I’ll be back… When I hear his voice..hear him call

I don’t know exactly why Jon feels so close, right now, but I know he was with us when we celebrated our daughter’s third birthday yesterday.

I got home and all I could think about was him. I wish I could see his face when Weslee blew out her candles.

I’m looking forward to things in the coming months. I’m no longer afraid of the future. But he still has so much of my heart.

I know that people want me to stop talking about him so much, and maybe they think I should stop missing him so much, now that I’ve done this for over a year. But Jon was so much more than that to me. And I have no idea when I’ll finally stop dreaming of the parallel universe, where we still have the future we both wanted.

A mile away and I have his shoes…

I’m definitely on to something lately. The missing part of this hasn’t changed. I miss Jon. I can’t seem to explain that enough to people, even when I’m not explaining it.

But my thoughts are altering. I am changing. The hurt and pain of loss is no longer a constant throb. It took me completely by surprise, because I expected it to last for years. I didn’t realize it until I had a bout with the Grief Monster, and it all but crippled me, very suddenly.

I was sitting in my bathtub early yesterday morning, trying to organize my day and get some prayer in before I had to take off. And one thought led to another. My most painful memory, that led to many more painful memories about Jon, and the world on that day, came rushing back to me at full force. I was suddenly in the ER again, deep within the struggle for his life. He was laying there, with two nurses monitoring his oxygen levels, and pumping air into his lungs. He couldn’t breathe on his own.

His doctor at Southern Hills turned to me and told me his very grave opinion. “This is serious.” He said, “I’ve seen some people wake up in a weeks time from things like this, and they go back to their lives, eventually. But only some. I’m pretty sure he had an aneurysm. And I don’t know if he’ll be one of the ones to wake up. I’m sorry.”

I know that sounds somber and devastating to most. But to me, I only heard the words: “I’ve seen some people wake up in a weeks time…and they go back to their lives…” I had a tiny sliver of hope at that point. I believed.

When the Paramedic arrived to take Jon to Desert Springs; he learned quickly that Jon was still seizing and biting his air tube. But he was also at 90 percent, when 20 minutes earlier, he was at 60. I could see my fervent prayers working. My sliver was growing.  I believed.

But the Paramedic was afraid he wouldn’t be able to keep oxygen going through his tube, and requested Ativan. Even then, I realized that if Jon was fighting and going up to 90 percent oxygen, that Ativan would sedate him, and he wouldn’t have a chance. The ER Doc spoke my words. “No – He doesn’t need it. His oxygen is getting better.”

But the Paramedic argued, “I don’t want him to bite down on my tube. Especially in transit.”

At the time, I didn’t understand that they were sending Jon to Desert Springs because that is where they do organ donation in town. The facilities they had at Southern Hills were more than capable for a patient with a chance, but they didn’t do the organ donation services there. I was led to believe that the doctors at Desert Springs were more experienced with Jon’s affliction.

Of course, you can follow my thinking. The paramedics showed up to take Jon to die. And he didn’t care about Jon fighting for his life, because there really wasn’t proof that he would live. They gave him a small dose, after quietly consulting with the doctor, and I had no control over that. And I wasn’t thinking. But had I been, I might have said something. I don’t know if it would have helped, although I wish I had the chance.

I realize that I have to forgive the Paramedic, who was obviously just doing his job. He had no idea that Jon’s wife and mother were listening, unwittingly, to a plan to take away Jon’s last chance at life.

When Jon arrived at Desert Springs, he was sedate and all but lifeless. And his oxygen went down to 50 percent. And by the time I had arrived, Jon’s brother had already been told that there was nothing left that they could do. He told me, sobbing openly, that he didn’t make it. All I can say, is thank God for denial. I still didn’t think he wouldn’t live.

How do I forgive a scene that could arguably appear as sinister as it does to me? I understand those that want to keep their loved ones alive with someone else’s organs. I wanted to keep Jon alive with his own. I also know that laws and rules are in place by hospitals and local governments to keep people from harvesting organs this way. I know they followed protocol. But I STILL can’t shake the feeling that they chose the opportunity rather than the sliver of hope I had, and came out with an outcome that benefited everyone else. But us.

These thoughts brought about a low-hitting tremor of grief that I haven’t felt in a few months. So heavy and deep, that I sobbed into my bathwater, and wished it was deep enough to drown me.

