Addendum:

I somehow forgot to include one--actually two--significant events when I wrote this that I had originally planned to mention. Since Memorial Day is the inspiration for this whole entry, it would be incomplete if I didn't correct that now.

Memorial Day is (supposed to be) a time to reflect on the sacrifice of those that have fought for our freedom. It is a celebration of their heroism. We honor the celebration part but sometimes (usually?) forget the rest of that sentence. Be that as it may, Toni and I did have reason to celebrate that weekend for reasons other than its stated purpose. Back in 2010, Frodo made his appearance on this planet sometime on the holiday weekend and when we adopted him from the rescue shelter some weeks later, our lives were never the same. He was the living embodiment of the concept of "freedom". His antics--despite having a very, very rough start--have given us hours of entertainment. He was an inspiration to the whole pack. 

This infectious joie de vivre lasted for four years to the day (-ish). It was on memorial day weekend in 2014 that Shiloh, the firstborn who started on our long path to dog loving, irreparably broke his leg. A week later my special boy would join his beloved brother Sully, who left us a mere 8 months earlier, four days before Toni's birthday. (October has its own list of things to remember...) Shiloh lived the longest (so far) of all of our boys and showed no signs of slowing down. He even made me go on a last walk with him, broken leg and all (really, it was his idea, not mine; we rarely went on actual "walks" since the yard is so huge). I was devastated. 

Looking back on it now, I wonder if he felt the same way I do now. Sully and Shiloh were inseparable; they'd been together since birth (actually before that if you count the time cramped up together in the womb). We always referred to them together. And they were complete opposites of each other. Just like Toni and me. Except for the womb part. As far as she and I were concerned, our lives began the day we found each other. We always referred to each other as a unit. "PeteAndToni" was one word. And we were complete opposites. I wonder how Shiloh dealt with his brother's death during those 8 months he was suddenly without his lifelong partner. What went through his dog-brain as he tried to make sense of his life, suddenly alone. Sure he had the rest of the sizable pack around as well as Toni and me, but it's not the same. Our boys have always shown a resilience in the face of sudden change and to his credit Shiloh didn't seem to be different. He was still Shiloh; he didn't know how to be any other way. He was just like I am now. I'm still me. But I'm alone. Sure I still have what's left of the pack and all of my family and all of my friends. But it's not the same. I'm still me because I don't know how else to be. But there's this big hole that I don't know how to fill. I feel like my name is now "PeteAnd?"

This entry was just supposed to be a paragraph at the end of the last one, but it got away from me (as my writings tend to do), so I decided to give it its own entry. It's hard to redefine yourself at my age, it seems. When I was young(er) going down a different path was the normal thing to do. Since you have no idea about the world, you try lots of new things to figure out what's best for you. I don't feel like I have time to do that anymore. If I'm wrong, what options do I still have time to try? In my younger days, the kind of mistakes I made took decades to work through. I hope that I'm smarter about my choices now and that won't be an issue. I want to think that the many years of living in the light that Toni shed on me have made the kind of impact on me that so many people, having spent much less time with her, have said she made on them. I mean I know she made an impact on me...duh. I mean I hope it is a lasting one. I hope that her leadership stays with me and guides me, the same way her love held me up all those years. I can still feel her love all around me. It's just that I can't see her when I tell her I love her back. I hope I get used to that. Right now, it just feels kinda strange.

Okay enough for now. Go back to your own lives. Don't miss out on a single thing. There is much to do out there for you. Go and do them. Don't leave any regrets behind. Hmmm. That makes it sound like you should carry them with you wherever you go. I mean quite the opposite. Don't have any regrets to leave behind. Better? Eh. you know what I mean.

Musing on Memorials in the Month of May

May is generally regarded as the month that Spring does its thing. The trees that were budding in April after the long bleak winter have fully awoken and are now thick with leaves. The blossoms and blooms are everywhere in sight in all of their pastel beauty. The smell of fresh-mown grass fills the air. Birds and mammals are starting to raise their families. As are the insects. Frogs and fish are also doing what they do. The promise of life...renews the spirit. It's a wondrous time of year. Hope is all around.

