The story of the abyss

It has been more than four months since I posted here. Me. The talky, chatty, tell-everyone-everything person.

TL;DR: I'm fine. Now. But I spent quite a bit of time in the Pit of Despair, emotionally, as well as in a funk physically. And it has taken an additional amount of time to find the energy to tell you about it.

So now, the full story.

Sometime not too long after the one-year anniversary, I just stopped being ... me. No gratitude. No strength. No resilience. Crying just walking from the couch to the kitchen, which is all of about 20 feet. One day it just dawned on me: I am alone.

Vic and I hit a rough patch about seven years into our marriage. It wasn't a seven-year itch—no one was looking to stray—it was just ... I was on a path of self-discovery and he already knew who he was. It was when I was in college, so in addition to pulling away emotionally, I was also pulled away physically while I spent all my evenings and weekends studying. One Valentine's Day—because this is the day you want to say sad things to your wife—Vic gave me a card that said he had often been alone, but this was the first time he had felt truly lonely.

Talk about a dagger in the heart! And yet ... it still took a couple of years before we were back to that nauseatingly in-love couple that we had been at the start. And once we got back to that couple, we stayed that way for the rest of his life. Whew!

I only tell this story because where I am now is just the opposite—I am not lonely, but I am alone.

I have just enough social interaction to make me feel loved (any more would push me out of my “extroverted introvert” comfort zone). If I want to take a walk with someone, have lunch with someone, go to the yarn store, I have a Rolodex of people to call. (Youngsters: a Rolodex is a round thing with paper in it on which you write addresses and phone numbers.) If I feel the least bit lonely, someone will be here in an instant.

But in the end, I am still alone (as we all are, really). And feeling that absence—instead of not feeling the presence, which is a very different thing, at least for me—started me down a heartrending path.

Combine that with hot sleeping.

I am in menopause. It's not something that gets talked about, as if there's something to be ashamed of, but I'm not, so we're talking about it. My menopause has not been horrible—think minor, infrequent hot flashes; minimal mood swings; other things I won't mention because men read this blog—but in September, I started “hot sleeping,” which is a thing. Look it up. I was so hot that I couldn't be under the covers, but if I took off the covers, I would be freezing because my skin was so hot that the cooler air felt even colder. Many nights, I didn't get into a deep sleep until 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning but still had to get up at 8 a.m. to “go” to work. (I still work at home almost all of the time.)

Combine that with COVID. You may remember that I had COVID in June. I recovered, but still had a cough some days, a headache other days, the sniffles, breathlessness—just symptom after symptom day after day.

Combine that with my lump. (Remember what I said at the top: I am fine.) One day in October, I found a lump on my neck. Although I wasn't smart enough to go to the doctor for any of the previous symptoms, I was smart enough to get that lump checked out. “Probably just a thyroid nodule,” my nurse-practitioner said. “Nothing to worry about.” She recommended an ultrasound and took my blood to check my thyroid levels.

Boy, howdy, was my thyroid out of whack! I immediately stopped taking my thyroid medication—which I was taking to increase my thyroid activity. Thyroid medication takes a ridiculously time to rid itself in your system, so I didn't even start to feel relief for almost a week. But finally, some of my symptoms started to abate. Less hot sleeping. My heart rate—which had been racing whenever I exerted myself at all—went back to normal. My headaches stopped.

But then there was the ultrasound, which I went to alone. The first time I went to a procedure that might find something real wrong with me without Vic since I was in my early 20s. My sister would have gone with me, as well as a number of friends, but I opted to go by myself. Why? Because I cannot guarantee that someone will always be available to go with me somewhere, so I need to be able to do things alone. It actually gave me strength to do it—albeit only a tiny bit, since I was by that time firmly in the abyss.

They found not just one nodule but four—FOUR! The one I could feel and three others. The three smaller ones were unconcerning to the doctor, but the fourth one was just big enough to give him pause. He said I could just monitor it, or I could get a “fine needle aspiration.” I've had cysts drained before—it is painful, but not excruciating. I'm sure I don't have to mention that Vic was always with me. Anyway, I thought I could survive a fine needle aspiration by myself, until I realized that they weren't draining the nodule—they were doing a biopsy and checking for cancer. (Remember: I am fine. I do not have cancer. This story has a happy ending.)

Obviously, I opted for the FNA. Here again, I decided to go by myself. I called to schedule the appointment, and I couldn't get in for more than a month. A MONTH! Like I'm supposed to let cancer cells grow in my body for a month???

And this is where I hit bottom.

I wailed. You might even say keening, if you were melodramatic, which we all know I am not.

OK, I was keening!

So much so that Bella came over to me. Bella is not the intuitive dog who comes over and puts her head on your lap when she senses you need her. But I knew I must be in bad shape if she was coming over to me. She bumped my head with hers (because I had my head in my hands and it was at just the right doggie height)—and then she turned around, as if to say, “Would it make you feel better if you scratched me on the butt?” It was almost enough to stop the keening, but not quite.

After about 20 minutes of keening (no lie), I Slacked my boss. (It's like texting, but with Slack.) At this point, I should mention that only three people know about any of this—my boss, because I always want him to know what is going on; my sister, because she is my sister; and my friend who walks Bella with me, because we get into a lot of stuff on those walks. I had told some people bits and pieces—I haven't been feeling well, I have been hot sleeping, I have been sadder—but only three knew everything.

Anyway, I told my boss that I had scheduled the biopsy but it was a month away, and I said, “Just for that moment, when I thought I could have cancer growing inside me for a month and NO ONE WAS HERE TO GIVE ME A HUG, I had a total meltdown. Why did he have to die, Andy? Whyyyyyyy?”

I have never asked that question. I know why—he was 75 years old and he had a bad heart and he had a bunch of cancers that ruined his body. But from the abyss, nothing makes sense.

And this was when I felt most alone. Even though I had some support (the three whole people I told), I did not have the support of the one person I most wanted it from. The person who probably would have told me to go to the doctor long before I did. The person who probably would have helped me remember all my symptoms when I went to have the lump checked out. The person who would have said, “You know, I had lots of diagnostic tests that were scheduled far into the future—but you were able to get them moved up for me. Let's see if we can do that. But in the meantime, here's a hug.” HERE'S A FUCKING HUG. I don't think it's asking for too much to just have my person here with me when I need him.

But then I turned off my emotional brain and turned on my logical brain—one of Vic's favorite things about me. One of the options from the ultrasound was to just watch it, so waiting a month shouldn't be a big deal. But I also called my nurse-practioner to see if I could get a referral to another hospital—just to see if I could get in earlier. She gave me one, and lo, I was able to schedule a biopsy three weeks earlier. I went alone, again, to build character. I only cried a little. And the results came back benign.

