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!

My four-month report on how—squirrel!

I had a hard time writing this “it's been four months” blog post. I just couldn't decide what to focus on—Ups and downs? Been there, done that. Something I did this month? Nope—a pretty uneventful month all in all. Thanksgiving? That seemed promising.

But in fact, being unable to focus has been a hallmark of this stage, which is foreign to me. One of the things Vic always said he admired about me was my ability to focus. He bounced from thing to thing, and it often took him a week to perform the smallest of tasks.

That's where I am. As I described it to my stepmom on Thanksgiving, I have a hundred five-minutes tasks on my to-do list. I made a small donation to my alma mater, and now that my company does a charity match, I have to file the paperwork to get them to match that donation. It's just a download of the receipt and an upload to our charity match vendor. It practically took me longer to type those two sentences than it would take me to do the work. I have to put my thyroid medication on a 90-day fill through my company's prescription vendor. Again, it's just going online and filling out a few form fields, but there it sits, on my task list, undone.

Every time I sit down to work on my task list, I start by checking my email. And there the rabbit hole begins.

Oh, there's a new part available on the crochet-along I'm following—I'd better go download it. Here are some notifications from PayPal about money I spent. I should put those in Quicken. And as long as I'm in Quicken, I'll sign on to the credit union and my credit cards and my HSA and make sure I've entered everything from those accounts into Quicken. Wait, I can get AMC+ for $2 a month for a year? I'll go sign up for that so I can watch The Discovery of Witches. I wonder if there are any sales on for Christmas music in iTunes? I should check. Speaking of that, I should check my wish list on Amazon and see if anything on it is on sale. Oh! I have to check Zillow to see if any new houses have been added to my search criteria. Boy, I really need to sync Vic's iPad to his computer before I update it to the new operating system.

Next thing I know, it's 7 p.m. and I haven't taken Bella for a walk and I still haven't done my charity match (or anything else on my to-do list).

As I've said many a time, I'm riding out every stage of grief without trying to change it. I'm getting the important things done—I'm paying all my bills on time (now that I have them synced up), I'm getting Bella fed, I'm getting important appointments made (note to self: car needs an oil change), and so on.

And I was very diligent in putting up all the Christmas decorations on Thanksgiving day, so now the house is a Christmas miracle. But you know what? It's not the same. I think what I loved about Christmas decorations was how they came to be. One day I would leave the house for work (remember those days? When we left our houses to go to work?) at 6:15 a.m. (remember that? Getting up before the crack of dawn to get to work?), and when I got home at 6:15 p.m. (remember that? Getting home from work after the sun set?), the house would be completely decorated—tree up, lit, ornamented; music boxes spread around the house; mantle cleared and ready to display our Christmas cards; stuffed bears and moose and pillows strewn about. The only thing I had to do was pick out a wreath and hang it on the door.

Vic didn't love doing any of that by himself, but he knew I didn't love it either, and he knew I was working and didn't have as much time as he did, so he did it for me. He loved my coming home and seeing me admire all his work. Every few years, there would be a new music box. He bought all of them because he knew I liked them. And he always wanted me to approve of where he'd placed the ornaments.

And oh, those ornaments. We long ago got rid of the generic ornaments we bought at Target when we were first together. Now, every ornament has a special meaning. One ornament for each of our pets. The “first Christmas together” ornament from my mom. Several ornaments that I made as a child or were old family ornaments. Many, many souvenirs from our travels and those of his sisters. A ceramic “Dad” that Vic's daughter made.

I don't know how he decided where to put them, but I started with that ceramic “Dad” and put Laurie and Bryan's bears next to it. (Along with the Wags ornament.)

Then I put up our bears, with Bella between us. Next, I put the cats together. Then I went through the ornaments and picked all the ones from our trips plus a few of his favorites from other people's trips. This, from his sister Patty:

And these from his sister Alice:

The next thing I knew, I had a tree (complete with presents, sent early by Vic's daughter so I would have presents under the tree and know I wasn't forgotten).

I also put up the ornament tree from Alice, which houses all the White House Christmas ornaments she's given us over the years ...

