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You know when you've put something off because it's unpleasant, and then it becomes harder and harder to bring yourself to do it, and then it snowballs into such an overwhelming task that you throw your hands up like "to heck with this!" and then you proceed to re-watch The Great British Baking Show  every night instead of writing? Just me? Oh. Well fine then. It's been four weeks since Paul died. And while I'm not ready to write about his death just yet, I can say that it was mostly peaceful, and we were with him the moment he drew his last breath. Saturday would have been our sixth wedding anniversary. Six good years, but not enough of them. People keep asking how I'm doing and my response is usually something along the lines of "I'm okay. That is, in this exact moment of time I'm okay. Ask me again in five minutes and I'll possibly be bawling into a bag of Doritos." I guess that's grief? This is all new terrain. I've never ...

I'm pretty careful about what I listen to these days because I'm a great jumble of unchecked emotions and just about anything can (and will ) set off waterworks. And when I say "anything" I mean that in the most literal sense. Like yesterday I cried watching a dad tow his kids behind his bike down the street. And then I laughed because that is 100% insane. Anyway, Pandora Radio sometimes thinks it's a fun time to casually throw a tune into my queue that will completely destroy me. This is my attempt at paying it forward. Enjoy the cathartic cry! Each Coming Night by Iron & Wine   Will you say when I'm gone away: "My lover came to me and we'd lay In rooms unfamiliar but until now" Will you say to them when I'm gone away: "I loved your son for his sturdy arms We both learned to cradle then live without" Will you say when I'm gone away: "Your father's body was judgement day We both dove and rose to the riverside"...

"Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you'll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you'll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go.    Acceptance is a small, quiet room."   - Cheryl Strayed, Author of  Wild At this point, most of you have probably seen the latest update on Paul circulating through your Facebook news feeds. For everyone else, here's the scoop: In my last post, I mentioned that we were spending Easter with Paul's family in Wisconsin. But as our two-week visit approached its end, it became more and more evident that Paul wouldn't be making our return flight back to Buffalo. So the three of us are staying in Paul�s parents' home in Oshkosh, Wisconsin where he has entered Hospice care. We had always considered making Paul�s childhood home in Oshkosh his final resting place on this Earth. After witnessing his almost immediate "release" when the decision was final, I ca...

After she took my vitals the other day, my radiation nurse popped her head back into the examining room. �Hey, I meant to ask - how�s your husband doing?� �Oh, he�s ok. Well. No. Actually�� I paused, not sure how to finish that sentence. I mean - how do you casually insert the fact that your husband is dying into a quick conversation? I stumbled through the key points:  He stopped taking the chemo pill he was on.  He may not pursue additional treatment.  He�s focusing on enjoying what time he has left.  See? It�s like dropping a bomb on people.  It�s also been a major reason for the gaps between my evasive blog posts lately. It hurts too much to think those thoughts. It hurts even worse to give them shape. We had a great Christmas. Absolutely, we did. It was very special. But. Everything has taken on this weird blend of light and dark, happy and sad, gratitude and grief. About a month ago, Paul went into the clinic for routine bloodwork. It was the usual state o...

Some awesome things that have been happening: I can wear mascara, finally. (I have a full set of eyelashes!) It�s always been my favorite, and I went 6 months without, so no -- I will not downplay my excitement. In case you didn�t hear, my second mastectomy was a success . Probably should�ve opened with this one, but gawrsh I love mascara. I am far enough along in my healing to wear a specially-fitted breast prosthetic. Which I realize is one of those things you might wish to leave out on a blog that�s read by your parents and maybe your high school teachers. It�s sort of like talking about a shopping spree at Victoria�s Secret: a cool thing, but a keep-to-yourself thing. But it�s also sort of exactly NOT like that. I have cancer. (cancer card! It�s happening!) I do (and write) what I want. Anyway, it�s great fun because when I go out, I no longer need to decide between the very unbecoming one-boob look or futilely stuffing a wadded washcloth into my bra. It�s a massive relief to we...