New Year, Still Here

One of my favorite tv shows is a fun, whimsical confection called Younger. In it, the main character must return to the workforce after her husband of twenty years leaves her for another woman. Liza is both smart and Ivy-league educated, but when her lack of work history deems her unemployable she does what any character on a well-written tv show would do. She pretends to be a 25 year old recent college grad and gets her dream job in publishing. Liza's best friend at the publishing house is a 20 something year old whose fiance is killed in a freak accident. Upon his death, Kelsey does what any tv sitcom character would do. She wears trendy black outfits for a couple of episodes to remind us  that she's in mourning, and within a few weeks is back on the dating scene, being "tram-slammed" by a handsome stranger with whom she realizes she has no future.

I love this show. It's a fun, light-weight fantasy and like most tv shows, it is complete and total bullshit.

Weeks after you died, in lieu of trendy black announcements of bereavement, I wore your old clothes around the house. Sweatpants several sizes too big, CFD t- shirts and boxers, your robe with the enormous hole in the right armpit. That robe, the one piece of clothing you left behind that still smells so much like you I live for the moments when, right after my shower, I can wrap myself in that tattered piece of flannel and smell your scent as strongly as if you'd wrapped your arms around me in embrace.

Months after you died, in lieu of the dating scene, I had moments where, upon receiving friendly compliments from men (CTA bus drivers, cashiers at the grocery store) I wondered if I had done something wrong, something to encourage what was probably nothing more than polite flattery, and rushed away from these encounters as though someone were chasing me. It took a long time for me to recognize the bandit as my own needlessly guilty conscience.  And I'm sure this goes without saying but I don't see any tram-slamming in my immediate future.

Yesterday, while watching Game Day Morning I realized that it was the last Sunday of the regular season and began to panic. Football season will be over in about a month and when it ends I will no longer be able to rush home from Amira's school, put on ESPN, listen to Mike and Mike and pretend that I still have someone with whom to share the daily news.

When you died, time stood still for me but now...it's 2017, a new year, a year that you will never get to see. I will have no memories to cherish of you and I in 2017. You won't be here for my birthday in three weeks, you won't be here for Amira's birthday in three months. You won't be here for Bears Friends and Family Day in July, you won't meet my grandma when we go to Barbados for spring break. You're gone.

But as Maggie gently reminded me yesterday, I'm still here. God spared me which means it wasn't yet my time to go. Unlike you, my job on this planet isn't finished yet.

Our plans were simple. To travel as much as possible. You and Dwight were going to go in on a condo in Vegas together, so we'd always have a place to go for long weekends or for Mira's breaks from school. You wanted me to become an EMT, a job that would guarantee I'd have similar hours as you, and if I really had no interest in that job (and I didn't) you hoped I'd have another baby. "I can't do what you can." You'd say. "Fuck all that politically correct bullshit. I'm a man, we aren't nurturers, but you are. You can be a provider if you want to but I cannot be a mother. Only women can give life. Ya'll have the most important job in the world, regardless of whether or not society knows it. Your job is much more important than mine. It's a gift." And I'd look at you, a man with sentiments so different than what I'd always known, and be reminded once again of why I'd fallen in love with you in the first place.

I'd look at you and almost be convinced.

If you were here this is what I'd tell you:

THE CUBS WON THE WORLD SERIES the same year that the Cavaliers won the NBA championship!

The Bears still suck. They went 3-13 this season. Nuff said.

The Raiders kicked ass this year until Derek Carr broke his leg. They're still in the playoffs though so I know how happy you'd be about that.

The Pats are the number one seed in the AFC!

And finallly, in non-sports related news, I outdid myself this Christmas. If you were here you would have killed me but... it was our daughter's first Christmas without you so yes, I went completely overboard. But it was worth it because she didn't cry on Christmas. She still cries a lot. Her heart is completely broken. She's scared to go to sleep at night, scared to be in a room without me, scared she'll lose the other person she loves most in the world. She's in therapy now and I'm going to meet with her counselor to see what else I should be doing at home. But...she didn't cry on Christmas. Your entire family was here, minus Dwight and Danielle, and she had a wonderful day.

