCcsu7EEU79jXnzwoCQif/s400/fire.jpg" /></a></div><div> </div><div><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">And yes, we have a pink bathroom. It's growing on me:</span><br /><br /></div><div> </div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxoRZzxf2gxN0xuNH1t-ZsHwEbFivRIOqcn0aCzXpKjrlwl62F8sDiaSq6QWw69X2krIasOkW77YnLME7Gz6wmlbTW_ubAcsZNBkfB8xPwLmhUkbI4tEh4dmrF5lU4vyjbRjnaLjN1ulu/s1600/bathroom.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 291px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5561126699507657618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMxoRZzxf2gxN0xuNH1t-ZsHwEbFivRIOqcn0aCzXpKjrlwl62F8sDiaSq6QWw69X2krIasOkW77YnLME7Gz6wmlbTW_ubAcsZNBkfB8xPwLmhUkbI4tEh4dmrF5lU4vyjbRjnaLjN1ulu/s400/bathroom.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">So, we still have some work to do. But we're liking it so far. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Happy New Year!</span></div></div>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-57477817340909800422010-12-13T19:49:00.003-05:002010-12-13T19:50:54.847-05:00Sold!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSL4HG3HoS4PG6AGZ2S0RWU3MqwHF5QGN_bRr0O8ylwjoDug7C5VtgJaWMq1c3RYbSBg90UvkJKKRqnYPQ7IwXprQi4Ozt8Yt5k_WqIKW6aBEH8vSPle78EnG1D7aIwx7H1MUuywh9m-Fl/s1600/house"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548754645883884434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSL4HG3HoS4PG6AGZ2S0RWU3MqwHF5QGN_bRr0O8ylwjoDug7C5VtgJaWMq1c3RYbSBg90UvkJKKRqnYPQ7IwXprQi4Ozt8Yt5k_WqIKW6aBEH8vSPle78EnG1D7aIwx7H1MUuywh9m-Fl/s400/house" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Julia and I will be starting a new year, and I guess a new life, in this house. We sold ours, by some miracle of God (or St. Joseph), in the rough Florida real estate market and we're moving back to Charleston after Christmas. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />It's what I've been wanting since shortly after Mike died -- to be back in the place we considered "home," where we were surrounded by friends and fun and good memories. But now that it's becoming a reality, I'm starting to get nervous. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Mike and I bought our house when I was four months pregnant. We couldn't wait to move in and get things set up for the newest member of our little family. It's the place we brought our baby home from the hospital and sat around looking at her thinking, "Now what do we do?" It's the only home Julia has known and it's the home where Mike and I lived together the longest. </span><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfkF7chCtR024B0Ewkg9TXFgiPlphCPG8bE6n4-SxmI1U29KwJSqYqWMhNn4D3xwFIuaLlYyIy5BKW6ECVz19nl_I4b_9B-KLLOWVCXY5pMwRKJjXgB2A1vnn9Xn6pCzcl7kulga2ERxgn/s1600/img050.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 265px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550333024395879586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfkF7chCtR024B0Ewkg9TXFgiPlphCPG8bE6n4-SxmI1U29KwJSqYqWMhNn4D3xwFIuaLlYyIy5BKW6ECVz19nl_I4b_9B-KLLOWVCXY5pMwRKJjXgB2A1vnn9Xn6pCzcl7kulga2ERxgn/s400/img050.jpg" /></a></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I have a job here with flexible hours and good health insurance. I have a few really good friends here. Like my friend Sara, who came to the hospital when my daughter was born and was there for me when my husband died. That's a lifelong kind of friend. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">But it's also here where I feel like I'm moving through mud. Where I keep thinking Mike might walk through the door around 8 o'clock for dinner. Where I sometimes look over my shoulder at work thinking I might see him at his desk. It's where Mike was sick and where he died.<br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5C6y7t-cet43eVtCtRWH24w8dN4PiSfO3NvxGu-VTbABSSguJq89omVVNVIi0SRhewXnngq7czSifgH5hdXzReC8-oXJ5BPWAf7NoDfwNT34jjz4a1xzMod-QEeiBcSbyH7uHWaaPjgFf/s1600/house2.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5550333039315667106" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5C6y7t-cet43eVtCtRWH24w8dN4PiSfO3NvxGu-VTbABSSguJq89omVVNVIi0SRhewXnngq7czSifgH5hdXzReC8-oXJ5BPWAf7NoDfwNT34jjz4a1xzMod-QEeiBcSbyH7uHWaaPjgFf/s400/house2.jpg" /></a></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I'm not foolish enough to think that moving to a different house in a different town is going to magically make me feel better. But I think it will help for me to be surrounded by people who loved me and Mike and who can make sure Julia knows what a good man her dad was. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I don't have a job there. And that's ok. For now. I'm going to stay home with Julia for a little while so we can adjust to our new surroundings and routine. We've had a rough couple of years, and I'm looking forward to taking a break. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />But it's so scary making such a major decision without Mike. And part of me feels like I'm betraying him by trying to move on. I sure hope I'm doing the right thing.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I keep turning to the Bible verse that our friend Monty read at Mike's memorial service. He told me his pastor called it the West Virginia Psalm because it talks about the mountains, so he chose it because he knows how much that means to me. </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" ><br /><br />I lift up my eyes to the mountains --</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" > where does my help come from?</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" ><br />My help comes from the Lord,</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" > the maker of heaven and earth.<br /></span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" >He will not let your foot slip --</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" > he who watches over you will not slumber;</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" ><br />Indeed, he who watches over Israel </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" >will neither slumber nor sleep.</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" ><br />The Lord watches over you --</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" > the Lord is the shade at your right hand.</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" ><br />The sun will not harm you by day,</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" > nor the moon by night.</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" ><br />The Lord will keep you from all harm --</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" > he will watch over your life.</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" ><br />The Lord will watch over your coming and going</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" >, both now and forever more. </span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:arial;" ><br /><br />Psalm 121</span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-26377773611106628072010-12-07T14:23:00.002-05:002010-12-07T17:27:34.535-05:00Six months<span style="font-family:arial;">I can't believe it has been six months. It's the longest I've gone in eight years without seeing Mike's face or hearing his laugh. And I know this is the season when we're supposed to be reflecting on all those things that we're thankful for, but quite honestly, I'm feeling robbed. And pissed off.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I'm mad that my daughter has to ask questions like the one she brought up at breakfast the other day: I haven't seen dada in a while. Where did he go? </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I'm mad that I have to make major life decisions on my own when I can barely decide what to eat for lunch each day. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I'm mad that I have to sleep in a king size bed all by myself, worrying about burglars and ax murderers and house fires at night. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I'm mad that I have to be a single mother. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I'm mad that I have to deal with broken appliances and lawn care. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I'm mad that I've lost my best friend. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I'm mad that I don't get my happily ever after.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I'm mad that I have to take anti-depressants to get through the day.</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I'm mad that people tell me I'm holding up well and if this happened to them, they wouldn't get out of bed. Because frankly, I wish I had the luxury of staying in bed all day. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />I'm mad when I see happy couples or dads with their young daughters.<br /><br />I'm just mad. </span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-25408334008293095962010-11-23T21:03:00.007-05:002010-11-23T23:34:05.451-05:00The closet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfcddOr6NzXy1WRgsKa1C6MUvd2Pr7_O1A0ixX1Ps05eDMA6ZRHPIMhcJbUWLuteW9bfGb55Lh3V8KRzAzkx_kOQoF85t7u35iwGrTtydT-RkHzigXfwwjaZF-wTPNG9056r3PafIAS86C/s1600/clothes.