Tuesday, March 23rd, 2021

I am going to say these words (words that have taken me all day to write) and then I am going to go back to holding my precious husband with both hands.
My favorite line in The Princess Bride is from when Westley and Buttercup tumble down that crazy hillside and he rushes to her and asks, “Can you move at all?” And she replies, “Move? You’re alive! If you want, I can fly!”
That’s how I feel. That is what I’m clinging to.
While we participate in this waiting game of protocol and procedures to learn all we can about his condition. Right now, at this moment, he’s alive.
I still pray for the “big miracle” we all so desperately want, but today, for now, I am grateful for the miracle we have already received... the miracle of More Time.
I can never express how loved and “held” the tidal wave of messages, posts, calls, and the miraculously allowed visits, and acts of selfless service have been. Everyone in every aspect of his care from the first second to now has been gifted from God.
His next round of assessment is tomorrow morning so please continue to lift him up. If you pray, we want a Biblical miracle where Jesus says, “Rise, take up your bed and walk.” And in my dreams, he takes my hand, squeezes it tight and says, “As you wish...”

Friday, March 26th, 2021 (afternoon)

You held my heart in the palm of your hand, and even though I wanted to go with you, you gave it back to me Wednesday for safe keeping, I sent you on your journey with my thumbprint in your palm so you may carry me in your hand as I carry you in my heart. Our wedding vows were all about choice, and that day I said, “I choose you.” No one chooses to go through this pain, and if I had known then how it would end, I would still choose you, a million times over. I love you, Brian Kawa, and I choose to celebrate you every day for the rest of my life. 7/29/78  -  3/24/21

Saturday, March 27th, 2021

Yesterday I slept. I think I talked to your sister and your grandma hours before I actually woke up. It was after 4pm. I never sleep this long, but if I’m awake less does that mean I will miss you less? I have yet to find that balance. The pillow is wet when I open my eyes. Yesterday I ate. I looked around the kitchen at the generous piles of condolence cookies and “take care of Brian’s wife” snack packs and I heard your voice. It said, “do you want me to help you put this away?” Then three seconds later it said, “how about now?” And I laughed. As kind the gesture, the spread on the kitchen table would have driven you crazy. So I cleaned out a cabinet. I moved the crock pot that we got for our wedding... I thought it was pretty and you made some beautiful meals in it, but I don’t cook so I moved it behind a different door. I put some of the items your friends brought into the fridge. It’s usually a treasure trove of Brian cooked surprises... a special breakfast ready to microwave that you made me the night before, a salad beautifully prepared and wrapped with love... yesterday I managed to eat the hard boiled egg you left for me, but that story is for another time. Today I stared at all of this food, all of these choices, and I couldn’t bring myself to even open a box. I kept hearing you tell me to eat, but I didn’t know where to start. And somehow you heard me. And somehow you reached out. And somewhere in New York, Christine heard your plea. I was on the phone with her when someone knocked on the door and stood there with the word she felt you had whispered... pizza. So I ate pizza. I chose the smallest slice and before I knew it, I had eaten two... which was probably a mistake but I was so hungry. I’ve lived on jello for a week... she asked why I ate two? I said I might vomit after the first, but if I ate one more and then threw up, maybe I’d keep the first one down? It made sense in the moment... So yesterday I slept - more hours than I thought possible. And yesterday I ate - two slices of pizza, and a fist full of antacid. Even in death, you take care of me. (And encourage me to clean the house.) #ILoveYouBrianKawa

Monday March 29th, 2021

I thought the hardest chore I would face today would be taking out the garbage. You’ve never let me do it. In New York you had worried for my safety. You got upset with me that time I helped. “If something had happened to you…” you said. Since moving from the city, it never changed. You didn’t count it as a chore, but a service done out of love.

This would be the first time on my own -that little gesture made me feel like a princess- but it was even more painful because the rest of the bags were in the basement, and that’s where I found you… I still wasn’t ready. 

I called mom. She’s been struggling to find some way to “hold me” without having to hold me. I can’t handle touch just yet. The energy of their grief compounds with my grief and it’s just too much. So when I asked for her, she showed up to help me “normalize” a task that had left me paralyzed. It went smoothly, quicker than I expected, and we sat after and talked - about something, or nothing, I don’t much remember… it’s been impossible for me to latch onto details that aren’t centered around you.

