Saturday, January 31, 2009

I miss being who I am.

I miss laughing.

I miss being able to relate to the world around me without the filter of grief.

I miss being able to laugh without having to cry.

I miss simple enjoyment of the world around me.

I miss listening to music.

Most of all, and I think this is the most important part, I miss seeing me through M's eyes. I miss living up to his opinion of me. I miss turning and catching him looking at me. I miss knowing that no matter what, I am loved and that I will always be special to someone.
M started feeling sick around December, 07, just before Christmass time.

He didn't tellme he was feeling sick, he just started rubbing his chest. I'd find his hand on his chest, and would get worried thinking he was feeling pressure.

When I asked him about it, he'd tell me he was uncomfortable, but not that he had pain, and always denied any pain in his chest, or his arm, etc.

I remember at the Christmas eve gathering at his parent's house, he wasn't eating the same. If there was something that M took pleasure in and over which we struggled, it was eating.

Last year, at Superbowl time, the house was shrouded with fleeces on the windows, M-speak, which i didn't know, for being scared.

He was preparing to watch the Superbowl, and was rooting for the Patriot's. Nothing inthe house could be changed, since they'd had a winning season, it was super important to him that the house remain the same for luck.

I was at a rehearsal for a show, and went to have a drink with friends afterwords...

M watched football on dvr. He'd record the game, not watch any news, would not answer his phone or speak to people until the game was over and he'd watched it.

While at the restaurant with my friends, the game was playing in the background...

it's hard to really describe the fanaticism of M and his family towards sports. EVERYONE in this group watched, understands and participates.

I've even seen members of the family going out and playing catch .

Even more, M's son is on the radio broadcasting now, just out of college.

These are fans, people.

In any case, when I saw that the Patriots had lost, I settled my bill and took off, getting home in a record 15 minutes.

I didn't say anything about the loss, believing that M had not seen the final score, since his habit was to watch the game behind real time.

It should have been at least the second clue that he was not well, he knew and the reaction was minimal. Given his histrionics all over the fan boards about the game and the posturing that he and others engaged in, his reaction was curiously understated.

I can't help re-living all the parts of last year, the year that was given over to Cancer.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

I miss him so much. today was particularly bad.

I saw a very tall man at Au Bon Pan today.

He was taller even than M was, prolly about 6'6" or so.

M would have shouldered by him and smiled down at me.

For a moment, i thought he was there. I wished he was there.

I cried at the stupid sandwich counter

Monday, January 26, 2009

More Yoga

One of the attractions of hot yoga has been that it exhausts my waking mind so much that portions of my ...

well, I guess less conscious mind?

comes out to play.

So, I'm lying in savasana (ironically, corpse pose) where you lay on your back, arms at your side, palms up, heels touching, toes relaxed.

Between drowning in the humidity and heat, between the pain from moving through the poses, and the always present pain of the ripping loss of my heart....

I was so hot I lifted my tank top up, baring my belly. I don't do this. I don't like showing myself in the yoga class. No matter how hot, I don't do this.

I said to M, if you're really here, touch my belly.

M loved my belly. He would lay his head on it, we would talk about what it would have been like if we had children together. He would lay his hand on belly, trailing his fingers across it...

So, i felt the touch. I felt his fingers trailing across my belly, like he used to.

It ain't much, but it's all I have now.

Hot Yoga

still sucked. no, really. it sucked. I had a hard time doing the poses, had to stop and sit out some. I swear this was the hottest class EVER. I saw the thermostat, it was over 115 degrees farenheight(sp?) in there.

still, got through it.

just before I was talking to someone who I had spoken to before I stopped going (about 2 months ago). Honestly, though, my sister is the talkative one, but she recognized me.

She asked what got me into bikram, and I sort of talked a bit about M. I said that I started going last summer while my partner was very ill, and that it was just hard to go home.

I hadn't said that to anyone. I know that I went as a way to work through issues, once a week, in an environment that tested me. I know that it was cathartic.

But never that it was a way to avoid coming home.

While in savasana I thought about this. I thought about whether I had been trying to escape the reality that was my life. I was hit by feelings of guilt, that I had left him alone to go to something relatively frivolous and decidedly selfish. It was all for me, only for me.

For a moment, I was hit by a wave of guilt. Slammed, really.

And I felt M, right there with me, holding my hand. He reminded me that he wanted me to go to yoga, that he felt better when I was more relaxed and that it helped us both.

So what if I was hallucinating from the heat?

It was comforting.


I had dreamt of M way before I ever met.

I've alsways loved him, and always will.

My dreams were of one who would love me no matter what, who was kind, gentle, strong of will, character and person.

A man who was not afraid of himself, of the depth ofhis emotion or caring.

I found him, and was blessed to be with him, but for so short a time.

I've heard that I should be thankful for what we had, that most never get to experience something like this.


I am thankful, but it wasn't long enough. We were cheated out of what should have been and I will never be able to forget that.

Since M left, I've not had a dream with him in it. I've had dreams about him, but none actually of him.

I awoke yesterday from one. I didn't even realize that it was different. I awoke feeling his hands on me, his breath in my ear, his love surrounding me.

