Ahh Jamaica... Feel Alright.

I am desperately trying to hold on to my Jamaica-state-of-mind. And the return to NYC has been a challenge. Our week in Montego Bay was beautiful - Lily digs the island life. She spent every day exploring gardens, the beach, and the pool. Chasing birds, collecting rocks, backing up to steps to perch on, climbing up and down, up and down, up up and then down down every stair, digging in sand and taking dips in the pool and ocean. Drunk with limitless energy.

She loves the sound of blenders.

She has inherited my flare for what Alan referred to as my interpretive dance and moved with delight to the pianist every evening at the bar. Between songs and sips of water she handed off her purse to every man she could find and then, on cue, returned to the dance floor.

She collected flowers and mini unripe avocados and followed the gardener each morning.

She enjoyed rinsing the sand off her feet at the garden hose and now quite enjoys a gushing faucet.

She napped as though she had never slept before.

How she has grown in just one week. This morning I peeked out of the kitchen to check in on her and there she was, standing and smiling on the couch. She is very near climbing out of her crib and I'm not sure how to handle all of this. Confinement does not agree with Lily and last week was utter bliss for her.

I felt good to be in the warm sun and to take her swimming for the first time. See her warm up to the gentle lapping waves that spilled over her toes. There were so many families there and she made a point of meeting the other kids. It was hard seeing dads with them, I couldn't help but imagine Alan with Lily in his arms gliding across the surface of the pool or taking her on a walk down intriguing garden paths - they would have relished together in the environment. But it feels good to say that we did just fine on our own, though we saw him in the moon and the stars and heard him in the bird calls and the crickets' evening songs. My mother was with us - so together, the three of us played and explored, indulging in energetic days, and soporific balmy evenings. Lily was known to all the staff (as though they went back years together) and I was known as Lily's mom and her Jiji was known as Lily's grandmother. I didn't mind being nameless, she's my connector and conduit to my newly changed world - she is the best of travelling companions.

Earth Girl.

Sometimes I really long for California. For Lily especially. If she had been born there, she would have been fourth generation on my side - and I want so much for her to experience living in such a beautiful and peaceful place, it is in her genes, her geographical DNA. Though her ancestors come from abroad she has good old-American stock and when I watch her in motion, she is indeed a pioneer. She is an intrepid explorer, and when she's on the march, she forges on, with little turning back. She chases birds, has noticed her shadow, enjoys dirt and sticks, ditches and sand. How I wish I could take her to play amid the redwoods, smell the damp earth, hear the quiet babble of creeks hidden by ferns and greenery, feel the soft moss, rub her cheeks on the furry bark of ancient trees. I'd like to take her cardboard sliding on the tall brown grass that blankets the rolling hills and let her feel the crisp air in places like Tahoe, dip her toes in it's cool water, let her lug a giant pinecone around.

It amazes me that our girl can fall asleep on warm evenings, windows open, even if a car alarm is going off or people are yelling in the street. But I'd much prefer her world to have more music and less noise - for her to fall asleep to fog-horns or barking seals. I remember watching Sesame Street when I was little and the stoop was so cool - I had never seen anything like the buildings in its neighborhood. Only the trash can I recognized. Now when I watch it with Lily perched in my lap, transfixed, hands resting softly on my legs, I see her world. The one in which she is now very much a part. Her landscape is very different than the one I knew as a child - how I'd love her to experience both worlds. Her dad was a Brooklyn boy, and I grew up in Northern Ca. suburb - and Lily is very much a city kid. But I know she'd also flourish in a more outdoorsy place, where she could thrive in another way.

This weekend we are off to Jamaica and I'm looking forward to letting Lily play with clean, pure sand, in fresh fresh air. Perhaps all I/we need is a brief respite from the Big Apple but I am excited for her to be somewhere lush and easygoing, where the vibes are gentler and pace, slower. She is already a Marley fan so I think we're well on our way.

In my dreams.

Last night I dreamt about Alan. He briefly appeared and it was good to be with him. He seemed happy, carefree and it had been months since I'd seen him. He was healthy. His neurosurgeon was in it too but Alan didn't care, and his doctor's presence seemed incidental. Regardless, to see someone so dear to you who's passed on - is a gift. Nights continue to be dark, though just as my mind was spinning the other night, Lily giggled in her sleep. That moment, too, was a gift and it put my mind at rest. To hear her dreams aloud in such happy moments help to ease my mind. There was a moment a month or so ago where she awoke crying and when I checked on her she was standing in her crib, arms raised in front of her, hands wringing together a la Lady Macbeth as she wept. What could upset such a little spirit so early in her years? I hope it was fleeting, her life is too new.

I don't think that Alan, Lily and I were in my dream together. That would have been even better. I'll wait. But the past few mornings Lily has taken his picture in her hands when she wakes. Perhaps he's been in hers.