This is probably one of the last hurdles I have to deal with, before I settle into the long stretch of life I have left, missing Jon, but no longer in acute pain.

I realize I could be just touching an ice burg of things that I have forgotten in and around those awful three months, where everything is lost in a misty grey fog. I am not eager to remember very much else. But I am also slowly believing in a future. It’s not the one I wanted, but I’m learning that it’s not so bad to be alone in it. Without Jon is less than ideal. But I was Maria before him. I am remembering that I can be Maria after him, too.

Your relationship will be canceled on save…

There’s a lot of buzz around the social-networking world right now about the recent addition of the status “widowed” to Facebook. Word is, a bunch of widows rallied together to convince the Facebook Gods to add the status, because, as I completely identify, being a widow doesn’t necessarily mean you are “single” and you know you are no longer “married.”

At first glance, this was good news to me. Young widows (50 and below) are often ignored by the community. They’re often self-sufficient, and almost always a single parent. It’s good to be able to acknowledge that there are at least 13 million widowed moms and dads under the age of 50 in the United States alone. I’m expecting that number to increase in the future, due to the war on terror and the numerous casualities it has brought to us as a nation, and to the families in it.

However, I have a slight problem with having the option of changing my Facebook status and announcing to the world, (which really only consists of my friends, since I have a private account), that I am a woman whose husband died. 

This means that I would have to cancel the relationship status that Jon and I set up in 2006, when we first got our Facebook accounts. We went from “in a relationship with…” to “married to…”

Happy couples and newlyweds will know how good it felt when we could connect with each other that way. Because of our emerging sociology as a technological race, it was very much like announcing to the world that only the two of us were that significant to each other. I wasn’t just “Married,”  as I am on Myspace or any other social networking site. I was married with a definitive link to Jon’s profile, and his to mine. He belonged me. And I belonged to him.

What a funny word: “Belonged.”  Breaking it down changes the exact meaning to me.  The words ”Be” and “Long” don’t necessarily convey possession as they do want or desire.  Belonging to someone doesn’t make you their property, really. It means that you are a part of them. And in my mind, you LONG for them to BE with you.

I am still in that place where I long for Jon to be with me.  I still miss sleeping next to him, and I still wish to be able to go back and change things, despite what I believe and know. I am still very much his wife, in so many ways. It’s hard for me to imagine not belonging to anyone, let alone Jon.  I’ll admit that the thought scares me quite a bit, even though it probably shouldn’t. I don’t like the idea of being “single because of death.”  I don’t think anyone would argue with me about how much that idea sucks.

There are a lot of people who have been in Widow Country for a shorter time than I have, and have bravely made the transition from “Married” to “Single” or “Widowed.”  I am not there yet. I’m sure that many of them didn’t have a Facebook account before their spouses died, and it’s probable that their spouse didn’t have one to connect to, before. Maybe that makes the transition easier.

I have to wonder what happens to our linked relationship when I hit the save button, and officially become a widow in cyberspace. What happens to him? Facebook doesn’t yet have a “deceased” option, and I don’t like the idea that he would default to “Single.”

But I do applaud those who blazed a trail (and continue to do so), by gaining attention to our often very isolated and lonely group of grieving hearts. It’s tough to try and explain to someone why you’re a single parent and you still wear a wedding ring. Making the Public more aware that parents of babies and toddlers do lose a spouse to death more often than they realize makes it easier on us. Even if it doesn’t seem like such a big deal to some.

I am not quite ready to let go of the relationship I had with my husband, be it online or in real life. Some people might find that unhealthy, and might feel the need to remind me that I will eventually have to let him go. I know this. I know that he is no longer with me on this planet and that I have to live the rest of my life without him, however long that may be. But that doesn’t stop me from being his only wife, or loving him still.  The idea that my only other option means I have to cancel our link and pretend that we are no longer connected, stings just a little too much. I still believe we are connected, even though we are separated by death.

I am grateful that I will have this option in the future, when I’m ready to let him go more than I already have. But right now, he’s still the only guy on Facebook that I’ve ever been married to. And I’m content to keep it that way, at least for a little while longer.

There are stones beneath my feet. I grasp the largest ones to pull me forward. This mountain is so steep, I forget that I’m not only supposed to hold on for dear life. I’m supposed to be able to climb it.

I have not forgotten us. Or that today, six years ago, we became a two. My entire world changed so much; I have never been the same.