She timed our talk with the sound of my voice. Listened as it got softer. And excused herself when I yawned. And once again I was alone.

I drank a bottle of water - everyone keeps on me to hydrate. I ate a few bites of yogurt, and looked at the dirty spoon in my hand. You know I hate putting dishes in the sink, that I prefer to load as I go. But the washer was full of clean dishes that I hadn’t gotten to since the world turned upside down. I didn’t imagine it would be a problem to empty it. I had no idea this would be the spoon that broke the camel’s back. It hit me. We have so many dishes. You loved to cook for people, I thought, that’s why. Loved. Past tense. And I cried. I put away a glass. And I cried. I put away the plates and I cried. I reached the utensil basket, and I sobbed. It was us. The yin and yang of cutlery. You put them in handle down, I do it handle up. And this was the last time I would see them this way. And I wasn’t ready.  But the dishes were dirty and you wouldn’t want me clinging to a spoon. Or a fork. my fork in the road. The small things sneak up on me. #ILoveYouBrianKawa

Wednesday, March 31st, 2021

There was a storm in the early hours of Wednesday morning, a torrential downpour that sounded like the rain showers app on your old phone. You loved the rain. I preferred crickets. So you merged the two into a perfect blend - the heavy base of the drops, the rhythmic tenor of the chirps, highlighted by an echo of wind… that I could feel, cold against my head? I slept with the window cracked to better hear the rain, and at some point, the temperature plummeted. I was so cold, and I pulled the covers tight and huddled down into the husband-size dip in our mattress. And I found warmth.

Startled, I awoke in the early afternoon. I hadn't slept that deeply, that fully comforted, since that last day at the hospital next to you. I've slept many hours since then, but this was somehow familiar as I woke in a sweat. Not from a fever, but the fond and familiar feeling of waking up next to my own personal radiator. You gave off so much heat… Had you seen I was shivering and covered me in warmth as I slept? That's how it felt, and I laid there, holding onto the feeling, that memory of you.

Then I heard the crash. The cats haven't handled this well. How could they really? They don't know what happened. They only know that one night a barrage of people with heavy boots and flashing lights burst into our home and took their person away. It was loud. It was scary. And you never came home. They've been clingy; I've been gentle. I've tried to talk to Pugsly the way you do, but my tone is female, and she looks at me like, "what are you doing," and I think of that scene in "Liar, Liar" when Cary Elwes does "the claw," and the kid is not impressed… People always said you looked like Cary Elwes - especially in The Princess Bride.

But the crash... Thomas did this one. I think it was his last great effort to rouse you out of hiding. When it didn't work, when I was the one who appeared, the look of shame and regret was all over his little face. I thought only dogs did that. And then I saw what had broken. And my heart ached. But I understood he too ached, and I couldn't be mad at him. I would break everything in this house if I thought it would bring you back to me. But with Easter fast approaching, it was strongly appropriate that he chose the little snuggling bunnies figurine I had put in your easter basket one year. It was technically a ring holder, but I thought it was adorable, and since you called me your Snuggle Bunny, I had laughed and said, "Look, it's us!" 

And it was us - shattered and broken - lying in pieces on the floor. I wasn't mad. I haven't been mad. I've been desperate, I've been scared, I've been gutted, I've been impressed and awed, I've been thankful, I've been destroyed, I've been blessed… I've been so many things, but I haven't been mad. Maybe someday that will come. Perhaps it will surprise me. But today, I picked up my sweet chunky boy of a cat, the cat you nicknamed "The Foreman," the cat who was always so interested in what you were doing you would pull up a chair and "teach him how to cook" or talk him through how to tie shoes… I used to laugh at how ridiculously adorable it was. And each time, you reminded me of another reason why I'm so in love with you, why I'm still in love with you.

I held our middle "child" until he felt it was enough, and as I gathered the dust bin and broom to sweep away literal pieces of our memories, I didn't cry. I don't know if I was "cried out" for a few hours, or if I was still in a surreal state from feeling your warmth, or if it was because this little figurine was completely replaceable… But I do know that I woke with that weight, that sense of heaviness lifted, and that heaviness had a name. It was my fear. And my fear feels… gone.

