a month ago my daughter asked me if daddy was "bad".
"no", i said, "he was sick". and i left it at that. since then i feel that one day i will have to explain myself to them. explain my actions, explain why i chose to care for their father over them, explain why his body acted the way it did.

when jim had died i found files on our computer, a sort of mini memoir, of major moments in his life along with some advice for the kids. i have been thinking that i should do the same.

i tried it. i failed. it just isn't my thing.
then i tried it again because i don't want my kids dealing with rumors for the rest of their lives if something should happen to me before they are old enough for me to explain myself to them. and it works this time. i'm writing to them not as a memoir but as a work of fiction. and not our whole story chronologically though. i am starting with the last hour and a half that jim was alive for, if you would would call it alive. i've changed our names and it is just about how i felt like i was racing death in order to meet him at the moment that the story starts.
but writing what had really happened and how i really felt as a work of fiction made me realize something. i am still in denial about the about most of this experience with death. TOTAL DENIAL.  i can't even admit to myself that i felt some of the things i did, even on pieces of paper that only i read.
i'm really not sure how to deal with this or if i even should at this point. i'll just keep writing until i am finished, maybe it will sink in then.