I don't think I'm in denial anymore. I was angry for a minute there. Very, very angry at God for taking you, and even angrier at you for leaving me. Angry at myself for every argument we ever had (even the ones that were your fault), angry for not having a second child, angry for not giving you everything you could have possibly wanted in what would turn out to be a life ended way too soon. But I don't feel as angry anymore and when I do, the anger seems to have redirected itself to its rightful target, the bastard who took you away from us in the first place.

You used to say I was the strongest person you knew but that I just didn't know it yet. Well I know it now. And I know that eventually I'll be okay. Doesn't mean I'll stop missing you, or loving you, or wishing you were here. But...my goal for 2017 is to be okay again. And that's the most I can ask for right now.

Shred

I'm hungry.

Really, really hungry.

Not starving, not light-headed, not about to pass out or anything but hungry nonetheless.

Today's my fìrst day on the Super Shred Diet. It was created by Dr. Ian Smith of VH1's Celebrity Fit Club fame and is touted as being a HEALTHY but short-term diet for those wishing to lose weight in a hurry.

I damn sure fit that criterion.

In the four months since Lorenzo's accident, I've gained 20 pounds. This should come as no surprise to those who know me well. As a lifelong, emotional eater I've gone through exactly ONE crisis in my life where I DIDN'T gain weight so you can imagine what I've been doing to while away all those lonely nights without Lorenzo.

Eating.

Oh, and drinking.

But...as of yesterday it's been exactly three months since he died.

My grace period is up.

I spoke at the funeral. And I promised Lorenzo that I'd live my life to the fullest, the way he'd want me to.

And this?

Ain't that.

So...super shred.

It's a four week diet and while I've always been more of a Weight Watchers girl, that won't work for me this time.

See, I don't want to think more than I absolutely have to. I don't want to plan meals, calculate points, or figure out what I'm in the mood to have for dinner. I just want to open a book, be told what to eat and in four weeks, step on the scale and see a much smaller number than I saw today.

So...here goes nothing.

Except, hopefully, some of this ass.

Regret

You died exactly three months ago today.

I didn't go to therapy yesterday. I'd made it all the way to Belmont by the time Dr. Green called, apologetic and more than a little embarrassed at getting her days confused and double-booking me with another patient. She offered to see me later that evening, to conduct a phone appointment, to reschedule our appointment for today instead but I declined each offer.

'It's OK, really, it's no problem.' I assured her.

'I feel awful' she replied, 'Are you sure next week is okay?'

'It's fine, don't worry, I had a really good week' I lied, before confirming our next appointment and getting off the phone.

Telling Dr. Green I'd had a really good week was a lie, not because I had a bad week but because I barely have any recollection of the previous week at all. Amira had a stomach bug for a couple of days, and I read some great new books but other than that...each day blurs into the next.

After we got off the phone I ducked into the midday quiet of Native Foods where I got the twister wrap (it's not EXACTLY a salad) and made myself eat half of it before leaving. I made it all the way back to the train station before I let myself fall. I'm good at home, that's where I have to be good because I have a child for whom I have to hold it together. I'm good at school, at the playground with Peirce friends, and I'm good at Mira's swim and dance classes. But on the train, alone, I listen to the songs that you and I could agree on and I let myself fall. I listen to the soundtrack of our relationship. Maroon 5, Adele, The Weekend, Bruno Mars. I listen to music you used to laugh at me for loving. Katy Perry, Nick Jonas, Arianna Grande. And I remember. I remember the time we washed the walls of the purple room, counting the days til we went on summer vacation, arguing over the lyrics to Maroon 5's "In Your Pocket" until you conceded that I was right. I remember blasting Nick Jonas's "Jealous" during my workout and you saying I'd never make any progress listening to that sissy ass music. And I regret. I regret every petty argument we ever had. I regret every night I spent fussing over Amira, sleeping with her cuddled in my arms instead of allowing myself to be cuddled in yours. I regret every time I rolled my eyes at one of your lectures, every time I bolted instead of sticking around to listen, and I even regret you not being here to cash in on the threesome I promised you, if "by some miracle, we actually manage to make it ten years".

You only had one year to go.

If you were here, this is what I'd tell you:

The Bears started the season 0-3 but then Cutler got hurt and they finally got their first win with Brian Hoyer at QB. Let's see how long this lasts.