So here's what happened after the biopsy.

• I started to open up a little more. Told more people more of the story. Honestly, I'm not sure why I didn't do that to begin with. I always turn outward when something is going on. I overshare. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I don't keep secrets. But this time I turned inward. I don't know why—my friends and family lift me up. I am buoyed when people are inspired by my strength and resilience. I don't want people to pity me. I don't want people to see my struggles (at least not without the happy ending—yes, I'm sad, but ...). And I don't want people to get tired of me. (OMG, when is she going to get over this? It's been a year! We all have problems!) But when Andy asked me, “When you think about those who you've been able to lean on, who comes to mind?” I childishly answered, “I don't want to lean on anyone else anymore. I want to lean on Vic. I'm tired of not having him here.” So opening up helped me find my way out of the abyss.
  
• The dread wore off. I'm not sure I was even conscious of it, but when I got the results, I instantly felt lighter and started to find my way out of the abyss.
  
• At the same time, my thyroid medication had gotten almost completely out of my system, so I was feeling better physically. We always said we were great—when things were going well. When one little thing goes wrong, we lose it. In the days before GPS, we drove to Jacksonville. I had mapped out our route, made hotel reservations along the way, printed out directions for each leg. We were ready. But we left after work on a Friday and arrived at our first destination in the dark. I didn't see the street sign where we were supposed to turn until ... after we passed it. Vic said something snappish. Instead of stopping and immediately turning around, he went around a block—but didn't end up on the street where we were supposed to be. I said something snappish. We snappishly found our way to our hotel, snappishly checked in and snappishly went to our room, where we snappishly went to sleep. Vic only ever needed to sleep on an argument for it to get better, so only I snappishly awoke. But then we got back on the road and everything was OK. So this hiccup of not feeling well just made me snappish, and when I started feeling better, I started to find my way out of the abyss.
• I heard a song that gutted me—but also helped me. I am a fan of Taylor Swift, although I came late to the party, so I was able to buy two of her albums that she re-recorded after a dust-up with her former record label. One of these albums featured a song that did not appear on the original (OK, both albums have songs that did not appear on the original, but I'm just talking about one in particular) called “Ronan.” The first line that I really heard was “You were my best four years.” With Taylor, that could be about an old boyfriend, although if you read or watch virtually anything, you know that Taylor absolutely can't keep a boyfriend that long. (🙄 She would say haters gonna hate, but I say they're just a--holes.) I didn't really pay attention to the rest of it (I was walking Bella, so not focusing on the music), but I was kind of curious about it, so I Googled it when I got home, and that's when I found out that Ronan was a little boy who got cancer when he was three years old and died less than a year later, just before he would have turned four. Taylor found the blog of his mom, Maya Thompson, and wrote the lyrics based on words she read on Maya's blog. (Maya is listed as a cowriter of the song.) Although the song was about a little boy, there were pieces of it that just spoke to me—in my mind, I changed “four” to “for” (you were my best for years), and especially “What if the miracle was even getting one moment with you?” I listened to Taylor's beautiful, soulful song on repeat and watched this beautiful video for a week. I read Maya's blog. I marveled at her strength and her honesty and her vulnerability, and I started to find my way out of the abyss.
• I started reading again. First up, My Steve, by Terri Irwin. Vic was a huge fan of the Crocodile Hunter, and we had started watching Crikey! It's the Irwins. I marveled at Terri's resilience—her husband died when he was 44 and she was 42. She had an 8-year-old and a 2-year-old who depended on her. She couldn't crumble. And she made the most of a shitty situation. Reading about their love story nurtured my soul, as corny as that sounds. But here again, one particular line in this book really spoke to me. The night Steve died, as Terri lay in bed, she watched the clock. “Here is another minute I have survived without Steve.” This book was published just a year after Steve died, which means she had started working on it even earlier. We were in the same space-time continuum of widowhood. And this just really reminded me ... sometimes, we just have to take it one minute at a time. And this is the thing that literally pushed me out of the abyss.

So here we are, back to my “happy” ending—I'm healthy physically and emotionally. I even had a session with a grief counselor who said I didn't need a grief counselor. (Reminiscent of the psychologist who told Vic he didn't need a psychologist after his big tongue cancer even though I and many of his medical professionals pushed him to see her.) But I've also learned a lot of lessons: Grief doesn't end on your timetable. It's OK to be vulnerable. My friends and family will always be there for me when I need them and will never find me annoying—at least about this. My food peculiarities will continue to vex some. And they would all rather hear the truth if I need to speak it. I am not the only person who lost someone—draw strength from their experience. Go to the doctor. Take a list of symptoms so you don't forget them. Scratching Bella's butt does make you feel better.

Thank you to all who have stuck with me during this dark time and are still with me on the other side.

Here are a few of the pictures I took during this time that made me smile:

Bella also needs tummy tickles.

Shopping with my sister for her birthday.
Don't you think these fluffy Kate Spade bags are the bomb?

A pillow made for me by Vic's sister—
from his flannel shirts.

Ahhh, Bella found her sun in her favorite chair
with her favorite blanket on it.

The family together for Vic's sister's birthday!

A baby blanket I recently completed.

Ummmmm, all the yarn I bought this year.
Don't judge me. I'm grieving. 😂

Lessons from Nightbirde

Many of you may know that today marks the one-year anniversary of the loss of my husband, the irreplaceable Victor R. Love. 😉

I actually don't know what to say. I know! Me! Without words!

So instead, I'm going to tell you about Nightbirde.

One of the things Vic loved doing at night before he went to sleep was watch YouTube videos. He would often watch photography videos or videos of rafts he wanted to buy or even vacuum cleaners. (The man was obsessed with vacuum cleaners.) But then he discovered Britain's Got Talent.

Neither of us love reality shows. Let's face it—they're not real. And although talent shows are more real than, say, The Bachelor (sorry, Bachelor lovers), they still have a lot of filler. So Vic found the videos that just showed performances, and he was hooked. I cannot tell you how many times he watched Collabro sing “Stars.”

And you know how YouTube works. You find one video to watch and YouTube tees you up with 100 more similar videos. “5 auditions that broke the internet,” “10 most viewed America's Got Talent auditions 2021,” “10 unforgettable auditions that got Simon Cowell's Golden Buzzer on Got Talent” and the like.

