December 7

December 7th. To most people in the US, this means Pearl Harbor. But for me, this day has another significance. It was my wedding day, 9 years ago.

Normally, this would be called an anniversary. But I don't use that word. My husband died 6 months after we were married. Since we never had an anniversary together, I feel that I never had a wedding anniversary.

My husband had cancer. A brain tumor. A Glioblastoma Multeforme. Whatever you call it, it was a death sentence. I always believed he would live longer. I thought we'd get at least one anniversary.

All of the shit we had to go through: Surgery, radiation, chemo. He lost most of his sight, all of his hair, his short term memory, his sex drive, his appetite, his stamina--all of that we took in stride.

Time heals all wounds. Whoever said that never watched a loved one die. Time doesn't heal. Time just makes your wounds become a part of you. A part of your life, so much that you don't even see them anymore. But the wound is still there, still open, and when something--like a special day--comes and pokes that wound with a stick, the pain is as fresh as it was the first day you were hurt.

But the odd thing is, you don't mind it as much. Time has make it such a part of your life that it is surprising to still feel that wound. When I feel that pain of loss, I also feel all the love and joy we shared. I don't curse the gods or fate or whatever. Life dealt us a rotten hand, that's all. My husband and I did a lot of living in a short time.

But I still feel cheated that I never got a wedding anniversary with my husband.