Changes (Like An Alien Possession)

Taking Bob's bike for a final spin

Image by califmom via Flickr

I’ve never been a morning person. Well, aside from infancy when I wasn’t a sleeping person at either end of the clock. Past that, I mastered sleeping during daylight hours, but never did get that night thing down.

Now, I wake up every day around 5 or 6 AM. AM. Like, in the morning. Before GOD is up. Not because I have to be somewhere. Not because I have to. Not because I got a fabulous night’s sleep the night before. My eyes just pop open and I’m awake for the day.

Morning Person. I have become one. It’s scaring the children.

I’m also a rather high-strung, serious person by nature. Aside from those moments when I have to deal with the more overwhelming paperwork or logistical details of Bob’s death, I can deal with the emotional parts really well. The kids and I are talking openly, I have a positive view of the future and the present, and feel like we’re all coping in a way that honors the plans he and I made before his death. He wanted us to keep living, not miss a beat, not wallow. He knew we’d be sad sometimes, and we absolutely are, but as someone who was so adamant about living life to the fullest himself, he wanted nothing less for the people he loved most.

Optimistic Person. I have become one. I like her. She’s fun to have around.

This past year and a half, between Bob’s medical issues and mine, our social world was almost non-existent. The little bit we managed to do with friends and family was sandwiched between extraordinarily stressful times. We both missed having those times with our friends and family. Play time was important to both of us. Bob raced motorcycles, played golf, and went to Packers games in his spare time. And he made sure I had plenty of time with my friends, too. Now, the fog is lifting and being able to spend time with my friends is one of the most healing things I can do. Trips to visit them in their homes, go out to dinner, cook together, listen to music—it heals the soul.

Social Me. She’s back. Thank, God. I missed her.

Now, if Marathon Runner Me shows up in a gym near you, whip up an exorcism because hell hath frozen-the-fuck-over.