That's how we found Nightbirde. Nightbirde was a singer who auditioned on America's Got Talent in June last year. She came out and did the chitchat with the judges and mentioned that she would be singing an original song called “It's OK,” the story of her life for the past year. Her demeanor was positive, and she always had a smile on her face. Eventually Howie Mandel asked her what she did for a living, and she admitted she hadn't been working for quite a few years because she'd been dealing with cancer. She said she was OK, but then Simon Cowell asked her how she was now, and she said that the last time she checked, she had some cancer in her lungs, her spine and her liver. Howie said, “So you're not OK.” And she said, “Well, not in every way, no.” But she continued: “It's important that everyone knows I'm so much more than the bad things that happen to me.”

Then she sang her song. She sang it with so much joy and emotion, and there wasn't a dry eye in the house. Silence when she finished, followed by cheers and a standing ovation. The judges loved her. Even Simon was in awe of how she had sung so beautifully after she just told everyone what she'd been doing through. And she said, “You can't wait until life isn't hard anymore before you decide to be happy.” But Simon, he's always the hard ass. And even as he was choked up, he said he wasn't going to give her a yes. He got a lot of side-eye from Sofia Vergara, let me tell you. But then he gave her the Golden Buzzer instead—where a judge presses a big gold button in the middle of the table and sends the contestant into the next round regardless of whether the other judges were going to vote her or him in. It was magical. We watched that audition quite a few times.

But like I said, we don't watch reality TV, so we didn't know what happened to her after that. And then Vic ... you know ... died. So one day I Googled her to see what was happening. Alas, she had had to drop out of the show only two months after that breathtaking audition. She felt she needed to focus on her treatment. She joined the show by video, still smiling, grateful and overwhelmed that her little song touched so many people. She was thinner. She looked frailer. But her demeanor was still strong, positive. She was a fighter.

When July 8, 2022, arrived—the one-year anniversary of the day Vic came home to hospice—my demeanor faltered. I was sadder. Had more spontaneous outbursts of tears. Wasn't able to turn a “sad because it's over” memory into a “smile because it happened.”

On Monday, guess what appeared on my shower playlist? “Stars,” by Collabro. I thought about all the times we watched that video together and sobbed in the shower. But that night, I decided to go traipsing around YouTube, just like Vic used to. (I mean, not just like Vic, because I watched about five MsMojo videos about Grey's Anatomy.) Including that “Stars” audition. It was fun reliving that moment, even though I missed watching it with Vic.

And then I thought about Nightbirde. “I should check in on her,” I said—out loud—to no one (because Bella is still spending about 20 hours a day in my closet). I found that great audition video and watched it again. But it didn't tell me what she was doing now. “Doing now,” present tense, because she was strong. She was a fighter. She was positive. I was sure she had beaten the odds (2%, she said at her first audition).

Alas, she had not beaten the odds. Jane “Nightbirde” Marczewski passed away on February 19. She was 31. I watched the news announcement in a video from Entertainment Tonight. In it, Nightbirde was clearly even more depleted. Yet she was still smiling, and still inspiring others. She said, “Just because you're sad or grieving doesn't mean that you're not grateful and it doesn't mean you're not hopeful. ... It's all real, the joy and the pain; it's all real, and you don't have to pick one or the other—life is beautiful or life is garbage. It's kinda both sometimes.”

Let us all practice what Nightbirde exemplified: courage, joy, acceptance of the good and the bad, hope and gratitude.

So I am still sad, and I am still grieving—the one-year mark didn't turn off a switch as I'd hoped it might 😂—but I am also grateful and hopeful. Grateful for my family and friends (all of you). For Bella. For random people who are kind to me. For the build-your-own mac & cheese from Longmont Public House. And hopeful. Hopeful that I will live long enough to crochet most of my yarn stash. That I will finally clean off my DVR. That more bird families will make their home on my porch. That I will have many more years with Bella.

I leave you on this one-year anniversary not with a picture of Vic or by Vic, but a picture of me and Bella under a tree in the back yard of our new house. Vic is here—he's everywhere in the furniture we picked out together, the photographs on my walls, the ring I will always wear on my finger. But Bella and I are moving forward, and we are doing that without the physical presence of Vic.

It's all real, the joy and the pain. But I am so much more than the bad things that have happened to me. And I am not waiting until life isn't hard anymore to decide to be happy.

The beginning of the end, one year later

I love Facebook memories. I get a notification every day that I have memories to look back on. Sometimes they are funny. Sometimes there is a video of Bella or Wags or one of our fosters. Often they remind me of something sweet Vic did.

For example, from 2017: Love is ... when your husband turns on American Top 40 on Sirius 70s on 7 KNOWING that you are going to sing at least one song (and almost certainly more) as if you were the artist—and then compliments you when you sing said song. (Today's song: Paper Roses) #grateful #TrueLove

Or this one, from 2015:

Me, at Hobby Lobby: See, this is the yarn for ...
Vic: The Dusty Snowflake.
Me, jaw dropping to the floor: What?
Vic: It's the yarn for the snowflake blanket.

Reason #1,386,452 why I love my husband—he knows the names of crochet patterns I'm thinking of making.

There are usually a variety of memories: a meme I have posted, a meme someone tagged me in, a picture someone tagged me in, posts about work or food or something that annoyed me.

But today, every memory was the same: 11 years of Vic's rebirthdays. That's right, folks. Twelve years ago today, Vic "died" in the Apple store. But for the swift and expert actions of doctors and police officers and firefighters and paramedics, he would have stayed dead. But it turned out he was only mostly dead, and Miracle Max (and all those other people I just mentioned) brought him back to life.

Last year I wrote a light-hearted post about how he was now old enough to go to Hogwarts, but I knew something no one else knew—at the time I posted that, he was in the hospital emergency room refusing treatment for his pneumonia.

So although today was his second birthday, it was also the one-year anniversary of the beginning of the end.

Perhaps that is why I locked myself out of the house today. I was never very good about locking the door at the old house. It was a quiet neighborhood with no through traffic, and I felt safe there. I feel safe here, too, but there is a bit more traffic, and there is a lot of construction going on across the street, so there are people in and out of the neighborhood who don't live here—meaning that a stranger doesn't stick out as much. So I have been steadfastly locking all my doors. Even so, when I take Bella out for a walk ... I usually leave the front door unlocked.

Except ... tomorrow is trash day, so I took Bella out through the garage. I even popped my head around the corner to make sure the front door was locked. So proud of myself. Safety first! And I have a garage code, so I knew I could get back in.

Except ... yesterday or the day before, I was messing with the garage code, trying to change it to a new code. Everyone in the neighborhood has this garage code, so I've been told. I followed the instructions on the PIN pad, but they didn't take—the new code didn't work. I never checked to make sure the old code still worked. As I found out today, it does not.