Sometimes it's just too much. Got a comment the other day from someone infamously yet unwittingly insensitive about the fact I still have my wedding ring on and it got to me. I'm in awe of people who can sprint through life without taking a moment to take a deep breath and actually pause for some self reflection. Listen to the words that come out of their mouths, consider the person on the receiving end of those exclamations, stop - really stop to consider how their thoughts might be felt by someone else. But the people who say those things, generally aren't capable of much introspection - possibly because the running they're busying themselves with 24/7 is an escape from their own demons. If they ever really had the strength to contemplate what I have been through, what I face daily, or tried to imagine what it might be like to go through it themselves it just might be too painful. I get it, and know the intention wasn't to hurt. I'm generally able to let it roll right over me but this time - it just got me to the core.

I think I'm doing pretty damn well as a women who lost her husband of ten months twenty-one months ago, and brought a child into the world eight months later. I will always feel married to Alan. Will I ever find room in my heart for someone else? Maybe. I did for Lily and while I loved her the second I knew a baby was growing within, I worried about my ability to love so fully again . She proved me wrong the second she started her acrobatic midnight performances when I was pregnant and jump-started my heart the second I laid eyes on her, held her in my arms, seconds after she was born. Might I love someone else again? Anything is possible, but I still long for Alan, he was my man, my other half, the father of our girl.

Everyday Blues.

Sunday morning I slipped out to a restaurant, tax prep materials in hand while Lily went out with her grandmother. It was a cool but sunny spring day and I felt good. I could relax, enjoy a quiet breakfast, tally some ominous numbers and not feel as rushed as I usually do. And as I happily brought my perfectly toasted, perfectly melted, scrambled egg sandwich to my mouth a thought interrupted my momentary near-enjoyment;

"God damn. I am so sad."

There it was. Didn't even see it coming. No warning sign as with my migraines, or a rude postal worker, it just showed up. Reared it's ugly head and knocked the wind out of me. And Lily is the most beautiful antidote for pain but even she, the second wonder of my world, can't always soften the blow. My heart just constantly aches and I am still getting used to the fact that it's never going to go away. Nothing the sandwich could do about it either. I have marvelled recently at the fact that even though I have always loved food and relished in anything delicious, nothing tastes that good to me anymore. Truly. Ever since Alan floated away nothing satisfies other than holding Lily. Foods I once loved no longer do it for me. Of course I still go after them, in hopes that perhaps I'm merely having an off day (or else the chef is) but as a food lover, it's as though I've lost one of my senses. The deadening continues even though every day I really do choose life. It's just this constant gnawing. Sondheim sums it up aptly in "Everyday a Little Death" - it's written and sung in a different context but I hear it as the more you love the more you hurt and the more you have to love, the more you have to loose. How very true. How tricky life is. Well worth it, but painfully true.

Oh New York

The weekend was a beautiful one. Spring has begun to show itself and it was liberating to come out of hibernation with a t-shirt on. Lily has hit the park over the last few days with only a sweatshirt - so she is even more agile when it comes to collecting bits of nature wherever she roams. Unfortunately yesterday, the second we got to the playground my daughter made a beeline for every single piece of trash in sight. First it was a shopping list, then a popsicle wrapper, then a juice box. Not sure Woodsy Owl would be pleased - of course Lily was drawn to their color and shine - but I found myself overjoyed to fish leaves and sticks and pebbles out of her mouth because at least they weren't trash. I love NYC but I don't love the carelessness with which people throw wrappers into the street, toss cans and bottles into bushes. I remember Alan berating me for berating a man in Times Square for littering - it took me a few years to understand that in New York City, people aren't all approachable and that confrontation can take a life if you're not careful. But when it comes to the playground it saddens me to see it - Lily saw a plastic bag flutter toward the play structure and while it did have its own beauty as it floated through the air I didn't want her chasing it. On the subway recently some teenage kid glared at me and told me to switch seats and yesterday I sat next to a foul mouthed girl on the train who was proud of her attitude and seeming toughness. All of the sudden I am now regarding the world through the watchful eyes of a parent and I'm even less in love with what I see and hear. Grit is fine, dirt is fine and I love that this city is overflowing with color and music and plenty of unusual and dimensional personalities. But my child is defenseless, and a sponge for all that she sees and hears. She is beautifully undescriminating and I have much to learn from her. But I often feel like a mine detector these days, constantly on the look out for danger ahead. It is a joy to see her fast asleep at night, arms sprawled over head, one knee bent and flopped to the side, the other leg carelessly hanging between the rungs of her crib. In her most quiet moments it is a relief to see her so free - wandering safely in the confines of her dreams.

More firsts.

