A Special Day

Five years ago. Standing in the middle of a nightclub, listening to the pulsating music. An awkward tall guy came up to me, "If you don't start moving you hips people will think you are straight." I smile, even laugh a bit, and he moved back across the room.

It takes me a couple of more songs to realize that this was the guy's lame attempt at flirting with me. I seen him standing by the dance floor, looking my way. I smile again, walk across the floor, and say, "Well, I don't see you dancing either."

Well, as the old saying goes, we danced the night away, and never stopped.

Michael and I loved to dance, and we loved to flirt with each other. We hired a dance instructor to help us choreograph our "first dance" at our wedding, and there were many nights when we danced to his favorite Bette Midler song in our kitchen. These are all such precious memories.

This was the night that we always celebrated as our anniversary. We would always go out for a romantic dinner together. My favorite evening was one spent at a cute little french restaurant the Michael was eager to try. It had about seven courses, each with a special wine pairing. This was the year before his tumor arrived. There wasn't much that I enjoyed on the menu, but Michael was so enjoying his meal, and wine, that I just smiled and laughed throughout the whole evening. He was like a child in a candy store.

Michael loved nice things, and enjoyed "doing it up." I enjoyed "doing him." Okay, probably too much information.

Remembering this day, and it's significance, makes me feel good. I'm in a good place right now, and I'm feeling like all signs are telling me to keep taking big steps forward. I'm determined, and committed, to living the life that Michael wanted for me. One where I am happy, and one where I am loved.

Can I be honest with you?

I feel like it's a "come clean" with my reality time once again.

I have been terribly unhappy. Okay, no big surprise.

I'm so burdened by my grief these days. I feel like I am carrying an enormous piece of baggage, and I'm getting so tired of the excess weight. I can feel the weight bearing on my heart, and on my shoulders. It makes any type of movement all the more strenous. And, for the most part, I only carry it around while at work. The rest of my time I come home, sit it beside me, and choose to take the easy way out, meaning go nowhere with it.

I am alone.

Yes, I do have my kids, yet only one at home at present. He is twelve, and at this point that means forced meals together, and some side by side computer time. He is quite content to be out with his friends, and that is the way it should be. As for me, I just want him to be busy enough to not notice how depressed, and stagnant his father is.

I feel like a cloister.

I live in a world of silence these days. There is little person to person interaction in my life. The whole world has moved on, yet I am still here, mourning, and somewhat giving up. I go to work each day, and do my job. I have a little interaction here and there, but most of my opportunity to talk with another person happens on the phone, or in person, with clients. I tend to work long days. Not because I have a lot of work to do, quite the contrary, I have too much time on my hands at the office. I'm finding that it is not as challenging as I would like it to be. But it, like me, is a work in progress. I don't rush to leave, as there is no real pay off in returning home.

The days go by painstakingly slow. Lunch time comes, and though I may be hungry, I'm in no rush to do anything about it. I quietly walk out the building, and get into my car. Most of the time this too is in silence. I sit in my car, then realize I have no where to go, and no one to go there with. I think that because my position is that of a floater, it makes it hard to connect with other folks at work, and more difficult to maintain friendships. Just when I think I'm getting to know people, or them me, well, it's time to move on once again.

You know, people may hear this of me, and think that I should just stop dwelling on the past. Most have no idea that my life feels so empty. I don't know what others think I am filling my time with, but all I can come up with is empty space.

That's it. My life feels so empty.

This is not a cry for help. Lord knows I did enough of that in my car today. It's just me, trying to be real with my readers. 18 months out, and I'm a real fucking mess. I've thought about getting back into therapy, which I most likely will do, so nobody needs to leave me a list of shoulds. The reality here is this. Life is shit. You give your heart to someone, and that someone is taken away.

Oops. I think he took my heart with him. Maybe I should have asked for it back before he left.

How do I explain this. I was very happy. Even after the devesating news that he would die of a brain tumor. I still had him, so I managed to find happiness while I battled that damn tumor. Now I have nothing. About now most are scratching their heads. Nothing? Well, yes. Nothing. Nothing has replaced the pain and emptiness that placed upon me 18 months ago. And, remember people, 18 months is not that long ago. So many people expect me to be different at this point. What point? My husband died. Wouldn't you be different if your spouse died? Of course you would be, and not for the better.

Last week my mother gave me a gem. I don't even know is she realizes it. My brother is having a birthday party for my sister in law. I love my sister in law, in fact I just call her my sister, as that's who she is to me. Yet, I can't see myself at a party with a bunch of couples, laughing and having a good time. What they don't realize is that one of Michael's most happy memories together was having party/gathering at their home. It was the first time he was meeting all of my family together, and my brother and sister made him feel so much at ease by their joyous nature. I can still picture him smiling, and laughing in their patio.

Back to the gem. My mother was talking to my sister, and explained that it would be unrealistic to expect me to go to such a party. My mother reminded her that while the rest of them have kept moving forward, life for me has moved extremely slow. She said that the rest of my family just doesn't realize this. She is so right. If they did, they would realize how slow, and quiet, my life continues to be.

Well, this was not meant to be a woe is me type of post. I just don't want my newly widowed readers to think that at 18 months, Dan, in real time, is doing exceptionally well. It just doesn't work that way. I know what people want to hear. I know what people don't want to hear. And, I know what people would prefer for me.

Sorry folks, that's not my reality.

My reality is that it is a hard and difficult road. It's also a very long, and lonely road. Sometimes I wish it was a dead end, but it's not. I know that I must keep walking. And, I know that I will to continue walking. Just not as fast as you might think.

Empty Chairs

I've been sitting here in my living room, with a fire going, trying to busy myself all evening on this computer. It is as quiet as ever. My son has been in his room playing games online, but even he has been quiet for quite some time. I figure he must have fallen asleep while playing, which is what tends to happen each evening.

I have been reworking my profile on the social networks, in hopes of creating some new friendships. I was even bold enough to send out a few emails these past couple of days to guys that seemed to have similar interests, but to no avail.

I keep wondering, what the hell am I doing here?

I don't even really know what I mean by this question. Am I wondering what I am doing here in San Diego? Was this a good move for me? Am I wondering why I sit here every night rather than get out of the house? Am I wondering how it is that I find myself in the state of mind, with these circumstances, with my husband dead, and me alone? Or am I wondering why I am still here on this earth?

Last week my cousin's young adult daughter went into the hospital to have her fourth baby. The doctors had told her to stop getting pregnant, as it was too much of a strain on her body. She was scheduled for a cesarean, and while in surgery, began to bleed out, and almost died. It was touch and go for most of the week, and everyone was preparing for the worst. I'm told that she had another surgery a couple of days ago, and it looks like she is going to make it.

