Birthdays~

Chuck threw me a huge birthday party for my 50th.  To be honest, our daughter, Rachael-Grace, helped out with it quite a bit, but it was lovely.  A dear friend, who died the year before Chuck, baked a red velvet cake.  My friends were there from all walks of life.  Our kids were there; it was a memorable 50th.

Life changes quickly, and the following year, for my 51, we were just beginning our new life on the road and Chuck surprised me with a trip to Graceland.  I’d always been a huge Elvis fan and he knew this would be a huge hit. As it was.  I didn’t have any idea where we were headed until I saw the sign that said Memphis.  We stayed in a hotel that had framed Elvis pictures in each room, a guitar shaped swimming pool and Elvis music playing throughout the grounds. All songs which I knew and Chuck got such a kick out of me singing along with them.

One of my earliest birthday memories, after Chuck and I married, is the year he took the time leading up to my birthday to get my address book and ask everyone in it to call me on my birthday.  He also alerted his family and friends.  I spent the day answering our, yes, land line phone, and hearing Happy Birthday, Alison!  Chuck made my birthdays so special, every year.

My next few birthdays were spent on the road; I don’t even remember where. What I do recall is that I spent them with him, hiking and exploring the USA.  We had all the time in the world together and that was the greatest gift of all.  With lots of wild and crazy birthday sex.

The last great present I received for my birthday, my 55th, was the news that Chuck’s first cancer had been eradicated numerous surgeries.  He was cancer free, with really really really good odds that it wouldn’t return.  God, did we celebrate…I knew a cancer survivor! and that cancer survivor was my beloved husband.

I’m 59 today.  Chuck has been dead for 4 years.  Fucking cancer got my cancer survivor after all, and my birthdays have never been the same.

I know, I know…I can hear it now.  But you must celebrate you! You must grab life and savor it and live it!

Here’s the thing.  I know, because I’m a smart, loving person, that I must allow our kids to celebrate me. I must allow my friends and family and all who love me, to celebrate me. And I do and it means so much, especially since Chuck is no longer here to wrap me in his arms and plant a huge, lonnnngggg kiss on my lips, leaving me dizzy.

In just the past month, I’ve received 2 gifts that touch my heart in the only ways that matter:  I was reunited with my younger sister, after many years of estrangement, and my wee grandson, Owen Charles, was born.  Each of these huge events touch my heart.

But there is a loneliness that goes along with my birthdays in the years since Chuck’s death and that’s just a fact of life.  It’s the new world that I live in.

So, today, here in the Ozarks, at the opera camp, on my 59th birthday, living a life I’d never imagined or planned for (emotionally), my gift to myself is telling each person that I meet that it is my birthday and I want hugs.

I want hugs from every person who comes within my radius today. Hugs, hugs and more hugs.  All the love that comes with those hugs is what keeps me going, and my heart expands with each hug.

And that’s what I ask of you, too.  Anyone who is reading my words today.  For my birthday, your gift to me is to hug people you meet along your way today.  Stop for a minute, share some time with them, connect with them, and don’t leave them without hugging them.

And maybe, whisper a word to Chuck, whether you know him or not, that you’re all looking out for his girl.

Thank you.

Happy birthday, me~

 

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Grief…Preplanned. Ain’t it Precious?

“When my husband goes, I’m not going to hang on to my grief. I’m celebrating the time I had with him and the memories. Each and every person deals with it in his or her way, but I don’t think my husband would want me to be sad and carry that burden. I told my husband if I go before him, re-marry with my blessing and don’t spend time living in grief over my maybe departure. I would want him to be happy and not be bowed down with my passing. I would miss my husband, but I would not carry it on for years. he would want me to move on with my life and remember the times we had together. and not be grief stricken a long time. I would make friends and make the most out life. It would be sad, and I would feel it, but I would let myself heal.  I have a pink car and trailer but I’m letting it go for him when he’s here to help him money wise.”

This blog plopped directly in my lap, gifted to me by a woman who wrote the above comment in response to a picture I posted on one of my camping pages.  Mind you, the picture was one of me smiling, triumphant because I finally, 3 years later, completely emptied my storage unit, leaving me with what travels with me in my T@b trailer.   My mistake, obviously, was that I also mentioned that it was a significant accomplishment, not because of the stuff, but because it was a letting go of the future my husband and I planned together.

