A Dream

Some mornings I have an awareness that Jimmy floated into my dream, but he hasn't played a starring role...until last night.

In my dream I'm sitting alone in a theatre. I seem to know the people on stage and suddenly Jimmy is there and he says,

"Let's go sit with the Luxury people." (Luxury is the name of a
Jimmy's company that I'm trying to sell)

I go with him and I sit down, but we're all the way to the side and it's hard to see. Everything looks out of focus, too.

That's it. I woke up. Later in the day I called my friend Mimi Scott who's an actress and a therapist figuring this is a perfect dream for her to analyze.

She said,

"You're making decisions independently that are making you feel good
rather than just going along. You're learning to trust yourself."

I think she's right. I thought about all the choices I made over this last almost year and and as hard as it is to make them alone, when I do, I feel stronger and more grown-up.

I believe if Jimmy came back tomorrow I would challenge him more. Although, I didn't in my dream...

Thank You

The comments to this blog have been incredibly kind and sensitive and many people have told me that they read entry after entry at one sitting. They tell me not just to praise me, but also to blame me for making them stay up until 3 o'clock in the morning. I'm never quite sure how to answer this. Read faster, start earlier...what can I say?

I am simultaneously stunned and thrilled that my experience resonates with others and while it helps me tremendously to write, forcing me to pinpoint my feelings, it seems to be helping others, as well.

My goal is to expand this blog into book form. I'm working on a book proposal now and I'm searching for a new literary agent. I'm pretty sure that if I'm lucky enough to get an agent who will find "Poor Widow Me" a publisher, some bigshot will tell me to stop the presses on this blog or certainly limit the content. We can't have a fairly large chunk of the book's material out there on the internet while trying to sell the book.

I'm writing this now for two reasons. One, to thank everyone who has been reading and commenting and two, maybe you've noticed that I used to post approximately twice a week. I am purposely slowing down my entries to be about once every ten days so I can keep the blog active and yet not give away so much content. Capice?

So, I won't count this as a post because that wouldn't be fair and we all know how fair life is, right? I'll post a new entry tomorrow and from now on a little more sparcely - once every 10 days or so.

Thank you for reading and thank you for your encouragement. See you tomorrow.

Bad Time To Be An Idiot Savant

I remember dates like Rainman counted toothpicks. Don't be flattered that I remember your birthday. I remember Mrs. Friedman's birthday and she was my second grade teacher.

My memory for dates is a talent with no real value, like baton twirling. Occasionally, I've reminded others about an upcoming birthday or anniversary and I've saved the day, but being an idiot savant is definitely not bankable.

Jean, my bearevment shrink warns me (and she oughta know - After all, she boasts every time that she's treated "THOUSANDS" of grieving people in her career) that as it closes in on the first anniversary people experience film like memories that are difficult because it's like watching a movie for the second time, but now we know the terrible ending.

She's right. I wish I could turn it off. I'm remembering dates and seeing scenes from last year even more acutely now. This past Saturday, the 10th which was the 11th last year was my brother-in-law's 65th birthday party (his actual birthday is March 6th) and Jimmy drove 45 minutes to his house in New Rochelle.

Thirty-three days later he was dead. How is this possible? Today, it's exactly 11 months and tonight last year we went to our friend Mimi Scott's reading. I didn't drag him like I did with some events. He liked Mimi and he didn't want to disappoint her. He threw up in the men's room.

Tomorrow would have been Jimmy's 57th birthday. I don't have to be an idiot savant to remember that, of course. I'd be a plain idiot to forget. I realize this.

The 15th was his first catscan, casting the beginning of concern that the pain Jimmy was feeling was not just indigestion. On the 22nd he had an MRI.

Also, on March 15th, this Thursday a year ago, Jimmy said something to me that I will never forget no matter day it was. As we waited in the doctor's office before his catscan with no reason yet to feel there was anything seriously wrong, he kept fooling around saying, "Sayonara. See ya. Nice to know ya."

Then, he stopped smiling, became thoughtful for a moment, and like it just occurred to him he said,
"Wow. What a life changer for you. It will be an adventure."

Music

Music stirs so many memories and feelings that I've been forced to listen to the news while driving. I'm up on current events more than ever before. Jimmy used to have a perfect comeback if someone brought up a news story that he had no clue about. He'd say,

"I haven't been following that story."

It implies that he's aware of EVERY OTHER story, just not that one. It's very effective, unless it's something big, like "Anna Nicole Smith died? I haven't been following that story." For ones that grab the headlines for weeks, you have to make up your own story, like,

"I just woke up from a coma."

Lately, though, the news is even more depressing to me than hearing "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion. I can hear "My Girl" a song Jimmy sang to me at my 40th birthday party or "Hero" the ballad I put on the "This is Your Life" video I made for him when he was 45. They make me sorta smile.

There's a wistfulness surrounding me when I hear our song, "Our Day Will Come." We dated since 1968 and I remember so well waiting and waiting for 1972, the year we'd finally be married. Finally...we were 22.

I shake my head in amazement that our day came and our day went and now it's over. The story of us has ended. Jimmy's cousin Lew and Carole Yevoli made a Cd for me soon after Jimmy died with varying renditions of "Our Day Will Come." Last week I was able to listen to part of it.

Music makes him alive to me now and while there's a yearning, I don't move away from it or change the radio station so quickly like I did even a month ago. I feel us together dancing or what our interpretation of dancing was. After all, a white middle aged couple trying to look cool doing the the ancient cha-cha can be a hazard. Caterers should be instructed to put orange cones around the dance floor.

And, I can never again think of dancing without hearing what Jimmy said to me just weeks before he died.

"I wish we had danced more."