When I updated my online diary that night, it was with the saddest entry I would ever write. Even though it was probably only a couple hundred words, it seemed to take me forever to type it up. My mind would wander often. I would write a paragraph or two and then sadly turn to gaze out vacantly at the April rain outside my living room window, tears streaming down my face along with the rain that was running down the panes of glass.
Because my diary was public, I received numerous condolences, including from the site owner, Christian Eliason, who lived in Norway but spent some time in Thailand.
I didn’t get to write much over the next several weeks. I was horribly depressed when I wasn’t running around dealing with funeral arrangements and court. Forget about the ferocious rage that would come over me when I thought of the police officer who killed my innocent husband during a high-speed chase all because some driver flipped him off and he couldn’t handle it. You just didn’t dare piss off the almighty American cop.
Yes, to say I wanted to kill the guy—who walked away with barely more than a scratch—with my bare little hands would be the understatement of the century. The best I could do, however, was file and win a wrongful death lawsuit against the Sacramento Police Department. Under ordinary circumstances, one would be thrilled to receive a sum of money they could get by on for the rest of their lives without having to work. However, I would give back every single penny in a heartbeat to reverse the hands of time if I could. So, I was forty-two years old and would never have to work, even if I wouldn’t have much extra money.
Big deal.
Big fucking motherfucking deal.
I wanted my husband back instead. No amount of money could replace what I had with Greg.
But Greg was gone.
Forever.
And I would have to come to terms with that whether I wanted to or not. I contemplated suicide many times along the way over the last few weeks, but I knew that would be the last thing Greg would want. He would want me to take the damn money and try to move on as best I could.
So I lived. And that was only because I was afraid of botching up any suicide attempt I might make and ending up a vegetable or with a life sentence in my local loony bin. Besides, even though I didn’t believe a God or an afterlife was likely, what if these things really did exist? And what if we really went to hell if we killed ourselves? Why kill myself just to suffer even more rather than be reunited with my beloved husband one day? Chances are excellent that I would probably get it right if I tried to kill myself and that this would be it.
Total darkness. Total nothingness. Not a single shred of awareness.
But I was afraid to take that small percentage of a chance that I just might be wrong.
So on I went, existing and going through life in a mechanical manner. Greg was buried. Friends, family, and neighbors brought food which I had no appetite for. The police department put money in my pocket. My email account was flooded with well-wishers.
Nearly a month after losing Greg, I updated my diary with my plans to sell the house because I couldn’t stand to be there any longer and know I would never hear Greg’s footsteps as he entered the room. Nor would I ever hear his voice or see his smile. Every time I turned around, I would find myself willing him to burst into the room insisting it was all one big twisted joke and that he was just fine and life could then go on. Well, after I happily kicked his ass for pulling such a cruel prank on me.
But this was never to be, and all I could do was get out of the damn place and perhaps get a small condo in a cheaper state. Maybe I would shoot on over to Nevada. Greg didn’t have any family, and what I had was quite limited. Also, most of my friends were in cyberspace or in areas I didn’t care to move to, so there really wasn’t anything holding me in California.
This was when the message came in on the diary site from Christian, and I would soon be on a totally different course I had never imagined being on.
ns216.73.216.237da2
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