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.
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.
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.
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. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I lift up my eyes to the mountains -- where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot slip -- he who watches over you will not slumber;
Indeed, he who watches over Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord watches over you -- the Lord is the shade at your right hand.
The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night.
The Lord will keep you from all harm -- he will watch over your life.
The Lord will watch over your coming and going, both now and forever more.
Psalm 121
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.
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?
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.
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.
I'm mad that I have to be a single mother.
I'm mad that I have to deal with broken appliances and lawn care.
I'm mad that I've lost my best friend.
I'm mad that I don't get my happily ever after.I'm mad that I have to take anti-depressants to get through the day.
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.
I'm mad when I see happy couples or dads with their young daughters.
I'm just mad.
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.
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! (And I'm going to fly alone with a small person....)
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.
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.
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.Go me!
These days, something as simple as a phone call to AAA to renew my membership can trigger a tidal wave of emotion.
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.
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." I guess I didn't think that way at the time. But I see it now.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
My baby girl is four years old today. She is sweet and smart and funny and beautiful. She loves to color and dance and read and eat Oreos. She's incredibly tall and has big brown eyes that will break your heart. She adores Ella and her cousins, her aunties and her nana. She laughs hysterically and can throw a fit like nobody's business.
But she also carries a sadness around with her. She's changed this year. She misses her dada. She still calls him that. She doesn't understand why he's gone or where he went. But I think she knows he's not coming back. Her whole little world has been turned upside down. And she doesn't know what to do about it. She's started biting her lip, so much that she has a scab on her face. And she grinds her teeth. She's nervous. These are her nervous habits. Her doctor said she is grieving.
Even her relationship with me is different. Sometimes I am so wrapped up in my own grieving that I can't bring myself to get up and play with her. I don't feel like being silly. Or baking cookies. Or many of the things we used to do. I don't have the patience for tantrums either. I'm failing miserably at this single-mom thing. It's so much harder than I ever imagined.
My sweet girl, I am praying for a better year for you. I am praying that we can get it together soon. I am praying that I can be a better mama to you, that we can find our own groove together and find our happy again soon. You deserve that and so much more.
We really haven't fallen off the face of the earth. I'm just not sure I have much to say. Actually, that's not true. I have lots to say. But I don't want every post to be sad and weepy.
So yes, it sucks a whole lot without Mike. More three months out than in the beginning. I think even Julia feels it. She tells me sometimes that she misses her dada. She has started crying hysterically when I drop her off at preschool because she thinks I might not come back, just like Mike isn't coming back.
As for me, I am irritable, cranky, sad, lonely, tired and utterly incapable of making a decision. Some days I can barely summon the energy to care for my daughter. Often, I waste an entire evening staring out the window.
But we're still here.