*note to self; never, EVER, mention grief to anyone, or my husband if at the same time as mentioning that he’s, you know, dead, and that makes me kind of sad and I miss him because people get the heebie-geebies when real emotions get expressed*

So here’s my response, and, yes, I get so many frickin’ points for diplomacy and efforts to educate, and, also, patience…

Dear woman whose husband isn’t dead yet but you’re smart so you’re pre-planning your emotional response to the time that he does become, you know…dead;

How precious that you know how you’ll respond to your husband’s death!  How further precious it is for you to be so far-sighted to plan for that certain event!  I see that you also covered the possibility that you might go first, leaving instructions for him to remarry (though you seem to allow him some small amount of time to grieve so that’s big of you).  Why, it just fills my heart with warmth as I’m assured that you want him to be happy and not bowed down by grief and that he’ll just..you know…get on with it.  As will you if he dies first.  There’s just nothing better than pre-planning an emotional response for which you have no real world experience, and it saddens me that I, and so many of my widowed brothers and sisters didn’t just tear a page out of your planning book!  Why, there’s no telling how great we could all be doing right now!

I, of course, had no idea that the secret to going through this grief was so simple and I thank you for enlightening me.  Who knew that instead of allowing this grief to take its’ course and allowing it space and being honest about it wasn’t the answer?  I’VE BEEN DOING IT ALL WRONG!  I see now that all I needed to do was celebrate the years we had together and resolve not to be sad and make friends!  It’s precious, I tell you!  Precious!  Because for all these 3 years of Chuck being, you know, dead, I’ve allowed myself to have the normal, natural reaction to the death of a man I loved more than life itself, and I’ve been thankful for and loved the years we had together but…fuck!  My mistake was that I’ve allowed those memories to break my heart because every time I remember, I also remember that those times are gone.  Well, just seriously FML!!  I’ve made hundreds of friends and connected with people all around the country but FUCK! none of them have replaced him in that place in my heart and that’s clearly my bad and a conscious wrong choice on my part.  WHEN will I ever learn, right?

I just don’t know WHY it doesn’t matter a tinker’s damn to me that Chuck wanted me to be happy after he died; a failing on my part, I acknowledge, and if he were here and insisted that he wanted me to be happy, I’d tell him IT JUST DOESN’T FRICKIN’ WORK THAT WAY and I’d be happy to go round and round with him that you just don’t tiptoe through the fucking tulips when shit like this happens.  I do know that I knew…know…my husband enough to say that he’d look at me like I was bat shit crazy that he wouldn’t know that and he’d understand completely that it takes the time it takes, but I’m so, so, SO, glad and happy for you that you’d carry on so easily and oh, I know!  Perhaps you could write a book about being a widow before you even become one and you could show those of us who are already widowed the RIGHT way to do widowhood and you could help other women and men pre-plan their emotional response to the death of their other half and you could get rich and be on Oprah and everything and that is also just so precious that I almost want to throw up in my mouth but I won’t because that wouldn’t be precious…

It’s just the silliest thing ever that I still feel sad and miss my husband and I just know you know that!  Why, 3 years is way too long to go on and on and carry on about him and what we had together and how much I miss that and, why, I won’t even mention what it’s like to no longer have passion and wild sex in my life with a man who was just as much in love with me as I was with him, just to name one thing that’s gone, because really, who cares about that stuff and it just isn’t proper, you know, to talk about such things!  And my goodness, it just doesn’t matter, does it, that the life I had with him in the present and the future we had planned just evaporated and poofed away and how on earth anyways is that grief-connected?  Apparently, you are so upset by my expression of my emotions that you don’t even see the smile of triumph on my face in that picture, or my celebration of this huge undertaking (do you see what I did there?  Undertaking…get it?  I wrote undertaking, which sounds like undertaker, the person who is, as you know, the one who takes dead people away.  Like my husband.  Who was dead.  Who is dead.)  Apparently you see it as no accomplishment at all that, hand in hand with my grief is a massive amount of love that gets me in my car every day to drive and drive and drive around this country, meeting and connecting with people, hugging and getting hugs.  That I do this even though it would be much easier to just lay down and die.  That every widow/er I know has the guts to get up every day and live WITH their fucking grief, and that we have the fucking guts to walk with each other through this foreign terrain and laugh and smile with each other and keep company with each other and give hope to each other when we don’t even know what the frickin’ word means…well, woman who knows how she’ll do this and dares to judge me for how I’m handling this fucking widow clusterfuck…I don’t know what to tell you about us except that we KNOW what this is like and we’re doing it and one of the ways we’re doing it is by talking and writing and making it as real to others as we can.