Scream Queens is back and I have two words for you: CHAD RADWELL!

We went to Veganmania this year, Mira, your mom and I. It sucked without you there with us and by the time we got home, I had to send Amira upstairs and workout for an hour so I could try and forget how it used to be.

I replay every argument, every fucked up thing I ever said to you. I remember, I regret, and though I know it isn't possible, I pray to God to give us a do over. One last chance to get it right. I live in a world of regrets now and wherever you are, I know you're putting yourself through the same kind of self-flagellation. But we did the best we could, babe. We tried our best. We thought there'd always be a tomorrow to fix us. I hate that we were wrong.

Happy Anniversary

Today would have been our nine year anniversary.

Nine years.

This is how our day was supposed to go: I would have woken up this morning at some ridiculously early hour, watched tv or read a book, before having breakfast alone and packing up Mira's lunch and school bag. Eventually I would have woken her up and gotten her ready for school. You'd still be asleep, being off from work today, and Amira and I would whisper a quick goodbye before running out the door to get to school on time. By the time I returned, you'd be in the beginning stages of waking up and in lieu of "Happy Anniversary" you would have greeted me the exact same way you did every other morning, "Water. Juice. Bananas" which I would have begrudgingly brought your lazy ass. By that time the tv in our bedroom would be on ESPN2 and you'd be getting ready for First Take. Laptop on, notebooks open, spreadsheets and various football magazines scattered in front of you on the bed, as you put it, it'd be time to get to work.

Cell phone in hand, you'd have started calling your brother while I shook my head and exited the room. By the time I got myself together and climbed on to the elliptical, you and Dwight would be in full analyst mode, breaking down the previous week's games, reliving your favorite moments, predicting who'd win big this week and by how many points. Thirty minutes or so into my workout you'd holler at me to bring you a pee bucket.

I'd laugh at you.

Ten minutes later you'd leave the bathroom, sneak up behind me and slap my ass on your way into the kitchen for more juice while I'd scream and damn near fall off the elliptical.

I fell for this trick every, single day.

After my workout I'd hop in the shower while you went down to the basement to make popcorn in the theater. Eventually I'd come downstairs with water for me and Izze's fake soda for you. We'd binge eat popcorn and binge watch Empire and Paternity Court until it was time to pick up Amira from school, you speeding the entire way so we could make it to the Diner in time for brunch. You'd complain about my $12 dollar salad during the entire meal. I'd text angry messages to Michele about how much I wanted to kick your penny pinching ass. We'd go home, stopping at Home Depot, Best Buy and any other store I'd let you get away with dragging us to even though it's a school night and we should have long been home

And eventuallly we'd get there. Eventually I'd put our daughter to bed. Eventually we'd be alone.

Eventually...

It's so different now, babe.

When I take Amira to school each day, we don't peek in at you while you lay sleeping in bed with the tv on. In fact, other than to put laundry away or get dressed, I no longer go into our bedroom at all (the door stays closed and that direct tv's been shut off). After I drop her off I come home and immediately go into the dining room, your media room, and I put on ESPN2. I laugh at Mike and Mike, Stephen A and Max Kellerman (nope, he's not as good as Skip), Michael and Jemele, and I listen intently to every bit of football news they dole out. I listen just in case there's something important to be shared. I listen as though there were still someone to share it with. I listen because it's what I've done for 9 straight years.

I listen.

At night, Amira and I sleep on the futon in the dining room, a practice we started when you were in the hospital and first Fareeda, and then Maggie came to stay with us to help out. Three months later, we're still sleeping on the spare pull out, the same way we did when we were told you were making a miraculous recovery. We sleep there as if you were still in the hospital, as if this were a temporary situation that would soon be fixed. As if you were still coming home.

I usually wake up at around midnight. Depending on what day of the week it is I turn on NFL network, or ESPN and if there are no games to be rehashed, I put on The Middle instead. And I remember. I remember how we used to laugh at this silly sitcom. I remember how we felt like it was a family comedy that actually got it right

I remember.

Here's what I would tell you if you were still here.

