The bright lights of Denver are shinin' like diamonds, like ten thousand jewels in the sky

Even thought we ended up here kind of by accident, as the result of a crashing economy and a desperate need to get out of Hawaii before we ended up homeless, I have come to love living in Denver beyond anything I could have anticipated.

I have lived in a lot of places in my life, and I have cherished many of them - India, Israel, Atlanta, Charlottesville.  In my mind, each is imbued with its memories of friends, romances, trips, heartbreaks, song fragments -- it is impossible for me to separate the place from the overall sense of what my life was when I was there.  I would love to go back to India, for example, but India to me is totally wrapped up with the experiences I had while I lived there - being a senior in high school and having the amazing friends that I did, the nights out at the Gunghroo, the trips to Rishikesh and Goa and Bhubaneswar, being an extra in a BBC miniseries with my friends in Allahabad, shopping on Jan Path and Saroji Nagar.  Going back now would feel so different.

But I think as a place unto itself - the combination of location and lifestyle and culture - Denver is my favorite place I've ever lived.  I love my neighborhood, right in the city.  I love how there is so much focus here on getting outside and playing in nature - hiking, biking, skiing, climbing, camping.  The mountains are so extraordinary.  They inspire action and achievement and greatness and happiness -the kind of happiness that comes from effort and exertion.  I love how friendly people tend to be.  I love that it's an amazing place to raise kids.

I've written about how the big hike I did the weekend before Emma died was sort of transformative, and awoke in me this intense desire to be outside and walk.  I've been walking as much as I can, to and from work (though with the end of daylight savings, I probably won't be walking home in the dark very much, though I might occasionally), during lunch, around the neighborhood with the kids, in the various state and federal parks that are an easy drive away.

I read an article recently about the benefits of walking, and the author talked about how walking is one of the most fundamental, essential, and defining activities of human existence.  It's good exercise,  it allows for clearer thinking and problem solving, it improves mood, it's a mode of transportation - when you are walking, you are experiencing life as a human being on so many levels.  That idea really struck me, and I'm realizing how true it is.

I firmly believe that it has been an essential part of my grieving process, both relating to Emma's death and to the end of my marriage.  Particularly during my morning walk to work, it's solitary time to think and reflect, which is so important.  But it's solitary time to think and reflect while I am also out in the world, seeing people, looking up at the sky, noticing beautiful buildings or interesting signs.  I get to be alone in the sense that I can put in my headphones and listen to music and not talk to people if I don't want to, but I'm still out in the world, experiencing it.  I get to process my grief while my muscles are working and my blood is pumping and the crisp air puts roses in my cheeks.  It gives me a sense that life goes on, and is worth living, and that the world is an amazing, beautiful place, and that there is still plenty of joy and love and adventure to be experienced.

When I walk to work, I walk west, toward the mountains.  I start out walking through urban neighborhoods, and then more commercial areas.  So my view is this incredible combination of city life and funky architecture and the hustle and bustle of a weekday morning and the dramatic view of the Rocky Mountains suddenly rising up from the flat of the plains.  Mt. Evans directly ahead, Longs Peak to the north, and on a clear day, Pike's Peak to the south.

Like many of the old intown mansions, this grand dame is getting some much needed TLC.  I liked the way the bare trees formed a veil in front of the house, as if modesty prevents her from showing herself until she feels she's presentable again.

We could use more "thoughtful management" in the world, don't you think?

I love the way the dome on the State Capitol Building looms up over the grit of upper Colfax Avenue.

That white snowy peak in the background is Mt. Evans (one of Colorado's 53 "fourteeners'), which I climbed last summer.

I started taking pictures, and have decided to post them dailywith the hashtags #walktowork and #dailydenver (follow me on Instagram or Facebook, plus I'll post them here).  I'm hoping that they will inspire people to get out and walk, think, look around, be in the world, and live.

Grab the joy

A few months ago my friend Jen was posting on Facebook about how Sam Bush was going to be playing in Charlottesville (where she lives).  I love Sam Bush, and commented that when I was 17, he and the other members of New Grass Revival (Bela Fleck, John Cowan and Pat Flynn) had come out to India as part of a USIA cultural exchange, and that after playing a show at the Maurya Sheraton, they all came over to my house for a chili dinner.  After much back and forth, I checked my calendar, saw that the weekend of his Charlottesville show was on a kid-free weekend, and bought a plane ticket.  Music, reconnecting with my sorority peeps that live in Charlottesville, a weekend away - perfection.

As the time drew closer, I was excited to see my college friends and go to a show, but was lamenting the fact that it's a lot of travel time and plane tickets are expensive and I've got so much shit to do around the house.

But oh my god I'm so glad I went.

It's so amazing to reconnect with old friends from college - we all keep in touch and have been to (or in) each other's weddings and celebrated births and career accomplishments, but we don't get to see each other in person that much.  As with my India friends, there's something so special about being with people who have known you and loved you forever.  You reminisce, you revive old jokes and stories of crazy college antics and catch up on who is doing what.  You laugh and laugh.

Saturday we saw an incredible photography exhibit at UVa.'s art museum and then had lunch at a restaurant at which we had once used fake IDs to buy beer.  I bought a University of Virginia car decal at Mincer's, which has been selling (overpriced) Virginia paraphernalia since before my dad was a student there.

The University is so beautiful, even on a cold, cloudy fall day.

Saturday night was the Sam Bush show.  I had stayed at my friend Nica's house on Friday night, but went to Jen's on Saturday because Nica wasn't going to the show and Jen lives within walking distance of the venue, so it just made sense.

It's a great gift to have the realization that you're experiencing an epic night while you're experiencing it.  By the time I fell into bed at 1:45 in the morning, buzzing from tequila and dancing, I had been smiling and laughing for approximately 5 hours.  It started before the show, at the apartment of one of Jen's friends, where I met a bunch of wonderful new friends and fell in love with them immediately.

It continued at the Jefferson, where Sam Bush and his band put on an amazing, high energy show that had me jumping and dancing and grinning from ear to ear.  I do love bluegrass music beyond all sense.  More than any other genre of music - and I pretty much love them all except maybe death metal - bluegrass makes my heart feel like it's flying with joy.

We ended up at the Whiskey Jar, where one of my new friends bought me tequila.  We giggled about life and men and music and sex, and we could not stop guffawing over the dude who thought that my Notorious RBG shirt was about Biggie Smalls rather than Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and who proceeded to rap toward the general vicinity of my boobs until I patted him on the shoulder, said, "ok, buddy, that's enough," and sent him on his way.