I do lament and commiserate with you that you are bowed down and, it seems, threatened by my grief, or any expression thereof.  It must be difficult for you to read how I’m handling it when you clearly know that all this emotion and sadness is so unnecessary because it’s all about just clicking on the happy switch and voila! No more grief…yay!

Just a friendly little note as you pre-plan your response to your husband’s death: 

I don’t care how strong you are, I don’t care how independent you are, I don’t care how sure you are….there is no planning this.  Whoever is left behind…it will feel as if you have been thrown onto a strange planet where no man or woman has ever walked before, and your feet will stumble into potholes and your heart will be wrenched from your body and you will see it on the ground in front of you being mashed into a bloody mess and guess what?  You can’t just flip a switch and make it go away, and years later, tears will still fill your soul and your eyes when you speak of the love that is now only in your heart and you will always miss his arms around you and his kiss on your lips and the surety that you, and only you, were special to someone special, once upon a time…

Or you might not.

Whatever. 

P. S.  Carry on…

What Meds Don’t Do~

Here’s what I now know about medications and grief.  This isn’t all personal experience, at least as far as allopathic medications are concerned; this is what I’ve gathered from other widow/ers.  I speak only of the herbs/homeopathic remedies that I’ve employed to help me with my grief.

This St John’s Wort, widely used in Europe as a mood elevator, works for me in that it almost immediately dropped a gossamer veil between me and my grief.  I picture my grief now as the filter used in old-time movies to soften the features of the actors and actresses.  I know my grief is there but there is very clearly something keeping me from fully absorbing it.  And that is indeed the purpose of St John’s Wort so…mission accomplished on that.

What it doesn’t do is take away or remove everything else that companions the meat-cutter of grief.  There is no filter on the shattering loneliness.  The lost feelings of being someone’s someone.  The steady thrum of starvation from the lack of touch by the man I love.  The empty silence where all the words I want to speak fall not on deaf ears but no ears.  The shuddering absence of the energy that shimmered and shifted next to me through the years.  The hole in my soul.

I don’t believe that there is any medication or herb in the world that changes these realities.

Yes, I can find a group of people with whom to discuss issues.  And I do talk with people constantly in the course of my day. And my kids and friends call, and they give me hugs and I’m so thankful for that. And yes, I have grand-kids and I love them all dearly. And none of that makes up for/replaces what I had with Handsome Husband.

I crave his touch and my body starves, knowing I’ll never feel his hands on me again. I wonder how it would feel to have another man’s hands on me, feel another man’s arms around me, dance with another man, even as I realize it is my husband I desire, not just any man.  And I know that even if I invite another man into my life someday, Handsome Husband will always be my husband even should I fall in love (which I hope to do).  I’ll always be his widow because he was my husband and there is some strange beauty in that in this fucking weird new world without him.

These thoughts spin round and round in my heart these days and, contrary to how I appear, I’m really very confused.  Which is, I know, pretty well reflected in this particular piece of writing.

Really, all I know is that I miss my husband.  I miss Chuck.  I miss him in ways that can only be imagined in the nightmares that come in the deepest, darkest hours of sleep that waken you sweating and screaming and breathless with adrenalin.

Beat, thrum, throb, cut, slice goes my heart…

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Ending the Search~

It’s confusing really.  This grief, I mean.

It takes time.  Don’t rush it.  Allow yourself to be where you are.  You sound like you’re giving up.  It’s your time frame, not anyone else’s.  Just be.  Get busy.  Don’t get too busy.  You need to date.  Don’t date too soon.  

I do it all.  What’s suggested to me, what I think of doing on my own.  I do nothing.  I do everything.  I move.  I maintain stillness.  All in an effort to figure this out.  Or not figure it out.  Or whatever is in between.

So, here I am, days shy of 2 years since my beloved husband died.  I’m going to counseling, where we’re using aural acupuncture and will, in the near future, use EMDR, to assist with the trauma.  Because yes, there’s been trauma.  Not only because of the bullshit that happened when he was in hospice and how it played out in the months after, but, quite simply, because of the intensity of our relationship and the every day of being without him.  As simple as that.