I know the neighbor has the garage code; might she also have a key? She does not. She thought the former owner's sister might have a key. She did not. She sent her partner over to see if he could figure something else out. Any windows open? No. Can you get in through the basement windows? No—the cover is locked from the inside ... and so are the windows. He walked around and checked all the doors. No joy. Did my Realtor still have a key, or another suggestion? He did not. My sister has a key. In Littleton. She started driving up. In the meantime, I called a locksmith. 20 minutes and $150 later, I was back in my house, feeling about as stupid as could be. My sister turned around. I'm still gonna have to buy her dinner.

So, yes, I will deposit a key with my friends who live 0.3 miles away. I will put a house key on the keychain with the key that I take to the mailbox every day. I will fix my garage code this weekend. I can fix stupid. I don't know what to do to fix sad.

Except ... there's a little birdie outside of my office window sitting on a nest. I have named her Ladyfinch. (I am very creative with my naming. My first doll was named Dolly.) Vic would have loved this. Our first year in the old house, we had a robin nest under our deck and a finch nest in our hanging planters. He loved watching mama birds sit on the next and then feed the baby birds, and then he loved watching baby birds fledge. I still have a picture of one of the baby robins nestled in the branches of our Scotch pine. I think she is here for me, even though I know she is not. Still, it's a nice thought.

So I will leave you with a picture of Ladyfinch (not a good one—I don't want to scare her off). I also would have included the baby robin, but I just finished moving and the hard drive the photo library is on is still packed. I hate moving.

Sorry this post was less positive than previous ones. I am very tired from the move. I hate moving. And also I had COVID two weeks ago, so I am still very tired from that. I hate COVID.

The last of the firsts™

Today was my birthday.

Many of you may remember that I don't just have a birthday, a birthday week or even a birthday month. No, I have a birthday season.

Birthday season starts the day after my stepson's birthday. It's not right to celebrate my birthday before his birthday is over. (But apparently, I have no problem encroaching on his birthday month. Sorry, Bryan.) And technically, I could claim “birthday season" all the way up to the day before our anniversary, which is August 13. If I wanted to do something Vic didn't, I'd say, “But it's my birthday season!" I didn't—I usually stopped being bratty at the end of June—but I could have.

But in the past few years, even I grew weary of birthday season. We scaled back our celebrations and really only did stuff on the week I took off from work—and even then, it was just a cake, a nice dinner, and a card. (Presents came whenever I would show him something I liked, and he would say, “Would that make a nice birthday present?")

It certainly made getting through today easier. That and the busy-ness of the move.

As I was talking to my friend Michelle, I mentioned that the one-year anniversary was barely a month away now, and she observed that this would be the last of the firsts—I've now been through my first anniversary without Vic; my first Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day; my first time not celebrating his birthday; my first time not getting a card from Bella on Mother's Day. And she suggested that we should trademark that. The last of the firsts™. 😂

I wasn't really dreading the day. As with all my other firsts, Vic was such an attentive, loving husband, that every day was like my birthday. In that regard, this day was no different than any other day since he died. I bought myself an extravagant present—a new phone, which I was certain if I had pointed it out to him, he would have asked, “Would you like it for your birthday?" I spent his money on it. (Yes, I still have our money separated into his, mine and ours. Don't judge me.) I bought some chocolates. I had cards from friends and family as well as a few presents. I didn't buy a cake (mostly because I just didn't have time to pick out the perfect one—one that he would have gotten me, because he was always the cake procurer, as my friend Seth called it), but my neighbor brought one over for me. (Why am I leaving this neighborhood???) I got lots of calls and texts and emails. I took the night off from working on the move and just watched a movie and had some cake.

It was a good day.

 

I made it all the way to almost 10 p.m. ... before I started sobbing. It was at the part of the movie where the two people who had fallen in love were parting ways—him back to England, she staying in the States—and I was sad for them, so my eyes were already welling up. (It's not a good movie if I don't break out at least one tissue.) I don't know why that was the moment when my thoughts turned to my wish when I blew out my candle earlier in the day (yes, I put a candle in my cake, sang happy birthday to myself, and made a wish). It came out of the blue: “I wish Vic were here." I didn't think much about it at the time—it was such an obvious, pedestrian wish—but all of a sudden, I just became acutely aware that he was not, in fact, here. My wish did not come true, even though I blew out all my candle! 😉

Then I pulled myself together and reached into my gratitude bin for the 36 birthdays he was here. I went back through his pictures to find birthdays past, and I found years and years of ice cream cakes, poppy seed cakes with raspberry filling and cream cheese frosting, and even a sticky bun (not a whole cake, just one delicious sticky bun). My favorite:

Years and years of perfect presents (he had a knack early on of knowing what I would like, which turned into taking me on shopping sprees when I quit my job to go to college and didn't have any money to go shopping, which turned into just buying things online when we both got too lazy to get out of our sweatpants). My favorite:

(This is a Time Turner from Harry Potter. He purchased it early in the year and hid it. We had to schedule a major heart surgery for him on my birthday that year, and the afternoon before we left for the hospital, he was running around like a madman. I asked him why, and he wouldn't tell me. I asked if I could help, and he said no. Finally, I heard an “aha!" from the basement, and he came trotting up the stairs (we were both able to trot up the stairs at that point), already wrapped present in tow. “Your birthday present. In case I die." (We were always very pragmatic about the fact that either of us could die at any time.) He asked me to get myself a salted caramel cake from Robin Chocolates and bring my present the morning of the surgery. He had been blabbing to all the nurses about my present the entire time he had been in the hospital and wanted to show it to them before the surgery. You know. In case he died. I opened it to find the Time Turner—a device that Hermione used to go back in time—and he said, “If I had a real Time Turner and could go back in time, I wouldn't change a thing. Happy birthday.")

And years and years of lunches, and trips to the Botanic Gardens and the Zoo and Estes Park, and chocolates (they were never part of the presents—always just an extra thing).

We didn't have parties, although we always celebrated with our families. He didn't get me elaborate presents or try to surprise me with some big thing. It was just like every other day: He was there, making me feel loved.

In all those years, I found one single picture with him in it.

He was always my best birthday present.

Sooooo, this happened

 

As you all know, Vic and I loved our house. When we first got together, we were both flat broke. I could barely afford $300 a month rent, and Vic was sleeping on the couch where his kids lived.

When we moved in together, we had a little more money—but not a lot. Both of Vic's kids moved in with us in a townhouse-style apartment. After Laurie joined the Navy, Vic and Bryan and I moved into a garden-level apartment where crickets chirped right outside the bedroom window all. summer. long.