Yesterday, one of my second cousins had a massive stroke. He is only 50 years old. I'm told that he was out having lunch with his son, and began to feel quite ill. He has been in a coma ever since. It's my understanding that his is experiencing intra-cranial bleeding, and may not pull through. Again, everyone is in shock.

I have been having ongoing telephone conversations with various family members, all trying to keep up with how each of our family members are doing. It's a crazy time. I've felt bad, as the cousin who's daughter is still struggling in the hospital, is one who I was very close to growing up. A couple of years ago, I left Michael at home with the kids, arranged for someone to check in on him, as he was still going through chemo, and flew down to So. California to be with my cousin when her father was dying. It was my father's only surviving brother, and I knew that he, and my cousin, could use some support. A week later, Michael, the kids, and I, drove back down to attend my uncle's funeral. I introduced Michael to my cousin, as she didn't attend our wedding. I never even got a response from her. Within the year, Michael was also dead, and once again, I never got any acknowledgement from my cousin. It hurt me so much. My parents keep trying to make sense of it. They keep thinking that of course she meant to contact me, after all, we have always been so close. And yet, nothing.

You know, I have many wonderful relatives, many of whom came to our wedding, or sent gifts and cards to us. I had many who sent lovely cards and messages, when Michael died. I also have many, like my cousin, who have never even acknowledged my loss. This is very painful to me. At this point, I choose not to participate in any type of gathering that might include family members that have chosen to look away from me, or to acknowledge that I had a love, or that I lost my love.

Sitting here, with the glass doors all around me, I can see the empty patio chairs that I have tastefully arranged on my back deck. There are six of them, all positioned into a square, all ready to be occupied by visitors. I start to wonder, who will fill those chairs? Will there be a time when I will have friends in the area, or family members willing to make the drive here, just to sit, and visit.

You know, I'm a private person, and yet, I'm also a social person. I don't like large loud groups, but I do like being surrounded by people that I love, and that love me in return. Lately, I tend to think that those that see themselves as close to me fail to see how empty my life continues to be. They fail to see that without Michael here beside me, I am empty.

There are chairs all around my house. Empty.

In my darker moments, I start to wonder why certain people have to be taken away so young. I think I am almost there with not questioning about Michael being taken so soon. He is gone, and I accept that. But if I am perfectly honest, I must say that I also sometimes wonder why I am not taken. Why is my cousin lying in a coma? Why is my niece still in the intensive care rather than home with her new baby? Why are these young people so close to death, when there is someone right here who wouldn't be too bent out of shape to get his exit papers?

Don't worry, I'm not suicidal or anything. It's just that in the past I was part of a couple, a fairly young, and new couple, who people looked at and said, why them? I was the one left standing, with people looking at me and saying, why him? I'm no longer part of something young and vibrant. I'm now someone who people would say, well, at least he is now with Michael again. Isn't that strange? Somehow, I think people would feel like it was okay, that maybe I would now be happy again.

I'm surviving. But I am empty.

Just thoughts that are occupying my head.

Beauty

I sit here surrounded by beauty. I love beautiful things. I have carefully selected each item to bring into my home. Each possesses a quality that brings me to peace. Each has a aesthetic that blends with what ever mood I am in.

Tonight I am feeling pensive. Is that a feeling?

I went to a cocktail party tonight. It was a client appreciation event given by my realtor, Jonathan. He is a wonderful guy, and puts so much effort into bringing each of his clients into the fold of his family. I got to meet a few new people, and was especially excited to meet Patricia, the loan officer for my new home. We had corresponded by phone and email, and even shared some thoughts on grief along the way. It was nice to put a person, a face, to the voice.

Going out like tonight is such a stretch for me. It is quite far beyond my comfort zone. I was thinking about this on my way home. I kind of have two distinct persona's these days. At work, as a professional, I am very self assured, and find a way to connect with people everyday. At home, in my personal life, I am much more reserved, and feel more vulnerable.

I went tonight, as I think Jonathan would have been disappointed if I didn't show up, but it was so tempting to find a reason not to go. You see, I am very uncomfortable in these social types of situations. I was also more filled with anxiety, as the room would be filled with many happy new home owners, which I assumed would translate to many happy couples. I was right.

I realize that it has been 17 months that I have been single once again, but I still feel like I am wearing a sweater that doesn't truly fit. It feels stiff, and unlived in. I know that the more I wear it out in public, the more it will soften, and in time it will be an old familiar and comfortable fit.

As I stood there, smiling at everyone at the party, I couldn't help but think about the person missing to my right. He was also a bit of a wall flower at such events, so we were perfectly matched in that way.

You know, this road has been quite difficult. It has introduced me to a level of pain I never knew existed. It introduced me to a life I never wanted, nor was ready for. But I must say, I have come a long way. When I drove up to my home, I sat in the car, and decided to check my email on my phone. There was a message that was left on a blog post from last year, entitled Gay Grief. It is the one post that usually comes up quickly in a Google search, which is exactly like I wanted it to.

Back when all this started, 17 months ago, I sat there on my bed, in the middle of the night, and tried to find someone out there, someone with a voice like mine. I didn't find it. I was looking to something for this heart broken gay husband, who had just been transformed into a widower. I felt so alone, and could feel myself sinking deeper and deeper into despair. Those feeling didn't get any better for quite a long time, but I just kept on writing, as it gave me a reason to wake up the next day.

Tonight a new gay widower found my blog, and poured out his heart. He too knows despair. He too is feeling so alone. He too wonders why he is here. I share this to let him know, and all others that need to hear it, we are here. There are many of us here. We know your pain. Some of us have wondered how we will survive without the person we love. Some of us have come close to making a choice to end it all. I was one of those people. I am pleased to say that I survived one very scary night, and I continue to survive. Is my life easier these days? Yes. Do I still feel the deep pain of my loss? Yes, again.

I do believe that there will be beauty again in my life, and in my heart. I do believe that I will slowly become more comfortable away from my own home. I do hope that my nights will not always be so quiet, and so alone. Until then, I will continue to stretch my wings. I will continue to draw peace and comfort from the beauty that I surround myself with. I will continue to find joy in the little things I do each day.

Today I worked on my backyard. It is lined with very tall, and out of control, bamboo. It grows faster than I can keep up with, and takes a great amount of strenuous work to maintain, but it is quite satisfying. I do like hard work. I love to look behind me, and see all that I have accomplished.