I hate how you will only be a five year moment in my long life. I hate how it seems to signify you with the smaller things. You were so much more important and catastrophic than that.

So maybe the point is to not define us by the short time we shared, but the love that we had. It is a lifetime love, and we are caught somewhere, between one breath and eternity.

My only reality does not include your face in my line of sight. I’m afraid of what I’m supposed to do with all this time. And yet, who says I have that much in the first place?

Today, Jonathan, I miss you. I love you and I wish you were here. Tomorrow, I may not have to miss you the way I do. Tomorrow, I could see your face in Paradise. But until that happens, I will continue to remember you, and us, and everything else that defined the greatest season of my life.

I will try to remember not to be afraid to live.

 

This isn’t depression…

One of the most irritating things about explaining to people how I feel is that they often dismiss my explanations for depression, and insist I seek help. It’s frustrating that people are so locked into this type of thinking that they think I’m a risk to myself or my children, but not nearly enough to do anything more than “seek help”, which often includes medication.

I do not believe I’m depressed. I am not suicidal, nor am I constantly sad and unable to function. My daughters have survived this past year along with me, and are not starved, broken or in desperate need of anything. I am able to care and provide for them just fine.

But really, I don’t fit the “classic” symptoms for depression, and I don’t think I belong in that category. Yes, living on this planet without my husband is depressing, and I loathe to do it. I don’t think I’ll ever change my mind about this. And wishing my life and it’s purpose were already fulfilled so I can get the heck out of here, does not constitute depression.  I have reasons for this:

A. I have a ton of friends. I don’t isolate myself from them, and even though I don’t see everyone of them all the time, (which would be impossible), their presence in my life is quite fulfilling. The vast majority of my friends are made up of very supportive and loving people. Even though I’m the only widow out of our social group; all of them have gone out of their way to understand what I’m going through.  I am SO INCREDIBLY BLESSED. If I really needed it, I could call on just about all of them at anytime, and they would do what they could to help me to the best of their ability. I don’t feel like I don’t have any hope. On the contrary, I have been given every opportunity for hope. If Jesus were to display His eternal love in physical evidence; it would not surprise me that He used the people who call themselves my friends, Christian and non, to prove to me that He’s got things in control.  Their friendship humbles me.

B. I believe in an “Afterlife”. I coin this term loosely, because the word “Afterlife” seems to convey a dream-like state where everything is less real. I don’t believe that the life that continues after this one is less-real in anyway. In fact, I believe it becomes MORE real when we get there. Just because we don’t use THIS body to exist on that plane or state of consciousness, does not indicate that we don’t end up in a different body, that seems just as solid and physical as the one we use here. This entire existence is all subject to a very selfish perspective. There is so much we don’t know and understand right now, and it’s arrogant to assume that things are better as an Earth-bound citizen, as opposed to a Heavenly one. This is just what I believe. Believing means I accept it and it alters my thought process. I don’t see a problem with this. Wanting to be there instead of here does not mean I am suicidal.

I had a conversation last night about this, and I adamantly explained that I am NOT suicidal. My rather wise friend replied, “…It’s because you believe it takes away your chances to see him again.” I couldn’t respond to what they said right away, because I knew it was true. Why would I want to risk that if I believe it?  And it’s also incredibly selfish. No offense to those that have suffered through that kind of death, but I am far too important to the people that love me to kill myself. Even if I didn’t believe that sticking it out ensures reuniting with Jon, my children and family would be devastated. I’ve had weak moments. I will not lie about that. But my chemicals are balanced and I am not overwhelmed by them. Suicide is not an option for me, no matter how hard life becomes. And I really hope I don’t have to test that theory. :X

Finally, I do believe that I have a purpose. I don’t know what that purpose includes or even is, but I have learned that everyone has one. The problem with finding it has to do with being available. This is something I learned from my husband, who dealt with Death too many times. I think losing his father and best friend too early in life taught him to make himself available NOW, instead of later. Jon was always ready to help anyone. He’d go out of his way to offer rides, to help people move, to thank people, to listen to them, to call them on the phone, to text them, to chaperon, to fix their computers, to rock them to sleep…the list goes on and on. If he lacked, he did not complain. I’m not trying to make him sound like a saint, because he too, had clay feet. But Jon understood that while he was on this planet, he would live his life and make sure he was available for whatever came in his path.