Thursday, April 1st, 2021

"Oh my God, I'm so tired," I told Christine. "I need to write my journal entry, but today has been a lot, and I'm so tired."

"That's your first line," She said.

"What? That I'm tired?"

"Yes. It's what you're feeling. So write that."

So here it is, Baby. I am so tired. Today has been a lot.

I got out of bed earlier than I had been. I think it was still morning - it might have been afternoon - I'm not really sure - I just know that even though the cats have been so patient with me, the symphony of empty food bowls became harder to ignore as they echoed louder and louder up the stairs. "Feed the cats before they eat you." I wanted so badly to shove my foot against you and say, "You do it." Obviously, they were hungry because you didn't top off the bowls before you came to bed. But I was the one who forgot. You and I would never again rock-paper-scissors for chores. So I rolled out of my cocoon and tended to the three other living creatures in the house. Your designated earthly angles have been feeding me and addressing my needs, and I forgot our cats don't have thumbs. 

I decided to change out of your pajama pants today. They've had brief pauses this week for showers and taking out the garbage (just in case something leaked), but my goal for the day was to establish some sense of - not "normal" and not routine, but something different than the fog that followed me. Like that cloud of dust that clung to Pig Pen in the Peanuts cartoon? Does that make sense? I can't fully explain it, but maybe establishing new daily goals and adopting some of yours would keep me from becoming stuck and make me feel close to you at the same time? It was worth a try, at least.

I didn't get too crazy. I can hear Bill Murray saying, "Baby steps to the door. Baby steps to the elevator. Baby steps to the lobby." And I can hear you laughing and quoting your favorite moments in "What About Bob?" I loved watching that movie with you. I loved watching you watch that movie even more. So my point is, I may have changed out of your pajamas, but I wasn't ready to shed your clothes just yet.

So I'm wearing your jeans. And your shirt. And it was cold today, so I wore your jacket. And I'm reminded once again how irritating it was that our hips were the same size, but I'm now grateful with how easily I can get into your pants (and I laughed out loud because I totally heard you jump in with "That's what she said.")

I made the bed. I hate doing that. It's one of those things I find redundant, but you found comforting. I tried to float the blankets through the air like you and let Pugsly run and hide beneath, but she just stared at me. I can't do that right either. Maybe she feels like it would be cheating on you to enjoy your games with someone else? I get it. I have swift moments of guilt every time I think of some possibility for the future. Because I have one, and we do not.

I finished some paperwork. Thankfully, I still have health insurance for a little while. The worry I had over that question wasn't solely my own, and I felt you breathe a sigh of relief as well. I sent out the forms for your memory card and filled out others. I emailed and texted. I made phone calls and banged my head against the desk when I got bounce-back replies or incorrect phone numbers.

Lunch arrived. Ruth is a beautiful soul. She remembers you fondly, and I think we will bond someday over our similar circumstance in loss. For now, she hands me the bags of lovingly selected and beautifully prepared entrees, with an open invitation to join her for dinner - when I'm ready.

I was so excited about my omelet. When I got the first meal from Knobby's Deli yesterday and saw it was the garden omelet breakfast, I laughed, and I cried. So I asked for it again today. I love that Chris had no idea, and yet she chose the one meal you would always bring to me when you didn't feel like cooking breakfast.

Today when I opened the container, I felt you say, "Slow down." I ate too fast yesterday, and my stomach paid for it. I heard you say, "Presentation is part of Experience." I looked at the styrofoam container and felt you scowl. So I divided the food in half, plated the pieces in a novice but pleasing way (even wiped the excess vegetable juice from the plate). I put the coffee in your favorite mug (that old fashion diner-style mug I bought you with the rooster on it?) At least I think it was your favorite. You made a show of using it any time I made you coffee.

I answered the phone today - even calls from other than immediate family. Only a few, though. Baby steps, after all.

Robin brought me another protein smoothie and an offer of ducks. I'm not ready for public yet, but she introduced me to a quiet place very few people know about, where I can feed the ducks and get some fresh air in solitude and silence. When we pulled up to the wooden fence, a beautiful black crow sat perched on the board. It stared at me, tilted its head back in a moment of connection, and flew away. And I laughed. I feel like you were telling me something. That this was a cool place, and I should come here. I should breathe. I should feed the ducks.