It's been a rough year, particularly the last couple of months.  But I can't function in a perpetual state of grief and sadness.  I still grieve, and I'm still sad, but life is for the living, to be savored.  There is so much beauty and goodness and fun in the world.

Sometimes you just need to cut loose and dance and giggle and drink too much and stay out too late. The shit will still be there when you wake up the next morning.

Birthday No. 5: A little bit of Josie in my life

As you all know, September was, like, the worst month ever.  Except for the part about celebrating Josie's fifth birthday.  But I was so wrecked from everything else that I never got around to writing her a birthday blog, so here it is, a month late.

My dearest, sweetest, cutest, cuddliest little Josephine,

Five years ago, you came into our family and made it complete.  As difficult and frenetic as Zeke's birth was, yours was calm and mellow and lovely.

 And for the most part, you are calm and mellow and lovely.  Your older brother can be a bit of a steamroller, hogging both toys and time in the spotlight, and you are unquestionably the yin to his yang.  Not that you are a doormat in the slightest, but you have a greater ability than Zeke to self-soothe and, quite honestly, to suck it up when the going goes rough, so you tend to let him get his way in order to keep the peace.  Because I am disinclined to ever give an inch (Zeke gets it from me), my instincts are to tell you that you don't have to do that, and that he needs to learn how to calm down and share.  But your relationship with him as his sister, as part of the inseparable "ZekeandJosie" combo, probably gives you a greater intuitive understanding of how to handle him, and so you are gentle and forgiving with him, even when he is being an overbearing pain in the butt.

The payoff is in your connection with him, which is so lovely and amazing.  Though you're only two years apart and at an age when siblings tend to bicker, you and Zeke have this love affair that touches me immeasurably.  When I drop you off in the mornings at school, Zeke goes with you to your classroom to make sure you get there without incident, and you give each other a hug and a kiss before going your separate ways.  You seek each other out when you're sad, happy, excited, frustrated - it's a wonderful thing to behold.

You look to him for advice on how to do new things, and use his accomplishments as a yard-stick for your own.  And you are so fiercely determined to be able to do what he does that you don't quit until you achieve your goal.  When you saw that he could take himself hand-by-hand across the monkey bars at the playground, you pushed yourself until you could do it too.  Same with riding your bike or any other physical endeavor.  After Zeke learned to ski when he was five, you have decided that this will be the year you learn as well.

You're pretty much game for anything - hiking, camping, climbing, jumping off of things, zip-lining at Zeke's birthday party.  Your daddy and I have always maintained that between you and Zeke, you are the one most likely to participate in extreme sports.

If there are particular character traits or behaviors that tell the story of what you are like at this moment in your life, they would be love and sweetness on the one hand, and stubborn volatility on the other.  The love and sweetness is in your treatment of your friends, your brother, your relatives, me and Daddy - you've got hugs and kisses for everyone, kind words of encouragement, and snuggles.  I don't think I've ever seen my father more tickled than when he and Mimi were visiting a few weeks ago, and all you wanted to do was hold his hand and talk to him, or sit on his lap and rub his face while saying, "Papa's so cute!  I love you, Papa!"

The stubborn volatility is a newer thing - the tendency to proclaim things that are boring or annoying or difficult to be "STUPID!" and lashing out (including physically) in frustration.  Yesterday, when I arrived at the park for Zeke's football game, I saw you from the other side of the field - your bike was down on the ground, and you were stamping your feet and waving your arms around and little puffs of dirt were rising up because you were kicking at it.  Truth be told, it was kind of hilarious, because you're such a skinny little peanut that it presents a really funny picture.

But I know that it's a developmental 5-year-old thing, rather than necessarily a Josie thing.  You'll grow out of it as you become more mature.

In the meantime, you continue to be a delightful, sparkly ray of sunshine in our lives.  It's been a pleasure to hang out with you these past five years, and I can't wait to see what the future has in store for you.

I love you beyond the Milky Way and back,

Mama

The Magnificent Seven

Seven years ago today, I became a mama.

On one hand, it's hard to believe Zeke is 7 years old.  I keep telling him to stop growing, but he laughs and ignores me.

On the other, I have a difficult time remembering what life was like before I had children, other than I had a lot more time and money to waste, and could plan a trip that didn't involve spending at least $1200 on airfare.

In any event, I now have this seven-year-old boy.

He is this astounding social butterfly who knows everyone and everyone knows him and he feels entirely comfortable with the notion that of course everyone is going to like him and want to play with him.  Why on earth wouldn't they?  He walks into school, greeting and waving at everyone he sees.

"Hi, Patrick!  Hey, Mr. Jones!  Good morning, Miss Becky!  Hi, Mrs. Snow!"  They all smile and wave and greet him in return.

There's a little girl named Beth* that he luuuuuurved when he was in kindergarten.  They had a thing. She told her mom that Zeke was "her love," and he pestered me non-stop about setting up play-dates with her.

Her family moved to Frisco (up in the mountains, about an hour away) at the end of kindergarten.  Zeke hasn't seen her since June, but still refers to her as his "girlfriend."  I've attempted without success to get in touch with Beth's mom to see if Beth could come to Zeke's birthday party, and Zeke doesn't understand why we can't drive up there and figure out where she lives and knock on her door because of course she still loves him and wants to see him.  Why wouldn't she?

This is a character trait that I cannot fathom, as I have gone through my life feeling weird and out of place and assuming that nobody really likes me all that much.  This feeling has abated as an adult, but as a seven-year-old?  No way.  It was an entrenched part of how I approached the world.

He is also smart and curious and inquisitive and funny.  He loves school and is good at it.  He is a terrific athlete, and one of the stars of his flag football team.  He can spend hours outside looking at ants or playing in a pile of dirt.  When we go to visit my parents in Virginia, there's a nature preserve near them that is a great place to walk and hike.  Zeke could easily spend three hours climbing on rocks and throwing things in the creek and then jumping into the creek and inspecting rotting logs and on and on.  He shares my appreciation for fart-related humor.  He's incredibly sweet to and protective of his little sister.

Don't get me wrong, he can also be a massive pain in the ass.

He has this extraordinary attention span and ability to focus, but often to the exclusion of whatever it is I'm trying to get him to do at a particular moment, like put on his goddamned shoes and get in the car so we can make it to school on time.