We hated renting. The places we rented were home to us, but rent just feels like flushing money down the toilet, so as soon as we felt we could afford it, we bought a townhouse. It was nice for two (Bryan had moved to New York by this point), and because we owned it, we could have pets. My first Mother's Day in the new townhouse, Vic took me to the Humane Society and let me pick out a cat. Five days later, I thought she might be lonely, so Vic took me to the Humane Society and let me pick out a kitten. We were in heaven.

But.

Because we were still ... let's just say not rich, the townhouse wasn't in the best of neighborhoods. In fact, every neighborhood we had lived in up to that point wasn't the best. Whenever we took walks, we started by walking out of the neighborhood and admiring the single-family homes adjacent to our neighborhood.

About 13 years after moving into our townhouse, our property manager (who was also a Realtor) said we could afford to buy a home—and he was right. It took a year to sell our townhouse (isn't that a quaint notion nowadays?!), but when we did, we had already found the perfect house for us.

Great neighborhood? Check. Move-in ready? Check. View? Check. Affordable? Well, let's just say we could afford it if we were careful with our money.

The first 6 years were a a dream come true. We had never been happier. We even became grand-duck-parents when a mallard pair had ducklings in the back yard. Then Vic died. While he was in the hospital coming back from the dead and then recovering from his death over the next few months, the yard got weedier, the house got dustier, and things generally fell into a bit of disrepair. As he got better, he started fixing that up. Then the next year, he got cancer. While he was in treatment for that, the yard got weedier, the house got dustier, and things generally fell into a bit of disrepair. We were fortunate to have Vic's sister gift us with a housekeeper throughout his entire treatment and several months after, but that was all that was being done.

The next few years got better. Vic got better. Until he didn't. His heart started acting up, and then it started acting up some more, and then it started acting up some more. He had major heart surgery, and that made things better, but taking care of the house was a much bigger chore than it used to be. We hired people to help, but we were really only doing the bare minimum.

In 2019, he got cancer. Again. A small surgery led to a very large surgery that led to feeding tubes and pneumonia and weakness. This cancer just broke him. So the yard got weedier, the house got dustier, and things generally fell into a bit of disrepair. We were so fortunate to have my friend send us a housekeeper to do a deep clean of the house (and we loved her so much that we kept her around) and a weeder to weed the yard. And really, Vic was just never able to take care of the house the way he used to. (And because I work full-time and was picking up other tasks that he would have normally done, I could not take care of the house the way it needed.)

This is when I started suggesting we try to find a new house. Smaller, maybe, easier yard to take care of, definitely one floor. My "suggestions" became more insistent after he fell down the stairs onto the hardwood floor—no injuries, but my imagination ... . He would have none of it. He loved this house and he never wanted to leave. He considered it a defeat—like, if we left, it meant that the cancer/heart won. So I hired more help—another weeder, a poop scooper, a gardener, etc.

As you know, he fulfilled his wish—he never left this house.

I love this house too, but I am just one person. The yard is too much to take care of, and it's harder to find people to take care of it. Plus it's expensive to live in—three stories of west-facing windows wreak havoc on the air-conditioning budget. And it's getting older, so there is just that much more work that needs to be done.

I started looking for a ranch home in March. The first one got away, but by April, my Realtor was taking me to three or four houses a week. One day, he sent me the winner. It was on the high end of my budget and was probably going to incite a bidding war, so we declined to make an offer. A week later, though, their first offer had fallen through, and the seller's agent was texting my Realtor to see if I was still interested. With the ball more in our court, we made an offer contingent on the selling of my house (something we could never have asked for even a month ago), and the seller immediately accepted it.

(Interested in the new house? See it here.)

A week later, that sign went up in my yard.

(It must be noted at this point that my house of 18 years had to be decluttered in three days, and I could not take off work because I had just returned from a week-long vacation. I am beyond grateful for the help of my sister, who did quite a bit of decluttering, including going to the post office and taking a load of clothes for donation; my sister-in-law, who planted my pots so my house would have curb appeal; and my friends Paulette and Larry, who also helped with all that decluttering and carried heavy boxes out to the garage while I sat in front of a computer screen for three days. Not to mention that my entire yarn stash takes up the top of a queen size bed in Larry and Paulette's guest room. Not to mention the workstation they set up for me in their basement so I could still work when I had showings. Not to mention the coolers they loaned me when my refrigerator crapped out on me.)

The first week was ridiculously slow. Two showings, no offers. So we dropped the price. Suddenly the showings increased—and so did the interest. We received an offer late one Saturday that was rescinded on Sunday before we even had an opportunity to accept it. (Home buying/selling is not for people who like the merry-go-round; fortunately, I've always been a roller coaster fanatic.) But the universe works in mysterious ways, and just an hour later, we had another offer. A better offer. A much better offer. Which we accepted.

The inspections are complete, and everything is moving at warp speed. Getting things set up at the new house—utilities, insurance, carpet cleaning and replacement, move-in clean. Marie Kondoing this house and prepping for the move.

On June 28, I will be moving out of a house that saw the absolute best years of my life. I would be lying if I said it was having no effect on me. My first response to that first offer (before it failed) was elation—immediately followed by profound sadness. This house was never just a house. It was a dream turned into a reality, and we couldn't have asked for more. But ... it is just a house. The memories we made here won't stay in the house—they will come with me. The views won't stay in the house—I have all the pictures Vic took from the bedroom window. The love won't stay in the house—it is in my heart. Bella and I will bring everything with us to the new house. And in the end, Vic always wanted what was best for me, so I know he would approve.

To close, I leave you with a few of the magnificent views from this house that I will be taking with me.

To all who have supported me on this wild ride, thank you. You gave me the strength to make this very hard decision. Much love to you all!

About a dog

Amid the sorrow, there is a dog.

Where tears flow, there is a dog.

Where there is no one else to greet me when I come home, there is a (very energetic, bouncy, zoomy, excited) dog.

Where the car is otherwise empty, there is a dog.

Where her dad used to lay his head, there is a dog.

Without a dog, life after loss is more unbearable. Sadder. Lonelier. Less soft and fluffy. Less adorable.

Happy adoptiversary to my dog, my Bella (Bella Bear, Bunny, BB, Poodle, Little Love), my guardian angel on Earth, my source of happiness and strength and unconditional love. I couldn't imagine bearing these past 10 months without you by my side.

Happy birthday, Mr. Love! (PG-13)

I could write a blog post every day.

Every day, something happens, or a thought crosses my mind, or I feel sad or not sad or whatever, and I think, “That would make a good blog post.” But I'm usually working, or taking Bella for a walk, or in the car, so I don't write it right then.

If I'm at my desk, I'll make a note of it on a piece of paper and think, “I will write a blog post with these random thoughts this weekend.”

