I fell off the planet last night, well, it felt like it. I could not fall asleep until so late that it was almost not worth going to bed. I tried everything. I sat up and read. I drank milk, tea, thought about a shot of rum but all the grief books and bereavement counselors say not to take pills or drink booze to sleep. I was thinking about taking a hit of benedryl when a song came on the radio I keep on so the silence isn't so silent. It wasn't anything as obvious as Sarah McLachlan's "Angel". It was Carly Simon's, "The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of." The lyrics start in immediately; her voice reaches out to you. She's singing of a woman, a wife, who feels trapped when all about her seem to be having romance. She's been with her husband for years. The song reminds her that what she possess has incalculable wealth. I never had that problem. I always knew what I had. He was the best man I've ever known or ever will know. I know in grief we sometimes put our spouses on a pedestal. I'm not sure if that's the case here. I know and can list right now all my husband's faults. They never mattered to me. Living with him and his faults made my life so much better than living without him, and worse, never having known him. I've said it before, probably here, but I know he wasn't perfect. He was just perfect for me. And especially now, I have no regrets for the pictures I took of him, and all the times I embarrassed myself by telling him how handsome and wonderful I thought he was. I do not regret ever being caught looking at him with love in my eyes. My husband knew how very much I adored him. I had it all. The stuff that dreams are made of.

And I laid there and listened to that song and I allowed myself the tears I'd been holding back all through the day. I'd been fighting them last night as well, trying to go to sleep. Fighting against what is normal. I love my husband. That did not die with him. Tears are a natural part of grief. The irony is that people who have not suffered such a death are starting to get uncomfortable if I tear up. I need to start 'getting over it.' The ones who do know, who are further down the road with grief than I am at this moment understand. They all know what it's like to suddenly find tears streaming down your face.

I have read so many books on grief now that I completely understand "the process." I hate that terminology. It isn't something you cognitively process or physically process although I have to admit the emotional and spiritual draining of my energy is pretty overwhelming sometimes. But the actual work of grief is more like a journey than a process. In my mind, process is too soft a word. There are other words I dislike as much even though I use "passed away" in my writing. I've been introduced as a woman whose husband "was taken," "departed this life," "came to a sudden and untimely end," and even "stepped out indefinitely" and "shuffled off his mortal coil." That one was used by the minister at the funeral. I don't like it said of me that I "lost my husband." I know where he is. His ashes are on my mantel at the moment. There are plans for him and me with regards to ashes that aren't ready to happen yet, but I know where he is. What I don't know is where his soul is?

I surprised myself with that one recently. I have always believed in God. I have always believed. I converted to Catholicism when I was twenty-three much to the dismay of my father. I was born and raised Methodist. The priest who baptised me was one of my father's golf buddies. When my father called him complaining about me, he had to laugh. He told my father that no one had prosetylized me into a decision I didn't understand anything about.  The priest also added that Catholicism had been around a few dozen years or so.  He said it wasn't a fly-by-night cult that was demanding I shave my head, wear a caftan and sell flowers at the airport.  (I'm going to pause here and explain Father's remark.  At that time, there was a small cult in our town where the followers had to do just that to raise money for the leader.  A lot of the young women who joined the cult soon disappeared and their families never heard from them again.  It was said as an illustration of the difference in the longevity of the respective faiths and the applications of that faith.  No insult was intended for anyone who is a member of this cult, if it still exists, nor an insult to anyone who is fond of doing this whatever the reason.  It was simply a point of reference to calm a worried father.)  I had come to Father. I had asked. I had secretly gone to classes and I say secretly because even though I was twenty-three, you had to have known my father. He was a devout Methodist.  Believe me, it was best to ask for forgiveness than permission. So I became a Catholic. I am a practicing one. And I pray.

I believe in Heaven and I believe there is a Hell. But my husband's death, the death of a man I love with all my heart and soul, shattered my confidence and has rocked my belief. Did I miss something in all the readings? Is he there now? Is he really waiting for me and we'll have one big reunion up there? And so it goes. I even wonder if we'll be allowed to hug and hold hands. What about kissing. Can I kiss him? See what I mean about falling off the earth last night? I fell way down into the darkness that I guess waits on the sidelines of everyone's mind. It waits until we're so weak and tired and fretful that it can now attack. It's late. It's dark. We're alone. It can find a hold and dig its claws in deep. We're defenseless against it until we can shake it loose.

And then Carly Simon's voice came across the airwaves. Bless the radio. I started crying. Sobbing really. The song made me remember what we shared. I thought about how happy we had been, even through the tough times. We were united against anyone or anything that tried to tear us apart. And that's when I knew. Somehow, someway, we'll end up together. I can't tell you how. I can't say in what fashion we'll meet. But if my husband has his way, and he has a will of iron, he will talk God into it. I, myself, am pushing for my husband to come and get me when it's my time to go home.

"What if the prince on the horse in your fairytale
Is right here in disguise
And what if the stars you've been reaching so high for
Are shining in his eyes?"

He was more of a dragon but our life was a fairytale with regards to how much we love each other. And as for the stars? I always looked to follow my stars by looking into his eyes.

I'm hoping for a little bit better day today. I'm keeping all the bereaved, the mourners, those who've "lost" someone, etc. in my prayers as well. (Hey, Mark Twain said it best: "Against the force of laughter, nothing can stand." I'm trying to keep humor in my arsenal.)