When we were leaving, we ran into a gentleman caring for the grounds, and we struck up a short conversation that extended into one of the most hilarious encounters I have experienced in decades. This man could not be real. You had to have sent him. His accent... The stories he told... The laughter that poured out of my body - it shot out like a cannon - and Baby, it healed something. And I kept grabbing Robin's leg like I would grab yours when I tried to speak without words, and we laughed and laughed until we said goodnight and parted ways.

My cousin brought dinner and video games to my door, and my aunt and beautiful 90-year-old grandmother brought me soup… and I let her hug me. She is so precious and so strong. And she, too, knows the loss of a husband. She prayed so diligently for both you and for me. Prayer warriors on your side and mine. The matriarchs… Though they be but little, they are fierce…

So, yeah. I am so tired. It's been a day. But it was a good, good day.

Friday is going to be rough. Friday, it will be a week since I was last able to hold you. A week since I said goodbye for the very last time. So I think Thursday was so full for me to soak up all of the goodwill and laughter and beautiful connections I could get. Because it's now Friday, and I'm going to need every tool at my disposal. Because I miss you... Today is going to be rough. #ILoveYouBrianKawa

Friday, April 2nd, 2021

"I am so proud of you. I am. I am so very proud of you." Those last few seconds, I held your hand before they took you away. These are the words I said. "I love you. I am so proud of you." And then the elevator doors closed, and you were gone.

The swirl of emotions that rushed around me blocked out every other thought, every other person in my vicinity. I was completely unaware of Mom gathering reinforcements to catch me should I fall. When I turned, I saw the doctors and nurses, still standing at attention like troops bringing a fallen soldier home, refusing to break lines until they knew that I was ok. I don't know that I'll ever be "ok," but I thanked them from the bottom of my heart for everything they did for us. They were hurting, too. You've changed so many lives, even after death.

I am in awe at how hard you fought to keep your body strong even though it was no longer a victory you would win for yourself. The lives that you saved that day. The quality of life you improved for so many others. The two who can literally sing "was blind, but now I see…" Brian, you are amazing. I love you. I am so proud of you. 

It hurts me to realize I didn't tell you this enough in our day-to-day. I told you I love you with every breath - that you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt. But did you know how proud I was? How impressed and grateful, how moved by your generosity and kindness? Did I ever actually say those words? Did you know?

"Are you busy?" You sent me this text a few weeks ago. My reply, "I'm at work." But I work from a room in our house. You were just on the other side of the door, and I didn't walk through it. I love my job, but I could have taken a break. If I could go back in time and say, "I'll be right there," I'd do it. I don't care if it was to clean a litter box or scrub the toilet. I should have said, "I'll be right there." But I didn't. And I'll never have that moment back.

I have so many photos of you with our cats. I only have two of us since the pandemic began. My hair was a mess. I didn't have make-up... so many excuses. Your protests of "Why are you taking selfies of us?" led me to no longer take out my phone when it was just us two. This last year, it was constantly just the two of us. And the cats. And I don't have any photos. Why didn't I take the photos? The last one I have was from February. And though you jokingly pushed my hand away, I insisted that you smile with me. And you did, followed by your best Grandma Marie voice saying, "You better not put that on Space Book." And I didn't intend to, but it's the last photo of us together outside of the hospital. And I miss your face. I miss seeing your face with mine. I should have just taken the pictures…

I'd love to say our life together had no regrets. For the most part, that's true. But the biggest regrets I'm finding are the little things that didn't seem to be significant at the time… Who would have thought we'd have so little time?

If I had it to do all over again? Would I learn from these missteps? Would I chuck all of the belongings that I don't actually need and insist that we live in that tiny house on the beach? Would we have been brave enough to bounce around the world with only our backpacks on that journey to experience life? Did we have to have the two bedrooms and a garage when we were perfectly happy to have just each other? Just you. You were enough. You were more than enough. You were my world. And I pray to God I never left you doubting how much you mean to me.  #ILoveYouBrianKawa

Sunday, April 4th, 2021

Have a beautiful Easter Sunday. " That's what I've been writing to family and friends. I start to type the standard "Happy Easter," and I can't do it. Happy? Seriously? What is happy?