So we have a lot of exchanges like this:

Me:  Zeke, it's time to go.  Put your shoes on. ......*no response* ...... Zeke, come on we're going to be late....*no response* .......... Zeke, let's go!..............*no response* ........................ZEKE! COME ON!!
Zeke:  Mama, don't yell!
Me: *head explodes*

He has great powers of reasoning, but uses them to try to argue with me.  And he's not quite as good at it as I am, but I forget that he's only seven, so we get in these absurd arguments that have me questioning my own sanity and fitness to be a mother.

He continues to take after his uncle Sam in a remarkable way, with his sensitivity and creativity and unique way of looking at the world, but also with his penchant for whining when he doesn't get his way.**  As a young child, Sam was a repeated recipient of the Wally Whiner Award, and his nephew is on track to match that success.

And yes, he adores his sister and is very attentive, but sometimes to the point that he keeps getting in her face or poking her or climbing on her or otherwise annoying her when all she wants is to be left alone -- sort of like being pecked to death by a chicken.

But mostly, he's kind of awesome.  He asks wonderful questions about the universe and animals and space and time travel and zombies and tornadoes and what the biggest thing in the world is.  And he makes me think about the world, and my place in it, in new ways.  In trying to raise him to be a kind, adventurous, interesting person, he makes me think about the kind of person I am and the kind of person I want to be.  About how to be a good mother who is worthy of the task of raising him.

It's a wild and wonderful ride.

*not her real name
**to clarify, Sam is no longer whiny.  Love you, Sammy!

Just step outside yourself and look up at the stars above, go on downtown baby, find somebody to love

Dear Emma,

It's hard to fathom that it's been over a month since you died.  Time doesn't feel like it's moving like it used to.  Normally, my brain works like a calendar - I can sort of see the days and weeks and months, and what happened and what is coming up, with a fair amount of precision.  Now it's all muddled in my head.

The constants are images and audio clips.  I think I will go to my grave hearing my dad's voice on a continual loop in my head, telling me that you had been killed in a car accident. And seeing the image of you in the funeral home, cold and still.  And the picture of you making that amazing save in goal - the one that's on your memorial card.  It's taped to my desk at work - you're with me all day long.

But I don't only see and hear you in death, thank goodness.  You're all around me in life as well.

Did you know that I have more pictures of you displayed around my house, on the fireplace mantles and the walls and the tops of dressers, than I have of my own children?

Pictures of you as a flower girl in the various family weddings.  A shot of you from Thanksgiving when you were about 3, playing on a playground near my parents' house.  Surfing pictures from our annual beach trips.  A picture of you and me sitting in the hammock on my parents' deck, giggling and snuggling.  In my office I have the family shot taken in the State Department on the day my mother was sworn in as an ambassador - I was holding you during the ceremony, and then when Mom finished her speech, you jumped out of my arms and ran to her, and everybody in the room smiled and laughed at how cute it all was.

It's been hard since you've been gone.

The whole family has been drifting in a bit of a fog.  We go about our daily lives, but there's this miasma of sadness and heavy-heartedness that has settled over us.  I'll have days when I'm constantly either crying or on the verge of tears, and then days when I manage to function pretty well, but even on the days when I feel somewhat OK, there's always this tightness in my chest and my gut.

I've been trying to honor you by remembering you at your best (which isn't hard to do), and by doing what I can to live well and in the moment.   That feeling I had, in the days after you died, to walk and walk and walk has not left me.  I do a lot of walking.  After I got back from New Hampshire, I started walking to work, at first part of the way (taking the bus the rest), but now I walk the whole way (it's about 2 1/4 miles).  Then I started walking home as well.

It's become one of my favorite parts of the day.  In addition to the physical exertion, it's time to think and listen to music and see my community.  The pace allows me to appreciate the architecture of the old houses and buildings here.  I walk down Colfax Avenue, passing thrift shops and tattoo parlors and dive bars and yuppie restaurants and organic grocery stores and bodegas and music venues and cathedrals and homeless shelters.  I smile and say "good morning" to the delivery guys and mechanics and office workers and waitresses taking a cigarette break.

I love those walks.  They make me feel more connected to the world.  And to you.  I think about you and look up at the sky.

This has been a stressful year, and even before you died, I wasn't taking very good care of myself, physically.  I wasn't exercising regularly and I was eating horribly, and then after September 10, it got worse.  I gained weight and felt sluggish.  But then I thought about you, and how hard you worked to get strong and fit again after your accident, and I decided I needed to #belikeemma and get off my ass.  I'm exercising again and eating properly and I feel like I owe some of it to you.

I'm going to take that picture of you playing lacrosse, kicking ass in goal, and blow it up to poster-size and put it in my workout room.  I'm going to paint my room the color that your room is (that awesome bright turqoise-y blue) and think of you whenever I look around and smile at how beautiful and cheerful that color is.

Thanksgiving is coming up.  The family is getting together at my parents' house, as we usually do.  We're going to do the same fun run we always do on Thanksgiving morning, and probably go to a hockey game, as we usually do.  And hang out and take the kids to the park and go to the movies and see Ali and Joe for Day After Thanksgiving Pie, as we always do.

But without you there, it's going to be hard.  And weird.

I still have a hard time wrapping my brain around the fact that you're really gone.  I love you and miss you so much.

College is awesome, dude. And best part - no zombies!

Some of my most interesting and random conversations with Zeke are right before he falls asleep. Now that I have an entire king-size bed to myself, I sometimes let him come and snuggle with me.

"Mama?"

"Yes, honey?"

"I don't want to go to college."

This is totally out of the blue.  I don't remember ever talking to him about college in any meaningful way.

"Why not?"

"I just don't."

"Hmm.  I think you'll want to go to college when you're ready.  You'd like college."

"But I don't want to go."

"Well, it's not something we need to worry about right now.  Let's go to sleep."

I shmush up my pillow and get comfy.

"Why not?"

"Why don't you need to worry about it?"

"Yeah."

"Because it's a long way off.  If you go to college, it would be twelve years from now.  You might change your mind."

He thinks about this for a couple of seconds.

"Mama, how long is middle school?"

"I think here it's three years.  Sixth, seventh and eighth grades."

"And how long is high school?  Three years?"

"No, high school is four years.  Honey, I'm tired.  Let's go to sleep."

"High school is four years?  I thought I heard someone tell me it's only three years."