On a daily basis I use St John’s Wort, which is a natural mood enhancer.  Essential oils that assist in release of grief, homeopathic remedies that bring me through those horrible moments that happen 24 hours a day, and intense exercise with the Warrior training program 3 times a week, to help move the grief energy through my body.

And yet…I’ve been told (by professionals and everyday people) that the pain of this particular grief, the grief of missing-ness of one’s spouse (because it is, or can be, hopefully is, such a close, intimate relationship) can last for up to 10 years before there is any true relief, before the memories bring comfort instead of pain.

Here’s my conclusions about grief.  First, it makes no impression on me any longer, the judgements cast by anyone regarding where I am with it or how I’m doing it.  This is my grief, after all, and my body knows what and how I need to do it. Secondly, I suspect that any sort of relief or peace of any semblance will happen in my heart and soul and body only when I come to grips with the idea that the new normal that everyone refers to, means that I just have to accept the fact that this grief will always be present in my blood and heartbeat, as opposed to continually searching for ways and means of being without it entirely.  Of course, if you say any such thing to the public at large they immediately say oh that’s your choice as to whether or not you allow that grief to stay present.  That all sounds very Zen and Buddhist etc and I’m glad for those who seem able to so easily dismiss this depth of emotion, but, hey, whatever each person is able to attain, right?

It’s kind of like being able to say that, in a world that is not in any way okay, and me not being okay within it, I’m okay.  Saying that releases people from feeling obliged to fix this shit.

What I do know for certain.  My life changed forever at 11:21 pm on April 21, 2013 when Handsome Husband died, and I’ll never be okay with his gone-ness.

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Woman Under Construction

(from Rachael)

10526022_10153196416085400_8522764871573335025_nThe deep orange of the setting sun resonates with me this evening. My soul feels full of many questions, bits of anxiety, and flutters in the pit of my being. I find myself in a state of wonder. It comes most strongly each morning as I stand in the shower- which is no surprise to me as most of my thoughts seem to flow with the flow of the water. Also not surprising is the nervousness that accompanies these words- it’s palpable. These moments cause me to want to hide in a dark space as I try and understand it all. I am unwinding- knowing that there will soon be a time when I unfurl myself completely. It is ridden with excitement, curiosity, and fear of what is to become.

As I write these cryptic words I find it a challenge to fully express what resides in me, but know they must find a way to be written for they are words that my soul intuitively knows. They come through in the quiet noise that I often listen for. The stillness that graces moments of my surrounding chaos causes everything to slow- as if there was a world within a world. I observe these moments with acute awareness. This space is a fantastical world where everything and nothing exists- a place of listening, waiting, and discovery.

I want so desperately to live out loud, more passionately, and more colorfully. These depths are rising to the surface and I sense that they can no longer be ignored. My shift is happening. The flashes and waves are becoming more consistent. My soul is being flooded with a longing for something more…and yet the image conjured in my mind- an image of uprooting everything known for everything unknown leaves a sense of drowning.

And yet…

Things that once seemed incomprehensible flicker with foreign possibility. My roots are digging into the earth for nourishment. My soul burns, gathering courage to live into something wild. I am being stripped naked. I believe that life will continue to nudge me into being the most raw, beautiful, and authentic woman that I am capable of being. I believe that the universe will conspire to make sure I see all of the signs necessary for me to blossom and burst forth in such a way that love is the only way of being.

I am a woman under construction. It’s messy, takes a lot of work, there are multiple layers, and things will shift, crack, and break, but in the end I believe it will be quite a spectacular masterpiece.

Stay tuned…

Widow Writing in the Raw- (you have to be strong to read this)

*If you are offended by the word *fuck* don’t read this.

I swear by all that’s holy that if I hear ONE more person tell me that Chuck, (or my husband if it’s a stranger talking to me) would want me to be happy and that I need to focus on the good memories, I’m going to go so fucking ballistic that there will be pieces of me scattered over the face of the earth.

So I’ve been cogitating on what my response can be in such situations.  (By the way,I’m also tired of giving people a freaking free pass for saying stupid stuff.)  Wake the fuck up, people!  If you don’t know what to say, then just please don’t say anything!  I beg of you!  Just say It sucks the big one, Alison and be done with it!

What to respond?

Oh did you know my husband?  Is that why you can tell me what he would like for me?