We had planned for a Happy Easter. We were supposed to be in Michigan this weekend. You got your hair cut, specifically to surprise Grandma; I was bringing my bunny ear headbands, and we were going to do "Selfies with Marie." A quick drive up, quick drive back, jam-packed with Happy. Now I feel like "happy" belongs in the same box as the word "normal," and that box needs to be taped up, jumped on, and set on fire.

Hopeful. That's a word I can get behind. Peaceful. I found moments of that today. Blindsided and Triggered, those happened as well, but it all began with Disoriented.

I've been sleeping on your side of the bed for a few reasons. It started with that intense need to feel close to you, anywhere you've been, especially where you sleep, to bury my face in your pillow and sink into the shape of your body. Then I felt the need for a sightline since I can't see the stairs from my side, and they creak at night like someone is walking up them. My heart longs for it to be you, but my fear cries, "What if it's not?" The final reason I've been sleeping in your spot, I anticipated, and unfortunately experienced today. I haven't just "not seen you" in my dreams, I've had no dreams what-so-ever, so when I fully sleep, it's like it clears my memory. And this time, in halfway migrating to "my side of the bed" to snuggle with Zeeke, for a brief second this morning, when I opened my eyes and reacclimated my senses, I forgot you weren't beside me. Then it hit me like a Maverick wave, and I once again drowned in heartache. It's probably my body protecting itself, allowing the much-needed space to heal, but please, give me dreams over sucker punches that take my breath away.

Last night I told Christine about the invitation for Easter at our cousin's house. Open invite, no pressure, the weather was supposed to be gorgeous; we would be outside... She made me promise to go, even if I didn't feel like it when I woke up. "Set a timer if you have to," she said, "like that Thanksgiving episode of 'Will & Grace.' Be in the proximity of family for at least thirty minutes if you can manage, and then you can go home. You want to. You're just scared. Baby steps, remember?"

Mom said she would drive me. I wonder if she and Chris conspired with one another because she suggested that I drive to her house on my own rather than her back-tracking to get me. She said she would, obviously, but thought it might be good for me to drive for a few minutes.

I'm not going to lie. I panicked a little. Driving used to be my release. You know how grounded I feel on the road. Long trips are my happy place. And it's not like I haven't driven to Mom and Daddy's on my own before. It wasn't going to be "a first" without you, yet I couldn't see myself behind the wheel of a car right now. But I told Mom I'd try.

I looked at my Easter dress hanging on the rack. Instead, I went to your drawer and pulled out a pair of Buckle jeans and that long-sleeve t-shirt Ann and Tony got you for Christmas. Will I ever wear my clothes again? I can't even think about dressing up these days. I'm walking around in a security blanket styled by you. I'm not sure how long that will last, but for now, it helps me feel safe. Baby steps to the front door. Baby steps to the car. I needed to feel secure, and though I sat in my driver's seat, the key in the ignition, I couldn't bring myself to close the car door. So, I sat there, with my door wide open, for ten minutes, just working up the nerve to start the engine. I did, finally, get going, and I managed to get three whole blocks before I had to pull over. Blindsided. By the Foo Fighters.

I forgot that my phone would connect to my car radio. I forgot that it would play the last song I had opened in my playlist. Other than the song on Lisa's record from the other day, and one that Jacque wrote and sent to me, I've been living in complete silence. And suddenly, gloriously, Dave Ghrol's voice blared through my speakers. "Stranger things have happened, I know," but I sobbed like a baby for about a minute and then progressed to singing along at the top of my lungs, crying my eyes out, and banging the roof of my car to the beat of the drums. I'm sure the people who passed me thought I was insane, but I promise I didn't snap. I just needed to ride that wave until the last chord, and then I would carry on (with "Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace.")

I finally got to see Daddy today. I hadn't seen him for a week or so before this all happened. Since coming home, I tried to quarantine as long as possible from being at the hospital, but I couldn't do it any longer. Hearing his voice on the phone is one thing; seeing his eyes is another. I couldn't hug him physically, but he held me with his eyes, and I cried. "You probably think you look terrible, but you look like my little girl," he said. I had my hair pulled back into a ponytail, and your clothes are a little big on me. I looked like a kid, but I felt ancient.