"No, it's ninth through twelfth grades.  Four years."

"And college comes after that?"

"Yes.  And you know, college is a lot of fun.  It's where you get to decide what you want to learn about.  You can study the things you're interested in.  And have fun with your friends.  Now close your eyes and go to sleep."

He's quiet for a little while.

"Mama?"

*sigh*  "Yes, sweetie?"

"Are zombies real?"

Everybody's got a mountain to climb.

The weekend before Emma died, my friend Christin and I did an amazing hike in Rocky Mountain National Park, taking the Longs Peak trail to Chasm Lake.  The trail was long and steep, plus we definitely felt the altitude - Chasm Lake is almost 12,000 feet up, more than double the altitude we're used to.

Chasm Lake, at about 11,800 feet.  Atop that sheer diamond-shaped face is the summit of Longs Peak, at about 14,200 feet.

But it was spectacularly beautiful.  Warm, but not too hot, sunny, clear, with astoundingly gorgeous views in every direction.  The walk was hard - it's a legit hike - but it felt good to feel our hearts pound and our muscles burn and our lungs work for every bit of oxygen.  We had a lovely lunch sitting on a boulder by the lake, and talked for the entire 7 hours we were on the mountain, about books and life and children and men and travel and everything else that came to our minds.

The trail up to Chasm Lake.

By the end of the hike, I was sore and tired and my knees and feet ached and my legs were like heavy stumps.  But I still felt amazing.  It was a perfect Colorado day, when you really appreciate the gift of living here and of being alive and healthy.

A week later, when I was in New Hampshire, all I wanted to do was hike in the mountains again. Instead of standing around in a funeral home, I wanted to feel my heart pound and my muscles burn and my lungs work for every bit of oxygen.  That level of exertion is the only thing that has ever provided a physical antidote to that "cold metal ball in my chest" feeling that comes with depression or anxiety.  Or intense grief.  I just wanted to walk and climb for miles, so that the heat of feeling alive could push that cold metal ball out of the way, where it could bounce down the trail behind me before falling over a cliff and shattering into a million pieces.

So in that spirit, I took the kids up to the mountains this weekend to hike a trail off the Guanella Pass Scenic Byway. The aspens are changing color, so it's a great time to get outside and see some beautiful scenery.

At first, the day was a little frustrating for me, because I still had the craving to do a hard hike, but we were on a gentle, easy path that didn't gain much elevation, plus the kids were far more interested in dragging around enormous sticks/logs, climbing on rocks, and playing in a mountain stream.  Meaning I spent a lot of time watching them rather than hiking.  I didn't exercise, or exorcise, the way I wanted to.

But it was an exquisite day.  Sunny and warm, and the aspens were such bright yellow and gold that they looked lit up from within, particularly against the evergreens.  We splashed in the water and threw rocks and sticks and climbed around near a waterfall.  It was lovely being with my children as they enjoyed outdoors and got wet and dirty and dusty and tired.

While we were out there, I kept looking up at the cerulean sky and thinking of Emma.

Can you see us or feel us missing you? Are you up there? 

But deep down, I knew she wasn't.  I don't believe in God or heaven or angels or ghosts or any of that stuff.  I can see where it would be comforting to believe in all of that, but I can't make myself believe in something just because it might make me feel better.

Still, it's kind of nice to engage in magical thinking once in a while.

That kind of magical thinking is what makes me want to summit Longs Peak next summer, and scatter some of Emma's ashes from the heights of the Rocky Mountains when I get there.  So that when I make another pilgrimage to the mountains and look up at the sky, maybe a tiny piece of her will be up there after all.

Everything I need to know about life I learned from a 17-year-old girl

At some point on Friday afternoon, Josh called me while my dad and I were at the Kohl's over in Seabrook.  My dad needed new khakis because the pants he was wearing were old and ratty-looking and my mother was threatening to throw them away.

"I need you to do something for me," Josh said.

"Of course.  What do you need?"

"I need you and Mom and Dad and Sam to collaborate on speaking at the funeral.  The rabbi is out of town and so I want to put together a program of about an hour - people can talk about Emma and tell stories.  Our side of the family, Lori's side of the family, her coaches, that sort of thing.  So you guys could do about 10 minutes or so."

"You got it."

So I started to think about what I was going to say.  At that point, we had already been spending the bulk of our time at Josh's house, which was in "permanent open house" mode - crying and hugging and talking about Emma.  How horrible it was, how incredible she was, how much she was loved and admired.

And we also talked about how inexplicable and incomprehensible it was.  How could this happen to her, after she survived the accident?  How could her family go through this again? She got better.  It wasn't fair.  It wasn't right.

I didn't want what I said at the funeral to be a rehash of those conversations.

That night, when we were hanging out at Josh's house, he handed me a letter that he and Lori had received from one of Emma's teachers.  She talked about what a great kid and great student Emma was, how kind and generous she was to others, and how much she enjoyed having Emma in her class.

She also talked about Emma's college essay, which the teacher had reviewed for her and given some feedback on.  Emma's essay was about her accident; what had happened, how she had recovered, and what she had taken from it as her life moved forward.  The teacher's feedback was that the essay focus less on the accident and more on the recovery, because the recovery was Emma's story.

She was absolutely right.

Emma's story was about recovery and strength and perseverence.  After her accident, she had to relearn speaking and walking and functioning.  It was hard work, both physically and psychologically.  She pushed to get stronger, to regain agility, to be a great student again.

And she was doing all of this in her early and middle teens, which is a time of life when most of us feel awkward and unsure of ourselves and self-conscious anyway. Some of her old friendships suffered.  So she made new ones.  She had to cut her long hair off because some of it had been shaved while she was hooked up to machines in the hospital.  So she dyed it pink.

She had always been an athlete, and was bummed when she wasn't allowed to snowboard anymore.  Eventually, she started playing lacrosse again, and eventually became the goalie for her high school's girls varsity lacrosse team.  She knew it was risky.  When you've suffered a traumatic brain injury, it's not exactly intuitive to play a sport that involves hard rubber balls being flung at your head.  Or to surf or snowboard again.  But she did anyway.

What a badass.

Being an athlete was part of who she was, and she was determined not to let the accident defeat or define her or be an excuse to not go for the things she wanted in life.  She was going to study and work to become an engineer.  She was going to play lacrosse.  She was going to surf.  She was going to snowboard.  She was going to keep working.