Everywhere I look, I see families. That was the hardest thing about Valentines Day. Not seeing couples on dates, Alan and I weren't big on the holiday, but seeing new parents out with their babes celebrating their new love as a family. That hurt. I was out and about, frantically doing errands while a sitter watched over Lily and I was almost oblivious to the day except for the families I saw in cafes and on corners. Many widows struggle with images of happy couples, walking the streets in bliss, but that never really gets to me. I'm genuinely pleased for their love and it reminds me that I, too, had it. It was short lived, but I was graced with it. But when I see parents together, oggling over their little ones - exchanging glances with one another, speaking that language that only parents share with one another, that is painful. My envy is immeasurable.

And that is how it goes. I am showered with photos of friends and their newborns, or families on momentous occasions and just like wedding photos, they consist of all family combinations and parent/baby portraits - I am fine until I see the father/child segment and then I fall apart. I recently had to see a slide show of images that covered close to forty years of a marriage and as the images progressed I had to avert my eyes. So many memories, trips, parties, moments - it was unbearable. Beautiful, but much too painful to watch.

How I wish I had just one photo of Alan adoring Lily.

This last weekend she turned one. She had a ball on her birthday, I think she knew it was a special day. In the morning she played the guitar and pet her new rocking horse, midday she celebrated with a hearty portion of mac and cheese with family and other mac and cheese loving kiddies, and she toddled all afternoon with energy she must have been reserving for the day. She was all smiles and busier than usual - had no time for cake, or naps. Sunday she went for her first haircut. Dramatic as it was she remains a stunner, inside and out, and even though she refuses hair-clips, I can now see her dreamy eyes once again. As I wheeled her home - locks of hair attached to a certificate - carefully tucked away, I longed for Alan. These are moments of a lifetime, and I feel such guilt that he's been deprived of them, and such sadness that we couldn't share the experience together. Lily's new "do" brings her even closer in resemblance to her father but as I observe her everchanging behavior and evolving personality she really is one of a kind. I know if he were here that we'd marvel at her animated antics - in jest we'd look suspiciously at each other if she did something "inherited", and we'd celebrate with humor and affection our truly unique sprite.

Just yesterday morning I caught a glimpse of her as she fairy flew (as her grandmother so aptly put it)the distance of her crib. It was 6:14am, and I've no idea what it was in her little mind that propelled her with such excitement as she reached the other rail - but she was awake and full of life, ready to cover more ground. I cannot believe we've already journeyed for a year together - quite a milestone for the two of us and her everloving dad.

Baby Steps.

I read the other day on a widow's board about a woman's concern that a year and half "out" she was no longer a neat freak, had little care for her appearance, was eating junk food and all she could do was get food on the table for her kids. She was wondering if her current state was something to worry about. What followed were seven to ten posts by women all experiencing the same thing. Any of them could easily have been mine. Recently, along with the usual grief which does not fade, I've been consumed with similar thoughts. (Alan interjection: Neat freak? OK, fine. Not that part. And I'm not eating junk food. But I really just care about what goes into Lily's body.) And although it is not a new problem with me, I now struggle with the push and pull of that horrible feeling of apathy coupled with the desire to reclaim bits of my former life that I miss. Much of me, on an intellectual level, is beginning to yearn for elements of earlier, happier times - whether it's seeing live music, going to a show, visiting a museum or just socializing. But the second I contemplate those, until now, nascent feelings, I slip back into the darkness and am immediately overwhelmed by those thoughts. Much of me is afraid I can't handle it. I have been to restaurants, surrounded by the living, and wanted to weep. I hear music over a speaker and it is overpowering - the thought of live music is absolutely frightening. I'm not sure I can bear it. I'm not sure I can let something so evocative into my soul in a public setting. It is a force to reckon with. As much as I loath my current appearance, there is little motivation to change it. I am inspired in spurts but find myself quickly weighed down with melancholy. Being apathetic over almost everything is staggering for someone who once felt so charged with life.

It is much easier to look at the world through Lily's eyes than mine.

Through her I see all that is good. We look at birds and dogs and trash and dirt and to her, it is all an exploration, a wonder. She is all smiles and she begins every day with an open mind and excitement. She is fearless, or rather, she is unaware of consequence. She nose dives off of the bed or couch, she climbs up things and falls down regularly, often crashing into things first with impressive impact. And usually she's up before I can even check for injury. I love her carefree abandon, adventurous spirit and busy nature. She is a study in motion. She makes saying yes to life look easy, and her enthusiasm is infectious. Unbeknownst to her, she is luring me back into the world. It is odd to feel, as the parent, that I'm the one that needs training wheels - but that is where I am right now. Unsteady on my feet, afraid of more sadness and I still feel in my heart like an animal that is desperately looking for it's lost mate. I know much of Alan is alive and well in our soon to be one-year-old creation and at times I feel as though bits of my soul mate are waddling back and forth in front of me; bag of goldfish in one hand, keys in the other. Just last week when Lily awoke, the first thing she reached for from her crib was a picture of Alan that rests above it. She took the photo in her hands, then placed it in the crib, adjusted it a few times against the rungs and then decided she'd bring it with her while she had her morning drink. Moments like that reassure me that he remains very much a part of our lives. How little she knows how reassuring she is. My pint sized dose of life affirmation coaxing me into the present, drawing me into the future.