It is no wonder then that I feel the cosmic irony of what May had become for Toni and me over the years. Or at least so it seemed to us

I have already mentioned the loss of our daughter on May 4, 1990. That's when it started. A mere three years later, early in the month of May, we lost a dear friend at the church we had been attending. In the wake of losing Niketa, we had decided not to have children of our own, and I had woosed out of adopting or fostering, so we moved in with Toni's parents and joined a church, becoming very active in their junior church program. As a result, we became very close with the church music director and his wife, Dennis and Barbara Long. Barbara was a nurse and was one of those people that was loved by everyone she met immediately. They were a young couple in their very early 30's with two delightful young children, Christopher and Kara. Not only were they a "perfect" family in spirit, they were a very good-looking bunch, like someone you would find on ShutterStock or in a TV commercial. Before long, Barbara was pregnant with their third child, soon to be named Eric. While she was in the hospital, immediately after giving birth, she caught what I am assuming was necrotizing fasciitis, more commonly--and over-descriptively--referred to as the flesh-eating virus, which is actually bacteria. Within a day, she was gone. Or at least that's how I remember it. The church was packed at her funeral with church-goers and co-workers alike, in absolute shock that something like this could happen to someone so young, so kind and so beautiful. It reminded me of when my mom died. I imagine that the hospital staff were especially affected since this happened to one of their own while they helplessly watched, their efforts in vain. A hollowed-out Dennis eventually recovered thanks to his faith and the support of the congregation. He remarried a few years later and moved away to start over. I wrote more about this incident than I had expected; it stills weighs upon my heart these many years later (the children are all grown now and we have lost contact; but I still remember our happy years together fondly, and still feel the sadness).

Later that same month, my dad died, cementing Toni and my feud with the month of May. My parents got a divorce when I was very young so my dad and I had a very on-again, off-again relationship over the years. I was lucky enough to get to know him a little better before he died. He had been living in the Upper Peninsula for a number of years when my cousin Roxy let me know he was in really bad shape. All those cigarettes had finally caught up with him: lung cancer and emphysema had come to call. He was getting a constant supply of IV blood by the time I got there: it's a 10-hour drive. I don't remember how long he had been in that condition. We drove up there with my Auntie Ann, my dad's older sister and Roxy's mom. The outcome was that a helicopter ride was arranged so that he could come back here so that I could spend his last days with him. The doctor thought it was a bad idea, but we did it anyway, figuring the nursing home could handle things just fine once he got here. I can't believe how naive I was back then, even as "smart" as I was supposed to be about such things. He lasted exactly one night. That was May 23, 1994.

Fast-forward seven years, to 2001. 9-11 hadn't happened yet. Spring had broken and Toni's dad was talking about down-sizing the garden even more than the year before. Toni's mom had passed away almost three years earlier and things were different at the house since. Life always goes on, but changes always seem to turn things upside down and you do what you have to keep the boat afloat. Toni had cared for her parents (I helped too...) as much as she could over their later years (I hear she was an evil child and teen). Part of that care involved unpacking and repacking the hole where his amputated toe used to be. He was diabetic and the toe had become infected and then gangrenous. After Toni's mom passed away, her dad started feeling his age more and his own health declined. A visiting nurse stopped by a couple of times a week to check on him before he passed away. On the day he died, sensing something wasn't right (he had "that look" as she later described it), Toni wanted to stay home with him. But we had a "special meeting" that day: a big announcement was to be made. He assured her he would be alright, and Toni promised that we'd come home right after the meeting. Which we did. We found him on the bed, one shoe off and one shoe on (we had always joked about how long it took him to get his shoes on). He was trying to get ready for his day. Maybe he was going to check out the garden. We'll never know. He didn't get that far. I will never forget Toni's reaction. And I cannot do it justice. In fact, the details are actually quite hazy to me. What I remember is the overall sense of the event: unimaginable rage and grief released as only Toni could. I remember the yelling and the beating of the walls. I waited until the flood subsided enough for me to get close enough to hold her. I think. As I said, the details aren't there much, just the feeling, but it is something I would have done and it doesn't feel like I didn't do it. I do remember eventually holding her. How long all took I have no idea. The thing was, Toni had taken it upon herself to take care of her parents, taken it into herself to do so. And now they were both gone. On her watch. She never forgave herself. But as always, we had to move on. Life had changed yet again. May 9.