When I was done working, I got myself something cold to drink, then sat on a chair out on my back deck. The sun was shining brightly, and there was a lovely cool breeze. I looked up at the sky, and saw beauty. I smiled, and felt joy.

Here's Looking At You.

I’m sitting here next to my mother’s bed while she sleeps. It’s nice to see her sleep, as when she is awake she is just in pain. Earlier when she was awake I asked if she heard the doctor earlier, who was talking to me about her possible discharge. They can’t seem to find any medication that takes the headache away for more then 10 to 15 minutes. They have used up all of their arsenal, and feel that it is time for her to be at home, where she basically has all the same medications.

My mother turned to me to ask what I was giving Mike when he was at home. It was a question that surprised me, as other than remembering to tell how much they miss him, my parents don’t often ask too many questions about what those days of hospice were like. I let her know that he had various medications that would calm him, but mainly I was giving him high doses of morphine. She has her own supply of morphine at home, but the goal with the medication is very different. I explained to her that the goal with her is to reduce pain so she can get through each day as best as possible, and the goal with Michael was to keep him sedated, as he would otherwise have been suffering not just from the pain, but that he was no longer able to swallow, and I had to keep him from getting agitated. She nodded in an understanding way.

After she fell back asleep, I pulled out my laptop, and started going through all of our pictures. I haven’t done this in awhile, as it usually just brings me too much pain. But having my mother ask me that question earlier made me realize that those were still some very special and loving time. Death is difficult yes, but it can also encompass so much beauty. I really miss taking care of him.



Michael and I were very fortunate, that in our short time together we were able to do a lot of traveling. We went on many local weekends away, as well as many larger vacations. Some were with the kids, or with family and friends, but mostly it was just the two of us. We traveled very well together. We are both very easy going people, and besides, I just let him take the lead in planning each of our days. As I look at the photos that span from a couple of months of knowing each other, to a few months before his death. Each is filled with such love and joy. I particularly love to see photos that I took of him, or that he took of me. In these I am able to see him looking directly at me. I can see the love and delight in his beautiful eyes. In looking at the photos of me looking at him, I see the happiness that I never had before experienced. My kids, and my parents, always told Michael that they had never seen me as happy as I was with him. The photos of me looking at him clearly illustrate this.

It’s nice to look back at these photos and feel joy. I’m sitting here with a smile on my face and a bit of a giggle when I see one of us being goofy for the other. Some of those photos were when we had what I call our innocent days, which were prior to cancer. We had nothing but time ahead of us, and we were carving out a future that seemed without limits. I then look at the photos of us post cancer, and that same joy is still present. It serves as a reminder that even in the thick of facing his illness, and our limited time together; we never let it take from the joy we felt with being in each other’s company.

I must admit, although I am still not quite the same, meaning I walk through my world feeling quite depressed, I am changing. I am slowly allowing those memories that for awhile made me feel cheated, to now begin to remind me of how lucky I have been.

A Good Day

My day at work went well. It was a very busy, but quiet day. In the late afternoon my daughter called to let me know that she was bringing over dinner, and a birthday cake, to celebrate Michael's birthday.

I love my daughter, and am so grateful that she chooses to always commemorate the important dates that mean so much to me.

We had dinner, talked about Michael, then sang happy birthday to him. Even our two dogs, Ranger and Fido, got in on the act. I think they thought it was their birthday. I picked up Fido so he could help blow out the candles. Some have commented in the past that perhaps Fido is Michael reincarnated. After all, he did arrive the day after the first anniversary of Michael's death. I told the kids Fido could help blow out the candles just in case he is Michael, but that I highly doubt that Michael would be pleased coming back as a Chihuahua. Then I did have to admit that Fido loves to be spooned at night, just like Michael. This gave us all a good laugh.

After dropping off my daughter back at her home, I stopped by the store to buy Michael some flowers. I placed them by his urn, and lit two candles. I stood there talking to him, reminding him of my love. I then came out to the kitchen, poured me a vodka and pomegranate drink, and sat to write. I did for a moment think that the Margo would recommend coke with my vodka, but I'll save that for the next time I sit and have a drink with her.

My daughter commented that I appear to be doing much better recently. I explained that I do feel a change in the last couple of days. I think having my parents around this weekend really helped to boost my feelings. Celebrating Michael's birthday was also a reminder about how blessed I was to have him in my life. I won't lie and say I didn't shed some tears today, but it's all good.

If nothing else, I can say I truly knew love during my lifetime.

Birthday Celebrations.

Michael loved celebrating his birthday. There couldn't be enough celebrating according to him. This photo was taken in 2008, after spending three months recuperating from brain surgery, and completing his first round of chemo and radiation therapy. This particular birthday was celebrated with the kids and I on January 16th, 2008. The next day Michael and I went away for a needed weekend together in Napa, California. We spent two nights are a beautiful Inn. We had a room with a huge bed that was placed in front of an even bigger fire place. In the next room was a wonderful jacuzzi tub for two. We went out for a delicious dinner, followed by a casual evening walk, then back to our room for a bath. I remember laying in bed that night, cozy, feeling loved, and loving and appreciating the gift that he was to me. It was one of many great memories I have with Michael.

So romantic. So perfect.



Dearest Michael,

Happy birthday my love. This is the second year that I will be celebrating your birthday without you. Know that you remain in my heart. With every breath I breathe, I do so for both of us. We had many dreams together, some realized, some yet to be completed. I will do my best to make you proud. I will remember, and channel, your loving patience when I feel that I have none to draw on. I will remember your beautiful eyes, and the smile that made me melt. Those images will keep me safe from all my fears. I will remember the feeling of holding you in my arms, and the way you always rested so securely against my chest. I had never felt such love before meeting you. Thank you for all that you shared with me. Thank you for staying close to me during this difficult time without you. Thanks for holding me safely through each night. I carry your last breath within me, and I will never let it go.

All my love. All my appreciation

Your husband.

Dan

A Painful Day

A couple of days ago I had my yearly physical. While there my doctor had the brilliant thought that I should have a tetanus shot, especially since I work with infants and toddlers. While they are cute and cuddly, apparently they harbor deadly germs and viruses. What do I know?

Anyway, whenever we get these helpful shots, like the flu shot of the moment, there is always the chance of possible side effects. My doc said not to worry, as my flu shot from last month went without a hitch. Well, last night I got deadly sick. Aching muscles and bones. Shaken nerves, headache and nausea.

Lovely.

I ended up going to bed early, choosing to just sleep through it. I had some crazy dreams, but mostly slept well, and felt enormously better this morning. In fact, I decided to get out the vacuum, and do some light house cleaning.

Bad decision.

