It’s tough for me to believe that after a year of this illness I’m shocked that he’s gone.

I am astounded, really, at how deeply it hurts and how crazy it seems that I am still experiencing the gut-wrenching, blood-curdling mental scream that I want him back.

To be honest, I had hope now and again that Michael would just one day decide enough was enough and sit up and go back to the way life used to be.

I guess a tiny part of me held out for a miracle…and now that tiny part has been crushed under the weight of the reality that he’s gone. For good.

Tonight Gina and I went to buy some clothes for the service. Then we stopped for Indian food. The only other time we ate at this particular restaurant, it was the three of us.

So we sat there talking about him…how he was…what he would have said…and every few minutes I would have to fight the urge to throw myself on the ground and have a tantrum….right there in the restaurant…crazy sitar music coming to a full crescendo.

He belongs here with us my head screamed.




How can he be dead?

It doesn’t seem any more real than when the doctor told me “Your husband is a very sick man.” on the morning of his seizure.

What. Do. You. Mean.

My husband was not sick a day since I’d known him. Nothing felled him.

He ate all kinds of horrible things.

He took 5 sugars in his coffee and said transfats made everything taste better.

He slept two hours a night.

He smoked 3 packs of cigarettes a day when I met him (and made him quit).

He never took a vitamin in his life.

And he was the healthiest man I knew. Never ever sick.

The kids and I honestly thought he was invincible. Immortal maybe.

All of his family was long-lived and we (he andI) thought we’d be the grandparents pulling up on our Harleys. We used to laugh about that image.

He was strong and kind and wonderful.

And I don’t get…really I don’t…how it is…

that he’s not here.

I. Don’t. Get. It.