This is what I talked about at the funeral.  That Emma understood that life can be risky and scary, but it has to be lived, and that if you're not living for the present and the future, you're not really living.

Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias.

The only way to deal with this awful tragedy is to live as Emma did. We are sad, but we can't use her death as an excuse to stop pushing to achieve greatness, to be stronger and better and kinder.  The only path is to live deliberately and fully, as she did.

Only then will we be truly honoring her.

Stop all the clocks

The most surreal part about the whole thing - other than that Emma is dead at the age of 17 - is that both times I got the news in the same manner, in the same place, at the same time of day, from the same person.

When Emma had her accident four years ago, I was sitting at my desk at work at about 4:30 in the afternoon, Denver time, when the phone rang.  It was my dad, who told me that Emma, my niece, had been hit by a car and that nobody knew if she would live or die.

But she did live.  She survived, and she worked incredibly hard to recover and regain her strength and to get on with her life.

She had dodged the bullet.  Her card was supposed to have been pulled from the deck.

But it wasn't, apparently.

Because there I was, four and a half years later, sitting at my desk at work at about 4:30 in the afternoon, Denver time, when the phone rang.  It was my dad, who told me that Emma had been killed in a car accident.

No, I thought to myself.  I've gotten this call before, and I know how it ends.  She doesn't die.  It turns out OK.  He's got it all wrong.

But the other part of my brain, the powerful part that remains firmly rooted in reality, understood. Somehow, in the cruelest twist imaginable, she had survived only to be taken again, for good.  

It feels ridiculous to even try to explain anything.  It's all the same platitudes you've heard a million times about the death of a young woman at that thrilling time of her life when everything is starting to happen.  It's the worst thing imaginable for a family.  My brother Josh and his wife are devastated beyond anything I can comprehend.  My mother and father are crushed by the loss of their first grandchild, and by the pain that their wonderful son is enduring, and will continue to endure for the rest of his life.  My brother Sam and I are heartbroken by the pain that our brother and our parents, whom we love with everything we are, are going through.  And for Josh's wife, Lori, whose grief is so intense and bottomless. And for Emma's sisters, who, after barely getting over the trauma of her accident four years ago, have been blindsided by another trauma even more unspeakably awful.

For our beautiful, wonderful, precious Emma, who was, quite simply, one of the best people I ever knew.  For the life she was so excited to embark on, but now will never experience.

I know everyone is a great person when they die.

But in Emma's case, it's really true.

From the day she was born, she was a bubbly, funny, sassy ray of sunshine.  She was the first grandchild for my parents, the first baby born among my brothers and me, and she was a shining star for us.  A happy, spectacularly gorgeous baby and toddler.  A sweet, affectionate, smart little girl who took care of her younger sisters.  The preteen who was atypically agreeable at a point when most kids are surly and pushing at boundaries.

5-year-old Emma hanging with her baby sister, Lydia.

Dancing with her at my wedding.

In Detroit for our Grandpa Leo's 90th birthday.

With the cousins and sisters who loved and looked up to her, at Sam and Camille's wedding.

Even her response to her accident was remarkable, but so very her.  She recovered, and then she worked.  She worked and worked and worked to get stronger, to succeed in school, to be a good friend and daughter and sister, to be a great athlete.  College lacrosse coaches were interested in having her play for them.  She decided she wanted to go to the Naval Academy, and she survived the first grueling cut of applicants after taking their initial entrance exam.

 And she was growing into such a fantastic young woman.  In meeting with the people who have been congregating at Josh's house since she died, I keep hearing these stories about how she would see someone at school who was shy and eating lunch by herself, and Emma would go and sit and eat with her.  She befriended a classmate who was timid and self-conscious, and encouraged her to not be afraid to be herself.  Her coaches and teammates loved her for her attitude, her work ethic, and her effervescence.

I think the accident imbued her with a preternatural gratitude for life, and a level of maturity about the tenuousness of our existence on Earth that most 17-year-olds can't begin to approach.  She knew how lucky she was to be alive and healthy, and she was determined to live every moment to the fullest, appreciate the beauty around her, be kind and open to all, and give and receive love without reservation.

She was truly a good, sweet person,  growing more overtly comfortable in her own skin, more overtly kind and generous with each passing day.  She was loved by all of us, and by her friends and teachers and coaches and employers and teammates and everyone else she encountered.

Emma's last instagram:  "Loved the sunset last night #sunset #beautiful"
I loved that girl so much.

To say that it's all so grossly unfair is the goddamned understatement of all time.

We went to the funeral home to see her today.  She is going to be cremated, so this was it.  The last time we would ever see her again.

She looked so peaceful.  We all took turns talking to her, stroking her hair.  I kissed her goodbye.

She was cold and her skin was waxen, but I needed to see her and touch her.  As awful as it was, I needed to see her like that to help hammer home the truth.  It's too unfathomable otherwise.  I needed the punch in the gut.  And I got it.

She is gone.

Leavin' on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again

The trip to my parents' house last Thursday provided yet another example of why I'm either the luckiest or unluckiest bitch on the planet.

It's been a while since I've had a good travel snafu (or near mishap).  I guess I was due.

Our flight out of Denver was at 4:40 in the afternoon. I picked the kids up early from school and headed to the airport.  We got to the satellite parking by 3:20 and were at the Frontier check-in counter by 3:35.  Earlier in the day I had checked in online and paid for my checked bag, so all I needed to do was enter my information in one of their kiosk thingies, hand my bag over, and we'd be on our way.

Easy peasy, plenty of time.

Except that when it was my turn to go to the kiosk thing-y, it didn't work, and I got an error message telling me to find an agent to help me.  Problem was, a number of other people had had the same issue, so all of the available human helpers were occupied with other customers.  By the time someone was available to help me, it was 3:55.

The lady was grumpy.  She entered my information into her system, gave me a look like I was a complete moron and said, "you missed the 45 minute cut-off for checking a bag.  I can't check your bag."

I mustered all of my calm and said, "well, I've been trying to get someone to help me for 20 minutes. I was here with plenty of time, but the kiosk didn't work.  Can I gate-check my suitcase?"

"No, we don't allow gate-checking."  This statement was made with huffing and eye-rolls.

Game on.

"Then you're going to have to figure something out.  I was here in time, I've already paid for the checked bag, and the only reason there's a problem is because your system is incredibly inefficient.  Make a call or do what you have to do, but my bag is getting on the plane."