Since then, the wounds have healed. Like the gap where Toni's dad's toe used to be had healed over. But even though it had healed, the toe was still missing. It is very much like that when we lose someone. The wound is gone, the pain fades. But the gap in our heart will always be there. I haven't had any major waterworks outbursts in quite a while, but what I have now is burning tears welling up in my eyes. Those will always be there, but the time between them will get longer. I'm glad the whole May death thing has been hibernation for a while now and hope that it continues its absence. Toni and I have been able to enjoy the spring for a while now, and even though she is gone from me (and I am very glad it wasn't in May), I have actually enjoyed this spring as well. The robins' nest on the front porch light is empty now, but never fear, there is another family of robins nested in the bend of the downspout on the back side of the house. The cycle of life is alive and well at the household. Life always goes on. We can hold on and enjoy the ride, or jump off and miss all the wonder. I love a good road trip, don't you?

MAY we all keep a good thought. (You didn't think I could pass up a good pun, did you? (Or a bad one...))

The Elephant in the Room

It has been a couple of weeks since my last post. It's not that I haven't had any ideas or inspirations; I just haven't felt like writing. I have passed from the "How is this possible?" phase to the "Why did this happen?" phase. From Shock to Anger and Sadness. Now, I believe I am at the Hope and Remembrance phase. Or something. None of this has to do with the subject of the post, but maybe it explains why there has been a gap. In any event, I am able to communicate again.

There is one aspect of Toni's death that has been mentioned in passing but never really discussed at any length. I think it is related to our weird concept of "respect for the dead", and this might be perceived as a joke and it's part of our "too soon" sensibility. That's rubbish. If someone was a wanker in life, their death doesn't change that. (That whole thing sounded rather British, didn't it? I'll blame that on my watching "Very British Problems" before bed last night...) As far as it being "too soon", nobody liked a good joke better than Toni. Especially the grade school level jokes Ellen likes to highlight on her show. We even had some laughs during her funeral, and that is well where we should have been at the time. Life can be funny sometimes, so why not death?

The elephant in the room that I am referring to is the fact that Toni passed away on April Fool's Day. I believe at some point she realized she was done with this world and thought to herself, "Well, at least no one will forget the date of my passing." You cannot plan the hour of your death, but Death never encountered anyone like Toni, for whom The Plan was everything. That's why punctuality was so important to her: if I made her late for work (by late I mean less than a half an hour early...), it would throw off her whole day. Her routine would be disrupted. For the very few vacations we ever took, we would spend hours plotting and planning the itineraries. Remember, these are vacations, where your time is your own and no one can tell you what to do....I mentioned in a previous post that we were waiting for the neurologist to confirm everything in the morning before we stopped life support. But that would have made it April 2nd. April second is a nothing day and therefore harder to remember. Faced with the change in her life's plan, Toni--defiant to the bitter end (and defiant is an understatement when describing her)--Toni opted out early: April 2nd would not do.

For days and weeks, and sometimes even now, I wanted to believe it was all just a horrible practical joke and at any moment she would walk in the door and say, "April Fool!" And I could hardly be angry with her for such a cruel hoax. I would simply respond, That was a good one, honey. You really got me that time." That hasn't happened yet. I have to believe she is really gone. And yet....Oh, yes; that is the Denial Phase.

I wish I could trade this "elephant" in for a White Elephant, which I could regift to someone else. But I can't wish this off on someone else. My conscience wouldn't let me. I don't hate anyone that much. And I can't trade it in for a Pink Elephant either. That ruined my life once, I refuse to do it again. So because an elephant never forgets, neither shall I. I was a fool for Toni the entire time we were together (and "Why Do Fools Fall in Love" falls well within her love of doo-wop music), and now I will always be her April Fool. Forever. Thanks, Hon. (requisite bit of sarcasm implied...)

A Note About Privacy

When I started this blog, it was because I wanted everyone to get to know the Toni I knew. The world deserves to know about this wonderfully unique and uniquely wonderful person that we recently lost. I needed the memory of her to go on. The Real Toni. What I have come to realize in the last few days is that some things should not be shared with the world at large. Not that there are horrid secrets which must be kept from view (although we all have those, don't we?), but that some things are too private, too personal, and I wish to honor that about her, too. As I was sifting through pictures and papers and memories locked in my head, I came across quite a few things that fall into this category. More than I could have realized.

I found the letters we wrote to our premature baby after she died. I remembered writing them and I remembered having them. But when I read them, I knew they were not meant for any other eyes but our own.

There is the journal she kept, written over a two year span to Captain Jack when he was taken from us. I have only read about 30 pages of its 200+ page heft, but I again see that something that personal ought to be kept that way.

Early in our relationship, she asked me to write her something (I was still pretending to be a writer in those days...oh wait, I still am...) and I did. Pretty sure I'll keep that one to myself, too. I'm sorry, I wrote it for her, not for you.