Most people believe that we’re called to live life to “the fullest”, which almost always seems to include “What is best for ME???”. I think we miss the whole idea.  It binds us here, to the present and keeps us focused on all the wrong ideas. Then we run around in circles trying to figure why we’re so unhappy, when we spend all our time focused on ourselves and our own needs.

I think I understand that while I am here, my own desires and dreams pale in comparison for what I can do for other people. The idea of life is to be available. To be less concerned with what I’m getting out of it than what I’m putting into it. Right now, I’m not putting enough into it to stop worrying about when I’m getting out of it. If anything, THAT is my problem.

I am sad, most of the time. I am often wistful or distracted by how much I miss my husband. And if I had my choice, I would gladly close the book and let it all go. But I haven’t made myself available enough to live, yet. I haven’t experienced the joy of fulfilling my purpose. And when I am envious of those that pass before me, it is only because I know that they have. Even if it’s not evident to everyone around them; they have completed their task and are onto the next adventure.

I have a lot to do, yet, before I can get to where I’m going. It both scares and excites me. But it doesn’t take away the anticipation I have to see my Father, and all those who made it before I did. That is not depression, folks. That is hope.

Tick tock…

For the sake of myself and the readers that are comforted by what I write, I’ve decided to write more often. Right now, I’m shooting for once a week, and the day will vary.

That being said…

I realize that I write a lot of my triumphs here,  as opposed to my weaknesses. And I feel that I’m unfairly portraying myself as someone stronger, wiser and more capable than I am. In truth, I’m very much like most (or in my subjective opinion, all), widow/ers. I feel like I am stumbling through my very own “Valley of The Shadow of Death” and the shadow seems to be the mountain I need to get to.  I suppose we all get there our own way, but we all get there. And from what I’ve read, some of those “mountains” include new loves, new experiences and new things to look forward to.  Some all, some a few and some none. All of these are different.

I don’t know what my “mountain” will include when I decide to climb it again. I didn’t realize that my last one included my husband and our life together before I got to it. I didn’t realize that it had a much smaller peak then I was expecting, and I didn’t realize how low it would be on the other side. And I wish I could be positive and say “But that means the next one will be higher!!” but I don’t really believe that.

It’s not that it won’t be, but I can’t bank on it. I can only know it’s there. Some of us pretend not to notice it, and wallow in our Valleys. What can I say? I do my share of wallowing, although I try to do it alone. The issue of my pride has often been a stumbling block, but in this case, it does keep me going.

A wise friend of mine reminded me that “…all forward motion counts”

Praise God for that! It’s so true. That’s the best thing about Valleys. They’re wide and low, but they create a large berth for us to wind about in, while we make it to the other side and start to climb. I don’t know where I am in my Valley, but that’s because it’s pretty dark in the shadow. But I do believe that God has created it to be pretty much safe and wide, although painful. There are moments when I just want to stop.

Many many moments.

With all this said, I also confess to feeling the oddest form of envy or frustration for the recently deceased. As a Christian, I believe that the life that continues after this one has ended is full of God’s promise and the answers to His Mysteries. I look forward to this; mostly because it’s also stated that the worst parts of this life won’t be there. The pain and grief I feel now, that haunt me into my strangest dreams, are supposed to be finished by the time I reach the Pearlies. I do hope this is true as I understand it. From my own experience with God and His ways, I usually don’t completely understand them, but that’s another issue I won’t have to deal with so blindly in Eternity. I figure I can cross that bridge (or gate..haha), when I get to it.

And all that was necessary to understand why I envy those that have passed before me. Especially in this past year.  I have struggled with the worst kind of guilt for wanting my time to be sooner than it has been, and then frustration because I would like to know what Jon has experienced so far as a citizen of Heaven, as I believe him to be.

It’s not only embarrassing to me, but it’s confusing to many people. Earthly death is truly only hard for the Earthly Living. And while I hope I don’t die after living 80 years, I’d hate to leave my children, friends and family here to wonder and grieve over my own passing. I can clearly see how incredibly selfish it is for me to feel this way, and yet, I find myself thinking these thoughts over and over again.

Part of me feels like these are related to abandonment issues and how lonely I feel on this planet. I literally feel left behind, sometimes, and directionless. What do I do from here if my future is up there?