She huffed and puffed and generally acted like a brat, but she made a call and found out that there was still time for my bag to make the plane.  She checked me in and gave me my boarding passes, but not without a parting shot.

"They're not going to hold the flight, you know," she sneered.

I gave her the stink-eye, took Josie and Zeke (who was wearing a red Ninja Turtles eye mask) by the hand, and said, "come on, kids.  We need to rush if we're going to make the plane."

Josie got really nervous and was half-crying as we trotted toward the security line.  "I want to go to Mimi and Papa's!  I don't want the plane to take off without us!"

"Honey, we're going to make it, but we need to hurry.  Don't cry, sweetheart, just walk fast!"

We were taking off from the A Terminal, which is attached to the main terminal and has its own security line.  So we wouldn't need to take the train to a terminal or wait in the big huge security line that serves the B through E terminals.  That was a good thing.

Except that the TSA people working the A Terminal security line must have all needed naps, because while the line wasn't long, it moved slower than molassas in January.  I started watching the minutes tick by on the clock on the wall.  I was tapping my foot and imploring the agents that I was going to miss my flight, but they ignored me.  When we got into the security line, I had 15 minutes before the gate would be closing.  By the time we got through it, after I had to reach my arm all the way into the little covered area that the bags pass through after running through the scanner (but before they're easily grab-able - I was surprised nobody yelled at me), we had 4 minutes before the 10 minute cutoff when they close the gate.

I gathered up my tote bag, the kids' backpacks, and all of our shoes, and said, "kids, we're not going to put our shoes on.  We have to run.  RUN!  RUN!!"

We must have looked like lunatics.  I was barefoot and the kids were in their socks, and all three of us were sprinting over the moving sidewalks (those things HURT without shoes) and trying to get to the gate.  At one point someone yelled, "YOU DROPPED A SHOE!"  I ran back and picked it up.  We were all getting winded and feeling somewhat panicky.  "Zeke!  Go left!  GO LEFT!  It's A38!  Hurry!"

We finally got to the gate.  There was nobody there and the door to the jetway was shut.

At this point, all three of us lost our fucking minds.

The kids started hurling themselves around, practically rending their garments and gnashing their teeth, screaming and crying that they wanted to go to Mimi and Papa's.

Josie wailed, "NOOOO!  Don't let them take off without us!  I don't want to miss the plane!"

Zeke cried, "It's not fair!  IT'S NOT FAAAAAAIIR!  I want to see Mimi and Papa!!!"

I threw everything on the ground, yelled "GODDAMMIT GODDAMMIT GODDAMIT!" and proceeded to pound on the jetway door with both fists.

This went on for a minute or two.  BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.  Crying children.  More banging.  More crying.  More banging.

A guy passing by said, "there's a customer service desk on the other side of that wall, maybe they can help you."

I rushed over to the desk and loudly said, "IS THERE ANYONE WHO CAN HELP ME GET ON THIS FLIGHT?"  I'm sure I sounded like a complete asshole.

The kids were still going nuts.

"HEY!" the guy yelled.  "They opened the door!  COME BACK!!"

We ran back to the gate and the door was open and an agent was standing at the counter.  I gathered up all of our stuff (we still weren't wearing shoes) and we went over to her.

Continuing the trend of utterly unhelpful and extremely snotty Frontier agents, she made a face at me and said, "I don't know if you'll get on the flight.  Your seats might be gone."

I figured that they wouldn't have opened the door if there were no seats left, so I held my tongue.  She picked up her phone and called back to the plane and asked if there were three seats.  I guess the answer was "yes," because she took my boarding passes, but not before giving me another lecture about being late.  I yeah-yeah-ed her and we ran down the jetway and onto the plane.

They had given away our seats together, but in the very back row there were 3 seats, 2 on one side of the aisle and one on the other, that they hustled us into.  The kids settled in next to each other and got out their coloring books and crayons.  I collapsed into my seat across the aisle from them.

I bought everyone DirecTV access and they watched cartoons and I watched the US Open.  The flight attendants were lovely, and when I thanked them, they thanked me for being so nice.  I gave them a confused look.  One of them said, "you could have pitched a fit when you got on the plane and saw that we had given your seats away."

I laughed.  "I pitched the fit to get on the plane.  Once I was on, I was happy to sit wherever you told me to."

They gave us free drinks and snacks.  Given that I was relieved not to have been arrested and/or missed the flight entirely, I was gratified by the turn of events.

When my parents picked us up at the airport, everyone was smiling and hugging and kissing each other.  Josie told my mom, "Mama threw a fit and got us on the plane!"  She sounded very proud.

Damn right, baby girl.

Fermé au mois d'août

Remember when I said that I was going to take the month of August to really get organized and take charge of my life etcetera etcetera?

Interesting how that turned out.

I started the Chalene Johnson Push program, and one of the first thing she has you do is list the 10 major areas of your life and give each one a ranking from 1 to 10 - work, finances, relationships, health, personal development, spirituality, stuff like that.

I am very happy with my family and relationships, I love my job, I'm not rich but I have enough money, I'm healthy and I'm pretty fit.  The areas that I felt were suffering were more in the personal fulfillment/spirituality realms.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the last thing I needed was to put more pressure on myself to work harder at my coaching business or to clean out my house or go nuts trying to be super-organized.

What I really needed was to chill the fuck out and NOT put so much pressure on myself, at least for a little while.

So I decided to take the month of August off.

Not from work or life or anything like that, but from worrying about whether I'm productive enough or achieving enough or fit enough or successful enough.*

I've spent the month doing what I want and not worrying about it.  I eat what I feel like, I work out or don't, depending on my mood, I've spent a lot of time relaxing and reading.  On the weekends when J has the kids, I go on walks and watch whatever I want on TV and take naps.   I've thought about blogging, but I didn't really feel like it, so I didn't.

This is obviously not my natural, comfortable state of existence.  It's been great, but I'm starting to feel antsy.  Which is good - I'm itching to start running health and fitness challenge groups and organizing everything and sticking to a workout schedule and getting back to my Type-A self, but it's because I want to and I'll enjoy it.  I've had a nice break and I feel refreshed and rejuvenated.

Today I'm taking the kids to my parents' house in Virginia for the weekend, to hang out with family (my brother Sam and his wife will also be there) and friends and enjoy the last bit of summer.  I'm excited to see people I love and to have some fun.

Then in September, I'll be ready to go.