While moving the very light vacuum, I pulled a muscle in my back. I let out a very loud scream, and found myself, tears in the eyes, descending toward the floor. I had all the animals around me looking traumatized, and my youngest son running out from his bedroom to see what had happened.

Well, that pretty much stopped me in my tracks. Nothing much was getting done today. Fortunately for me, I had stored up quite an arsenal of past prescribed medication, and found myself popping some expired Vicodin, and some helpful Motrin. Within a couple of hours I was beginning to feel better, yet had to make every move with caution.

It's quite scary when you become so sick, and you realize how alone you are. Now, I did have my son, but a 12 year old can only do so much. I also didn't want him to worry too much, so I told him I was much better than I actually was.

I took a seat on the couch, and tried to entertain myself with the television and computer. I read each email as soon as it arrived throughout the afternoon. At one vulnerable point in the day I received an email from the Musella Foundation, which does research on brain tumors. I don't know how to unsubscribe from their mailing list, so I always take a deep breath when these messages arrive. Today's message annouced a lecture titled "Practical Suggestions For Brain Tumor Families" which was to be held on January 18th, Michael's birthday.

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. Punched real hard. I sat here, and began to sobbed.

As the day has gone on that deep emotional response to this email has stayed with me. Each time I think about it, the sobbing returns.

My body, and soul, certainly knows pain. Pain such as this has the powerful ability to lodge itself deep into my memory bank. With each of these painful deposits, I suppose I could be considered quite wealthy.

No worry. This will pass. As each of us has learned, while pain doesn't always completely go away, it does become less intense with time. We become familiar with it, and we come to have our individual ways of getting through it.

I will get through it.

You will too.

I Thought...I Wish.

***WHINE ALERT***WHINE ALERT***WHINE ALERT***

Another busy day at work. By the end of the day I was the only one left in the office. Most had left for the day, and many had left for time off for the holidays. Man, do I wish I could take time off right now. Being new, and with little to no vacation time earned, I will be working straight through the holidays. And judging by the stack of boxes that border each room in my new home, I haven't made much progress in the unpacking department.

I left the quiet office, and walked out into the cold night. Mine was one of the few cars still left in the lot. How symbolic for me. All alone in the dark cold night. As usual, I got into my car, took a deep breath, and let the tears flow. This time I cried more than usual. It's the holiday season, and most people are filled with joy. I wish I could be joyous. I sat there in the car, sobbing, and feeling angry and resentful once again. Why did I only get three and a half years with my husband? Why do others get what seems like an eternity? Why do I return home every night alone? Well, the kids are there, but you know what I mean.

I feel so cheated. I feel so let down by life. I feel so let down by God. I'm trying to psyche myself up for an early Christmas celebration with my extended family on Saturday. We will be gathering at my parents home that day since each of my brothers and their wives will spend Christmas in their own homes. They will experience the joy of waking up next to the person they love, and exchange gifts, and cuddle next to the fire. I on the other hand, will be sitting here desperately clutching my laptop, which is my only extension to what feels like real life.

What hurts the most is that it doesn't feel like my family understands how hard this still is for me. They love me, and are good to me, but I don't think they get how hard it is to hear so much laughter and joy. They don't see how it rips my heart apart just being around them, and seeing how happy they are. When I am with them the conversation often turns to issues of being a couple, and the jokes fly about things they say and do with their spouses. I'm a good brother, and I just smile, or try to discretely separate myself from the situation.

I know there is nothing anyone can do to change what life has dealt me. I get it. I know that I have to learn to move forward, and I am. It just hurts like hell, and in times like these, the holidays, I do find myself thinking about how different we thought life would be. Michael and I had it all planned out. We talked about the house we would buy together. We talked about working on that house together. We talked about growing old together. We pictured ourselves, two old men, sitting on the porch, resting with a cold beverage after working all afternoon in the yard. I thought about how lovely life would be, always sleeping next to that person who loves me, and who I love with all my heart.

I thought about becoming grandparents together. I thought about all the travel we would do. I thought about all the passionate nights of sex we would have, even through our "golden years." I thought about all the ornaments we would collect over the years, and how much fun we would have reminiscing while decorating the tree each year. I thought about all the traditions we would create together. I thought about how we would use our wedding china for every special dinner. I thought about how happy we would be.

As I may have mentioned in the past, I rarely dream. In fact, I have only seen Michael in my dreams on two occasions since he died, and both times were about his final days. I tell myself that I don't allow myself to dream so that it won't hold me back, yet I now find myself wishing I could. I wish I could have this fantasy life in my dream world. I wish I could be visited by Michael, or that I could go visit him where ever he may be. I wish I could feel his embrace, or to see his smile once again. When I can't sleep at night I talk to him. I ask him to come back to me, if only for a minute. I tell him I won't be afraid, and I won't even tell a soul that he was here. Yet, nothing.

It's no good, none of this is helping me. Even as I write this I am telling myself that these things are not good for me. I tell myself that if I really thought it would help me, that I would be dreaming about him. I hate that about myself. I know what's good for me, so I don't allow myself to be self indulgent. Well, maybe just a little.

If you are still reading, then bless you. I don't know if I could stick with this if these thoughts were not pouring out of my own head. I hate whining. But as my kids say, don't be a hater!

Okay, I feel better now. I just needed to get this all out.

I'll be fine.

Eventually.

Day of the Dead

The photo accompanying this post is of a Day of the Dead shadow box that Michael and I purchased on our honeymoon in Puerto Vallarta. I recognize that the idea of purchasing such an item on our honeymoon might seem a bit morbid, yet it was done in a spirit of joy. We were newly married, and enjoying all the rights and celebrations that any other newlywed couple might. Why wouldn't we appreciate a bit of morbid humor when it comes to souvenirs.


Traditionally, Day of the Dead, or Dia de los Muertos, is a holiday, and celebration, associated with Mexican traditions. The holiday focuses on gatherings of family and friends to pray for and remember friends and family members who have died.


Last year, in remembrance of Michael, I began the alter of items that has since grown, and now surrounds his urn. Throughout the past year, it has come to include many small treasures that my son Remy found at our local swap meet when we lived in San Francisco. It has collected some dried flowers, art work and sweet treats brought over by my daughter Arianne for special anniversary dates associated with Michael or I. It also has a few other small items given to me during the past year by friends, in relation to my grieving process. And of significance, is that now sitting there with these things are our wedding rings, and the urn necklace that I recently removed from my neck. Throughout the year, almost on a daily basis, I have also had tea lights burning, casting a warm glow as I sit, read, or write.