God has yet to answer the big questions, and it’s probably because He likes to spoon feed us with information. I don’t think it’s because He doesn’t care about our confusion, but rather, because we’re like toddlers in this era. Everything we learn is by trial and error and we have very very little foresight. Those that do, seem to graduate much sooner. I don’t tell my own toddler the Facts of Life or other things that are not right for her to know, right now. Her understanding of things is elementary, at best, and I don’t want to overwhelm her. I have a feeling that God is of the same mindset.

Anyway, I wanted to share this, because it’s something that I’ve continued to be plagued with since Jon died, and it’s a lingering effect of grief. I’m no where near the finish line to Active Grieving, but at nearly 14 months out, I can see the differences between now and last year. Things then were blurry and out-of-focus. Things now are sharp, contrasted and clear. The most painful and compulsive emotions have become more controlled. They haven’t gone away, but I have accepted them as part of my life. I miss Jon. I miss being his wife. I wish I was still married to him and I wish he never died. I’m to the point where I don’t have to point out the obvious all the time. And I usually just did it for myself, anyway.

Does anyone else have these feelings? Does anyone else wish that life would just hurry up call their number in the Great Lotto, only to feel horribly guilty about it right afterwards?  I don’t think I’m the only one, and it does help to write it out and deal with it.

Happy New Year

For most people, the new year starts in January.

For me, it has started now. My “new year” started when I passed the first anniversary of my husband’s death. I feel as though I’m starting over, but it’s not the same as getting a “fresh start”.

I feel like I’m a sophomore. Like I’m in the midst of this, and I’ve got a lot of work to do to prepare for my next few years as a widow. I don’t think there’s a graduation, but maybe just a degree in knowing how to live in this new reality.

Most things haven’t changed. I still miss Jon more than ever. And that pain is still acute. I don’t feel as though I am comfortable with “moving on”, but subconsciously, I hate the idea of being alone. This causes incredible personal battles that I deal with all the time. I can’t foresee a happy future alone, but I don’t want anyone but Jon. I know I’ve mentioned this before, but it’s the same all the time. I’m caught between the inevitable and what I want to hold on to. I don’t want to let Jon become a part of my past when he’s so much a part of my present. I still refer to him in everything I do, and I still think about him about most of the day.

But I have come through something. I think it’s the first part of healing. I’ve come to accept that I am a widow. It’s part of my identity. I don’t like it, and I wish things were different, but it is reality. This is something I really struggled with. When I would get a glimpse of this reality, it would trip me out and I would crumble from the sharpness of it.

I still have a hard time believing Jon is “gone.” But I know that in the most Earthly and human sense of the word, he is.

It hurts so much to admit that. To say to myself, Jon will not experience this with me, or Jon has nothing to do with this new thing. I feel like the more I do without him, the more I am leaving him behind. I don’t want to disclude his input or ideal from my life. I want to live it the way he would approve of. I have no idea if this is healthy or not. But I am not fighting it.

The next twelve months will probably be harder than the last. The shock and fog of everything is gone. I’m not living in this strange awareness where I somehow function but on a very distracted level. Instead I am completely aware of how broken I am, and how much I need to heal. I have a long way to go. And I know I’ll experience a few setbacks.

I’m worried about the warnings I’ve gotten from a few widowed friends. Some of their social group have chosen to dismiss them, because they’re not over their grieving. (As if anyone could be) They tell me to expect this. Most people don’t want to deal with it after a year. Who can blame them? If I could simply feel better about everything at exactly one year, I’d probably go for it.

But it’s not realistic, despite what people want to believe. And I know that certain people, either in my family or outside of it, will hit their limit of support. And I know from experience that some of my friends will be so frustrated at my pace that they’ll edge me out. While this scares me, I think I can handle it. I don’t have the energy to fight that battle too.

I have to take it all in stride and keep going. I know I have a purpose. I know I have things to do, that will probably come to define me in the months and years to come. Hopefully, there will be a new season for happiness and friendships. And a new season to look forward to good days.

Until then, my “resolutions” include working through the things I don’t want to accept, and learning to be OK with who I am now.

I’m at the point where I just want to toss my coins in the air, and let them land. I’m grateful for the people who care without prejudice. That’s all I really need anyway.

ninety-nine red balloons…

When Jon was little, his dad played this song often. He and his brother grew up with it a part of them. When it would come on the radio, he would turn it up and listen, remembering the good things from his childhood.

We met in person the first time, in 1999. The same year that he graduated and the same year that my first daughter was born. It was a good year.

