Experiences You'd Never Wish On Anyone

Here's a sample of one of my section abstracts for my proposal:

The next section holds heart-wrenching details of nasty decisions that have to be made -- ones that require a lit cigarette in your shaky hand, though you don't light one because you've quit.

I'm in awe of how the human brain decides to record memories. How are they filed? is it a double-entry system? How do you access them? Why can they randomly jump out at you when you least expect it?

"Do You Remember?" skims my sub-consciousness for memories of the grave site service, and I wonder why I only remember things in slivers -- not whole memories.

Like, I barely remember twenty-two month old Aubrey standing next to me at the grave and a soldier handing me an American flag. But I especially recall that for the rest of the year, every time she'd see one, she'd say, "Look Mommy. A flag for Daddy!" and I would tear up and hold my breath until my throat unseized.

Making decisions is excruciating for a grieving person. "The Funeral Pyre That Never Happened" is the story of my decision to respect Rob's mom's wishes to bury Rob, instead of following Rob's wishes for cremation. It's the story of my decisions to not look at his body, what to bury his body in and what casket to buy.

Another decision I make in those first days is not to view the pictures my family and friends take of the Explorer and the crash site and the marker they left there. I almost wait a year before viewing them. It takes a long time to feel ready. When I do, I expect tears, but instead, only cold analysis shows up. i contemplate the philosophy of guilt and the choices I have right now in this place -- a choice to live and to find purpose.

I think the piece de la resistance for tasks you'd never wish on anybody is in "Where's Daddy?" where I have to tell my daughter that her father is never coming home again. That it's not because he doesn't want to, it's because he can't. That he's far, far away, but that he loves her and always will.

RobDaddy

This last photo was taken about a month before he died.

"Going Back" Abstract

One of the most confusing aspects of integrating your grief, or as some delude themseves into believing: "getting over it," is how to do it with the least amount of trauma to your family or new relationships.

When I first started talking on the phone with Paul, at the beginnning of our relationship, I told him that Rob's family would always be weaved into our lives: weekly phone calls, yearly visits, pictures on the wall -- that sort of thing.

"I know you had a history before I came along -- I did to," he says. He always makes sure that Rob is not forgotten and that he doesn't replace Rob -- only adds to the love we have for the children.

Despite this assurance I always wonder if my remembering rob aloud or having a day where I'm pensive and miss him causes hurt feeling for Paul. Is it possible, perhaps, that Paul feels badly when I talk about Rob even though he says differently?

This affects how I grieve and -- truthfully -- stunts my process. How can I let go and feel sad when Paul is there feeling second fiddle, or trying to make me feel better? And so for a long time I felt shame for grieving.

The writing of this book was a highway of mixed emotions -- swerving around each other, passing on the right and unexpected traffic jams.

My essay, "Going Back," addresses the fears of messing with your new partner's heart while you're still grieving your old one.