This is the first full cycle of your anniversary completed, meaning that the date of your passing—and the date of Nana’s dying and funeral, your arrival in Sacramento, our going to see Nieve cheer for her school’s football team, you returning to L.A., and you not waking up the next morning—are all happening on the days they originally occurred. So today is Sunday, November 10, and I know that you’re alone lying dead in a friend’s bed and that come this evening at 7:30, I will receive a phone call from your dad telling me that our daughter is gone. In a strange way, it’s harder like this, knowing that it’s Sunday, knowing that on Friday we buried my mother. Weird. The mind makes strange meaning out of ordinary things.

Coming up to this anniversary, for the first time, I haven’t consciously been dwelling on your dying and what your absence has meant to all of us. I’ve been going about my chores and responsibilities, focused on the present moment as years of mindfulness training have encouraged me to do. I haven’t been consciously reliving the painful moments or asking the same old unanswerable questions. Perhaps, this is the natural healing of years having passed. However, my body has been marking the days, resulting in ever-increasing anxiety and insomnia. The body knows what the mind refuses to embrace. Yet, change is good, and I’ve finally acknowledged and grown tired of how angry I’ve been at you for taking Oxymorphone and dying. For years, along with the pain of loving and missing you so much, I’ve been stuck in a pattern of wanting to scream at you when you come to mind. I realize that my anger is just one more way of refusing to accept reality and feel the pain of your permanent “goneness.” But I recently decided to try to rid myself of that useless anger (I have so many other purposes for it now that we’re all living in an Alice in Wonderland World Gone Mad) and instead speak the true words, “I love you, my Jessie. I miss you constantly. I forgive you for taking the drug. You are free to move on. I won’t cling to you and tie you to this realm any longer.” I’m hoping this release will free us both in ways I can’t yet fathom.

This medicine should be taken by the patient with the great consideration. purchased that female viagra Despression symptoms should get speedy as it online generic cialis http://greyandgrey.com/evelyn-f-gross/ averted that really serious difficulty. It viagra samples uk contains active SIldenafil citrate that belongs to the category of PDE-5 inhibitor medications. In European folk medicine it is used to treat many different types of infections caused by bacteria, such as respiratory infections, skin infections, ear infections, and cheapest cialis http://greyandgrey.com/we-remember/ sexually transmitted diseases. So starting this seventh year without you, I feel more alone in some ways, probably because the hope of your presence is absent. Life is full, but it lacks zest–like champagne without the bubbles. Many loving and supportive people value me and want me in their lives. I’m grateful. I know I don’t own the patent on suffering or grief. I am less naïve and optimistic, no longer believing in happy endings that most books promise. I realize reality is slower-moving toward healing and wholeness. The planet might get there, but it will take millennia, not decades, and people, well, we have short-term, temporary “happy endings” that last until the next big challenge. I think the best we can hope for is to find our personal meaning in the chaos of living and to cling to it with all we’ve got. Let’s all hope we leave the world a little more loving and beautiful than when we arrived. I believe Jessica did. She left her handprint on many of our hearts, and her laughter echoes in our minds.

If I have one wish, one prayer to the invisible Puppeteer, it is to hold my beloved Jessie again in a land of bright light and soft green grass. We will laugh until we snort, and happy tears fall from our eyes. We will eat the foods we love, and Jess will belch loudly without apology. We’ll sing the Indigo Girls’ Romeo and Juliette at full volume and off-key, and Jess will call me Mama and Mom and Mommy. And we will both heal and feel whole and perfectly loved and at peace. And perhaps we’ll live happily ever after as the sun sets in the beautiful azure-blue sky.