I don't think I've ever given an account of exactly happened That Day. So I guess today is the day I bare my soul on this little corner of the internets.

It's been 2 1/2 years, and it still feels as if it happened yesterday. But in some ways, it feels as if a decade has gone by since then.

The day before, I remember we went to my parents' house right next door, and as we were walking home, we spoke about taking pictures in the snow and other inanities. Now that I know that was our last night together, I wish we had talked about more important things. But that's a silly wish now, isn't it?

That Day dawned like any other day. I mean, I don't know exactly what I expected. It's not like anyone ever wakes up and thinks "today's the day my husband is going to die". I got up, went to the bathroom, and then woke him up. I was so happy that he now had a normal work schedule (he'd been working 3 am-11 am for the past year, and had recently been moved to a 9-5 schedule). I remember preparing his lunch, and looking through the kitchen window and seeing him move around outside. I think he was putting away some garbage cans or something. Whatever, that's not important. We left to work together, since we only had one car at the time. I dropped him off at work, and asked him if he was okay as he'd been pretty quiet the entire car ride. He turned to me and said "yeah, I'm fine." God, why didn't I tell him to play hooky with me? Why couldn't I have done something?

I got to work half an hour later, and after a bit, headed out for some breakfast. When I got back to the office, I settled into work, nibbling at my food. I had left my cell phone in the car, and maybe that was for the best. I later saw that the phone calls started at about 11 am. I remember I was at some gossip site, debating something or other about Beyonce, when I got The Call. My sister asked me if I had heard from Pablo or my mom, and I said no and asked why, and she said no reason. I bitched at her that she was worrying me, and hung up on her. I promptly called his cell, and even though I was used to not getting a response while he was work, this time it was different. I knew something had happened.

My sister called me back a minute or two later, and told me there had been an accident at his job. I screamed NO, and felt as if my stomach had flipped over. I told her to come pick me up, and I squeezed my belly (I was 7 months pregnant), and whispered to myself that I had to stay calm. I went out of my office to tell someone else that I'd be leaving early, but didn't find anyone since they'd all headed out to lunch. An attorney sitting outside my office looked curiously at me, and I told him that I had to leave, if he could please tell the Judge and secretary that I left because of a family emergency. I grabbed my things and rushed out to wait during the 30 longest minutes of my life.

While I waited, I went to my car and got my cell phone. I saw that there were a bunch of missed calls, but I didn't bother with that then. I finally saw my sister and we were off. On our way home, one of Pablo's friends called me and said "I can't believe he's dead!" I screamed at him that no, he wasn't, he couldn't be, and had to hang up. I called my dad and he told me that Pablo was hurt and we'd go to the hospital as soon as I got home. I begged him to please tell me the truth, and that's when I knew. My dad didn't say anything else, but I knew he was just waiting till I got home to tell me the inevitable.

When I got home, I found a bunch of people there, and my dad rushed me in. Before I even took off my coat, he held me in his arms, and told me "The worst has happened". I just collapsed in his arms. (One thing sticks in my memory - my aunt telling my dad "Don't tell her, don't tell her" - they'd have to tell me eventually, no?) I couldn't believe it - my husband was dead. It couldn't be, it couldn't be. Other than my godfather, my dad's brother, who was shot to death back in the late 80s, I'd never had someone close to me die. And now, the person closest to me was dead.

It was time to head to the hospital - I don't know why, it's not like he was on a hospital bed or anything. But we had to go, and now that I think about it, I guess it was so a police officer could tell me what happened. I'm sure he was bracing himself for a freak out, but I just numbly heard that he hadn't made it, and acquiesced when the nurses asked to check my blood pressure and all that.

Later that day, a detective came to my house to ask me about any identifying marks on Pablo's body. I asked the detective if it was prudent for me in my condition to see his body - I wanted nothing more than to say good bye, even if I knew that he wasn't there any longer. He looked at me sadly, and said no, it's be best if I didn't see him. That tore me apart.

Pablo was killed by an explosion. Two other men were also killed. Some acetylene came into contact with a space heater, causing the explosion. We're so frail, and I still can't believe that a little gas could've ripped apart three human beings, and complete families.

I'll write more later, since I've now got Baby Girl asking me why I'm crying and telling me not to be sad.

As I lay here in bed, wondering why I can't go to sleep, it hits me - today would've been our fourth wedding anniversary.

