grieving rituals . . .

For someone who loves to be around people so much, I have never wanted to be so far away from people right now . . . sorry neighbors, if I scurry into my house when I see you walking down the road, sorry friends, whose phone calls and text messages I don't return. . . right now, immediate family takes front and center, and even then, I vacillate between wanting them right next to me (and I mean right next to me, as in, sleeping in my bed with me, next to me), to feeling edgy and irritated with the countless daily "check in" calls from everyone and would love it if y'all just left me alone already. . . (but not really . . .)

"How are you doing?" has suddenly become my newest unfavorite, vomit-inducing phrase in the history of history, though it's also become a little joke between my sis, Jill and me. . . after about the 11-teenth time, asking with all the genuine love and kindness in the world in her voice, "How's our Nenny today?" I finally answered, with the best, most over-the-top, peppy cheerleader enthusiasm I could muster, "Oh, my god! Couldn't be better! It's amazing what a good night's sleep'll do for a gal! In fact, got my Match.com profile up and running, finishing up the ol' e-harmony.com registration here—even got my first date tonight—I can't wait!" First time I did that to her, there was dead silence on her end for several moments before she started cautiously laughing . . . now she just tells me to shut the hell up, joke's getting old . . .

I have never felt such loneliness. . . no, I take that back. When I first met Bob, in 1992, I was living in Winona and he was in St. Paul . . . he'd come to visit me on weekends (he was the one usually doing the visiting, since he had a real job and a real car—a sweet little maroon Mitsubishi Eclipse; I was a poor college student with a full time class load, a part time job and a shitty, unreliable "car," a Pontiac T1000. I always said the "T" stood for "turbo," Bob said it stood for "turd").

Sunday night, the night he'd usually leave after spending a fun-filled blissful weekend with me (read: usually just hanging out in my tiny apartment, he'd cook for me, or take a nap while I studied, maybe we'd go for a walk or a drive out into the rolling bluff lands once in a while, for a much-needed study break . . .), was the loneliest I had ever felt. When he was gone, I'd contract the worst case of love sickness. Couldn't eat. Couldn't sleep. Skipped classes a lot. Wrote endless letters to him, sometimes two or three a day (this was before e-mail and cell phones, peeps). . . . I have a pile of letters, both from me and from Bob, to each other during that time. I can't believe he kept every letter I wrote to him, every card, every goofy little note, found them in his desk drawer, neatly lined up chronologically in a hanging file folder . . . I did the same with his (well not neatly filed away; my letters from him were stuffed in an old shoebox, inside a Rubbermaid tub. But they were chronological in order. Mostly.) His letters were beautiful—articulate, expressive, passionate, descriptive, eloquent. . . they were funny, insightful, included Latin phrases (yes, Latin, which I either had to try to figure out on my own, or wait till his next visit, to translate for me), sang of nature, of our future together . . . the most beautiful, fluid, flourished handwriting that captured Bob's essence, his passion, his being . . . I was deeply, achingly lonely then, when he'd leave me, and his letters didn't help quell the feelings; rather, they intensified the loneliness . . . heartsick, lovesick, nauseated, couldn't concentrate, I cried a lot, curled up into a little ball in bed a lot . . . but back then, I always knew that in spite of the distance, I'd only have to wait a week or two, at the most, till I saw Bob again.

I do a lot of the same stuff now, crying, curling in a ball, nauseated . . . and I also do a lot of other stuff. Walk the doggies (been going to local parks for long walks/runs with Rocco, which are wonderful, so peaceful and relaxing, one can do a lot of crying out in the woods, too. . . ), been cleaning the joint like a madwoman though you wouldn't know it by looking around; starting little projects around the place, puttering in the yard, writing endless thank-you cards from the services we had for Bob (which is a ritual in itself, to go over each card, each message, try to remember each guest at Bob's services, what they looked like, how did they know Bob, personally thanking each for having a part in his beautiful life), have had family staying with me here and there. Trying to check as many of the sickening "grown-up" things off the to-do list so I can get back to things that really matter—proper grieving and remembering Bob, recreating him in my mind, savoring memories . . . trying to figure out if I should stay in the house for a while or bust a move and get it back on the market, move back into the city, start fresh. As the days go by, Option A: Stay at Wrenwood is slowly gaining favor over Option B: Get the Hell out of Dodge. But talk to me tomorrow, when every decision I made the day before is often turned upside down and inside out.

I've even started cooking, a very little bit. But every little bit counts.

But, the harsh reality is, the week or two wait that I suffered through years ago, waiting for Bob to come back, has this time around, turned into never. . .