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfcddOr6NzXy1WRgsKa1C6MUvd2Pr7_O1A0ixX1Ps05eDMA6ZRHPIMhcJbUWLuteW9bfGb55Lh3V8KRzAzkx_kOQoF85t7u35iwGrTtydT-RkHzigXfwwjaZF-wTPNG9056r3PafIAS86C/s400/clothes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542931664898545650" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIBu8f6XMMZ3YG4gYOHZMTQyUTnNhJCN1QvhPT3s62tq801fsp-mOaamtoRZ0QQAYf5Qyz0D9oongqSY2M33XZ9ujpogpkIuPGS1JsoKMG4r1l9JTALM80F66_cZu-JIkVzdI7N0AI9FTk/s1600/empty.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIBu8f6XMMZ3YG4gYOHZMTQyUTnNhJCN1QvhPT3s62tq801fsp-mOaamtoRZ0QQAYf5Qyz0D9oongqSY2M33XZ9ujpogpkIuPGS1JsoKMG4r1l9JTALM80F66_cZu-JIkVzdI7N0AI9FTk/s400/empty.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542931603394578018" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I wasn't ready to do it. But I had to. My house is for sale and I'm hoping to be moving soon. It doesn't make sense to pack up all of Mike's belongings and move them across the country, right? If I were staying, these clothes would probably stay right where they are forever, so I could keep sneaking away to the closet and burying my face in the shirt sleeves, trying to breathe him in.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Marina and Lisa came in for the weekend to help me tackle the unpleasant task of cleaning out the closet and drawers, sorting through Mike's possessions, including his beloved music collection. Without them, I don't think I would have gotten through. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />We picked out some CDs and albums to keep. I made a box for Julia with his tennis trophy and newspaper articles. I kept the tennis racket and his glasses. I kept a shirt of his that I loved, the one he bought one time in Savannah when we ran into a Banana Republic to get out of the rain. It's probably the only time we ever went clothes shopping together. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />As we were folding and sorting and putting things into boxes for Goodwill, I couldn't help but feel like I was erasing the evidence of Mike's existence. It really broke my heart. I have to keep telling myself that Mike was not his clothes. Mike was not his possessions. I have evidence of his existence right here...</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmtr7GC9zDqPOpkuiSKQbkTzIzbqlRq3UqgzpsPUKiXhlUYsp2CS8Y-7WQ2f29hjPe1rOYmSlaxMtZvsQQZb2dBwkaPWYKobKHAK5W9SH-lw9guFmdFB9VMgJsOjiFGCGGB-9k4VWAxs9v/s1600/beach.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmtr7GC9zDqPOpkuiSKQbkTzIzbqlRq3UqgzpsPUKiXhlUYsp2CS8Y-7WQ2f29hjPe1rOYmSlaxMtZvsQQZb2dBwkaPWYKobKHAK5W9SH-lw9guFmdFB9VMgJsOjiFGCGGB-9k4VWAxs9v/s400/beach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542931433160910578" border="0" /></a>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-9087607165184334952010-11-09T22:32:00.003-05:002010-11-09T22:49:23.937-05:00One foot in front of the other<span style="font-family: arial;">I'm feeling quite proud of myself. It's pretty silly actually, but I booked a weekend trip for me and Julia. All by myself. Mike was the more experienced traveler of the two of us. It was his passion. He knew how to get the best airfares and where to stay, no matter where we went. He used to be so proud of his frequent flyer miles and hotel points. We flew first class to our honeymoon in St. Thomas for free. So whenever we needed to go somewhere, he made all the arrangements.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />But I wanted to go to West Virginia this weekend. I have some things to take care of and wanted to see some friends. I booked two plane tickets, rented a car AND reserved a hotel room for one night. We're getting out of town!</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> (And I'm going to fly alone with a small person....)<br /><br />And the other night, I made dinner... I know. These are things normal people do on a regular basis but I've been in such a funk and feeling so paralyzed lately. I love to cook. I used to make family dinners at least three times a week. Julia would stand on a chair in the kitchen and keep me company. But since Mike died, I just haven't cared much about making meals. I don't think about food until I'm starving. Then I eat whatever is easy. The effort required to make a grocery list has been too much for me. And whenever I do summon up the energy, I end up throwing the ingredients away because they've gone bad. I can't tell you how many packages of chicken breasts I've had to toss. I just never get around to it. </span><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /><br />This summer, I had this grand plan that I would make dinner for some friends each week, to get me back to cooking, to give me something to do. It lasted two weeks. I've made a few things here and there, but nothing major. I live on sandwiches, soup from a can, frozen meals and take out.