Oh, would you like to give me your recipe so that I can immediately stop grieving his loss from my life?   I mean, yes, immediately as in right now?   Because I’ve tried every goddamn thing I can to tell my brain and my heart to do something else and it’s not fucking working.  I mean, I’m camping, for god’s sake!  I’m not a camper.  But I’m changing my environment to help me push through into new experiences to change my brain patterns.  And towing, for another god’s sake.  Are you kidding me?

Thank you for your opinion.  (My mom taught me to say that in response to ignorant people who offer their opinions freely and….ignorantly).

Fuck off.  This is what I’m feeling right now.

JesusMaryandJoseph, I would give anything to be other than where I am now.  I fucking hate this grief.  I hate my life without him.  Do you hear me?  I’m not asking for pity,  I’m not feeling poor me, and I’m not asking you to fix this for me because you CAN’T fix this unless you’re God Almighty or a genie who can blink her eyes and bring him back.  You CAN’T fix this.  But what you CAN do is be strong enough in your love and friendship to stand with me while I get through this horrible part that is normal and takes time.  Give me time.  I’m recreating my entire fucking life that burned to ashes at 11:25 on April 21, 2013.  And, no, I’m not being dramatic in saying that and if you think I am then, well…fuck off.

For one minute-one fucking minute– imagine your partner, husband or wife, (presuming you love each other and actually like each other) who has been an integral to your life, an intimate part of your life, this person who you built your life with and lived with joyfully, (no, not without arguments because nobody does that), this man (in my case) who was a strong lover, a romantic dancer, a man who swept me off my feet daily (and that’s the truth), who made magic happen for me, whom I loved passionately-all of these things and more.  And then zap!  he’s dead. (and, yes, I’m more than grateful that I had this kind of man in my life and this kind of love because not many have it).

I don’t want pity.  I won’t accept pity.  And I’ll bygod continue building a life for myself without him because I have to.  But you know what?  It takes mucho energy to brace myself against those who want me to just get on with it.

What I’m experiencing is normal grief.  And when you tell me that he would want me to be happy, you’re telling me that I’m somehow doing something wrong in grieving him because I’m not happy on your schedule and to your degree of comfort.

And guess what?   I’m as tired of hearing this from people as I am of this fucking grief.  I miss my husband so much that I can’t breathe.  My current diet consists of Amara Ignatia and Star of Bethlehem and Rescue Remedy, along with way too much diet pepsi (which is, let’s face it, really good tasting aspartame), and I want to lose my mind from the loneliness but I don’t.  And I won’t.   Even though I sometimes wish I could lose my mind and seek refuge in some ward somewhere instead of facing up to daily life and loss and all that entails.

You see all the pink and you think oh how pretty and how cute and what fun she must be having on this lovely little jaunt around the country.  Yeah, this is definitely my idea of fun.  I’ve got my dead husband’s ashes right next to me.  My stomach is in shreds.  My nerves are on top of my skin. I’m slammed everywhere with memories.  Oh, but that’s right-I need to focus on the good memories.   How the fuck do I focus on the good memories, of which there are plenty, without the accompanying thought that oh, that’s right-those times are gone, gone, gone because he’s dead, dead, dead.

No pity wanted or accepted and I’m so aware that so many are in worse situations, blah, blah, blah.  But for god fucking sake, stop saying stupid shit.  Instead, how about this?  If you knew him, tell me a memory you have of him.  I’m dying to hear people speak his name to me.  Seriously.  I’m about to make a list of all of his buddies and everyone who knew him, even a little, and call them up and beg them to tell me stories of him.  Or tell me how you coped with your own loss if you’ve been through it.  If you’ve never grieved, then just say wow, that’s some fucking shit to deal with.   Ask me what this is like.  Not just this grief, but what it’s like to not have him.  How does my heart hold this grief and this love all at the same time?  What is it like creating a life without the love of my life in it?  What is it like to have had a passionate love life with a passionate man and then suddenly have nothing?  (no, that isn’t too intimate a question for me).  What is it like to have your heart violently torn out of your chest and hacked to pieces on the ground?  Ask me anything.  Or just fucking stand with me and bear witness.  Just please, please, please, consider what you’re saying.

This isn’t rocket science, folks.

*For all of you who have NOT said stupid stuff, thank you.*

*We will now return to our regularly scheduled prime-time, no swear words, programming*

*Thank you for paying attention*

Haters Will Hate~but the Love Story Continues~

Hey, dear readers,  apparently I have just enough notoriety to merit negative emails and response posts on my Happily Homeless face book page!

