We didn't even celebrate most holidays, and this day still sucks. I'm trying to get myself, if not "up" for, at least organized for, going out to a movie. It was going to be movie-and-chinese food, but I don't like chinese food, and this is maine, where real chinese does not exist. I've missed two movie start times already.

Last night was a smack of grief-trauma, with flashbacks and screaming that hasn't happened in awhile. I woke up in the middle of the night having just had a dream wherein I was woken up in the middle of the night by Les Nessman, telling me my "flower of the day" segment had been moved to the three a.m. time slot, and I was On Now. I stumbled through some random made-up story based on the flowers in the vase in front of me, sounding like a drunk. Toward the end, I got more serious, drew the microphone close, and told the non-existent radio audience, "there will be roses blooming again. I know it does not seem like it, in the middle of this february. And it will take a long time, as there aren't many more places further North than us. I mean, there's Canada. The Yukon Territories. The North Pole. Spring is going to take awhile there, too. But there will be roses again. You will see those blooms again. I promise."

And then I woke up, singing both the theme song to WKRP and this song, below. In somewhat of a cruel blow, this song is one that always made me tear up when we played the cd in the truck. It came on one day on our way back from the river. He reached over and said, "are you crying again? It's such a nice song." I'd just nod, and try to sing, try not to imagine what the song describes. Then he said, "it's going to happen, babe. It's just life." He was always so peaceful about death. I looked at him and said, "I know. I know it's going to happen, and it is going to SUCK." The man gets to be peaceful about it - he gets to go and I have to stay. Hate to be all sour grapes, but Man.



A few years ago, my father was taken ill with something, was in the hospital for a few days, had exploratory surgery, problem found and fixed. Matt and I went up to visit him, post-op. Everything was fine until it came time to go. My mother bent down to kiss my father's forehead, he grabbed her hand, and they sat there for a moment, foreheads touching. I started crying. A nurse saw this and rushed to comfort me, saying, "it's okay, he's going to be just fine, it's okay honey." My mother snapped out of her moment and rushed to my side as well. I composed myself, and we all walked out. In the hallway, Matt took my hand. He whispered, "you weren't crying because you were worried about your father." "Nope," I said. He put his arm around me and said, "you were imagining what it will be like when one of them dies and leaves the other behind."

Apparently, I was consistent in my sensitivities, as well as potentially empathic for my own future.