<br /><br />But last night I had my mom over for rosemary pork tenderloin, sauteed green beans with blue cheese and bacon and red-skinned mashed potatoes. Yum-O.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Go me!</span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7694577809154116992.post-25388607288777181252010-10-28T00:36:00.003-04:002010-10-28T09:55:52.117-04:00Hopeless romantic?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXJRze7zV5X5G-lMzq7HEvKF5Ov7jaQZLwxJG8KgEiVNi8grX3Dh1q5p8xjvCPWG4KIEYmmfyvjFcJwylVVqaxWAjHXomTqYrrDY6RUdODMAFWopiTvCDzAJ5LDrwyEFxmwluw2TLSlFoS/s1600/rehearsal.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXJRze7zV5X5G-lMzq7HEvKF5Ov7jaQZLwxJG8KgEiVNi8grX3Dh1q5p8xjvCPWG4KIEYmmfyvjFcJwylVVqaxWAjHXomTqYrrDY6RUdODMAFWopiTvCDzAJ5LDrwyEFxmwluw2TLSlFoS/s400/rehearsal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532920854587887298" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">These days, something as simple as a phone call to AAA to renew my membership can trigger a tidal wave of emotion.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Yes, it was another one of those calls where I had to remove Mike's name from an account, explain that he died, endure cursory statements of sympathy. But this time it was more than that. This time it was a reminder of Mike, of what kind of person he was, about how good I had it, and how large his loss looms. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Back when we were dating, Mike added me to his AAA account after I had some trouble with my car. He was worried about me breaking down somewhere when he was out of town, which he was a lot in those days. A co-worker couldn't stop gushing when I told her. "Carrie, do you know what this means? This means he loves you. This is more romantic than flowers or candy or jewelry." </span><span style="font-family:arial;">I guess I didn't think that way at the time. But I see it now. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />You might not think Mike was a hopeless romantic, but in his own way, he was. Sometimes he would just show up with a single flower. Once he brought over "Casablanca." Other times, his gestures were more grand.<br /><br />The first Christmas we spent together, he got me a framed photo of a beach scene that we had seen in Cape Cod back in August of that year. He snagged a business card on the way out of the little shop in Provincetown, called the owner a few months later and tried to describe the photo. She hooked him up with the local photographer and he ordered the print. It's called "Journey's End." It still hangs in our bedroom.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Another time he got me a pale yellow wooden rocking chair. He had to pick it up from the furniture store, in the winter, in his 2-seater convertible. It was apparently wedged in the passenger seat while he drove to my apartment with the top down in the freezing cold. He attached a note -- it said "To Carrie, From Mike. You rock my world."</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Even earlier this year, just days after being released from a nearly three-week stay at the hospital, Mike couldn't let Valentine's Day go without getting me something. He had my mom watch Julia while I was at work one night so he could go to Target. He was barely able to walk. But I had been talking about how excited I was that my favorite Food Network chef, Giada de Laurentiis, had a new line of cookware there. And on Valentine's morning, I woke up to a bright red bag full of Giada goodies. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><br />Oh, I hope he knew how much he swept me off my feet, from those very early days when we couldn't get enough of each other, to most recently when we were in the midst of the everyday, of work and childcare, of house repairs and housework, and even sickness. He still swept me off my feet.</span>Carriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03503612485132477680noreply@blogger.com4