This year I have chosen not to add anything further. I need to begin the process of separation. I want to rely less on inanimate objects, and feel held more by my memories. I had a stronger need to hold onto these small treasures during the last year, and now feel the need to gently push myself a bit further along in my "moving forward" journey. The small treasures will remain on the alter until our next move, yet will not be unpacked when settled into our new home. Some will go into the urn with Michael's ashes, and the others in a keepsake box. I will always cherish these treasures, but not rely on them.


In thinking about Michael on this day, I think it goes without saying that I love and treasure him immensely. He brought so much joy into my life, and provided me with several loving and passionate years. And while I have been in quite an emotional slump these past few days, I can see my way out of it enough to appreciate the gift that Michael was to my life. I have never been more happy than when I was with him. One thing that I want to say today is that I am very grateful to all the people that were part of Michael's life before me. I feel like each and every one of them contributed to the beautiful person he was. Michael was an excellent story teller, and he had so many stories that he loved to tell, and re-tell, about his various adventures in the past. He would start telling me a story, then turn to me and say, "did I already tell you about this?" Of course he had, yet I always smiled and listened to it for the 100th time. It was later such a joy when I would able to meet the people that encompassed the stories, live in person. I would then be able to get the other side of the story, even though Michael always swore that his telling of it was the "truthful version."


I love to now tell 'Michael Stories.' They warm my heart, and put a smile on a face that doesn't have one naturally any longer. I know that in time these stories, and memories, and all the joy they carry, will become more predominate in my life. I know that with each day sorrow will lessen, as it already has. I know that the power of love will prevail, and my love for him, and his love for me, will propel me forward.

Namaste

Okay, so I had to write tonight. I'm being my ol' obsessive self, and couldn't resist the need to make it to 365 days of non-stop posting.

I'm not sure what triggered the beginning of this "No Day Without A Post" thing. It was probably done without much thought. Yet, once I realized that I had begun writing every day, I decided to make a personal commitment to talking in "real time" every day for a year. I kind of knew that it would be a way of making a commitment to be somewhere, and to have others in turn expect to find me here each day.

There were so many times during the past year, especially in April, that I really didn't want to continue, with writing, or with life. There were definitely some very dark days, and having made this commitment gave me a purpose beyond just going completely under with my grief. I also wanted to create something. I wanted to have something for others who later follow me in grief, to look at, and perhaps find something that allows them to feel less alone.

When Michael died I was at a complete loss. I didn't know where to turn. I wanted so much to find others who were like me, and began searching. My initial searches were for other gay widowers. I looked for blogs, books, websites, anything really. I didn't find a hell of a lot. I feel proud of myself, in that I have now created a place where other gay or lesbian widowed can seek, and find, someone else out here who has been in their shoes.

What surprised me, is all that I have gained from this experience. I have gained so many wonderful and loving friends. I have gained an appreciation for my experience thus far. And I have learned that there are more people than I originally thought, that can relate to me as a widower, without getting tripped up about my being gay. Now I'm sure that there are many that have found my blog by chance, then quickly left once they read the sub-heading that says "One Gay Man's Journey Through Love, Life and Grief." This is true, as I have been able to use my site meter to see who enters my blog, and how quickly they leave. That's okay, I don't expect to be everybody's cup of tea.

What is important is that we are all here. Those of us that choose to share of our experience, offer a wide range of diversity from which other's may choose. We expose our hearts and souls, find healing, and enter into the exchange of support. It's an incredible medium, and we should all be proud, and grateful. And even though my writing will now be less frequent, know that I am still here day by day, plugging along, trying to make sense of my life.

I hope to one day have the strength of heart to read what I have written during this past year. I have never gone back to re-read any of my posts. Once I publish them, I let them go. It helps me to not dwell too much on the past, and to not get pulled down by taking myself back through some of the darker days.

Love to all of you.

God bless, and Namaste.

sign here

October 2009-mounds of paper work.

sign here.

sign here.

provide us with a copy of the death certificate.

provide us with a copy of your marriage license.

sign here.

sign here.

Finally gaining enough strength to pick up the phone, make the calls that begin the business of death. Life insurance policy. Pensions. Closing Accounts. Mounds of paper work.

the end of a life.

the end of a chapter.

what's the point?



October 2010-mounds of paper work.

sign here.

sign here.

provide us with copies of bank statements.

provide us with verification of income.

sign here.

sign here.

Finding the courage to move forward. Quit the job. Move the family. Sell the house. Buy a house.

starting over.

beginning a new chapter.

well worth it.

Simple Gestures

Tonight I feel blessed.

Tonight I was visited by two friends.

Two friends of Michael's.

Two friends of mine.

Michael was part of a wonderful group of people who ventured out in their younger years to Africa with the Peace Corp. In the time that Michael and I became a couple, I came to know, and love, each of these people. Tonight two friends that he loved so much came to share a meal with the boys and me. They brought the gift of food. They brought the gift of memories past. They brought a vested interest in where I find myself today. And, they brought with them a genuine optimism for my future.

I am often aware that in these type of occasions, there is the opportunity for friends, or family, to feel a sense of Michael being present through me. In some ways I have become their link to him. After this evening, I see that they too keep him present for me. Their goodness, their joy, and their kindness, are of the same kindred spirit that encompassed Michael. It's not so much that they bring some of Michael to me, rather, it's that Michael continues to provide these friendships for me. He laid the groundwork that allowed each of us that knew and loved him, to now feel the same for each other.

Later this evening, after the house was quiet, and I was sitting alone, I received a call. It was from a fairly new friend that I have made through this blog. He is also a gay widower, whose husband died from the same tumor that took Michael. We also have many other commonalities that allow for a real sense of connectedness. I really enjoyed talking, laughing, and sharing, how each of us are doing at this moment in time. Funny, he lives in the SF Bay Area, yet I didn't get to know him until I moved 500 miles away.

Paths will be crossed, connections and friendships will be made. Each brings me a sense of purity. Purity of the heart. Each helps soothe my aching heart by the simple gesture of extending friendship.

Yes folks, it's that simple.

Transformation

I got up today feeling like I need to start making concrete changes to how I am approaching life. I need to signal a change for myself, and to others. As I looked into the mirror, I focused on the cremation urn locket that hangs around my neck.

Yes, I wear Michael's ashes all the time. I stood there looking at my reflection, and thought, does this tell others that I am ready to move forward? If I meet a nice guy, an eligible guy, and he asks about my jewelry, what does my response tell him? Am I emotionally available to someone new? Is there a barrier to someone new if I am wearing my dead husband's ashes around my neck?