My intent with my blog post "By The Numbers" was to include all of her medications and their dosages. In fact they were the inspiration for the post in the first place. But I left that out when I wrote the post, not yet fully realizing why. Now I think I do.

Yes, I even have pictures of us that are only for us.

I am not saying that I might not use a quote or two, now and again. Some passages are just too precious not to share. And more importantly would not be a betrayal of trust. But I will not post any of them in their entirety. I owe her that. I owe her a lot more than that. But at least this is something I can do for her.

In the meantime, there is so much other stuff I can share about her, and I believe you will be able to get a fair accurate picture of her, even without ALL the details. She was a larger than life character and it is my privilege to bring her to life for you. I cannot bring her back, but perhaps I can hold her up.

Portends and Omens, Last Things and Unfinished Business

I'm not saying I believe in this sort of thing and I'm not saying I don't. I'm just saying sometimes coincidences take on a personal meaning that can't be ignored. When a trauma strikes--and they do strike and strike hard--sometimes the otherwise unrelated events leading up to them at least seem to have happened as a warning, as a chance to prepare. And it doesn't matter if you believe it or not; I'm just putting them out there to give you something to think about. At the very least, it might help you understand how my grief works on me and maybe give you some insight to your own.

The Tee Shirt
This year for Christmas, Toni and I got each other matching tee shirts (and a coffee mug for her) that said, "In My Darkest Hour I Reached For A Hand And Found A Paw." I'm not sure how she found them (she was always looking up dog things on the internet), but we both loved the quote so much, getting them was a no-brainer. Each of us at different times and for different reasons had found it to be too true.

So when the day came for us to go to the emergency room, Toni decided that was the shirt she wanted to wear. I don't know why. And it isn't like she was insistent about it. It only took on a special meaning for me after the fact. I cannot say she planned on wearing it knowing she was going to die that day. I don't think she was planning on that at all.

At any rate, that was what she was wearing when the ambulance whisked her away. The next time I saw her she was in a hospital gown. Her clothes had been put in a plastic bag, and I didn't give it another thought. Until a couple of days later when I opened the bag of clothes and realized that her shirt and bra weren't in there. Of course. It's SOP in an ER when a patient comes in with cardiac and respiratory failure to cut the clothes off a person: time is everything and you can't waste it by carefully undressing someone.

I got over it. And I still have mine, which has taken a new and deeper meaning unto itself.

The License Plate
Every year, sister Patty sends us a Christmas package loaded with all kinds of goodies, some fun, some practical and some just plain touching. She's always been thoughtful like that. We have also tried to do the same for her. (Gifts for Patty usually have a Wizard of Oz or Star Trek theme.) This year among the goodies was a Personalized License Plate which made Toni sob uncontrollably. Toni was a sentimental person and some sentiments just went waaaay deep in her heart.

The plate had the names of our four boys that were no longer with us on the one side against a fluffy cloud, blue sky background, and the four that were still with us on the other. Why this particular gift, this particular year? Well, here we are just a few months later, and on our mantle I have Toni's memorial candle in front of that plate, neatly and evenly separating the living from the dead. How could Pat have known, that Toni's death would fall right in the middle? 

The Black Cat
On the last day I would take Toni to work the week before she got sick, an unsettling thing happened. For a year or two now I had been tracking the progress of a neighborhood cat. By progress, I mean avoiding getting killed on the gravel hauler racetrack known as Martinsville Road. The cat was young, not fully grown when I had first noticed her/him. And every time I saw the cat running from one side of the road to the other I was happy it was still alive. And ever more fearful for its future.

When I dropped Toni off in the mornings, it was always very early and dark. I needed to get to my job by 7:30 and it was just under an hour round trip to make that happen. We'd get to her job--on a good day (not often enough to suit her, btw)--sometime before 6:30, so that she could either nap or play solitaire on her iPhone or both. Anyway, on that morning as we were snailing our way up the quarter mile to Judd Road over the pothole infested dirt road we live on, I saw something black in the headlights in the middle of the road. My heart sank a little bit, but it might just be debris. We had been having all kinds of wind storms. As we got closer, I saw the two tell-tale yellow eyes looking at me. The cat had been hit. Very recently. And creepily the eyes were still open and looking at me, bright as anything. I carefully drove around it and went on my way. We rode in silence the rest of the way in. The image bothered me all day at work.