I took Mom to Kevin and Kim's. I drove the whole way. I didn't want to ride shotgun to my fears anymore, and I told her if I hadn't promised to pick her up, I probably would have driven straight to Alabama. That was the direction I was going, and I'm not sure if I would have stopped then even. I might have kept going until I got to the ocean. But I had made a plan, and I had a destination for the day, so I put Mom in the passenger seat, and I drove to Pierce.

I kept the music going for the entire drive. I talked a little, sang along to some lyrics, hoped the 'possum I passed was actually dead and not just faking it... it felt good. But when I got there, anxiety stabbed, and I hid behind my mask, thankful for its cover.

Everyone who wasn't hunting for golden eggs sat in lawn chairs around the yard, and although there were empty options, I couldn't bring myself to sit down. I was glad to be there but frozen in place on this edge of a circle of family.  

I think I managed an hour? I didn't look at my clock, so I'm not sure, but it was peaceful beneath their tree in the front yard with the munchkins playing on the swing, and I stayed longer than I had initially thought I could handle. But I panicked when I looked around and didn't see Mom. She wasn't anywhere in the yard, and I didn't remember her leaving. Did she tell me where she was going? Did I not hear her say? I tried not to show it, but I started flipping out. I was triggered. I didn't know where she was, and my mind spun wildly about all the ways she was hurt and alone, and no one knew where she was. "She went inside to get some food," Alda Ree said. Did she feel my energy shift? Had I panicked out loud? I was suddenly exhausted, and I realized that this, this, was going to be a massive problem for me. This is going to be an entire therapy session. Someone leaves without telling me, needs help, and I can't save them. The fact that I recognized the crippling impact this could hold over me was an insight into myself that I hadn't anticipated. I didn't stay much longer after that. It wasn't Mom's fault. I know she's going to read this and feel responsible, but I'm thankful that she helped me to find this issue early. I don't know that I'll ever "get over" this renewed sense of separation anxiety, but I did see that it drained me, and I needed to get home.

These four walls have been my sanctuary. They've been my school. It's calming and familiar, and I'm hopeful I'll soon be able to function in public. Even though the day began with a jolt, there were moments of peace. To accept and discuss the other feelings, I think this means someday I will find release. Another therapy session will be how guilty I will feel when that happens, but for now, baby steps. Maybe I should get a goldfish and name him Gil... Too much? #ILoveYouBrianKawa

Tuesday, April 6th, 2021

I drove my car on Sunday. Sat in the driver's seat, turned the ignition, pulled onto the road, and started on a journey. And you sent me a song. And I sobbed.

I drove my car today. Sat in the driver's seat, turned the ignition, pulled onto the road, and started on a journey. And you sent me a song. And I laughed. "Oh, you're hilarious," I said. It was "Accidentally in Love." The music we walked down the aisle to after saying, "I do." The whole reason it was available for my phone to randomly select in the first place was that it was part of our wedding playlist. And there it was. Exactly what I needed.

I was headed to the bank to shuffle some funds so I can bring you home soon. It wasn't the way I wanted or even expected when I packed my overnight bag to be with you at the hospital. I had put more comfort items for you in my suitcase than I packed for myself. I just wanted you to be ok. And every time I get in my car, I feel like you're letting me know that you are. You're ok. And you want me to be ok, too. 

I told Jon tonight that I feel like I'm walking through a minefield of emotions each day, but I'm trying. He said that at least it implies movement. And I think that's a good thing. But I'm restraining myself from too much "movement" at the moment. Any judge can see I'm a flight risk.

Most everyone seems relieved that my passport expired on the 15th of last month. The ides of March. How random is that? I meant to renew it but forgot. Now, if I do, will alarm bells go off? Will I be surrounded by well-meaning friends and family, making sure I don't do anything rash? Would a trip to the Costa Rican sloth sanctuary be considered impulsive? We had plans to do just that. What about packing up an RV and doing the haunted ghost tour around the United States? It was on our bucket list. We talked about taking a break to live with friends in Australia and helping with the lychee harvest. Why did we wait? I have a powerful urge to do all of those things, right now, tomorrow. Maybe not tomorrow. I hope to bring you home tomorrow.