... as well as all the music boxes, stuffies, bubble lights, and things I stitched (most of which aren't pictured because I ... you know ... forgot to take pictures).

So the house is festive, even if I'm not quite there yet. It was a lot more work doing it myself than it was when I left in the morning with a plain house and came home to a snazzy one. And Vic always turned on the tree and the stair lights (the lights he wrapped around the stair banister so I would have Christmas lights in my home office) when he got up in the morning, so I woke up to lights. I loved that. I didn't turn on the tree lights until around 6 p.m., and I still haven't put up the stair lights.

So having Christmas decorations around the house isn't exactly bringing joy to my world. And when I took Bella for a walk, the sunset was gorgeous. I took a picture, but it was with my iPhone, and it didn't capture the subtle beauty that Vic would have gotten if he'd taken a picture—so that made me sad. (In fact, a lot of astronomical things make me sad—there was an eclipse Vic would have gotten some great pictures of; Jupiter, Saturn and Venus are aligned, and the full moon swept past them with nary a picture taken; and there's a comet coming that would certainly be visible through Vic's long camera lens.)

I keep a list whenever something strikes me. Last month, I used that list to make my “Ups and downs” blog post. This month, I don't see a single “up” thing on the list. I finally took all his winter clothes to the OUR Center to donate. (An “up” for the people who are getting them, a “down” for me.) I came across a picture of the macaroni and cheese Vic made for my last birthday—the last time I'll ever get Vic's mac and cheese. (Yes, I can make it. I'm not helpless. But I want Vic to make it.) As I was doing laundry one day, I remembered that Vic used to put a quarter in the watch pocket of his jeans when he put them in the hamper. I mean, I was never gonna get rich from those quarters, but I kept all of them. And now there won't be any more. One of my favorite things about special days (like Veterans Day) was going to Facebook to see what pictures Vic posted. No more of that. I dropped his cell phone from our plan yesterday, and I teared up talking to the agent when I told him I wanted to remove it. (Honestly, I should have done it weeks ago—he wasn't getting any calls or texts, I hadn't needed it for two-factor authentication since August, and I'm saving $75 a month by removing it and going to a much smaller plan. Your head is on the chopping block, home phone line!) And the saddest thing of all, the husband of a dear friend of mine entered hospice this month, so she will soon be where I am. I don't want that for her. So, lots of sad things this month. (Not to mention that I also missed my mom on Thanksgiving because she used to come over to breakfast every year.)

And yet.

In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, a lot of people said to me, “Probably not a lot to be thankful for this year.” So after I wrote that bummer paragraph above, I thought about it for a minute. And in fact, I have so much to be grateful for. I always start with the obvious “friends and family”—but it's more than a flippant remark.

I'm spending time with friends I haven't seen in decades. I'm making new friends—the neighbor two doors down previously known as “Sonny's Mom” (because we only knew her through her dog, Sonny) has become “Anne” (because that's her actual name), and she takes walks with me and Bella a few times a week. And of course my “regular” friends—the ones who texted me on Thanksgiving to see how I was; the ones who just treat me normal, as if I'm not grieving (trust me—you need those friends); the ones who laugh at my jokes because they actually think they're funny.

My family continues to be a source of great support, whether it's my sister coming up to help me sort through Vic's things, Vic's sisters inviting me places to make sure I know I'm still part of their family, Vic's kids and our grandkids texting me and sending me pictures, all of my nieces and nephews who check in from time to time, and all of my steps—mom, sisters, brother, in-laws and all their extended families—texting, calling, e-mailing, Facebooking, always reminding me I have more than just my birth family.

How do people even get out of bed in the morning without this kind of support?

When you start thinking of what you're grateful for, you start seeing those things all around you. I am grateful for sunshine. For music. For yarn. For my iPad. For popcorn. FOR BELLA.

And although he is gone from this earth, I am eternally grateful that I had nearly 37 years to love and be loved by Vic.

I leave you this month with a video of Vic's favorite Christmas decoration, the Bandstand Bears. I hope you all had a wonderful Thanksgiving and that you find peace and contentment in this holiday season.