Then, glancing down at my left arm, I admired the now completed half-sleeve tattoo. It is beautiful, and I love it very much. For anyone local, it was completed by Keith Nichols of Adapt Studio in Hillcrest. He's a great guy, and we had some great conversations during the multiple appointments, and many hours it took to complete this piece. My arm, as many parts of my body, is filled with inked images of where I have been, and where I find myself today. Much of the imagery involves the journey I was on with Michael, and my continued journey on my own. It speaks to the significance of my past without belaboring it. It made me realize that I no longer need to be wearing Michael's ashes, or sporting a wedding ring, as that part of my life is quite integrated into who I am today. I took off the necklace, and temporarily placed in with our wedding rings next to the urn. I decided that when I make this next move to a permanent home I will not set up the alter that I have here, or had in San Francisco. Michael's urn will be one piece in a number of art pieces that I will display, sparsely in the new space.

It is time to take a large step forward, and trust that I am ready to move forward without these things that held me together during this past year. I also plan on replacing all of my furniture once I move into a new home. I want a very clear beginning. I want to signal to everyone that visits, that my life is now different. There is a definite difference in who I am, and how I experience life these days. I want that reflected in how I live, which is why I am really focusing on buying a home that speaks to the newer, more modern aesthetics that I am attracted to. I don't want anything to look, or feel, like my home in San Francisco. I loved that home, but that home, and that life, is over.

As you can see, when I make a change, I really make a change. Not everyone is comfortable with my changes, which is understandable, as they haven't gone through some of the challenges that I have been forced to experience. Yet, I hope that in time they will come to see me for who I am today. Yes, I'm still me, with my same outlook and values, but definitely expressed differently.

I like who I am becoming. I like the life I am creating, and I like what appears to be on the horizon for me.

It Wasn't Meant To Be

Today I learned that I didn't get the house I had submitted a bid for. It was a disappointment, as the kids and I had come to an quick, and easy, agreement that it was the right house for us. But apparently, it wasn't.

It wasn't meant to be.

Don't you just hate those words? How many times have we been placated by such words? You didn't get something you wanted? Oh, well, it wasn't meant to be.

Your husband didn't survive his cancer? It wasn't meant to be.

You didn't get happily ever after? It wasn't meant to be.

Well, when I received the disappointing news today, that is exactly what I told myself. It wasn't meant to be. Well, unless the current buyer drops out, then I suppose it was meant to be. It just wasn't mean to be today, or this time.

I tend to be the type that can fairly easily accept what fate has brought me, let go, and move on. Of course fate brought me a far bigger disappointment last year, and those words failed me. I couldn't just easily accept that this was his, our, and my fate. Yet, at this point, one year later, I am in the position of saying, okay, it happened, what can I do other than move on. I know those words sound horrible, but yes, I have to move on. I can't, or choose not to, get stuck in the position of digging in my heels and stopping the process of life just because I didn't get what I had hoped for. Like always, I need to let go of what I can't control, and move on to what I can.

I can keep moving.

Where the Hell Am I?

Okay, so I haven't completely lost my mind. I know where I am. I'm in San Diego. Right?

What I'm trying to figure out is, where am I in my grieving process, and where am I in my blogging process. Last year I made a self-commitment to chronicle my grief on a daily basis. This was much more difficult, and time consuming than I ever really anticipated, but well worth the effort. I officially started by blog on our first wedding anniversary, October 19, 2009, but didn't start writing daily until a couple of weeks later on October 31, 2009. And though I haven't yet reached that one year of posting date, I have counted 394 posts thus far. 395 counting today.

I have had this plan in the back of my mind that I would start easing off on my posting efforts, as they do tend to drive my day. And even though I considered breaking my non-stop posting streak tonight, after careful thought, I have chosen to stick it out until October 31st. People have sometimes asked me who I am writing for. Me? Them? You? Us? All I know is that it has given me a sense of purpose, and has kept me going when I felt like giving up. But I do feel that it is time to change how I am expending my energies.

I believe I need to start spending more time and energy living, trying new things out, and less time focused on my grief. Now the reality is that they will always be intertwined, but I need to start giving myself some breathing room. I need to start reading trashy novels again. I need to start going out at night without the worry that I need to make it back in time to write. And, I need to return to some of my other writing projects that have been put to the side.

Where am I? I'm in a better place, that's where I am. Isn't that an odd thing to say? "In a better place?" Don't you just hate it when someone says to you, "I'm sorry for your loss, but at least he's in a better place?" I usually smile, forgive their misguided words, and think to myself, the fuck he is.

I don't know if I will always feel like I am in a better place, and of course it would only be in reference to where I have been during this past year of grieving, but today, I am in a better place. The deep pain comes, and yet it goes. The pain is familiar, and all daily emotions are quite familiar. I kind of know what to expect at this point. And yes, I can still be thrown off by unanticipated levels of grief, but for the most part I do know where I am.

What I am curious about though, is where I am going. I would like to think that I am headed for better things, but so far life hasn't gone that way for me. I'm trying to maintain my optimism, if I ever really had it, and make room for the possibility of...whatever.

So, for me, step one is this; to make room. I need to clear my schedule, and begin doing other things. I need to make room for something different. So if I don't stick with my goal of daily posting for another couple of weeks, then you can assume I have moved on to step one already. Oh, I'll never be gone too long, or off too far, just far enough so that I begin to collect answers to my question.

Where the hell am I?

Without You I Am Nothing

Sadness looms, but I'll be okay.

I hesitate to write tonight, because I wanted to feel better, and to have something positive to say. Yet, to be real with you all, I am still in a very sad place. I will come out of it, but it is what it is today.

Yesterday I received an amazing outpouring of support from all of you, from my kids, and from many of my friends and family. And while I wasn't really in a space to talk to anyone, I did benefit from the messages, texts and Facebook postings. Throughout most of the day I found myself trying to just breathe, but to keep it together.

Male machismo at it's best.

Yet there were two interactions that just broke down my guarded exterior, and that was a brief visit by my daughter, and a telephone call by my parents. These were the two interactions that allowed me to cry, to sob, and in the case of my daughter, to be held. I am starting to see the benefits that come along when your children become adults, and begin taking advantage of opportunities to give back. Yesterday my daughter came through for me, and I love her very much for that. With my parents, I become that little boy that needs their reassurance. The moment I answered the telephone, and heard their voices tell me they were thinking about what a perfect day it was two years ago at our wedding, well, I could feel their loving arms around me. It was also difficult, as I know how much it hurts them to hear me hurt. They just kept reminding me that they think about Mike all the time, and continue to appreciate and love him for the love he gave to me.