Mosey Girl.

Now that Lily is upright she's a wanderer. She is content with a set of keys or any item found along the way, in one hand, while she moseys around our cramped apartment. She explores every nook, and her route changes depending on the mission. She has become an effective transporter and re designer of all things. Books come off of shelves, shoes are moved to the shelves, shapes go inside of stacking cups, table top items within reach are slowly removed and casually discarded en route to somewhere else, and frequently she heads to the corner behind the bedroom chair where Alan's guitar lives. There she plucks a few strings, walks away for a few seconds and returns to make some more music. And it is music she plays - she plucks very deliberately and listens. This is no ordinary strummer, Lily is channeling her dad yet again. Just when I was envisioning her future as an interior decorator, I imagine her on a stage, guitar in hand and this time she's singing and playing. So many possibilities in a life so new. My favorite daydreams are about Lily's future and the (hopefully) carefree years that lie ahead. My dreams now are all for her, a new reality that I assume comes with parenting.

It never ceases to amaze me when she displays some mannerism or trait that resembles either me or Alan. Her moves are organic and instinctively driven - she bops to music, grabs her shaker for accompaniment, music moves her physically as it does me. She pitter patters quickly when hoping to catch a glimpse of the two kids who live around the corner, she is hungry to socialize with other children - both Alan and I loved making friends but her "aggressive" pursuit of others is all her own. Just yesterday in a store after paying for Lily's new shoes, I turned to find her zeroing in on a two year old boy who she ended up throwing herself on. She was smiling as she stood before him, belly to belly and then she just lunged. Her excitement over slightly older kids is palpable and to see her chase after the ones who live down the hall is beautiful to watch and gut wrenching to witness. How I already wish I could offer her a sister or brother - someone for her to push in a wagon, someone for her to push out of the way, someone with whom she can laugh and play with all day long. A partner in crime, and more family to go around. I want to give her so much and if I can't bring her dad back how I wish I could give her someone else. More for me to love with all my heart. Not an attempt to fill a void, just another step toward the picture that Alan and I had painted in our minds. And they could have each other for the rest of their lives, long after I'm gone.

As we near Lily's first birthday it amazes me to think that this time last year I was waiting for her entrance into the world, my loneliness and grief immeasurable. She kept me alive then just as she does now. I love waking up to her every morning, no matter how early. And when she falls asleep in my arms as she did two nights ago, hands folded across her chest in the exact same position as Alan would sleep, I count my blessings that this beautiful creature who is so busy by day and so still at night has come into my life. There is another person home with me now, who walks the floors that her dad graced and delights in so many curiosities that Alan and I knew she would. It breaks my heart he isn't here to see it - but perhaps he has the best view in the house.

Here we go.

Saturday, Lily and I went to her favorite restaurant for lunch. Thankfully she is now eating off the menu which makes our outings easier as I no longer have to pack a meal for her. She loves the diner. It is loud, bustling, has seats that attach to the table and if she's lucky, she'll be seated in a booth with a mirrored backdrop so she can show herself french fries in the reflection and leave her fingerprints behind. She eats with gusto, and is well practiced at loading up a mouthful as though food were going out of style. She devoured grilled cheese bits, fries, had some pancake and sausage - all while occasionally turning around to point to the men in the booth behind us. Lily now identifies everything as "dah" and typically she is quick to find all children in the restaurant. She then fixates on them, offering an occasional shriek or squeal to get their attention - and is thoroughly entertained as she eyes them while dabbling with containers of creamer and metal spoons. But Saturday it was all about the two men facing her when she turned around. And for a moment my heart sank. As she pointed to them she said "dah" and with that my mind began spinning. Immediately I wondered of she thought one of them was her dad. They really bore no resemblance to Alan but she sees pictures of him all the time and on a superficial level, they did share characteristics. They had scruffy faces and dark hair. Possibly enough for an eleven month old to believe. It was my first taste of "is she looking for him?" and I must brace myself for more similar experiences to come. I dread the ache she will feel when she sees other kids walking to school, swinging from the hands of parents on either side. I dread the absence she'll feel when being picked up at the end of the day. Many children face similar situations with just one parent but I am envious that some of them know that they'll see their father at dinner or perhaps he'll tuck them in that night. And if not that night, sometime soon they'll see them.