As would sometimes happen, I was let off early from work that day and I rushed home. I could only think about that cat and what kind of bloody mess would greet me as I turned down Martinsville after the cat had flattened by repeated hits by the truckers. I was amazed to find the cat exactly as I had last seen it, the only difference being the road dust had now covered its eyes. I stopped the car, got out and moved the cat off the side of the road to prevent any future horror. Rigor had fully set in by now so it was easy to do. And I somehow felt better. I went home and waited until it was time to go get Toni.

On the way home that night, Toni said, "That cat really disturbed me." I had no idea it had bothered her that much. I thought I was being silly, but now I felt vindicated. I told her I had moved it and she scolded me for touching a dead animal, and I countered that it was freshly dead and I washed my hands real good when I got home.

Of course we all know that black cats crossing our path is bad luck. Having one die IN your path is worse. In just over a week, my Toni would be gone. The story isn't all sad though. During the week Toni was sick, I saw another black cat at least twice in the same vicinity. A litter mate? So it turns out I may have been tracking two cats all along and the other one is still out there. I hope that one has better luck.

The Jigsaw Puzzle
The last jigsaw puzzle Toni and I were working on is still in the living room waiting for me to finish. And I will. Someday but not just yet. It's an old-timey scene of the inside of a general store. And it was a lot of fun to work on. (Not all puzzles are....) Here's what makes just a little strange.

As I have been going through the thousands of pictures I could either scan or that were on my laptop, Toni's PC, her old laptop, her iPhone, and her (new) camera, I came across one of the last puzzle's box cover. Now, Toni was excited about her new camera and was taking pictures of everything. Mostly of the dogs, but other things too. And I found a couple of pictures of a previous puzzle. Maybe she was going to start documenting our puzzle adventures? Or maybe she just liked the puzzles enough to immortalize them. I'll never know; I didn't get the chance to ask her. Whatever the case, once I do finish it and put it up, I will have a permanent reminder of what we were up to when she left. Almost like she knew I would like that.

The TV Shows
Over the years, besides our love of movies, we had a host of TV shows that were must-see every week. Shows would come and shows would go, and reruns would work for some but not for others. But we would always find new ones to take their place. This year however, saw the end of more of our shows than ever before, to the point we were actually and actively discussing what to do about it. American Horror Story, Bates Motel, Bones, Castle, Grimm, Salem, Teen Wolf and The Vampire Diaries all ended or were ending soon. I still have recordings of most of them to watch. Again, someday but not yet. Out of that list, Toni only saw the last episodes of American Horror Story and The Vampire Diaries. I'm glad see got to see the Vampire Diaries because Damon was her favorite eye-candy of all time. No one else ever came close. Except maybe Clark Gable and she did get to see Gone With The Wind one last time the week she was off work. (I secretly recorded it for her, even though we have it on VHS...hmmm, how did I know?)

Some of "our" shows are still on. I don't know how I feel about them. I have a backlog of The Walking Dead. We have all kinds of Walking Dead stuff. PJ pants for me, a tee shirt and blanket for her, matching coffee mugs, artwork and more. We were going to have a Walking Dead party for two with all our stuff; don't know what to do about that either.

Last year Prince and George Michael died, two of her all time favorites. At least Donny Osmond is still alive.

The LSA Building Trees
The LSA Building where Toni had spent most of her waking hours for the last 40 years is going to be getting an addition. To make room for this, a good number of trees would need to be taken down. Some of these trees had been there since before Toni started to work there. Toni was very saddened by this. It was a personal loss to her. She didn't think she would feel the same about the place. She was not looking forward to going back to work and not seeing them there. As it turned out, she never lived to see it. Part of me is glad for her. Her memory of her workplace was intact, if short-lived. As I said, she was a sentimental gal, and it may well have hurt her deeply to see her beloved trees gone. Knowing it was going to happen seemed hard enough. I feel sad for the people who have had to go back. 

There were still so many things we had planned to do. Now I have to come up with new plans. I still plan on doing some of the things we were going to do. I don't know how much fun it will be. Some things I will do because they need to be done, mostly things around the house. Some things I will do because I want to do...for her, for her memory, in her name. Whatever I do, it will be part of the new plan. Because in spite of all these subtle warnings, I didn't plan for this. I didn't plan to be on my own. I didn't plan for her to die. But I suspect, even if all of these things had made clear to me that Toni was going to leave me here at this point, I would not have been prepared. I just hope I learned enough from her to make the best of things. That's what she always did. That's what she would expect of me.

But I don't have to like it.