This sense of being loved carried me through my day. Sustained me and I didn't feel my loss as acutely as I have.

Until I ran across a card from a friend of his, honoring his memory. The friend described me as "the sparkle in his smile"


That was enough to send me spiraling down again.

Oh well.

Even if I only get to feel him in dreams...

Saturday, January 24, 2009

5 months

It has been 5 months today since my baby left.

I can't fathom how I've managed to survive, despite my best efforts.

I miss with a visceral ache that nothing makes better. There is no lessening of the pain, and in fact, there is more. I was in shock when he passed, I didn't think it would happen, I didn't believe that it would.

When it did, the arrangements were so fast, that within 30 hours there was a wake, within 42 the funeral mass.

I hate this. It's wrong and it's not fair.

I don't a flying fuck if that is immature. It's not fucking fair and it's not right. He should be here, holding me, loving me and doing the good that he was doing for people.

The man lived a life that was good. He was good to the disenfranchised, he helped those who could not help themselves.

He was a good man and I love him.

God, I miss him.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

excerpt from an email by M

Your name is written on my heart-- I think it was at birth. I wonder if-- on the day you were born-- my heart didn't start beating differently...

MSJ - 10.22.05

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

I miss him

Nights and early mornings are the worst.

At night because that was when we were together. I miss cuddling into the circle of his arms, knowing that I was safe and loved.

I miss hearing his voice as he talked into my ear. He always said that he wasted his best material on me, as I'd drift to sleep within minutes of being in his arms.

Feeling the solid warmth of him snuggled into me, feeling the circle of his arms, his heart beating against my back, his breath against my neck.

Awakening in the morning, feeling how we've shifted, now my arms around him, my body pressed into his, feeling his body, my breath against his back, his body spooned into mine.

I'd start with gently, but firm pressure, rubbing his shoulders, his arms, trailing down his back, his hip, thigh.

He'd moan, push himself against my hand, tell me how good it felt to be touched, to be loved.

I miss him.
When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that, in truth, you are weeping for that which has been your delight.

Kahlil Gibran

Monday, January 19, 2009


I'm trying to organize the clutter in my "dance room".

It's loaded with a filing cabinet that holds all my information for taxes, as well as lesson plans, routines, bla bla bla

I found in there the folder that M kept on his initial contact with Dr. Gonzalez in New York. He wrote a 2 page summary of why he wanted to meet with the doctor, his reasoning, and his reasons behind not accepting conventional medical treatment.

I remember the discussions we had when he was contemplating this step.

I know (intellectually) why he chose this route. I know (being reminded by what I read) that I supported this as the only way to keep hope alive for him (and for me).

It still sucks.

Sunday, January 18, 2009


it's in the title after all.

I have been studying Middle Eastern dance for the past 8 years.

During that time, the only constant in my life was dance.

I ate, slept, read, dreamed, everything was dance.

And the costumes.

Since M passed, I haven't been able to dance.

M was a huge part of this vocation. He went with me to gigs, was my bodyguard, my cheerleader, my all.

As he was my all in everything.

I'm told I need to get back to dancing, but how, when it hurts so much that something that we loved so much is lost to him?

Saturday, January 17, 2009


There is an annual science fiction and fantasy convention held at the Hyatt in Cambridge, Ma.

For the past couple of years, I've performed and danced there.

I love science fiction fantasy, but I confess that I was always unprepared to put on the type of performance that would have done the event justice.

Mind you, when people talk about costuming for the con, it's intense, months of preparation and work.

I'd just show up and well, dance.

This was the first place that M ever saw me teach to a group of complete novices in my genre of dance.

I have to admit, I am a damned fine teacher. I had the crowd dancing within an hour, the little girls following me around, looking at trying to mimic my moves.

I kept announcing if people wanted more information on my classes, they should see the tall man at the back of the room.

M didn't really enjoy the con, although he enjoyed our mutual friends who went.

If you've never been to a con, picture this...

tons of people, so many that the lobby is standing room only, the lines to the elevators stretch interminably.

just standing still you're apt to see representatives of Star Wars, The Lord of the Rings, more elves and fairies than you can shake a wand at... not to mention weapon smiths, photographers, corseted individuals who may or may not be in costume and fans of all stripes.

Given that M was raised in suburbia, and lived for about a decade in Northern Vermont, this was... well. A shock to him.

Had to give him credit though, he was willing to go, hang out and spend time with me there.

First post

I've done most of my writing over at livejournal, and most of those have been locked posts at that.

This blog will be about my journey through grief.

I'm not sure how it will turn out, whether I'll make it through or not.

M was the love of my life. I knew he was my soul mate the first moment that he put his arms around me at the end of our first actual time spent together outside of work, and he knew I was his.

I met M at work. I knew him initially as the "Man from Vermont" or the "Lobster Claw" a nickname given to him by a co-worker given to his very ingrained handshake to women.

He was taught from an early age that women were fragile, and to complicate this, he was 6'4" inches tall and weighed well over 300 lbs.

He was the most gentle man that I have ever met.