Did I hear the question properly?
I replayed the words in my head. Maybe our connection was funky. After all, my interviewer was across the country in Connecticut. He’d told me, before we went on air, that a whopper storm had just swept through. He’d had to scramble to implement back-up measures before power had been restored mere moments before I called the station. That’s the way this radio phone interview thing works.
When you marry your high school sweetheart, you don’t have a lot of practice being dumped.
My first foray into the world of the brokenhearted arrived on a Tuesday morning when I awoke (euphemistically, as I had not slept) to realize that the nightmare of the night before was real. In truth, it had been eleven months of nightmare. And now, on this Tuesday morning, I was a widow.
I had been unusually fortunate in my life. I had never lost anyone closer to me than aged grandparents with whom I shared distant relationships. And now here I was, plunged into the deep end of grief, having never really experienced that run-through for loss known as the break-up.
Something strange happened about three-quarters of the way through the reading portion of my book signing last night. It was my second signing for my memoir, AfterImage. I had been so seized with nerves before and during the first signing that the whole experience was a tad out-of-body. But I managed to tamp down the butterflies in my stomach fairly successfully this time. I even went out to lunch with a friend mere hours before the event, as though it were a normal day – as though I wouldn’t be speaking in front of people by the time the sun set on Sunset.
I woke up one morning and I was a widow. That made no sense. I am a member of
the forever-young generation, after all. I still didn’t feel like a grown-up; how could I
possibly be a widow? I wrote AfterImage: A Brokenhearted Memoir of a Charmed Life, in part, to try to make sense of this odd, new state of being – to try to
make sense of what was going to be the rest of my life.