Some have told me that what children never know, they don't miss. That idea is both a comfort and nightmare. I want Lily to know who her dad is, was, I want her to know his many wonderful qualities. I want her to be able to imagine the softness of his voice, the strength of his arms, the warmth in his heart. I want her to feel as though his arms are always around her, and that whispers in the wind are his words of encouragement, that he's always there right by her side - In her steps as she walks with me to school, and in my excitement as I lift her into my embrace when I pick her up at day's end. I don't want her searching for him, I want her to know that she's found him within her. My greatest wish is that she feel complete - loved by us both, always.

More to fear, much to learn.

There is a horrifying article on the front page of the NY Time's today: "A Lifesaving Tool Turned Deadly". I had been warned not to read it but, of course, I felt compelled to do so. Despite the fact that the fight we were engaged in is over, I still feel compelled to follow medical updates that pertain to Alan's life, and my life. The fantasy is that it has nothing to do with the treatment that Alan endured, the horror rests in the fear that it does. And then more troubling, I will probably never know. The story tragically illuminates multiple, undisclosed until now, cases in which cancer patients were given fatally errant doses of radiation treatment. Computer glitches accompanied by incompetent staff have robbed many people of their lives - in essence, technology failed and then human negligence sealed the deal. What is most frightening is that never ever in our consideration of Alan's treatment did we concern ourselves with such a threat. We were aware of the risks of radiation and knew it came with its own problems but the illness outweighed the long term risks associated with the treatment. We consulted with doctors in San Francisco, Boston and New York city. We insisted on the "best" institutions and sought out the most highly recommended experts to handle Alan's case. But never did it cross our mind to inquire about software failure, computer crashes or inattentive staff.

When you're immersed in the world of cancer you are well aware of the physics that go into plotting your treatments. Numerous 360 degree scans are taken to zero in on the disease, tattoos are used as permanent markers by lab technicians as targets, a week can be spent plotting and programming radiation doses and beams, molds are taken to further ensure the patient is held completely still during sessions, sedatives are often used to keep patients relaxed and still for what are often excruciatingly long and claustrophobic appointments. I was always in awe of Alan's strength, inner calm and courage - he was subjected over the years to months of treatments. Some sessions lasted ten minutes, some an hour. It required infinite patience and he was heroic. I remember appointments when I'd be in the waiting room and after twenty minutes sometimes a tech would come out and kindly give me or other people updates on their loved ones. Sometimes it was "he's doing fine but we're having trouble lining him up with the machine", sometimes it was "she's having a rough time and we're having difficulty maintaining enough stillness to finish plotting - we'd like to let her go home for the day and try again tomorrow". Sometimes it was "we're getting him an atavan because it's taking us longer than usual". I remember one of the last sessions Alan had, our favorite nurse practitioner, Joan, came out and said "He's having a rough time in there today, he's doing OK now, but do you want to go back there for a bit?" I jumped at the opportunity. To hear that Alan was struggling was unusual but he had been through so many unimaginable trials over the months preceding that it was finally catching up with him emotionally. To hear that he was having a hard time was heart breaking and I was led back to where the techs were. I must say, after reading the article I was fearful of error in Alan's case, but what I saw that day was reassuring. Two techs had their eyes glued to computer monitors and occasionally one would focus on Alan on the camera screen overhead. When patients are undergoing treatment techs talk to them over speakers so they're never meant to feel alone or unattended. I was able to talk to Alan but I don't think I actually did that day. I asked that they tell him I was there just so he knew. I didn't want to make the situation more loaded, I just wanted him to know I was there, watching him and waiting for him.

But with all of the skepticism we have for our doctors and hospitals I don't think many imagine that "state of the art technology" can go awry. And we assume that if good doctors are overseeing the treatment, that there is little room for error. I continue to believe that that was the case for Alan. Yet Alan did not die from cancer. He died from complications from treatment. Generally unexplained complications from treatment. Doctors suspected the complications were inevitable side effects from prolonged treatment and as the disease spread his situation became more and more dire - but I hope, I pray that his overall treatment didn't hasten his passing. The stories mentioned in today's article were horrendous examples and showcased patients that had been blatantly mistreated - I do not think Alan was a victim of similar circumstance. He was a victim of an incurable disease and dangerous treatment that never promised anything. If Alan were here today reading that article he still wouldn't be angry at the injustice of it all. It wasn't in his nature. He'd perhaps want to discuss it with his doctors but then he'd leave it at that. I on the other hand would be ready to call our doctors to reaffirm he was and had been in good hands, I'd have written letters and contacted the president of the hospital just to double check. "Soapbox Susie" is what Alan called me when I ranted about similarly infuriating exposees. Tonight he'd surely call me that. But after reading this article, one can't help but wonder about any radiation treatment that anyone has ever received and it certainly is worth asking about if ever faced again.