Four years ago today, a 24-year-old me was rushing around, ecstatic that her wedding day had finally come. After seven years, she was finally going to be joined to the man she loved. Little did she know that fate had such a cruel twist in store for her.

I both pity and envy the Wanda of 2003. She didn't have a clue of what was to come, but she was also blissfully ignorant of it. I'm saddled with the grief, with the torment that comes from being widowed. At 26. After 18 months of marriage. While pregnant. I sometimes marvel that I've made it to 30 months.

I worry sometimes about myself, though. It's been 30 months; how come I haven't been able to watch our wedding video? Or get rid of his stuff? It's sitting in a garage for now, but why am I really holding onto it? Laziness? Perhaps a bit of that. But can it be something more?

Happy anniversary to me, I guess.

Most people think that sadness is the one feeling that people deal with the most in the the aftermath of the loss of a loved one.

Little do they know that anger is a constant companion on the road back to recovery. Learning to deal with that anger has been one of my most frustrating struggles. Some of that anger can be understandable. For example, it might seem silly to some to be angry at God. After all, what exactly is God? What purpose does getting angry at some amorphous "thing" serve? I do believe in God, and it's a good thing I do, because He gets the brunt of my anger. I think he can handle it. He's big enough to handle one puny person's rage.

It's amazing the list of things that can anger me now. On the one hand, sometimes I'm more easily frustrated by some insignificant thing, and on the other hand, sometimes things that would have quickly set me off before now don't faze me. I don't even understand it most days. Nor do I try to.

I try to just deal with it most days. Of course, every once in a while, it's going to get out of hand. But it's not really fair for me to take out my silly anger on someone else. It's on me to deal with it and not force it on someone else. It's no one else's responsibility but mine.

One of the things I miss the most is having that partner-in-crime to talk things over with. He was the one person who always knew how to handle me best.

This past weekend, I went to a baseball game. Now usually, that wouldn't really be cause for me to write a post, but something happened at this game.

I sat next to a young boy, who was about 7 or 8, and his mother. For some strange reason, I felt a connection with the young boy and his mother. And that had nothing to do with their Mets hats. It's kinda weird to see a mother and child at a ballgame. What you see far more frequently is a man and his child. Now, a million and one things could've happened for this woman to end up at a game with her child: she could be a divorcee; her husband could be at home, at work, at war; she could be a single by choice parent. But I don't know. I did notice she had a wedding ring on. However, the thing that drew me the most to her was when I caught her wiping a few tears from her eyes.

Crying in public can be therapeutic, but it's also something intensely intimate, and I didn't know exactly how to softly ask her if everything was ok. But I did feel a connection with her. Now, perhaps she's a widow. It's possible. But I'll never know.

Just saw these lyrics, and they kinda describe the way I feel right now:
No one ever tells you that forever feels like home
Sitting all alone inside your head

I hate the moments when I feel lost, when my life feels so meaningless. Wait, not meaningless, but directionless. I just feel as if I'm going through the motions and for what? My life seems to lack inertia, and I know it's got to come from somewhere inside me. I need to want to go out there, and find a job, to provide for Baby Girl.

It's just... What the fuck am I doing with my life? I'm 28 and I still have no idea what I want to do. Is that how I'm going to live the rest of my life? I'm sure it's not, but it's hard not to feel that way sometimes.

Do you know what it's like to send out resume after resume and not have one phone call? It sucks. Hard. And what can I do about it, but send out more?

I'm not saying all these employment woes would be gone if Pablo were still here. But he'd sure as hell make it a lot easier to deal with. He was my rock, and I miss his emotional support.

The oddest thing happened the other day. I usually ask Baby Girl "Where is papi?" to make sure she recognizes her father in photographs, and when I do, she usually just points to whichever picture is closest and responds "there he is." However, the other day, she answered differently. When I asked her, she replied that he was "in the rainbow". I don't know where she came up with it. But it brought tears to my eyes to hear her say that. I don't know why exactly. Maybe it's because I'd like to imagine he's somewhere up there, watching down on us from his perch on a rainbow. Or maybe it's because I want to think that Baby Girl's imagination is now developing to the point where she can "explain away" where her "Papi" is.
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I went to the movies last night to see "Knocked Up." I really needed to just laugh for a few hours. Why in the world did I end up crying during most of the second half? Actually, the weird thing is why I'm so surprised that I cried during a movie about pregnancy, knowing that seeing the stuff play out would affect me. I really could've used him around for the last two months.