What ifs

When someone close to you dies, at some point you will be surrounded by a cloud of What Ifs. I thought I would share my cloud with you. In hopes that it might fade away. I don’t think that it will, but…what if it did?

What if the car heater hadn't failed the week before she got sick? What if driving to and from work--and then sitting in the parking lot for a half hour--in 20 degree cold made her sick, or at least made her sicker? What if I had gotten it fixed at the first sign of trouble when she asked me to instead of waiting until it gave out altogether?

What if I hadn’t fed her a donut that fateful morning? Or what if she didn’t take all those meds the night before? What if I made her take her insulin before we left for the hospital?

What if I had noticed she wasn’t breathing just a little sooner? Or what if I had tried to get her out of the car to give her CPR even though I didn’t think I could? Or what if I had flagged down a passing car to help me? What if I gave up hope too early? What I didn’t try hard enough? What if…

What if…I failed her in the worst way possible when she needed me the most?

I often wonder—the last moments I was with Toni play like a movie over and over in my head—if between the time her heart stopped beating and she stopped breathing and the time her brain shut down, if she heard me desperately calling her name? When I saw her lifeless eyes staring at nothing, something happened inside me. It wasn’t panic exactly, but it was very much like it. Did I freeze? Not exactly. But it was like I knew there was nothing I could do. Did I give up too soon? I want to think I didn’t; I want to believe there was nothing I could do. But the fear will haunt me for a long time—maybe as long as I live (probably)—that maybe I could have done something more.

It hurts me that she is gone from me. It hurts more to think that maybe she didn’t have to go. Such is the nature of What Ifs. They will tear you up from the inside out. I hope and pray that this cloud leaves me be. Toni would want me to be happy…eventually. Once the grief plays itself out. I hope to honor that wish of hers.

Someday.

By the Numbers

Numbers have fascinated me ever since I can remember. They have ended up playing an important role in my professional life. And so I present some vital statistics regarding Toni’s life and death.

October 15, 1959, Toni was born to Wallace and Virginia Thompson. April 1, 2017, Toni passed away. On July 14, 1989, we were married. On May 4, 1990, our daughter Niketa came into this world and left it again.

Toni had five brothers (four survive) and two sisters. Wally, John, Patty, Mike, Linda, Keith and Kevin.

In September of 1977, Toni started work at the University of Michigan in the Registrar’s Office. Nearly 40 years later (only six months shy) she was still there. We were married for nearly 28 years (3 ½ months to go), but were together for 30.

Not including the cough medicine, the antibiotics and steroids she was on during her illness, Toni took seven types of pills in the morning along with two types of insulin injections, and three types of pills at night plus three types of supplements and more of both insulins, just to get through the day. Some of them worked against each other and some worked against the conditions she had. It was always a delicate balance. Sometimes in the past medications simply stopped working and either the dosages or the meds themselves had to be changed. And when that happened there was always an adjustment period. I would guess most people who knew her didn’t know how much energy it took; I’m guessing they couldn’t tell. As I said before, Toni was always Toni; maybe she was just having a bad day. Or maybe it didn’t show at all. Oh, and she slept every night with a CPAP machine.

“Normal” glucose levels are considered between 80-130. On the morning she died, Toni’s was 456. Diabetic comas occur at around 600. I don’t have the data on her blood acids or potassium but they were equally as bad.

We’ve had eight dogs over the years, four of whom have survived her.

Our “farm” is about 5 ½ acres and the dream house we put up 15 years ago is about 1749 square feet. It is about a 25 mile commute one way to the Office of the Registrar.

The number of events in our lives cannot be counted and the memories that result from those events are almost as many. A life cannot be reduced to numbers any more than it can recounted in words. There is too much going on all the time. So memories are what we keep; snapshots that represent a greater whole. We can’t keep track of everything, so we hang on to what’s important: good, bad and mundane. Is the mundane important? Oh yes. It is what fills up most of our lives. While we might not remember individual mundane events, we remember that we did them every day, again and again, and they become part of the tapestry we weave. Individual threads that we don’t see when we look at the bigger picture, but make up the background that gives the rest meaning. I don’t remember a particular rainy day, but I can remember a lot of rainy days. We don’t remember each of those days we all spent in school, but I do remember being in school and what it was like.

I will never forget Toni, but I’m afraid I will forget the details of our life together. Sure I have plenty of reminders around me, but…well, it’s not the same as having her here with me. Nothing will ever be like that. But my memories carry me on, and as far as I can see, the number of them are endless.