I’m reminded of an episode of Seinfeld (I think it was that show), where Jerry had a stalker and his buddies were upset because they felt that they merited stalker status also, yet they didn’t have one of their own.  I’m not saying I have a stalker.  Just saying that there are a few people out there who don’t like me.  Wow.  Little ol’ me?

I’ve tossed around the idea of giving time to this but honestly, it kind of hits my funny bone and god knows I need some humor in my life amidst this fucking grief.  Oh, sorry.  I have an official hater who called me vulgar.  Apparently she doesn’t understand the placement of a well-placed “fuck” as an adjective.  Let me state here that I don’t use that word in anger, I don’t call people names but I do use it to emphasize strong feelings and emotions.  Ok?

Also, I believe in being up-front.  I didn’t block this particular person from my HH fb page because, well, she adds spice.  Or something.

Here’s her story as I understand it:  She, whoever she is, (her fb page identifies her as being a (probably) photo stock picture from North Dakota.  The rest of the story is that she bears an unhealthy attachment to Handsome Husband’s ex-wife, whom she accuses me of dissing on a continual basis.  What set her off was a picture that I posted of me and my husband on what would have been our 24th anniversary.   I included a caption that said words to the effect of he and I particularly appreciated our marriage and felt blessed to have found each other after having come through unhappy first marriages.  Horrors!  There was a very quick post in response, telling me that I’d insulted his first wife and that he had a life and family before he married me.  (in case I didn’t know?)

She also accused me of wanting to basically exploit my husband’s death by writing a book about my life with him and our Happily Homeless travels and his time in hospice and this new life I’m striving to create.  Exploit?  How does one exploit one’s own story by telling it to the world?

Here’s the thing.  When I write, I don’t write for drama.  I’ve always written because I love to write.  I need to get the words out of me and out there.  I’ve always written to touch base with friends and family about our travels and what Handsome Husband and I were doing and learning.  I wrote, when he went into hospice, to free the words from my heart and soul so that I wouldn’t implode (though I suspect this person would like to see that happen).   Since his death, I write because yeah, you know what?  Grief is not seen in our culture.  Those who grieve are given a short amount of time to go through it and then told to move on.   Once a few months pass, we’re expected to move on and kind of just keep it to yourself, okay?  Guess what?  It isn’t that easy and I’m putting a face on what grief is and using this forum as an educational tool and I’m not going away.  (Oh, she also was upset that people apparently don’t know that I am, as she put it, a grief expert.  Which I’m not-I was a grief facilitator-but thank you for the promotion and maybe I can quote you if I ever try to get a hospice job again which I can’t because I don’t have a degree.  Anyways.)

This blog, and my HH fb page, are my conduits to the world as I travel, both physically and emotionally. The physical roads, on my Odyssey of Love, and the emotional world, as I grieve my husband.  It’s a hard, painful, soul-wrenching, impossible, knife-slashing, world, this grief, full of tears and guts and blood and shrieking and love and remembering and yearning and desperation.

And I own it.  This is mine.  Not anyone else’s.

So, yes, I say to the haters out there.  I will blatantly state here that I fully intend to write a book about this life of mine with Handsome Husband.  I’m going to write about sharing my life with him, my love story with him, his death, my life now.  And I’m going to speak about it too, in lecture series and you tube videos and by being on the news and sharing my story and any other way I can do it.   Because I loved him then and love him still and that’s pretty much what’s on my mind.  To you, this person, let me freak you out even more.  I hope that someday this will be an entire career for me and that it will bring me an income (which, because I live in the real world, I, um..need).  Shocked yet?

I don’t understand the whys or the wherefores of why people have been, and continue to be, drawn to our story, the story of Happily Homeless, our love story and how I’m continuing it.  Clearly, it resonates with so many of you because, well, you’re here reading it and you talk to me out on the road and all of you tell me it does.

Handsome Husband would tell me to go for it.  He knew before he died that I would do something with this, that I would make it count somehow.   And, by god, I will.  Our love story won’t die with him.  Our love was….is….bigger than death.  I’m going to create such a life for myself, based on the love he and I had (sorry, hater, it isn’t based on the love he and his ex had), that he will, wherever he is, be applauding madly for me.

So….haters?

Go get your own love story.  And, because I don’t want to be vulgar, at least in this case, I’ll just say……go bless yourself~

P.S.  Here’s a picture of the two of us that should really bother you~ (gasp! He’s hugging me as if we’re happily married or something!)

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