I think I filed all of the paperwork. I have money set aside for the bills. I didn't realize it would take this long. I can only imagine that is part of why I feel like a balloon, battered by the wind. Or a tetherball. Oh, Napoleon Dynamite. You had some pretty sweet skills, Baby, but you might as well be out "hunting wolverines in Alaska with your uncle" because the process has left me searching. You're not with me. When I have you in my hands, will that be the closure I need? Or am I building up the story so much that I'll be devastated should nothing change? See? Minefield.

Maybe I should sit in my car and see what pops up on the radio. But now I'm worried if I listen to the stations as I used to, will it change from a feeling that you're speaking "directly to me" into "this song only reminds me of you?" Will time make the moments less specific? Maybe that's why I'm writing. To make sure I don't forget any detail, because nothing is an accident. Everything between us has always felt like Destiny. And though I don't know what the future holds, I know that I won't take anything for granted. And I will take time to be still and to listen. And I will have moments that I leap into the unknown, and I'll be ok because you've seen where I'm landing. Though you're not with me physically, we're still on this journey together. Mr. and Mrs. Brian Ray Kawa. Accidentally, purposefully, destined to be eternally in love.

Thursday, April 8th, 2021

I had to google these, but they are a great reminder, even for those who aren’t religious. 

“A gossip betrays a confidence; so, avoid anyone who talks too much.” Proverbs 20:19

“Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.” Ephesians 4:29

I almost didn’t write tonight. Details of idyl gossip reached my ears. Speculation spun as truth has erupted the Anger Stage I thought I skipped. It consumed my day, kept me from pursuing planned outlets beneficial to my health, and caused me to feel actual, legitimate pain. 

Now that I have addressed the hijacking of my daily pursuit to find joy in grief, I will focus instead on what started as an amazing day of love and service, beginning with the largest box of fully prepped meals, I’ve ever seen.

It might have been bigger than me. I think I could make a comfortable bed from this box. I got so excited to take a photo, because I knew you would have felt like we won the food lottery. It might literally take me an entire week to eat it all. Breakfast, lunch, dinner and dessert, all lovingly wrapped to feed my body, the gesture of love and service, to feed my soul. I keep laughing that the portions sizes you lovingly called “Jenny-Size-Meals” have multiplied in the attempt to feed me through the fog. And it was actually exciting, going through the containers - like a kid at Christmas. I seriously might have a dream about that garden omelet tonight. Hopefully any dreams I have are light, though. I’m working through an intense, heavy anxiety built by anticipation for Friday. I don’t know what to expect, except that I finally get to bring you home Friday afternoon. That part I’m looking forward to. It’s the rest of the unknown that spins a horror story in my brain. 

Mom is going with me, and being that she helped to literally create me, she understands my need for random moments of lively banter and a sudden desire for complete silence. Also, you know I don’t ask for help often, so when I do lately, she’s been my rock, and an absolute warrior these past few weeks.

I got to FaceTime with my niece and nephew today. Brycen introduced me to all of the new filters that didn’t know were on there. I never thought we were old before, but for real, we’re old. I rarely video chat with people. I mean, why do that to myself? I keep having episodes of The Jetsons run through my head where the characters have a literal “made up” mask next to the “phone” in case someone calls before they’ve fixed their face. Now I realize that mask is called a filter. Some of them are really funny, and the laughter of children was once again the spiritual medicine I needed.

He asked me at one point though, “What happened to Uncle Brian?” And I tried my best to explain what an aneurysm was without triggering fear in him for his parents and other people he loves. I have a difficult time understanding it myself sometimes, but I’m getting there. It just takes time.

I spoke with your mom about your memorial bench tonight. I still think I made the right choice in having a bench rather than a stone. I can just see you offering to go to your car and get a chair for someone visiting the grave of a loved one. Grief is exhausting, and this way your generous nature will extend to those who just need a moment. Like your mother. No parent should have to bury their own child, and she is going to need a comfortable place to rest when she visits with you.

I’m reminded of “The Giving Tree” when the tree thought she was spent and had nothing left to give, she said, “Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.” “And the boy did. And the tree was happy.”