Whenever I see Baby Girl, I just wish desperately that he had seen her. Once at least. That he could see the wonderful little child we created together. That he could enjoy her like I do.

Blech. I hate when I have so many thoughts bouncing around my head and I just can't seem to draw them out. That frustrates me so much!

A few days ago, the whole family got together for pre-Memorial Day bbq. I love and loathe these get-togethers. I love that we're all together, hanging out, watching the kids have a good time. I love dressing Baby Girl up and showing off her latest outfit, letting the kids play on her newest toys, and just basking in that glow of parenthood.

However, I loathe the feelings that these get-togethers stir within me. Pablo and I went to so many of these things, that it's difficult not to imagine him strolling through the back yard, with jokes for the adults and hugs for the kids. It's also hard to see everyone carry on about their lives and know that I have to start my life over from scratch. If you'd asked me 5 years ago where I'd be five years from now, I definitely would've answered that I would've seen myself happily married, living in a starter home, with a baby on my hip. In baseball 1-3 is good. In life, not so much.

"Just keep swimming, just keep swimming" has easily become my motto. Yes, I watch too much Disney. But sometimes, you need a little bit of that magic in your life.

I would like just one break, one stinking little break, God, to indicate that my life is somewhat close to getting back on track.

Fuck normal, I don't need normal. I'm so far gone from normal that I don't remember what it was like. I just want to know that my life is headed in the right direction, that I am doing something with myself other than merely existing.

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That's what born out of the many moments of frustration I have. They come and go, and the best I can do is ride the wave and hope not to get pulled below. There were things I expected to have, stations I expected to be at this point in my life. I just feel as if I'm stuck, as if someone has paused my life. When do I get to live? When do I get to dream for the starter home, the significant other, the shared joy of parenting? I know these things will come at their own time, but dammit, I just want to know when.

I was driving around earlier today, when Leanne Womack's "I Hope You Dance" came on the radio. That is one of those songs guaranteed to make me cry, and it also makes me thing. As I was listening, I felt such an overwhelming sense of loss - almost as if I was drowning in it. It's so frustrating to know that the one thing I want the most is the one thing I'll never have again.

I just wonder if this constant shadow on my life will ever be lifted. I do have my moments of happiness - Baby Girl provides me with more joy than I ever imagined. And there are other facets of my life that bring me some peace and calm.

Sometimes I just wish life provided us with something like weather.com, where I could go check when the break in the clouds finally comes. It's so much easier to weather the storm when you know that it'll be sunny and 80 degrees in a few days.

When I heard the news this morning that the Cubs/Cardinals game was being postponed, I just thought it odd. It was too early to postpone it because of weather. If only it was being pushed back due to a rainstorm.

This morning, at approximately 12:35 am, Josh Hancock was killed in a car accident. He was only 29. That's the same age Pablo was.

After Pablo died, I didn't know what the expect when the following baseball season started. I became a baseball fan because of him, but became a die hard on my own. Even though I missed him dearly while watching games, I was able to lose myself in the sport I loved - even if for only three hours.

While watching baseball, only what was between the white chalk lines mattered - death didn't even come into the equation on the grass and dirt of the baseball diamond.

But when things like this happen, you're reminded that these are real people playing these game. Real human beings and not just a pile of statistics. While we only see innings pitched, ERA and various other numbers, these people are the world to their friends and families. Josh Hancock was someone's son, someone's brother, someone's friend.

I mourn the loss of another young man cut down in the prime of his youth, and offer my humble condolences to his friends and family.

I saw a sign yesterday and it's had me thinking since I saw it. It's nothing special, just a VW ad, with the phrase: "Dare to be happy."

I think that might be my problem. I can't let myself be happy.

After The Accident, I bought every book I could get my hands on that even mentioned grief and widows/ers. I must have read about 20 different books. I felt an insatiable need to educate myself on all those feelings churning right under the surface. And I mostly did.

I remember reading about survivors' guilt, where widows/ers felt guilty about living their lives to the fullest after their partners had passed. This could happen for a variety of reasons: perhaps the widow/er was driving the car in the fatal crash, perhaps the widow/er feels he/she should've prevented the accident or foreseen the sickness, perhaps even the widow/er feels that he/she should've been the one to die. (This is, at best, a simplistic explanation of survivors' guilt.)