________________________________________
*The irony of this decision, based upon a questionnaire from a "get organized and achieve your goals" program, is not lost on me.

Thumbs down

Almost exactly 21 years ago, I was vacationing on the Outer Banks with my family during the summer between my second and third years of law school.  My roommate came out with me, and she had a friend who was working as a hand on a charter fishing boat.  I had never been out deep sea fishing, so she arranged for me to hitch a ride on the boat one day.

Unfortunately, there was a nor'easter that day.  The water was extremely rough and choppy, and the boat did nothing but shoot up a crest and then free-fall 10 feet into a trough, over and over, for the entire 12 hours I was on it.  I started vomiting about an hour and a half in, and pretty much didn't stop for the rest of the day.  It was truly the sickest, most horrible feeling I've ever had in my life - worse than childbirth with Zeke, worse than when I separated my shoulder (both of which hurt like a motherfucker).

And ever since then, I have been extremely susceptible to motion sickness.  Before that trip, I loved roller coasters and didn't have much issue with motion sickness (except that I've never been able to read in a moving car).  After that trip, I feel nauseated every time my plane lands, or if I'm driving over particularly hilly, twisty roads.  Roller coasters are no longer my friend.

This was the backdrop against my decision to take the kids to an amusement park this morning.  But it's more of a county fair-type deal, rather than a Six Flags type deal - the rides are small, and I didn't think it would be a problem.

The first ride was one of those spinning teacup type rides, with the seat both going up and down small hills but also spinning on an axis.  I had to go in order for Josie to be able to go, because she's too short to go on it without an adult.

Some of the spins were OK, and some of them were super severe.  My stomach wasn't thrilled.  But I made it.

The next ride was one of those giant boats that swings back and forth.  Again, I needed to go on in order for Josie to be able to go.  Again, I didn't love it, but I survived.  It was certainly better than the spinning teacup ride.

The next couple of hours were uneventful.  The ferris wheel, bumper boats, little roller coasters, all very innocuous.  There were even little pony rides.  The kids had a blast and were being very cute.  We were having a nice time hanging out.

Ferris wheel selfie.  And yes, that's a sticker of a rose on my chest.  Josie gave it to me and it would have offended her if I had taken it off.

This ride involved flying bananas.  Yeah, I don't know either.

Then the kids wanted to go on the spinning teacup ride again.  I was wary, but I agreed because I didn't want Josie to feel left out.

Now, at the beginning of these rides, the operators instruct everyone on staying seated, keeping your hands in the ride, that sort of thing.  They also tell you that if at any point you feel like you need to stop and get off, all you need to do is stick out your hand with your thumb down.

The ride started and our cup started spinning fast and hard.  I felt my stomach contract and the nausea beginning to build.

"Mama, are you OK?"  Zeke asked, a concerned look on his face.

We started another hard spin.  I shut my eyes tight and tried to breathe.  "I don't feel so great," I said.

"Are you going to throw up?"  His eyes grew very big and worried.

"I don't think so.  I'll be OK.  The ride will be over soon."

Another hard spin.  I felt myself almost trying to curl into the fetal position.  My eyes were squeezed shut, my chin was tucked down, I brought my knees up, and I broke into a cold sweat.  I put my hand over my mouth, just in case.

The kids were freaking out at this point.  "DON'T THROW UP MAMA PUT YOUR THUMB DOWN STICK OUT YOUR THUMB AND PUT IT DOWN MAMA!!!"

Finally the ride ended.  I felt really shaky and weak.  Josie said, "Mama, you need to drink some water right now.  Go drink some water and no more rides for you!"

I nodded and took a drink from my hydration pack.  There's a reason they call her "Mama Jo" at her school.

The kids went on some more rides that they were tall enough to go on without me.  I sat in the shade watching them, drinking water and trying to shake the nausea.

Then they wanted to go on the swinging boat ride again.  I said, "I really can't go on that ride.  I don't think I can do it without getting sick."

Luckily, there were enough people on the ride that there was a stray teenager without someone next to him.  "Do you mind if she sits with you?" I asked, regarding Josie.  "I'm not feeling well."  The kid agreed and was very sweet to her.

They got off and immediately said, "again!"

So I found another adult for Josie to sit with for another ride.

"Again!"

There were no more stray adults, this time.  I looked at the ride, figured I'd be able to make it (there was no spinning, after all), and got on.

I knew after the first swing that I had made a terrible mistake.

Once more, I tried to focus on breathing.  Josie distracted me for a couple of seconds by giggling about the fact that my boobs were bouncing with the movement of the ride (my 4-year-old daughter is actually a 13-year-old boy.  Or a 45-year-old man.  It never changes, amirite, ladies?)  "Mama!  Look at your boobies!  They're bouncing!"

But soon I knew I wasn't going to make it.  I felt the contents of my stomach rising.  I stuck out my thumb and yelled to the poor attendant, "I have to get off."

He stopped the ride as quickly as he could.  I bolted over to the fencing around the ride and threw up over the side, away from where people would be walking or standing.

"Guys, we gotta go home."

Thankfully, J has the kids at his place tonight.  So I'm able to lie on my couch, watching soccer on TV, nibbling on hot dog buns and drinking soda water with lemon to settle my stomach.  I don't have to take care of anyone or entertain anyone.

No more rides for Mama.

Welcome to the beaver show

I am always astounded by my children's intense love of being out in the wilderness when we are camping.

Not because there is anything about being out in the wilderness that isn't great, but because these are children who definitely enjoy their creature comforts, particularly when it comes to electronic entertainment.  Nooks, Wii, DVDs, Netflix, TV-on-demand -- they're down with it all.  Ours is a household in which I try to carefully monitor screen time, and when the ease of letting them be entertained by electronics wins out so that I can do the dishes or the laundry to even read my own book, I feel like a bad mother.

But then I see how happy they are splashing in a lake or looking for bugs or sitting by the fire, and I realize that I'm doing OK by them.

We went back up to Steamboat Lake State Park this weekend. The drive up through north-central Colorado was, as ever, breathtakingly beautiful.

We set up camp in the dark and in the rain. (I want to give a shout-out to the mountain dwellers of Colorado: if you are having issues with precipitation or drought, invite me to come pitch a tent on your land.  You will be deluged with water in no time.)  We woke up, once again, in a field of wildflowers, next to a lake.

The kids busied themselves finding little pieces of wood and throwing them in the fire.

