blessed

Original date 5 December 2011

When I first became a widow, I wanted everyone to go away. I did not want to talk, discuss, be comforted, or hear anyone.

I found everything overwhelming and the need to communicate with others verbally was not at all on the list of desired actions. I was annoyed by the needs of others. Their want to know I was okay...surviving...seemed intrusive and obnoxious. I felt that they all just wanted the gory details or the notoriety that goes along with death.

Although the realization that my feelings were not "fair" or even logical always accompanied these angry thoughts, I couldn't help but feel myself growling internally when someone attempted to break into my quiet, lost and introspective bubble.

I had extremely close friends that I leaned on and a sister with whom I told the majority of my thoughts, but the only person I wanted aside from these confidantes was Brian.

In my day to day life now, that time seems like a terrible nightmare lived by another woman. A woman who doesn't exist anymore. In my quietest moments, if I allow myself to go there, like right now, it is as if I'm right there and it is still happening. I'm 31, my husband is 32 and fighting for his life with every ounce of strength he has.

For the first year after his death, nothing was real except that moment. I relived it constantly, replaying it, trying to look for some meaning in the moments. I wanted to review it to see if Brian knew I was there, if he knew I refused to leave his side even for a moment, in his unconsious state, was he aware of my presence.

The horror of the scene and the terror I felt in those moments is still there, permanently imprinted on my brain and in my heart. If I think about it now, I still feel the urge to cry and throw up at the same time.

I still want to know how it was for him. I want to be reassured that it was a hell of a lot more peaceful for him than it looked. I want to know he's okay and that whatever heaven looks like it is so wonderful that he isn't up there somewhere sad that he didn't get to finish his life here the way he planned.

I want to know that my vision of him laughing and enjoying his ever-after life is true. I won't know the answer until I go there myself.

A year ago I unknowingly said my final "I love you" to a great man.

How do I feel a year later? Still sad. I'll always feel sad that things turned out the way they did. It wasn't fair to him or those of us left behind. But a year later I also feel incredibly blessed and grateful.

Thank you Brian Singer for the years you did spend with us. It wasn't enough time, but I'll always be grateful for every moment I got.