Sometime in January, I thought about releasing 99 red balloons in his memory, and because he would think it was really cool that I managed to pull it off.

Well, today I did. With the help of about 60 friends and family members, we remembered Jon’s legacy, and his life. We were grateful that we survived a very hard year, and we promised to never forget who he was, and what we knew of him.

And I think I came to terms with MYSELF this past week. I finally accepted that I don’t have to be anything more than what I want to be. I don’t have to find someone to replace him, I don’t have to pretend that I’m not still grieving, and I don’t have to do this by myself.
As much as my friends and family have been saying; it’s been difficult to accept on my own. But I make my own rules. I follow the faith that I want to follow, and I know that regardless of what happens or how long I live, I’ll see my husband again someday. And we’ll be reunited for an Eternity.

99 dreams I have had.
In every one a red balloon.
It’s all over and I’m standing pretty.
In this dust that was a city.
If I could find a souvenier.
Just to prove the world was here.
And here is a red balloon
I think of you and let it go.

48 hours and counting…

I think it was today. You and I were sitting on the couch, and talking about stuff. You had just gotten home from work, and hadn’t even taken off your shoes yet.

How we got onto the subject of your life insurance I cannot remember. I only remember telling you that I didn’t want to even consider it. I hated the idea of you being gone, and I’d rather be broke with you, than stable without you. But you made sure that I’d be ok, no matter what.

It hurts to think of. That we spoke of the changes you made to it in March, only days before you died. It hurts to think that the night before you died, I KNEW there was something wrong. You only acknowledged that something was around the corner. And it scares me to think that the ONE time you “felt” something, the way I do, you were excited for it. Maybe that means you truly are in a much better world, where understanding is complete and you know how this is all going to end. I hope that means you know I’ll be ok. That the girls and I will make it there, to be with you.

But I get scared sometimes. I get scared of waiting so long that I’ll forget. I get scared of how simplified memories seem to become. I get scared of how people seem to let things yellow and age in the back of their minds, with their lives expanding so far past the point where you existed. I will never forget.

How do I become happy again? How will I ever let this go? I cannot imagine it. To me, it seems I will always be missing you. And this will always hurt. That I’ll have to live my entire life, however long it will be, with a hole inside of me. That I’ll always be wounded.

I don’t want to be a victim of nothing but the harsh side of life. You wouldn’t want that for me, either. But as much as I try, I cannot see me happy without you. And I hate this. I hate this part of my life. The hurt is so deep, that the good parts become bittersweet. You should be here, sharing everything with me.

I don’t know why I haven’t given up already, but I don’t think it’s in my nature to do so. I just fight constantly with myself. Life can be good, but not like it was with you. It’s a rule that I have to either break or find my way around, and I haven’t been able to do that yet.

I miss you. I cannot say it with enough emotion or depth to describe what I actually feel, but my love for you could fill oceans. Wish you were here.

A Movie Script Ending

Part of the problem with grief and sudden death is that there is little to no closure. Countless people have reminded me that the chapter that was Jon and Maria is now over, and that I have new chapters to live and experience. But I am still on the last paragraph.

I have not moved on to that final punctuation mark and turned the page. I don’t want to. I haven’t quite gotten past the “THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING TO ME” part, and I’m still there, on my knees, breathing air into his blue body and willing it to live.

And I am too afraid to let that go. I don’t want to say that it’s over. That our life together is finished. I search for reasons to believe that somehow it goes on, and that we’re still together in what could be the worst long-distance relationship ever. It’s not enough that I have things to live for, things to focus on. But I cannot live completely. I have to be stuck in this moment where he was ripped right out of my world without even a goodbye.

There is no closure, and I’m left to make one up on my own.

Sometimes, I feel like I’ve fallen asleep during a movie, and I’ve woken up to find it over without me even realizing it. All the patrons are gone and I’m alone. I’ve missed the ending. I’ve missed the climax to something I wanted so desparately to experience. I’m too late. The show is over.

Passing through unconscious states.
When i awoke i was on the highway.

With your hand on my shoulders, a meaningless movement… a moviescript ending,
And the patrons are leaving, leaving.

*(I forgot to add that this is a lyric from the song “A Movie Script Ending” by Death Cab for Cutie. It was always one of my favorites, and seeing it live, with my husband in 2006 was awesome. They are definitely a band worth checking out.)