Deep breath. Sigh. Must go check on Lily, just to be sure of her.

Someone else's shoes.

An acquaintance of mine, with two children, just lost her husband to a long illness. When we first met there was so much that I recognized in her eyes - the concern, the exhaustion, the strength and the sadness. I remember seeing her one day, and she had told me her husband was in the hospital, again, and with resignation she shook her head and said "It's always something." I knew that sentiment all too well - feeling as though we were caught in the constant swell of a wave - nudged toward the shore but just as we could feel the sand beneath our feet we were dragged back out again, barely catching our breaths, treading water. Tragically, they too lost the battle. Though I have suffered similar circumstance, I am at a loss for words - and the frustration of not having anything of comfort to say saddens me to no end. But I know there is no way that I can console her. Her loss is profound and there is no "up" side.

What I want to say has much more to do with survival. I've suggested she just focus on getting herself to the next hour. To the next evening, then the next morning and so on and so on. I want to warn her that the world will look even more harsh, even more cruel. It will be even more painful to be in public, seeing the world go through its motions unaware of her loss. Sounds become a drone, people will seem out of touch and blatantly insensitive. Days will pass like dreams, waking moments will be nightmares. Most likely she will resent having to work, because nothing seems important when a life has slipped through your fingers, escaped hold of your heart. Almost everything will seem meaningless.

I am happy for her that she has two children for whom she must live. For no other reason she must hold on. And I would tell her to let those two blessings be her guiding light. I would warn her to leave herself alone. To let herself weep when she needs to weep whether it's at the bank or in bed. To let herself indulge in whatever soothes the aches - be it lying in bed, avoiding people or ignoring the mail. I would tell her to cling to her children, love them even more fiercely, eat, try to sleep and do it all over the next day. I would say don't make lists unless it helps you, don't say "I should...", just let yourself be. Let your body be. Let your heart be. Let your mind drift. I would suggest she allow her engine to slow down. When you take care of someone with a severe illness you are in constant motion, you do and you do and you do. And it feels as though that's barely enough so you push and you push and you push. And when you lose that person your mind and body will need months to unwind, and you will unravel in a way that leaves you feeling unsure, unsteady and doubtful of your abilities. I would tell her she's beginning a new uphill battle.

I would also say that although the journey is torturous, it is worth it.

I hated telling myself "you are fortunate to be alive" - because in the early days you are numb to that blessing. In my case, I loved Alan almost more than myself. When someone so dear to you is gone, life seems unimaginable without them. Though I knew I owed it to Alan to embrace what I was so lucky (and I think it is sheer luck) to have, for some time it seemed like a sentence, not a gift. Deep down I am sure that this woman knows life is a gift but for now it probably just feels cruel. I continue to have moments every day where I grapple with the unfairness of it all.

Being sixteen months "out" at times doesn't feel any better than one month out. In fact at times it is worse. I am still plagued with flashbacks and I am tormented by the "what ifs". I replay moments over and over in my mind and they continue to choke me mid breath and fill my eyes with tears. But I recognize that I have a purpose so I try not to linger too long on thoughts as they drift in the dark, and I try to focus on what I have, what Alan gave me, what Lily gives me. I recognize that I am needed and that I am so very fortunate. That is what I'd urge this woman to focus on - she is the center of her children's universe, and they, hers. So if she can just grab hold of that love, no matter how painful, perhaps in a year she'll be closer to where I am now. I know my life is richer having known Alan and I hope, at some point, that this woman allows herself to dwell on the beautiful memories she has of her husband - she will need those to pull her through the days. And when she shares them with her children, they will be lifted up as well and together, they won't move on, but they will move forward, slowly, but surely.

The Great Communicator

It appears, within the last two weeks, that my daughter has acquired opinions. Her manners, in fact, have become outspoken, she pushes bottles away when she is done with them in quite a dramatic fashion - sometimes throwing them down or violently windshield-wiping it away frenetically with her hands. She has developed strong dislike for bananas (unless pureed) and avocado, a long time favorite is now officially "out". When she is offered either one, she whips her head into profile to express her distaste, the mere idea that they were even considered part of her diet a shocker to her, and ignores them until they are removed. If they are not removed, Lily is adept at doing so herself - she is a professional dropper and enjoys looking me dead in the eye as her hands do the silent work as though they are detached from her body. She has begun pointing to things which I am expected to get in a timely fashion and she now loves to hide items behind pillows, or in her lap and then make them appear again for me. We can do the hiding game over and over again - and she gets a thrill out of showing me her magic. Since the hiding game has begun I have found all sorts of things in hard to reach places, hours and days later. Only last week I found a rice cracker and orange stacking circle behind the couch, and a plastic cap in bed. I am reminded of a visit to my brother's when his son was a similar age and I noticed a jar of mustard in the toilet. We must be entering the "mustard age".

