The memorial service . . .

is set for March 15. I mentioned it on Facebook, but I imagine some folks only visit me here. Query me if you’re interested . . . hoffmandscott at gmail dot com.

I guess I am doing as well as can be expected. I took myself off the antidepressants and I’m only tearing up in the mornings, usually. Not sure why mornings should be so bad. Last week, I had a few days of “she’s really not coming back, I’m really never going to see her again.” Amazing, how something like that could take so long to manifest.

I still feel like she left me. Rather angry about that. Not you died, but you left me. There’s plenty of anger to go around, by the way — for myself, for Karen, for the medical community (and Medicine, capital M) that failed her, for friends who could have kept in touch, could have given her more than just me and Jake to live for. Anger, like guilt (plenty of that, too, believe me) — not constructive, and I do try to let go.

It would be easier if she’d make an appearance. In my head, in my dreams, I don’t care. Jake thinks that I don’t dream about her because I think so much about her during the daytime. I don’t think I’m THAT obsessed during the daytime.

I’m tired of reaching over (in bed) and not finding her there. I’m tired of remembering how, towards the end of our relationship, when I’d reach over she would be there. But she wouldn’t be there, not really. She left me before she left me.

Which isn’t fair to Karen. It’s not entirely true. But it was sometimes true.