Last week was very difficult. More than one person took issue with the way I handled an issue or a choice, and one of the questionable decisions involved my opinion about the man who killed my husband. 

In a recent conversation with a friend about my interest in ever dating again, I was asked the following question: "You are so strong and so independent, do you ever really need someone else? You don't seem to need anyone for anything." It actually started a month long internal dialogue with myself that hasn't quite been resolved. 

The small ones have never been of much consequence. Brush my teeth or not? Wear pink high heels or brown loafers? Watch The Nature of Things or 22 Minutes?

Much of the music that spoke to me right after Phil's death was important because the lyrics articulated feelings I was incapable of expressing. Even now, after writing countless words about my journey through the loss of my husband, there are times when nothing communicates my inner turmoil like the phrases penned by someone else. 

After traveling the last 18 hours, I have arrived home! Ireland was amazing and lived up to all of my dreams and expectations (though I had set none). From Cork to the Wicklow mountains, I compiled a dictionaries worth of memories.

I loved being married. Knowing that I shared a commitment with my husband to face life together, come what may, was a daily comfort to me. I didn't miss dating; I didn't long for freedom; I didn't feel limited; I didn't fear slipping into complacency. Looking back, I even miss the hard work that was required to create a harmonious union. Phil and I weren't the picture of married perfection, but even our imperfections were unique to us, and I miss those too (well, sometimes).

You know those bumper stickers that say things like, “My Other Car is a Porsche?” The implication is that the driver isn’t quite satisfied with their real car and that they have a much nicer one parked at home. I can appreciate this sentiment.

Yes, here we are once again...trying to put on a happy face. Tomorrow is my 40th birthday, and although I could care less about the fact of "40", the birthday itself is hard. Not the 40 part, just the birthday.

Four years ago I spent my birthday in the emergency room at MD Anderson, then in the outpatient surgery center, and as a celebration of the survival of a horrible night: Starbucks for a vanilla latte. A latte I felt guilty for drinking, as Daniel couldn't enjoy it - he was on a tube fed diet only at that point. I remember hardly noticing it was my birthday, and not really caring. We had bigger fish to fry at the time. A little more than two weeks later, the worst nightmare I could have possibly imagined came true, and the rest as they say is history.

Michelle and I have been doing this widow thing side by side for almost four years. When we met we were both newly widowed, and shell shocked. Each of us watched our dreams for the future unceremoniously demolished as one minute passed into the next. Thrown into a whirlwind of grief we discovered each other in the eye of the storm.

I, like Michelle, have not thought a lot about my future. It seems to be a very fuzzy grey fog out there somewhere (but hey, it used to be an inky black fog so here's to the color getting lighter!).

But recently, I have caught myself thinking about it. Even making a plan or two. And then I'll realize what I'm doing and stop ..... and be amazed.