It is a whole new world now that she is connecting the dots, it is as though we are conversing. She is at no loss for words, and though they may need translation she loves to talk. Most items are now called "dah" but what's interesting is that with every "dah" there is meaning behind it. I can see it in her eyes, the wheels are turning, my curious girl is absorbing everything and any day now I expect I'll hear a word. Though Lily has her pensive moments she is proving to be more garrulous than her dad, I used to jokingly refer to him as "the silent partner" as Alan's words were economically used. He had his chatty moments but he was much more the silent observer. My favorite phone messages were from Alan perched in airport bars, they were always animated and even more humorously, long-winded. Perhaps Lily is channeling those moments. Or maybe she's a talker, just like her mama.

Passing on.

What finally came to light as I procrastinated about the baby-proofing "project", paralyzed with the angst associated with organizing and clearing out our home - was that I needed to make space. And what festered underneath that simple concept were two, more emotionally loaded, thoughts: I needed to put more stuff in storage and more importantly, that some items needed a new home. The discomfort that had been overshadowing it all started to make sense. It was time for some of Alan's clothes to be passed on to others. Things which I had grown used to seeing in our closet, that comforted me whenever I opened the doors but which also nagged at me in the back of my mind for some time.

So finally the moment came.
I found the courage to donate Alan's suits.

His beautiful, tailored suits that I loved seeing him wear.
The horrendous truth rearing it's head yet again - he doesn't need them anymore. Some of his favorite clothes have been passed over to family members and it gives me joy and satisfaction to see their bodies warm with his touch, and donning his inimitable style. That's ok too, it feels good to have him close by. I will forever hold onto many of his sweaters and tees,it feels good to wear them. I held on to the ties, couldn't get "there" yet, but I knew he'd be annoyed to hear that I had even kept his suits for this long. He would have wanted me to donate them, to have someone else use them, to benefit from them, and so that is what I did.
Pieces of Alan, moving on.
Not an easy task. But it was the right thing to do. Having his suits won't bring him back and I hope, I dream, that he can see some of the doll size frocks and pants and sweaters and coats that dangle from tiny hangers, lovingly, in their place. If Alan could speak he'd comment humorously with his unmistakable, dry wit "Oh... Hmm.. Look at Sus, movin' on in with your clothes - the 'merry widower'" he'd tease me. And I'd say "Noooooo Alannnnn.... It's the baby's clothes... But if you think I should get some for myself....". He still makes me laugh. And cry. I have heard the second year can be harder than the first and all I can say is it remains fresh and tragic and scarring. But his spirit continues to move me with laughing tears and for that I am forever grateful.

Lily currently averages a few shirts each day, as she is regularly drenched with drool, and many of the clothes "on-deck" are hand-me-downs. It is heartwarming to see her wearing items that once clothed other babes we love - they are not only practical but carry with them their own history. I think, I hope, that as others enjoy Alan's clothes they'll sense that another special soul once wore them too.

Walking Flower

It seems that Lily is grown up at only nine and a half months. She is weaning herself, she is walking, she dislikes having her face washed and she has little time for stillness. This morning I awoke to her happy chatter, the past few weeks sponsored predominantly by the letter D and once she's up she's ready to go. I, on the other hand, woke up feeling lousy - tired and nauseous and our quiet in bed nursing snuggle gave way to, what she considers, playful bites and frustration that I'm not more pliable. And that is how our conversation goes. "No biting Lily, that hurts Mama", "Ouch Lily! No. No biting." And then we get a bottle. And later, "Where's Mama?! Here's Mama", "See Mama wash wash wash?" "Brush brush brush?" "See Mama's here! See Mama in the shower?" "Mama's putting socks on" "Socks go on feet" "Give to Mama, Lily" and on and on. Mama talk. Lots of it.