Even writing this chokes me up.

Another realization is that today I have such an extensive group of friends that I have made by being widowed. Through this blog, and through other grief related interactions, I have had the pleasure to meet, and know, the most beautiful and caring people. And these people literally circle the globe. It has been an amazing journey when I think of this. And I can honestly say, I cannot imagine my life without all of you. I don't think I would be here today without having had these connections.

Without you, I am nothing.

Alternate Universe

Some where in an alternate universe, I woke up to an entirely different day altogether.

It was a Tuesday morning, and the weather was slightly cool out. I could tell this because my body was firmly pressed up against Michael for warm keeping. As I came into a more conscious state of awakening, I found that my arms and legs, were carefully intertwined with his. He was still sound asleep, as we had both chosen to take the day off. I just laid there, feeling the warmth of his body, and feeling the slow movement of his breathing, and took it all in. How lucky am I? I have the beautiful and loving man, right here in my bed, and in my arms. I didn't want to awaken him, so I gently kissed him on his left shoulder, as I had every other morning, and I quietly shifted my body away from him, and off our bed.

I turned off the alarm of my clock, put on my robe and slippers, then made the trek upstairs to get the kids out of bed. I may have the day off, but they will be going to school. I had major plans today, and those plans did not include a group of teenagers hanging around the house. The kids were their usual grumpy selves, but managed to get themselves moving along, and were each off to school at the designated time. Before leaving the house though, they each made sure that I remembered to tell Michael happy anniversary from them.

I put on a pot of coffee, knowing that we would definitely want a cup later in the morning. I fed the animals, and made sure they were each happy, and that they would not be coming down to our bedroom door to whine about needing something. I also turned up the heat on the furnace, as it is usually off at this point, since we are both usually at work during the day.

When I got back downstairs Michael was still fast asleep, only now his body was splayed out across my side of the bed. I stood there at the door and smiled. Whenever I was not in our bed, Michael always slept at an angle, so that his head could safely rest on my pillow. It was quite endearing, but the poor son of a bitch was going to have to move over and make some room for me. I quietly went into our bathroom to brush my teeth, and to make sure I looked picture perfect before climbing back into bed. I moved to my side of the bed, and gently rolled Michael back toward the center. I held his body with one arm, so he wouldn't just roll back when I climbed back onto my side. Once in bed I put my arm back around him, and felt his warmth all around me.

I could feel him gently starting to stir. As usual, Michael then inched his body back toward me, positioning himself into a comfy spoon position. My left arm swept across his hairy stomach and chest, then rested sort of midway. This caused Michael to stir a bit more, and press himself toward me even further. I lifted myself up by my right elbow to take a look at his face. Sure enough, he was smiling that devilish grin. I reached over, planted a kiss on the side of his face, "Happy Anniversary Honey." His head turned to the left, he reach up, and planted a firm kiss on my lips, "Happy Anniversary Dear." I then laid back down, and pulled him even closer. With that, my sleepy Michael began to awaken. I could feel his left arm begin searching, then reaching out for my leg. I looked up again, and his smile grew wider. "I'm trying to sleep dear," I said to him. "Oh, there is plenty of time for sleep later" said Michael.

Indeed there was. We made love, then fell back asleep, cozy in our bed. A couple of hours later I was awakened by the sound of Michael opening our bedroom door, and entering with two hot cups of coffee. He placed one cup at the side of my bed, then walked around to his side, and climbed back in. He propped up his pillows, got out his Sudoku book, and got to work. I turned toward him, and said out loud, "you are so fucking romantic." He laughed, then reached down to plant another kiss upon me.

The rest of the day is a fog, as it can get no better than this. Happiness, and celebrations, don't need very much to be appreciated. It is the simple things that mean the world. The simple acknowledgement that we are loved, and that we are appreciated. In turn, we convey our love with a worthy small gesture. No more, no less.

Tonight I meditate on a love shared, and a love that will endure. My day has been filled with sadness, and with more tears than expected, but that's okay. As I sit here in the emotional safety of my bedroom, I am filled with Michael's love. I can allow myself to experience this alternate universe where life did not end for us. I can remember many mornings just like this. They were real, as was our love.

This was no fantasy, just a day in the life that we once shared.

Accepting Loss

Yesterday evening as I returned home from visiting my parents, and ending a long full day, I ascended the stairs that lead to my bedroom. I was looking for a nice end to a nice day. What I discovered was that I was awash with further loss.

This home that I am renting has been problem after problem. Just a couple of weeks ago I woke up to a flood of water in my bathroom due to a leak from the roof. Last night I discovered another.

What I thought was a safe place, in the corner of the room, is where I stacked up some of my unpacked moving boxes that encased some things of importance to me. In these boxes were photo albums, legal documents, notes written by Michael, a family bible that belonged to Michael's deceased aunt, and the journal I kept during his last month of life. I found these items floating in water. It's as if the universe were playing a cruel joke on me. "Lets take his prized possessions, and set them to ruin. Let's see how he manages with further loss. Let's remind him, a year later, that there is still so much loss to endure."

Immediately my worries went to my wedding album, which I had carefully placed in a sturdy box prior to placing it in the storage box. I found the sturdy box, floating in water, completely soaked. I carefully opened the box, and lifted the wedding album with the care you would take with a newborn child. Fortunately for me, there was little damage to it. I carefully dried it off, and set it aside for further air drying. Unfortunate for me, the bible didn't fare so well, nor did all the folders that contained some of Michael's last writings. My hospice time journal appears to be drying fairly well. It is obviously warped, as are all the other items retrieved from the boxes, but not completely lost.

I didn't allow this to throw me off course. I did cry some tears for fear of losing our wedding album, then followed with tears of joy when I felt that it would be okay. Coming home tonight from work I went directly up to my room to see how these things were faring. Unfortunately some items will now need to be let go.

I guess you could say I am trying to be a "Big Boy" about all of this. I am trying my best to not get pulled under. I am telling myself that these items are not him, and they will have less meaning with time. Yet these small objects, obviously chosen by me to be kept after our move, are now teaching me another lesson in loss, and in letting go.

Today would have been our second wedding anniversary. Last year at this time I was a shattered, numb, and broken man. Michael had only been dead one month, and I was on the eve of having to celebrate our first wedding anniversary without him. The day was not completely sorrowful, as a few of Michael's friends brought dinner over, and we all enjoyed a piece of our wedding cake which had been placed on ice for a year. That night as I descended down to my bedroom I decided that if I was going to make it through this painful loss, then I was going to need to write about it. I needed to have an outlet where I could write my thoughts and feelings, without any filter. It had to be real.

