Chapter Two

"Get in shape, girl, you'll love the feeling.

Get in shape, girl, it's so appealing."

Kick-ass 80's commercial

Dear Lorenzo,

I have no idea where to start this entry.

I'm not sure why I'm having such a tough time writing tonight. Amira's lying beside me, sleeping soundly. The TV is on of course, but it's been muted and the only distractions I have are the whirs of the ceiling fan and the occasional sound of fireworks from some asshole who can't accept the fact that the 4th of July has come and gone.

Although it's past 10:00 p.m., I'm not particularly tired because I've done nothing but sit on my ass all day.

I've done nothing but sit on my ass for the past two years.

Don't get me wrong, I've taken breaks from my inertia. I still love to work out and so on most days, I take long walks or use the elliptical or even jump up and down on the trampoline. And I always show up for our daughter, of course, but other than that...

Couch, tv, potato chips, wine.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

If you could see me now, you'd barely recognize me.

I barely recognize me.

And it's not just because I've gained so much weight, you never gave a shit about that so you probably wouldn't notice, but...it's my lackluster attitude. I no longer have the energy to even pretend to care about much of anything these days.

This isn't a life.

Not the life I want to live.

So...Mira and I leave for Boston in a few weeks and the plan is to stay for the entire month of August (or, until my mother and I can barely stand to look at each other, much less live together, a moment longer). But before we leave Chicago I will take the next two weeks to revise my resume and submit my applications for grad school.

And I've gotta get serious about losing some weight. No more fucking around. I'm old so it won't be easy to lose but I finally feel ready to try.  

And I don't want to work anywhere that makes me miserable. My life is hard enough right now without adding a shitty job to the equation. I want to work for an organization that appreciates me. I want to surround myself with people who make me want to get up and get out of bed every morning. 

I want to be happy again.

Despite the fact that I can no longer be with you.

  

Back To Life

"I want my mullet back, my old Camaro and my eight track."

Robbie Ray, as seen on Hannah Montana

Dear Lorenzo:

I'm lonely.

And scared.

And tired.

Really, really tired.

And stressed the hell out.

There.

I said it.

That wasn't so bad.

And it only took two years and seven days to wake up.

I miss you but that's not all of it.

I miss my old life.

I miss not having to worry so much. 

I worry all the time now.

I worry about Amira and I worry about your mom.  I worry about single parenthood and about whether or not I'm doing a good enough job. I worry about going back into the workplace after spending the past ten years as a stay at home mom. I worry that working outside of the home will be another adjustment that Amira will have to add to an already full plate of crappy adjustments. I worry about my work schedule conflicting with school plays and dance recitals. I worry about not being able to take her to theater class after school anymore. I worry about field trips and class parties. Bullying and peer pressure. I worry, and worry, and worry, and worry, and worry.

And when I'm done with all of that worrying, I go to bed. 

Alone.

I miss you.

I miss your presence. I miss not being afraid at nighttime. I miss not repeatedly checking to make sure all of our doors and windows are locked. I miss hearing you argue with Dwight about Madden or an upcoming game. I miss laughing with you and fighting with you and all the fun of making up.

I miss you.

And for the first time in two years and seven days...

I'm lonely.

I think between the grief, shock, antidepressants, and, let's keep it real here, self-medicating, I haven't really FELT anything for a long time. When friends have asked if I'm interested in dating yet I've always laughed and thought to myself, "How can I date, I'm completely dead inside." 

But I'm starting to feel not so dead anymore. I'm starting to feel...sad. And lonely. And loss. Somehow I lost you. And it sucks.

I don't know what comes next for me. Work, grad school, I have no idea but...I'm not dead inside anymore. I'm sad, and scared and lonely but that's real. So...okay. 

Feeling sad and scared and lonely will have to do for now.

I'll figure the rest of it out as I go along.

I Choose You

"You're all I know, I can't let you go."

Mariah Carey

You died exactly two years ago today.

In your short time on this planet you got to be a teacher, an EMT, and a firefighter. You got to bet on football games with your brother in Las Vegas, bond with your firefighter buddies in New Orleans, and drive your fancy Highlander (blasting your horrible music) all over the northside of Chicago. You got to see a lot of your dreams come true and for that I am eternally grateful but I wish with all of my heart that you'd been given more than seven years to be a dad. Amira is nine now. And she's a force to be reckoned with. A couple of weeks ago, in a misguided attempt to clown her, one of her classmates looked at Amira and said, "What's the matter with your face?" Without missing a beat (or giving a fuck) Amira looked at him and shouted, "What's the matter with YOUR LIFE!?" to the amusement and laughter of her fellow 3rd graders.

That is YOUR CHILD, Lorenzo.

She's into Selena Gomez and Taylor Swift, dancing and musical theater. She plans to one day become a singer, actress, dancer or SLIME ENTREPRENEUR. I hope that you can still see her. I hope that, somehow, you still get to watch her grow up. You'd be so proud of the ass kicking, talented, HILARIOUS young woman your daughter is growing up to be.  

You died exactly two years ago today and while I've forgotten a lot from July 5th, 2016, I still remember certain moments from that day as clearly as if they'd only just occured. Your voice on the phone that morning, telling me you loved me for what would turn out to be the very last time. Amira and I heading out to Whole Foods to get you the vegan protein shakes you'd finally agreed to drink. The phone call from your mother asking us to come home, telling me that you'd had a seizure and that we needed to get to the rehab facility right away. The rushed Uber ride to Des Plaines, the prayers I repeated to myself over and over again. And then...the head nurse or doctor or whoever the fuck she was, meeting us at the lobby elevator to tell us you were already gone. 

But I don't dwell on that day. Not anymore. Instead, I choose to remember you for who you were before July 5th, 2016, before a drunk driver whose name I've purposely forgotten, took you away from us forever. 

I choose to remember the Lorenzo who wore a suit to our impromptu superbowl party, because he wanted to be as sharp as Ray Lewis. I choose to remember the Lorenzo who sang "Commas After My Commas" with his daughter at the top of his lungs. I choose to remember the Lorenzo who slept with his arms around me every, single, night that we were together. I choose to remember the Lorenzo who did squats in his hospital room a mere week and a half after the accident.

I choose to remember the man you've always been. And no accident on this Earth, no drunk driver, no shitty rehab facility can EVER take those memories away from me.