Sunday was our anniversary. September 25, 1993 is the date we used before we got married. We have been together for twelve years. I imagine the banter. We would tease and say, "That's too long!" Instead, I found myself on my knees in front of the collage we put together for the funeral. I didn't mean to be there, but it is in the basement and I went down to do laundry. I just wanted to look at his healthy face. Before I knew it I was begging, "Please, come back to me, please! Don't leave me, please. I need you, please." I cried and wiped my fingers across the dusty photos. The dust reminded me that it has been a year and a half. The person I love most has been gone for nearly two years. Time is going by so fast. I am thankful for that. I wished for that. I want to fast forward 50 years. I want to be all done.

I watch my children change and grow everyday. I can't believe the things they say and do. They are amazing and I swear I love them so much. I want to be the mom I started as. But it's all wrong. I love them, but I can't take what's happened. I want them to be happy and I want them to thrive. But I hate waking up in the morning. I awake to Ethan's cries and I think, "Please not yet. I'm not ready". I hate when another day without Rich begins. And there is nothing I can do except get through it.

The other night I dreamed he called me to check in. He was telling me the phone number where I could reach him. I couldn't her him. His voice was going in and out and I couldn't catch the numbers. I was crying so hard and yelling, "I can't hear you". I woke up sweating and grinding my teeth - my heart pounding.

Some days are good. We go to the zoo or the Children's Museum or the Science Center or even the play area at the mall. I have to get out of the house or I will only think about what I have lost.

A very strange thing keeps happening. No matter where we are strangers keep approaching us to tell me, "You are so lucky." They go on to say, "Look how beautiful. Those blue eyes." They gaze and smile and look genuinely happy they met Madison and Ethan. I swear I'm not exaggerating! It's all the time. In fact, someone at Giant Eagle said, "People must come up to you all the time?" People do come up to me all the time. I try to accept those words as a reminder of the love I have left. I no longer immediately tell them how wrong they are. I no longer tell strangers of how I lost the sweetest boy.

We were at the play area at Ross Park Mall and a little girl was calling to her father, "Catch me, daddy!" She was laughing and running and it was very sweet. Madison didn't even notice. Ethan just wanted to run and try to negotiate the slide. But my heart sank deeper every time she called, "Daddy!"

I fear I've entered a stage in my bereavement that's about me. I mean - I think I feel sorry for myself. I don't think I did before. I felt sorry for Madi. I felt sorry for Ethan. And I mostly felt sorry for Rich. But, it's my turn. I feel sorry myself.

There is so much guilt. I feel guilty we didn't go on macrobiotics in 2001 when he was first diagnosed with cancer. I feel guilty because I convinced myself he was fine. I feel guilty that he never touched our sweet son. I feel guilty that I get to watch these two kids grow and learn and he doesn't - it goes on and on.

He was on interferon for a year. He lost over 40 pounds. He was so sick he could barely stay awake for the birth of our daughter. The shots to his stomach created a 2 inch hole in his belly. It caused him so much pain that he couldn't hold his newborn baby. And
the whole time he never complained and never let on as to how much pain he was actually in. I feel guilty that I was in denial.

He is my beautiful boy. I ache and cry everyday. But, I'm strong, too. Our children are happy and healthy and that is my priority. I draw on his wisdom and courage and strength. I feel him beside me and I feel myself getting stronger. I don't yet know what it is, but I'm going to do something with this pain. I keep saying I'm going to surprise us both. But, I don't think I'm actually going to surprise him. He always saw something in me that I do not. It's time for me to see it...

But today I feel sorry for myself. And I'm allowed to. His death happed to me too. And I don't care what anybody thinks of it. It's me who feels this pain. It's me who is stuck in sorrow. It's me who cries everyday. It's me who raises his two children alone. It's me who loves him the most. It's me he spoke his last words to. It's me he loved until the day he died like he said he would. It's me who needs him. It's me who wants to die. And it's me who will never hear my child call, "Catch me, daddy."