On this day, October 19, 2010 I sit here, having lost another year. Yet what a year it has been. To be honest, I didn't think I would make it. There were those nights when I was painfully sick with grief. There were times when I was down on my knees, or flat on my back, crying out in anguish. There were those nights when reading the comments from others gave me the courage I needed to commit to another day. There were also some very dark times when I needed to make a choice as to the importance of my own life. Having been there, I now understand how someone can find themselves in a place where life doesn't seem worth living. I was there. I didn't want to live. I wanted to be dead.

Yes, this is harsh. Yet it is my truth. How do you spend your whole adult life wanting, and searching for that perfect person, only to have him taken away so soon? That was what life did to me. In response, I didn't think I wanted to be a part of life. I wanted out.

I'm sitting here, 500 miles away from San Francisco, the city and the home that I loved. Yet I am here because I could not create my future in that same place. I needed to break free, and to challenge myself to create something new. Perhaps that is why I was so stunned yesterday as I signed my life away. I was somewhere new. I had accepted loss and was making a choice to live, and to enjoy the life that I have. As the Kanji symbols on my arm say, Acceptance of Fate and Happy with that Fate. What does this mean?

I am choosing to accept the fate I was given. After all, this is my life, and although I ultimately can't control the outcome, I can certainly change the way I respond to it. In spite of my fate, I am choosing to seek happiness.

One Year...since starting this blog.

Two Years...since exchanging those vows.

Three Years...since knowing the direction life was taking me.

One day...at a time. I move forward, embracing change.

Accepting Loss

Signing On the Dotted Line

It has been some time since I have turned to my favorite online reference source, Wikipedia. For today's post I searched for the meaning of signature.

The traditional function of a signature is evidential: it is to give evidence of:

1. The provenance of the document (identity)
2. The intention (will) of an individual with regard to that document

After the marriage ceremony, both spouses and the officiant sign the marriage licence. The officiant or couple then files for a certified copy of the marriage licence and a marriage certificate with the appropriate authority.



Today was a significant day for me. One that took great emotional strength, trust in my decisions making, and a willingness to commit to change.

Two years ago I committed to love and honor my husband Michael for all the days of my life. It is a commitment I plan to keep. I will always love Michael, and he will always occupy his place in my heart, and in my daily life. If I look ahead, I know that I am capable of loving again, and if and when I do, it will not take from my commitment to love and honor Michael all the days of my life.

Sometimes in life we make carefully calculated moves, knowing that we are attempting to make a very important decision. And even if we planned, and carefully made our decision, the actual commitment to the change can still be overpowering.

This past spring I made the decision to move myself and the kids back to southern California, and to settle in San Diego. I trusted my inner stirrings about this. I meditated, I prayed, and I took the leap of faith that this was a good decision for me. In making this leap of faith I have no guarantees that things will go as planned, and indeed they didn't. That's not to say that things have gone wrong, on the contrary, I believe they have gone well. It just didn't go as smoothly as I expected, nor did it occur without some emotional growing pains.

Yesterday when visiting my parents, I was talking once with my father about all that I am attempting to accomplish with my new life here in San Diego. My parents tell me they sometimes feel cut off from what exactly is occurring in my daily life, as their health prevents them from visiting down here unless they are well, and someone can drive them. After bringing my father up to date with my retirement, my new job, my San Francisco house, and my prospective new San Diego house, he looked over to me with a sense of pride. He said to me: "Son, I am so proud of you. I want you to realize that you have accomplished so much in this move, and it seems that things are lining up nicely for you. Please don't take anything for granted, as you are quite fortunate in how all this has worked out."

My father is right, I am fortunate. I left a job with a clear plan in place that gave me options regarding an early retirement. I found a temporary home to live in, and enjoyed a summer free of work and free of financial worries. Although I never got the job I initially planned for, I did get the first job I applied to once settled here. I found a buyer for my San Francisco home, and I found a new home that I would like to purchase for the kids and I. Many great accomplishments, and many real blessings.

Some might think it odd that I am choosing to acknowledge blessings when I am on the eve of celebrating a second wedding anniversary without my husband Michael. Today at work my office mate asked me about my wedding and marriage to Michael. She seemed to be aware of our wedding anniversary, and asked how I was doing in general. It was very sweet of her to ask, and we had a nice thorough conversation about it. I told her that I was choosing to wear my wedding ring tomorrow, and in fact, it is already placed on my ring finger.

I must say, it feels so soothing to have my wedding ring on. It will only be for a day, as I don't want it to be a crutch for me.

As my day moved forward there appeared to be a convergence of life's transitions appearing before me. First off was a scheduled appointment with a notary to sign away my SF home to the new buyer. It is officially no longer my home. After the notary left my office, I sat there feeling a bit stunned. It was the end of my work day, and I needed to get across town in order to meet with my current realtor Jonathan. As I drove I began to feel the weight of everything around me. My wedding anniversary tomorrow, my signing away of the home that holds 17 years of memories, and the signing of a committed offer on a new home, which would cement me here in San Diego. I walked into his office, and my appearance must have betrayed my attempt to let go of these building emotions. Jonathan greeted me, and quickly asked if I was okay. Before I could respond I felt like the breath was being knocked out from within me. Yes, I'm okay. "Are you sure Dan? We can just sit and talk?" Thanks. I'm having a bit of a tough time, but I need to not focus on that right now.

We sat down, and I began signing away on the huge mountain of documents that would complete my official offer on the new home. It was a big step.

Am I really ready to commit to this change? Do I have a choice, really?

Change occurred last year when Michael died. It was a change I had anticipated, and it was one that I had committed to.

Until death do us part.

After leaving Jonathan's office, I felt good about this decision to buy the new house. It was what I want and need. It does provide me with the opportunity to begin anew, while also laying down permanent roots.

As I opened the front door to my current house, I reached into the mail box, and pulled out a large envelope from the San Francisco City & County Retirement Office. It was official. I was retired. Or, at lease it will be official as soon I begin signing on the dotted lines, and mail the forms back. I am committing to being in retirement, and to begin receiving my pension. There is no turning back.

It's kind of hard to deny the relevance of all these signing events, these transitions, converging on this single day. I am making a commitment. I am committing to this change.



This is the image I choose to carry with me tonight, and close to my heart tomorrow. This was a moment of commitment. This was a moment of unabashed love. This was a moment that will remain a part of me forever.

This is the man I fell in love with. This is the man I made a commitment to. This is the man that I ache for tonight. This is the man that will always be at my side, cheering me on, making sure I fulfill my commitment to keep on living.