I always promised myself that I wouldn't do that. Since I now knew about it, I would know to banish those thoughts once they invaded my mind, I would say to myself.

Ha ha. If only it were that easy.

Now, I'm wrestling with myself - part of me desparately wants to be happy again. Another part of me (in the subconcious) believes I have no right to such happiness. How could I when my husband is dead? It's silly, I know, but such are feelings.

Dare to be happy. Such a simple concept, and yet so difficult to actually carry out.

Like the rest of the country, I watched in horror as the massacre at Virginia Tech. unfolded. My thoughts immediately went to the parents of the students. You ship your child off to college, assuming they're going to be safe from most everything - you never expect to hear that a crazed gunman killed 32.

I can't even begin to imagine the pain those parents are going through. Reading through a list of the victims last night, I saw that there were several people who left behind spouses. I can understand with them a little more the feeling of seeing your spouse go off to work, and then finding out that they are never coming home.

My thoughts and prayers go out to the entire VT community.

I started this blog partly to get out some of the darker feelings, and partly to see the progress I've made as the months go by. Since it's been pretty dark around here lately, let's lighten up things a bit.

I saw a really nice sign recently: "Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly." It may sounds trite, but I think it's a lovely sentiment. There are moments when I do feel as if my world is over. I always lived life "on hold" - I'll do things after I graduate, I kept telling myself. And then, 8 months after I graduate, my world collapses around me. I feel as if I've been put on hold again.

But more and more lately, I've felt as if I might just be turning into a butterfly, excuse the corniness. I feel parts of my world brightening. I know that the dark days aren't gone - they'll never really be gone. But I feel hope surround me, and the darkness no longer shuts it out.

I just stumbled onto a site for "sports widows". Does it make me petty that I instantly became incensed? I can't believe someone could benignly call herself a widow just because her significant other watches sports. You know what, I'm a REAL WIDOW, and my husband ain't coming back after no game. Think about people who have really lost someone and think about that next time your husband wants to play a little golf, or your wife wants to go shopping.

I’m on a plane back to Jersey, and I’m just glad I made it through the weekend. The effects of the copious amounts of alcohol I drank were nothing compared to the heart-wrenching time at the wedding. I am so happy for my friends; they are great people, and deserve the joy they are experiencing now. It’s just so difficult to be at a wedding, and see happy couples everywhere. It’s so odd how you can be in a room full of people, and yet feel so utterly alone. I think the hardest part was definitely the ceremony. I still can’t wrap my mind around the fact that I went through that exact same ceremony less than four years ago. At least they didn’t use the “till death do us part” line. I think if I ever marry again, I’ll definitely use “as long as we both shall live” instead. I like that better. The candle portion of the ceremony was also incredibly touching, since we did that as well. I don’t understand why our candle had to be snuffed out so early. 18 short months we were married. It seems like a lifetime ago.

I of course couldn’t help but remember my memories of that day. It was so wonderful, and he was great. We were deliriously happy, obliviously ignorant of the realities of life. I look back at that me in pity. I was so innocent. The day Pablo died, I think the scales dropped from my eyes. I always believed that if you lived a good life, you’d be rewarded. If that’s the case, then what contest in hell did I win?! I have come to understand that that’s clearly not the case, that the world operates in a random matter. I have to believe this, or else I’ll go crazy, seeing people I know who don’t appreciate what they have.

I hate that the bitterness is creeping in, that I’ve become cynical and jaded. I want to get better, and enjoy the rest of my life, since I expect to be here awhile, but it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard. It takes everything I have to maintain this thin veneer of normalcy I show to the world. Yeah, I look like an ordinary 28 year old. But I’m so cracked, so damaged, and I’m so scared of letting any of that out, lest I become a nutcase. It’s such a thin line that I walk everyday.

Dammit. I've been avoiding this.

Several weeks ago, Baby Girl and I, while in Florida, went to Disney World. Wow, that was fucking depressing. Everywhere I turned, there were happy little families, parental units intact. How do I explain to Baby Girl that we're different? That there's no daddy in our little unit? It hurt so much seeing all these shiny, happy people snapping their pictures and knowing that I should have that also, that I would have had it, if only a fucking valve had worked appropriately on that day.