The Bears still suck. They're 0-3 this season and Jay Cutler actually LEFT A GAME after hurting his thumb. If you were here you'd have his jersey laid out at the front door again, ensuring that anyone who entered our home had to step on Cutler's jersey at least twice a day.

The Pats are 3-0 WITHOUT Brady and Jimmy G. If you were here you'd echo Dwight's sentiments, that until the Pats are without Bill Belichick you'd never bet against them.

Amira and I are both getting counseling. During her first session she told her counselor that her daddy had two cars and didn't eat first thing in the morning. :-) She brags about you everyday.

My counselor says I'm still in shock, that I'm in the denial phase of grief. She's right.

Your co-workers still call to check on us. They've all been so lovely, I'd like to try and hook one up with Asia or Fareeda but my matchmaking skills are nowhere near what yours were. :-)

Fareeda got a new job! She's a domestic violence attorney and oh my God, how proud you'd be!

And finally, the last thing that I've been dying to tell you these past few weeks is this:

I saw him.

Riding the bus, not even in Evanston but in Chicago, I saw the man you credit with getting you through the academy, the man you said was more of an inspiration to you than Kurt Warner, Walter Payton and Barack Obama put together. Lorenzo, I saw "the midget". Yes, that's right, I saw your favorite person on the planet, the little person (yes, LITTLE PERSON, that IS the politically correct term!) who worked security for the CTA. The little person you've spent damn near 5 years talking about and whom neither one of us had ever seen again.

I saw him.

And THAT is how I know that you're still here.

Happy Anniversary babe. I love you...

The Aftermath

Nowadays, when people ask me how I'm doing, I no longer answer them with the standard, "Fine thanks, and you?" that I'd been doling out for the past 30 plus years and instead, give my new stock answer of: "We're doing as well as can be expected thanks, just taking it one day at a time."

Which is true in some sense, and total bullshit in another.

We ARE doing as well as one would reasonably expect, in that, I still wake up every morning, workout, get my daughter's breakfast together and get us dressed before taking her to the park, museum, movies or wherever else she may want to go that day. We still laugh together every night while watching Liv and Maddie; Amira still makes "experiments" out of old, about-to-be-discarded food that she finds in the back of the fridge; and she still cheats her ass off during Uno, sneaking Draw Fours out of the deck while I look the other way and pretend not to notice. We say our prayers at bedtime and tell Lorenzo how much we love him and then we go to sleep.

We are functioning well I think. We are hanging in there.

We talk about our feelings. We talk about how much we miss him. We listen to his favorite songs, we point out Highlanders on the street, we share our favorite memories: Lorenzo playing Madden on the elliptical to make the time go faster, Lorenzo and Amira singing 2 Chainz together at the the tops of their lungs, Lorenzo proclaiming that he'd never change another dirty diaper after baby Amira got poop all over him on one of the rare times I left her solely in his care. We're doing well, and that IS the truth. But the other truth is that on most days, I'm so preoccupied, so easily distracted, I spend countless minutes trying to locate lost cell phones, lost house keys and lost whatever else I just had my hands on and now has seemingly disappeared in the blink of an eye. There are days (like yesterday) when Amira will climb onto my lap and say that she misses Daddy so much, she wishes he could come down from heaven, just for a little while, just to visit her before he has to go again. There are days when I go down to the basement, to his theater, and sit in darkness on one of the plush leather recliners because the theater is where I can feel his presence the most. There are days, moments really, when I wish I didn't have to get off of the couch. Moments when I wonder what comes next, what I'm supposed to do with my life now because ALL of my plans died with Lorenzo. For better or worse. In good times and bad, he was always here. Here to help me figure shit out. Here to listen. Here even when he was getting on my nerves and I wished he'd take his ass downstairs and put on the game or something. Lorenzo was always, ALWAYS here. Now that he's not, I don't know what to do. I realize that I am probably not supposed to say this. I am supposed to pretend that everything's great and I have it all figured out because as the oldest child, the oldest DAUGHTER at that, that's what you do. You make nice for everyone else so you're one less thing they have to worry about and of course I know that eventually I WILL be okay. Eventually, I WILL figure it out. But right now, today, in this moment, I wish I didn't have to because I wish he were still here. I wish I still had him to plan the rest of my life with.