Then the weekend comes.

I start every weekend by catching up on the urgent/important chores—putting finances in order, picking up around the house, trying to do one (or more) of my one million five-minute chores. Writing the blog goes to the bottom of that list.

So now I have:

• 23 snippets of things written on two small pieces of paper—things like “couple at Brown's,” “should - strike from English language?” and “mailman - snow”
• Three email drafts where I copy and paste things I want to put into a blog post, such as Facebook memories, words of wisdom from my daily mindfulness practice and things that, for some reason, I don't write down on the little pieces of paper
• Three draft blog posts that I started and never finished because other topics seemed more important at the time or I ran out of time or they just seemed way too sad
  

This blog post encompasses none of that. (Well, a little of that—one piece of one email draft and one tidbit scratched on one of those little pieces of paper.)

No, this blog post is all about today being Vic's birthday.

On the one hand, he did not care much about his birthday. (As opposed to me, of the birthday season.) So we never did much of anything. Sometimes we went to the zoo or Rocky Mountain National Park. We always went out for lunch. I always made him an applesauce cake (his mother's recipe). I always bought him presents, although it was like pulling teeth to get him to say what he wanted, and often I just transferred money into his account so he could buy an expensive piece of photography equipment.

On that hand, today is just another day. Just as sad as every other day since July 27.

On the other hand, I cared very much about his birthday. I always tried to take the day off, and for the past several years, I took the whole week off. We rarely made plans with anyone else—although he didn't care much about his birthday, he also didn't want to share it with anyone. The only person he ever even considered sharing it with was our niece Margeaux, whose birthday is the day before his. I never chose the restaurant, even though it meant going to Joe's Crab Shack a lot. (No knocks against Joe's. It's just not my jam.) I always tried to find something to do that he would enjoy. One year I took him to Rocky Mountain Bead Fest and let him sit in the snack area while I shopped. Another year I let him drop me off at Rocky Mountain Bead Fest while he went to Bass Pro Shops. The Bead Fest was a big draw for mehim.

So on that hand, today is just a constant reminder that he is no longer here, a black cloud hanging over my head that makes it impossible for me to get much joy out of anything. (Not to mention how upset he would be that he will forever be three-quarters of a century old—not 75 years old, but three-quarters of a century. The story there is that the year my mother turned three-quarters of a century old, she said it all year long, much to Vic's chagrin. The first time I said he was three-quarters of a century old, I think he wanted to murder me.)

But.

I am reminded of one of my morning mindfulness exercises a few weeks ago, which was about the importance of bringing humor into life. It went something like this, with what I found most salient italicized:

Why take things so seriously? What's the point if we can't find some enjoyment in it all? Sometimes we need a reminder that life is precious and fleeting. That there are limitless things to be grateful for. That this, too, shall pass. That there are people in this world at this very moment who are enduring hardships far worse.

With this perspective shift, there's an opportunity to discover a lightness in our hearts. A chance to untie that knot in our forehead and laugh at it all.

Instead of being bounced around by life, we bounce with it.

Approaching life with a sense of lightheartedness is like wearing armor.

After the mindfulness practice (which is something we do at work), we were discussing how much we all loved that morning's message, and one of my co-workers said to me, “You embody that.” I was taken aback for a moment, but then I realized that she was right. And it wasn't just me—this was something Vic and I shared. We always tried to joke our way through adversity. Always tried to carry lightness in our hearts. And Vic, more than anyone, bounced with life. I had never really thought of it as wearing armor, but I guess it is.

Because I have been walking around with a heavy heart—not my customary light heart/suit of armor—and maybe that is why extra sadness has seeped in. Why every little thing sends me spiraling these days. I let Bella out to do her business one cold day and didn't remember to let her in for a half-hour. Vic never would have done that. I forgot to get her dog license—that was Vic's job. And when I went to get it, I forgot to take her proof of rabies vaccination. Vic wouldn't have forgotten. My car decided to scream at me the other day. Vic always had a good idea what was wrong with the car. I had no idea, and the longer the car screamed at me, the more dollar signs collected in my head. A friend of mine offered to drive me home from the car dealership after I dropped off the car. Vic should have done that. And all of these—again—reminded me that he just isn't fucking here. The unfairness of it all (as if life is fair) just makes me break down and sob—usually only for a few seconds, but still, enough that it would really disappoint Vic. He was always proud of my strength and resilience. It's just hard to find that lightness without him by my side.

Fortunately, my co-worker's words came back to me earlier this week: “You embody that.” And it reminded me to put on my armor, bounce with life, find some enjoyment in things, and be grateful. So I close out this super depressing blog post with one of Vic's favorite Dad Jokes and pictures from birthdays past.

First, the Dad Joke: Horse walks into a bar. Bartender says, “Why the long face?” 🤣

(FYI, my favorite joke is the knock-knock joke about the banana. 😆)

And here, a smattering of birthday pics through the years:

Mr. Cool with his ice cream cake.

Mr. Cool with his Snoopy ice cream cake.

A little birthday celebration at my mom's, with a homemade
cake from my sister and my nephew looking on excitedly.

Not pictured: The ice cream cake.
But take note of the Snoopy wrapping paper.

The return of the ice cream cake! Look closely
and you can see Murphy's tail about to catch fire!

Vic and his sister Alice had a long-standing tradition of
going to a Rockies game for his birthday.

We have now switched from ice cream cakes to
applesauce cake and from cats to ... Waggy!
She was always giving sloppy, wet kisses. 😁

Waggy was never far from her dad.

A little help blowing out the candles from
great niece Gigi.

It wouldn't be Vic's birthday without Joe's Crab Shack.

Hiding behind applesauce cake.

Happy birthday, Love! Hope you found some crab legs and cake—complete with Murphy's tail and Waggy's tongue—and are just throwing the ball to Wags at the Rainbow Bridge.

(P.S. Just to be clear, I'm OK. I know this blog post makes things sound dire, but they're really not. I have my Bella. I have my family. I have my friends. I have crochet date night, which conveniently falls on Vic's birthday. So don't worry about me, Kendra and Kristen. And Chandra. And alla y'all. 💗)

How I'm getting through Valentine's Day

Greetings from six and a half months.

I missed the six-month blog post because I had been experiencing overwhelming sadness that brought on spontaneous sobbing and crushing fatigue.

No doubt not having my life partner by my side as we started 2022 was a huge part of it, but I am also menopausal, which could cause all the same symptoms, and then I took a spill on my stairs and fractured my ankle, so the healing process could have also sapped my energy.