However, as hard as that was, I at least was free of (mostly all) the ghosts. We had been to Florida together once, when we were newly engaged, but the Florida of those days is very different than the one I just visited. Back then, we slept all morning, and spent the day hanging out till it was time to the hit the clubs. Now, running after Baby Girl took up most of my waking hours. Between that, we managed to go to Sea World, and catch a few ball games. But at least my mind was calm for those few hours.

My mind wasn't calm, though, at Baby Girl's 2nd bday party. First of all, doing mostly everything myself is a drag. There were so many errands I could have used him for. But beyond that, I really could have used him in the pictures, chasing after her, entertaining our guests, serving as the buffer between his family and myself, and basically basking in the glow of his daughter's 2nd bday party, like I know he would have.

I've been neglecting you lately, little blog, but it's not really my fault! The siren call of pools and laziness is far too great for me to resist.

Trekking all over the state of Florida, I've come to realize one thing: I hate driving. Driving used to be one of my favorite things. I loved the alone time; I usually spent that time singing along with the radio, talking to friends, and (best of all) thinking. I could think about anything and everything, uninterrupted (at least for the time it took me to get from point A to point B). My car was my oasis. Nowadays, though, driving is a chore. Not the short drives, mind you, but anything over half an hour sets my mind whirring. And I wish they were all happy thoughts. Nope, the darkness and despair just wait till I'm seated behind the steering wheel to grip me. Have I mentioned how hard it is to drive with tears in your eyes? What once was a treasured time for me is now cause for panic. Later today I have to drive from Miami to Orlando, and that three hour drive is not going to treat me kindly. Especially since it'll be just me and Baby Girl. Sigh.

Why is it that when I'm driving around, I've gots all these thoughts bouncing around, but as soon as I sit down in front of the computer, it all dries up? I can barely think of what I want to write.

I think it's partly because my brain wants to believe that everything is hunky-dory in my life. So it'll come out while I can't write it down, where someone else can read it. It's just the oddest thing. Maybe I'm going to need to start going around with a notebook.

When you've suffered a great loss, even a simple thing like reading a newspaper becomes difficult, as you're never sure where you're going to encounter fodder for heartache. I've learned that even in the sports section, you can find something that just sucker punches you in an unexpected way.

I was reading about Ty Wigginton, a player for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, and the story was about how he delivered his second son. Just reading about him and his wife, and their shared experience reminded me of everything I missed out on, and I'm still missing out on. While I love Baby Girl more than life itself, I was never the "I want a bay-by!!!" type of girl. I wanted a baby with him.

It might seem like that's the same thing, but it's not. I wanted us to share doctors' visits, to be awed together at the picture of the sonogram, to be able to tell our kids about the night they were born. I wanted to see him cuddle his daughter, to see them fall asleep together, to take pictures of the two most important people in my life.

And all that was shattered in a the blink of an eye.

I don't know what tomorrow holds. I don't know if I am going to have more kids (I do hope so, though). All I do know is that even if I do have other kids, I know the fear that I will lose one of them, or the father, will never be far. It'll always be lurking around, skulking in the corners. And even if we do all the couple-y stuff (going to the sonogram together, our first picture as a family, etc.), that won't change the fact that I was supposed to have all that with Pablo.

Damn, how is it that something as simple as an answering machine can knock you flat on your ass (figuratively speaking)?

I was working at the dining room table, reading some property questions, and Baby Girl was in the kitchen, playing with the answering machine (which we don't use, because our phone has voicemail). I kept hearing the original message (the one that comes on the machine) when I heard Pablo's voice. I convinced myself that it was just me hearing things in my head. After hearing it several more times, I got up and found Baby Girl. I took the machine from her, and checked the greetings, and lo and behold, there's Pablo saying hello, and that he can't come to the phone. That voice, that's so fucking familiar - yet I haven't heard it in two years. I couldn't contain myself and the tears just overcame me. Baby Girl thought I was laughing, and she started laughing nervously, but when she saw that I was crying, she held my head, stroked my face and just said "No llores, mami" (don't cry, mommy). Of course that just set off a fresh jag of tears. When Baby Girl said "papi" I finally smiled through the tears, and played it for her, so she could hear his voice.

It's incredibly fucked up that my daughter has to hear her dad's voice through a message that is 3 1/2 years old. My sense of fairness is extremely stretched to the limit at those moments.

Sigh.