And now, Lily is walking. Quite early I might add. I am proud of her development but we/I could have waited.. a bit. She still prefers crawling but she moves with lightening speed and yesterday morning I went into the kitchen and after two minutes noticed "the quiet". I ran in to check on her and my nomadic roamer had pushed open what I thought was a closed bedroom door and was sitting in the bathroom hanging out with a sock. Thank god the cleaning products were recently relocated. Do racing hearts burn calories? Might be an advantage of sorts... But in the past month Lily went from crawling to walking with only a few breaths in between. Her steps are staccato, Frankenstein steps - a bit stiff and they come in clusters of three or four (or more whenever I am not present to witness) and she is quite pleased with herself. She is easily amused and often merely a good dose of standing will do - rocking forward and back on her toes a few times provides plenty of entertainment. When she crawls she enjoys taking a break to clap and look behind to contemplate the distance she's covered,and this morning I had to hide her alligator walker as it was just too early to rouse the neighbors with it's thunderous clap, caused by jaws that open and close to the rhythm of Lily's quickstep. My headache didn't need it either. Feeling sick on top of all of this is a test. Thankfully I had my mother-in-law for the early shift so I chose lying in bed over a shower and headed for work wearily, closing the door on a screaming, tired-sweet-baby-face and wondering if my strength would ever return. Gradually it does, mere thoughts of Lily help to curb the way I feel and if I can ever catch up on some sleep perhaps I'll nip this bug before it fully blooms. But when I feel like this my mind spins, how will I take care of her?, what if she catches it - we don't even have separate bedrooms and share very close quarters and I'm not ready to part from her for even a night other than sleeping on the couch in the other room. It's a desperate feeling because someone more important needs to be taken care of. I can and will do it, but emotionally and physically it can take it's toll. But Lily is resilient, I can even go so far as to say that she's tough. She has her delicate, sweet, soft moments but she is a girl on the go - all smiles, new teeth poking through, drool floodgates open as she glides across the floors and climbs among the furniture. Wipe outs are fairly frequent but she remains relatively unscathed.

Alan loved what I thought to be one of my sadder childhood memories - the day we made Native American drums in pre-k and all of the girls had already appropriated the "feminine" Indian names on the walls for their decor before I had gotten to pick one out for myself. They got the good ones: "Little Fawn", "White Deer" "Soft Cloud" - I don't know what - but I ended up with "Red Feather". My mom loved it, Alan did too - but I was disappointed. Still played my drum but never forgot the prettier names I could have had. Luckily, or unluckily, more serious issues dominate my trying moments. And I had a laugh yesterday as Lily stepped forward into my arms - her own drum name came to mind. "Walking Flower". I think Lily (and her dad) would be just fine with that, assertive yet delicate, just as she is.

How it goes.

To say that parenting is hard is an understatement of epic proportions. Being a single parent puts it over the top. The last few weeks I have been struggling to juggle my return to work with being a mother and my time, our time, is now beyond limited. I rush everywhere. Race to work, race home from work. Weekends are more of the same -and all that I can no longer do during the week now fills the list of things that ideally would be accomplished during what once were "days of rest". But the weekend rolls around and the work week continues - 6:15 wake up, 7am Lily breakfast, dress, play, 9am Lily nap #1. I crash on couch for as many winks possible while Lily sleeps. 10:15/10:30, Lily's up, snack, play, lunch at noon, play, nap #2 at 1pm. Again I try to nap or scramble to do things in the apartment while she recharges. 2:30/3pm Lily's up, play, play, fresh air until dark, 4pm snack, play until 5:30, prepare dinner, 5:45/6pm dinner. 6:45 bath, 7pm read, boob, bed by 7:30.
And then "my time" begins.
Or doesn't.
I'm exhausted, and despite the fact that Lily brings me immeasurable happiness and love, I am lonely, depressed and dead tired. I have limited energy for phone calls, bills, it's a miracle if I cook myself something. I know my story mirrors that of other single parents but knowing that has no effect on me. Because all I really want is Alan back. I want him here to see how Lily crawls with such enthusiasm that when she kicks up her back legs they sometimes throw her balance and she tumbles over her arms. I want him to hear her early morning excitement in the dark as she sidesteps along the crib rail to get as close as she can to the bed to wake me. I want him to witness how she shoves broccoli into her mouth catching it as it goes down her wrist with a similar style as the way he ate popcorn. I want him to see how she now gets her own instruments from the bin in music class and holds onto them with vigor should anyone attempt a grab. I want him to see how she stands front and center of class and rolls onto her tiptoes as she listens to the guitar. I want him to hear the clappity clap of her walker as she pushes it more and more quickly down the halls. How I wish her first steps had been into his arms.
I'd love him here to help raise her.
I do have help, and am grateful for it. I do use it so that I can attempt to accomplish the things that must get done. And thankfully they are people who love her with all their heart and she loves her time with them. But when I leave Lily, the guilt and longing remain. And I know it'd be easier if I was doing errands knowing that her other parent was with her. Alan and I were extensions of each other and how I wish that if I cannot be with Lily, that she could be passing the hours of food and naps and play with her dad. It makes my separation from her much more difficult.
And what makes it all most daunting is that the love I feel for her is almost unbearable. Now I understand why my mother always offers me her food if my dish isn't good, why she'd give me her last bite and say she isn't hungry, little sacrifices that run much deeper. Because now nothing else matters more than my daughter. It is an awesome, and frighteningly overwhelming, feeling and how I wish I had Alan with whom to share the love and fear.
Lily in all her zeal seems to miss nothing and for now, that's all that matters.