And now we have a confluence of craptasticity:

• January 27: Six months since Vic passed away
• February 6: Mom's birthday—the second one without her
• February 14: Three years since my dad died
• March 20: Two years since my mom died (I know it's still a month away, but her birthday just naturally brings her deathday to mind)

And as I write to you, today is our halfiversary. You heard me. Our halfiversary. We always celebrated our 'versary, as we called it, on the 13th, and February 13 is the half-way point in the year. Yeah. We were that couple.

So no, I'm not doing that great right now.

But it's not because it's almost Valentine's Day, which, in its current form, is just a way for companies to sell stuff (just like every other holiday—who doesn't want a mattress on Presidents' Day?). Although we were that couple, we didn't really celebrate Valentine's Day. We exchanged cards, and Vic bought me candy, but we stopped going out for dinner when restaurants reduced the menu and increased the price. (Don't get me started on the price gouging of flowers.) So whenever anyone would ask me, “What are you doing for Valentine's Day?” I would respond, “We don't really celebrate. It's just a made-up holiday anyway.”

The reason I'm not doing great is because it's ... a day. Another day without my husband. My father. My mother. Another day where I have to do the dishes and feed Bella and put the laundry away. Where no one will come and kiss me on the head while I'm working. (No, Bella will not kiss me on the head.) Where no one will be sitting across the room while we're watching some Oscar-nominated movie that I hate but feel like I have to watch the whole thing because it's OSCAR. NOMINATED. and then I'll catch his eye and and see that he hates it too and suddenly feel better that I'd rather watch Dodgeball for the 20th time than this Important Movie. (And then I'll turn it off and go get Dodgeball from the basement. Worth it just to watch Alan Tudyk as Steve The Pirate.)

But.

I talked to my stepmom today, and as usual, her silent strength filled up my energy tank. And I took a walk with my neighbor on Friday and recounted a couple of Valentine's Day stories, which reminded me that, although we didn't “celebrate” Valentine's Day, Vic always made sure that I knew I was his Valentine.

So tomorrow, when I am tempted to feel sad that my Valentine is at the Rainbow Bridge with his other Valentine, I will instead remember these two stories:

The first one is from a long time ago. If you have known me for more than a minute, you know that I love chocolate. (All kinds of sweets, actually, but for the purposes of this story, it's just chocolate.) So every year, Vic would go down to the Stephany's Chocolates in the Twin Peaks Mall (both, sadly, gone now—I could make this story really long if I told you all the memories I have from Stephany's and the mall) and buy me a heart-shaped box of candy. Beautiful heart-shaped boxes—sometimes with flowers on them, sometimes covered in velvet, just gorgeous.

One day shortly before Valentine's Day, he said, “We need to talk.” Nothing good ever comes after those four words, so I was preparing for the worst.

“I went to Stephany's today.”

I'm thinking Stephany's has closed. Or they ran out of chocolate. Or some other disaster.

“Did you know that the heart-shaped boxes cost more than regular boxes—and they have less candy?”

Leave it to my Valentine to notice that a $9.99 heart-shaped box would have 12 oz. of candy while a $7.99 plain box would have 16 oz. And leave it to my Valentine to know that I would care. And leave it to my Valentine to have enough common sense to know that he could ask me whether the shape of the box was more important than the amount of candy.

(You know I picked more candy, but I do still have the last heart-shaped box he gave me—probably from the 90s.)

 The second story is more recent.

With the shuttering of Stephany's in 2006, we had to figure out a new chocolate source. We settled on Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory, where every year, he would get six vanilla caramels with dark chocolate, one milk chocolate Cashew Bear (like a Turtle, but with cashews) and one milk chocolate Mountain Toffee. It doesn't sound like a lot of candy, but each of the caramels is about the size of four Stephany's chocolates, the cashew bear is bigger than the palm of my hand, and the mountain toffee is too rich to have more than one.

He liked to go to the one in Boulder—downtown, even though that meant a parking hassle—because he thought they were fresher than the ones in Longmont. And he liked to do this alone because he thought it meant more than dragging me with him.

But as you know, his heart had other plans for him. In December 2014, Vic had a heart incident that meant he couldn't drive for at least six months. Valentine's Day was just two short months away. A few days before Valentine's Day, I asked if he wanted me to get my own chocolates. (I do not stand on ceremony—I know he would get the chocolates if he could, but he couldn't, so I can do it. RMCF was a block away from my office—bathroom breaks take longer than getting chocolates.)

“I already have your chocolates.”

Talk about a mic drop moment.

The RMCF in Longmont is 15 minutes from our house. Unless you can't drive. And then it's three buses that take an hour to get across town, followed by about an hour of waiting for them to make the round again, and then another three buses home.

Three hours. Because I was his Valentine.

I started picking up my chocolates the next year, and he let me. Although he could drive by then, it just didn't make sense when I could get them so easily. But that year he sent me this while I was at work:

The rose is one of his pictures from our garden, and the words are from a John Denver song. The funny thing about this was that Vic wasn't much of a romantic gesture guy. Most of my Valentine's Day cards are Snoopy cards, and we all know about the “I'll love you 'til I croak” anniversary card the year he died in the Apple store. He expressed his love in everyday gestures—scraping off my windshield, getting up early to make a pot roast, scrubbing the toilets the night before he had surgery so I didn't have to worry about them while he was laid up. I didn't need a dozen roses or a candlelit dinner. Just a rose picture, a John Denver song, a box of chocolates and my sweetie.

So that's how I'm going to get through Valentine's Day—the same way I get through every other day. By holding on to all the wonderful memories I have with the man I love. (I will also be wearing a sweater of my dad's, which will be like getting a hug from him all day long. 💕)

Happy new year!

Welcome to 2022!

 

The past few days have brought shootings and fires and ice storms and blizzards to ring out the Dumpster fire that was 2021. I am grateful that everyone I know made it through these devastating events safely, if not necessarily whole. (I know many who are without power, water or gas.)

When I started this blog, I planned to write a post at least once a month, on the “monthiversary” of Vic's death, to let people know how I was doing. I know many worry about my well-being—thank you—and I want to allay their concerns. I also thought I might write an additional post in between with whatever topic struck me at the time.

Well, I missed both of those milestones this month. The mid-December post was waylaid by ... whatever. (How can I remember that far back?) And the post on the 27th was hijacked by Verizon, a two-day 10-hour ordeal that nevertheless had a totally positive outcome and was worth every moment I spent on hold and getting transferred around.

