i would trade any of you for him.

my life is not the same as it was before he died. there is something about each day that feels gritty and i can't wash it off my skin. it has been two years since i have heard his voice. two years since i have known that kind of love. two years since i have had something i could count on for real and forever. ivan was for real. ivan was forever.

this is something else.

like even after all this time sometimes my breath catches - can it be. can these things die?

when people take parts of themselves they take part of you.

the air has grown thin. i find myself reaching above. i find myself clawing the sheets at night.

it is hard for me to make peace with this because i am so furious i can't sleep or breath.

i can't sleep or breath.

it's just that

i miss him. it's been nearly two years and i just miss him so much. ivan called back at two in the morning and left for cigarettes only to return four hours later and we made a vow to forever cheat on our spouses for eachother. and in some ways i guess we have kept that true. and it's still shocking sometimes to remember he is dead - so much time is spent walking with ghosts.

universe...

fuck off.

Law School and Fevers

I have the chills but it's always better and I wouldn't mind spending all of my days here listening to the crickets (is that what they are peeping outside my window) and the chairs are soft and my head is heavy and the reading never ends but i would rather not stop so we make mac and cheese and eat it watching documentaries about war crimes and he tells the stories that i intend to always believe.

Grown Up

I am adult now. This is my life. This man. This dog. This house.


And instead of giving parts of myself up. Instead of holding parts of myself hostage. Now, and here,
I feel free. Like together we can do anything. Like with this I can be the things I have been meaning so long to be.

journey

i mean everyone says it's a journey right? it's not surgery and iv's and prescription drugs and cat scans and pet scans and mri's. no. it's a journey. and of course that implies that at the end you will be somewhere. and of course with these kinds of things that is not always true.

and i am not in the mood for the pharmacy soft rock and when that blue cross girl told me she was trying to help me i cut her off no you are not.

people have all kinds of well meaning or mean meaning advice. how easy it must be to live your life like you are healthy and going to live forever when you are those things. could someone tell me though how do i pretend i can walk when i can't walk. am i supposed to put on jogging shoes and then drag my leg down the trail on my crutches. i mean i'm not giving up but it doesn't help me to have everyone pretend that nothing has changed.

things have changed. my leg shrunk. i have vertigo. don't ask me if my day was good if i tell you i have been up all night vomiting. i am holding on i am finding my peace but that doesn't mean that having a lesion on my spinal cord is pleasant.

there is a clarity. there is a tangibility. there is an acceptance.

there is the realization that my days in this world may or may not be as long as i expected. and the important things can't be planned for anyway.

and i have had a good run. and i hope to keep running. but i open to whatever i have to take on next. because i have to be.

Joy

It is not easy watching the slow decline of my leg. I was shocked to see my legs in the reflection of a store window. This is no longer something I can just feel now you can see clearly see it. I am not vain about it - but it surprised me. Like there is no denying that this is real.

And I feel hopeful. Since my accident years ago I don't find myself grounded by concrete plans. I have long since learned about the unpredictability of life and that doesn't scare me. I am working hard for my balance and little by little I am finding it.

And things are different. And nothing is set in stone. And I am scared as all shit of neurosurgery or ending up in a wheelchair but there is nothing I can do but keep on going as I have. I am strong for a handicapped girl.

And in that subtle shift that happens when your mortality is brought before you, I have found my way back to that joy I remember from the first year after my accident. That quiet awareness of the grace in the every day.

I can not tell you how content I feel watering my little garden every day. Kneeling in the grass and picking the weeds and trimming the plants with Jenckes by my side. Or the fufillment that Joe and share kayaking to the little island we found on the pond by our house. The peace that comes as we lay in the field and laugh as we watch birds overhead and make faces out of the clouds. And the enjoyment I get wondering through the library with the moms and the old people finding cookbooks and novels and looking through newspapers.

There is something special in the reminders that illness brings.

I feel fortunate to know the world in the way that I do because of the trials my health has put me through.

Last night we went for a sunset kayak ride to cool off from the heat of the day. As we pulled onto the shore of our little green island there was a rustle in the bushes and a beautiful baby deer was standing right in front of us.

There is magic in this world all around us.