Today would have been our 30th wedding anniversary.
I’ve been sitting with that number for a while, trying to figure out what it feels like, and the truth is… I don’t feel all that different from the 22-year-old version of me standing in a tiny casino, getting married. Which is strange, when I really stop and think about it, because an entire lifetime has happened since then. And at the same time, there’s a part of me that still lives there. Still measures things in terms of what would have been. Still wonders, occasionally, what life would look like now if it had gone a different way.
It’s not heavy the way it used to be. It’s not something I sit in every day. But it’s there. A constant presence in the background, quiet but steady, woven into everything else.
And sometimes I catch myself wondering if that’s wrong. If after all these years I’m supposed to feel further away from it than I do.
But the truth is, he was my life. Not a chapter. Not a phase. A full, real, complicated, deeply happy part of my story. And the older I get, the more I realize something else too—most people don’t know that about me. They don’t know me as a widow. They don’t know I was married. They don’t know I had that kind of love in my life. They only know the version of me that came after.
Over 20 years ago, I was a blogger—back when blogging was new and unfiltered and a little chaotic. I wrote about everything. My life, my marriage, the normal, everyday pieces of it. And when he died, I kept writing because I didn’t know what else to do.
So what I have now is something I didn’t fully understand the value of at the time: a real-time record of grief. Not something rewritten later with perspective and polish, but something raw and immediate and very, very honest.
As this anniversary approached, I started going back through those posts. At some point, that turned into the idea for a book—not just collecting them, but reflecting on them. Looking at who I was then, and who I am now, and trying to understand the space in between.
I thought I’d have it finished by now.
I don’t.
Life gets in the way of things like that.
But today feels like the right day to start sharing pieces of it anyway.
This is one of those pieces, written just days after he died.
Have a Nice Day???
originally posted at 18:33:03 on 03/25/03
The Details: got the car insurance changed into just my name ... and the premium has gone up. $205 a month now. I MUST sell two of our cars. Title changes (getting his name off them) will be simple, just a half page form.
The innocent “I've deleted your husband” from the insurance lady sure cut like a knife, though.
I need an oil change. Darrell always did that; it was one thing he took pride in. I have a garage full of oil, even have a couple oil filters I think. I even know how to do it myself. Somehow, though, I can't bring myself to drag out Darrell's ramps, and the rug he used to lie on, and do it myself. But his memory won't let me pay $20 or more to have it changed. Bah.
“Have a nice day.” Wow, such a simple statement that even I'm guilty off saying over and over again sends me into a rage. HOW am I supposed to have a nice day, with half of me gone?? I just want to strangle all the service people who are just being polite, and nice, everytime I hear that. Sometimes Minnesota Nice isn't a good thing. This I promise: if I ever go into service work again, I'll NEVER say “have a nice day.” I had no clue how piercing that statement could be for someone who really isn't having a nice day, and can't imagine having a nice day anytime soon.
Reading this now, I can feel how frayed my nerves were—how desperate I was to do something, anything, that might make the world make sense again. I wasn’t trying to be poetic or wise. I was just trying to survive another day.
The oil change, the title transfer, the insurance call—those things weren’t emotional by nature, but grief made them hurt in places I didn’t know existed. “I’ve deleted your husband.” What a sentence. I’m sure she didn’t mean it that way, but it landed like a punch. I was still waking up each morning hoping this wasn’t real, and here she was, speaking about him in past tense, like a line of code.
That’s the thing no one tells you: the world doesn’t pause. You still have to check boxes, sign forms, feed your kid. You still get told to “have a nice day.” And that phrase—so harmless in any other context—felt like an insult. I wasn’t having nice minutes, let alone a day. I wanted to scream every time someone said it. Not because they were being cruel, but because everything around me was still functioning like nothing had changed.
And that phrase I was so sure I’d never say again? I say it now, all the time. I mean it, too. The anger that burned so hot in those early days is long gone. It wasn’t really about the words. It was about the circumstances. The fact that the world kept moving when mine had shattered. The weight of being polite when I wanted to scream. At the time, it felt like an act of violence. Now I see it for what it was: a small kindness that landed in the wrong moment. And maybe that’s one of grief’s quieter lessons—how easily kindness and pain can collide.
If you’re in that space right now—if the world feels too bright, too fast, too oblivious—I want to gently offer this: it’s okay to flinch at kindness. It’s okay to rage at phrases that weren’t meant to hurt. That pain is real. But if you can, be tender with yourself. And when the time comes—because it will—be tender with the people who keep saying the wrong things for the right reasons. Most of us are just trying to get through the day. Some of us are just trying to make it through the sentence.
***
I hope to finish my book and get it out there yet this year, but we'll see what time brings. It's not easy to put myself back into that very dark time; but I do believe it's a gift to have both reflections. I'd like to share that gift with others ... so stay tuned. It'll come.
