Well, I’d love say that I’ve started several blogs all of which I kept updated to the second and talked about every element of my life, but that would be a bald-faced lie, so here starts another one. The idea of this blog has come from several of my real life and social media friends who have pressed me to process this journey I’ve been traveling as a kind of therapy. So, if you are offended by somewhat maudlin posts immediately followed by sarcasm and odd ball humor, you probably should go back to the Huffington Post or the ilk right now. I promise neither stellar writing (though I’ll give it a try) nor deep insight, but I do promise to give you me.
I guess we better get the basics of this out of the way in the first post, so here goes. On April 3rd of this year, my life was forever changed. Kelley, my wife, passed away suddenly. She had been battling kidney failure for a year, but in the end, all the stress her body had been through caused her to have a heart attack. Even though it is going on 2 months since it happened, I look at what I typed above and it still doesn’t quite seem real. I hear, hell I teach all about the “stages of grief,” but I have to say in this case, they’re pretty much total crap. Grief is a messy hodgepodge of every possible emotion. There is no clean going from denial to anger to acceptance. To me, it’s been a stew of all those things. Some days, I’m angry with her for leaving, and angry with myself for feeling almost relief that she is no longer fighting kidney disease; while other days, I’m pretty accepting of the new paradigm of my life and happy for the 17 years that we did get together.
My idea is this blog will have two halves. One half will talk about this emotional journey through finding my way in my new life, and the other half will document my physical journeys that I am planning to take. Kelley’s disease made travel very stressful and difficult the last 3 or 4 years, so I have many miles I want to travel and sights to see. Plus, it seems to help me to get out of our house, where every corner holds a memory.