When the morning clouds burned off and it warmed up, we made friends with our camp neighbors and swam.

In the background is Hahn's Peak, which last year we dubbed "Boob Mountain."  The name stuck.

Consistent with our camping history, the trip was not without its share of drama and adventure.  The people at the next campsite over had their dogs with them - two very sweet, slobbery, friendly Bernese mountain dogs.  Josie loves dogs, but these dogs were big and she's very little and when they started chasing her and jumping around and barking, wanting to play, she misunderstood their intentions and lost her shit.  J scooped her up and brought her to me, and it took about 10 minutes of holding her tightly and soothing her to get her to stop shaking.

Then we headed into town to go tubing on the Yampa River.  We went last year, and it's a fun, mellow float in shallow water, but at one point Zeke went down some very gentle rapids, leaned forward in his tube to get a better look at the water, and fell out.  The water was deeper than normal at that point, and a little bit churn-y, and he got pushed under water and had to grab his tube and make his way out of the churn.  He got himself over to the shallow water on the side of the river, but not without swallowing a bunch of water and being terrified by the experience.

But everyone survived their ordeals.  After tubing, we headed back to camp to chill out.  There was a presentation by one of the rangers about beavers, so we sat in on that and learned about the differences between muskrats and beavers, the way beavers build their dams and lodges, the benefits they provide to riparian systems, and all kinds of other interesting facts.  Of course, because I am twelve, the entire time I was thinking about this:

After the seminar, we went for a drive at dusk to look for wildlife - we saw two moose, sixteen deer, and one beaver lodge.  We then headed back to eat, build a fire, roast marshmallows, and gaze in wonder at the Milky Way.

At one point, I took Josie over to the campsite toilet so she could go potty.  While we were waiting to use it, she saw a family that had also been at the ranger's presentation.

She yelled, loudly, "Mama!!  I know that kid!  We saw him at the beaver show!"

I got some weird looks and raised eyebrows from some of the other people in line.

I just shrugged, smiled at them and said, "that's right, sweetie.  We sure did."

About face

At first, when everything was happening so fast and I realized it was really and truly over, I was sad.  Weepy, even.

But then I wept in front of him, and let him know that even though it was what we both wanted, I still mourned the loss of the relationship - the life - I thought we were going to have.

And his reaction was to shrug.

The familiar behaviors and tendencies resurface, and I remember that this is what I want.  I look up at the sky and remind myself that life is wide open to me now.

The lease is signed, and boxes are filled and moved to the place across the street.

My closet has so much room!  The piles of clutter -- tools, little bits of paper that are his organizing system, worn down pencil stubs that are apparently de rigeur in the construction industry, books about the electrical code -- are replaced with clean spaces.

I look around the house and everything looks like a blank slate.  I can get rid of the enormous bed that takes up too much room in the bedroom alcove, so that I have to squeeze between it and the wall to get into bed.  I can paint the walls in the bright colors that remind me of India.  With the refinancing money, I can fix the 120-year-old brick work, and repaint, and recarpet, and update the kitchen.

I'm filling out forms and making arrangements and it's all happening.

Suddenly it feels really, really good.

Goodbye sunshine, take care of yourself

Since deciding to separate, J and I have settled into a relatively comfortable, peaceful co-existence of living in the house (in separate bedrooms) and sharing the duties of the household and the children.  Outwardly, it wasn't much different from the way we had been living before, but emotionally, it was somewhat easier because we knew where we stood with each other instead of just feeling shitty about being in an unhappy marriage.

Life went on.  We go to the pool with the kids together.  He came with for my family's annual July beach vacation.  We're going to a birthday party tomorrow and camping in Steamboat (the real one) next weekend.

Still, I've felt like I'm in limbo.

Well, it's amazing how quickly things happen.

A few weeks ago I was walking to the bus stop to go to work and I noticed an "apartment for rent" sign in front of a house.  The house is maybe 100 yards from my house, catty-cornered across the street.  I took a picture of the sign (with the phone number) and texted it to J.  Turns out it's a large 1-bedroom, with room for a bunk bed for the kids, in a layout that's similar to the upstairs of our house.  J went to look at it and then submitted an application for the apartment.

He was worried about being able to afford the rent, because the company he worked for were a bunch of cheap assholes who didn't pay him anything close to what he's worth.  But it was looking like a viable option - I'll be buying J out of his share of our house, so he'll have a little bit of money to get himself set up, and he had been studying for his journeyman electrician licensing exam, in the hopes that if he passed, he'd be able to command a higher income.

But he was super-nervous about passing.  He knows the stuff cold, but has awful, horrible test taking anxiety, and has failed three times before.  He's been studying his ass off for months and months, but still had no confidence in himself, notwithstanding my efforts to reassure him.

In the meantime, the beach vacation was coming up, and the plane tickets were paid for.  He notified the boss months in advance that he was going to be taking that week off.  The boss said nothing...

...until a few weeks ago, when he told J that he couldn't go on vacation and that if he did, he'd be fired.

J took a look at Craigslist and found an enormous number of employers looking for electricians.  He figured that if he were canned, it would take him about a day and a half to secure another job, especially if he passed the exam, which he was taking two days before coming to the beach.  So he decided to (figuratively) tell the boss to go piss up a rope.

He took the exam and passed with flying colors (he got 100%, actually).  The next day, he dropped the company van and phone at his employer's building, and the day after that he joined us in North Carolina.  The day after that he went on Craigslist and submitted his updated resume to four different companies that were looking for licensed journeymen.  He got call-backs from all four, interviewed with all four when he returned to Denver, and got four job offers, including one from an established, highly reputable company that offers great pay and benefits - the guy that offered the job told him that if he got a better offer, he'd match it.

So he took the great offer.  He'll be making approximately 60% more than his previous company was paying him, plus amazing benefits.  Between his new salary, the money from the house, and the money he'll eventually get from his dad's estate, he'll be comfortable and able to buy a place of his own.

And he got the apartment across the street for the time being.  He signed a lease today and will have the place on Sunday.

Gulp.

On one hand, it's what we've both been working towards.  It provides the actual separation that will lead the way to us getting on with our lives and finalizing a divorce.

On the other, it still makes me sad.  It's really over.  I mourn the loss of the marriage I thought I was going to have. I'm a statistic.  I failed.

Even though the marriage is done, and we both agree it's done, and I want it to be done ... I feel like my heart is breaking all over again.

I will be fine, I know.  But for now, I'm sad.