Over the course of the month, I was pondering a post for folks who don't know what to say to a grieving person, a post about the many ups I experienced this month (from Susie, Donita, JB, Amy, Chandra, Alice, Seth, Julie, Amy [yes, there are two Amys], Anne, Annie, Kristi and Paul, Nancy, Cathy, Larry and Paulette, and Michelle, to name just a few), even a post about how grateful I am that everyone who knew about Vic changed their address books and sent Christmas cards addressed just to me. (I twinge every time I get a piece of mail addressed to both of us—especially if the organization has been notified of Vic's death.)

As separate posts, each of those topics would be long, but imagine if I tried to write all three topics plus a “how I'm doing” in one post? Yowza, what a long, boring post that would be!

So instead, I'm just going to throw in some random thoughts and slap up few joyful pictures at the end.

• “The holidays” were not worse for me than other times of the year. A lot of people appended “... especially at this time of year” to their statements of support. But holidays didn't really have special meaning for us. <Sappy Patty alert!> Every day was a holiday with Vic. (OK, not every day—every couple has a few rainy days.) I can't count the number of times I have said this—even on this very blog: a wedding is a day; a marriage is every day. And Vic showed up every day. So it's that everyday presence that I miss the most, and it doesn't matter whether it's Christmas or Tuesday.
• Also, I've been channeling Barry Manilow since Thanksgiving. His song “It's Just Another New Year's Eve” is the best song to play for any day that you feel sad for any reason:
  
  Don't look so sad
  It's not so bad, you know
  It's just another night
  That's all it is
  It's not the first
  It's not the worst, you know
  We've come through all the rest
  We'll get through this
  
  
• That said, the amount of support I received this month—from the widest variety of (and often unexpected) people imaginable, in the widest variety of forms—was astounding, and I'm sure that made the season easier to bear. A picture of an 11-year-old under the baby blanket I made for him. A package of sweets from The New Phantom. Editing services for The Scallion. An original piece of artwork from an artist friend. A baby Christmas tree—a real spruce tree!—complete with decorations. A well-timed “You are normal” email. Homemade treats. Store-bought treats. Homemade treats for Bella. Store-bought treats for Bella. (We are not picky.) A bell with angel wings. An exquisite quilled hummingbird ornament, a gorgeous glass hummingbird and an adorable hummingbird wind chime. The “can you help me with a quick favor?” friends. And one of the most beautiful tributes to Vic I've ever read.
• That said, my random experiences of sadness this month included driving home from events (driving to an event doesn't bother me), going to the Butterfly Pavilion without Vic and the song “Merry Christmas, Darling.”
• Speaking of music, I listen to it a lot. In the car by myself, on my walk with Bella, in the shower, while I'm working to help me focus. One day on my walk with Bella, I started out sad for whatever reason. (How can I remember that far back?) Barely a minute in, a groovy version of “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” by Ray Charles came up on my Christmas Walking playlist, and I just started dancing. I mean, walking, but also dancing. (It's a thing. Look it up.) I'm sure anyone watching was laughing. Hard. Later, “Elf's Lament” by Barenaked Ladies (feat. Michael Bublé) popped up, and I sang along. Loudly. While I walk-danced. Music, for me, is healing. I can be sad while listening to music—I'll listen to a break-up song on repeat all day long if I need a good cry—but put a peppy, jazzy, fun, catchy or danceable song on and I am transported to another world, even if only for 3 minutes and 39 seconds.
  
• I took a few more steps away from Vic this month. I made the macaroni and cheese Vic always made me for Christmas. I cut the long hair that he loved. I disconnected the home phone we had for 37 years. I took him off of the cell phone plan. I got rid of the packages on DirecTV that he watched—including the channel that aired the Rockies games, which broke my heart just a little. I discontinued the DVD Netflix plan. (Yes. We still got DVDs from Netflix.) I took his name off all our memberships when I renewed them. These were painful but necessary steps.

So now it's 2022. I couldn't imagine a worse year than 2019, when I lost my dad, or 2020, when I lost my mom and we had a global pandemic, but 2021 definitely has its place in the pantheon of abysmal years. (Ooh, someone broke out the thesaurus!)

What's in store for this year? In the words of the great Sam Baldwin (aka Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle):

I’m gonna get out of bed every morning … breathe in and out all day long. Then after a while, I won’t have to remind myself to get out of bed every morning and breathe in and out. And then after a while, I won’t have to think about how I had it great and perfect for a while.

I don't make new year's resolutions, but my intention (a word I hear a lot in my morning meditations) is to just take every day (humming)bird by (humming)bird (apologies to Anne Lamott) and make the best of whatever life throws at me. Bring it on, 2022! I choose joy! 2021 will not defeat me!

As usual, I end the post photographically, and these are just a few (OK, a lot of) pictures that have brought me joy in the past few months.

Not long after he passed away, I gave one of Vic's telescopes to my niece and nephew. Within days, they had it set up and were looking at things far, far away.

Xan and Will looking at ... a neighbor, maybe?

Madi looking at ... Jupiter? Venus? Something cool, for sure.

Halloween is almost as festive in our neighborhood as Christmas. I posted the pirate house, as I call it, in October, but this bicycle built for two always made me giggle when I walked by.

Vic received a number of quilts over the years to help him during his various medical ups and downs, and my dad had a quilt top my grandma made finished into a full quilt for me. This year, I bought a quilt rack to display them all. Thanks to Cara, Chris and Alice for Vic's quilts. 💕

Hey! I never posted a picture of the finished square shower! Even though it was Vic's shower and it made me sad that he never even got to see it let alone use it, it does bring me joy because it reminds me of Vic.

One day, on my way home from lunch with a friend in Westminster, I went through Broomfield, so I thought I'd take a brief detour by the house where we got married. When I saw it, I was immediately transported back to 1988, when a (fairly) young woman married a (much older, if you talked to my mom) man under the bluest Colorado sky.

2021

1988

The whole backyard from the neighbor's house

Couldn't resist including the cheesy “kiss the bride” shot!

And finally, a few of the things mentioned above.

A boy and his blanket

A package from The New Phantom

The New Phantom also included treats for Bella

The New Phantom even knows what box The OG Phantom used!

Some inspirational artwork:

© Julie Leidel, The Bungalow Craft

 My new baby tree, decorated and lit:

 Butterflies and ... other things ... at night:

... from other guests? I'm pretty sure I'm gonna stay six feet away from this guy!
(Just kidding—he [or she] is harmless to humans.)

 My angel bell:

“Those we love don't go away. They walk beside us every day.”

A few more hummingbirds for my growing collection:

“The little hummingbird reminds us to savor the sweetness in every moment.
Their delicate grace and beauty make us realize the miracles in life.
Hummingbirds symbolize joy and inspire us to open our hearts.”

And Bella. Always Bella.

Happy new year, everyone!