I so look forward to the weekends, but I also tend to feel very sad. For all of our 13 years together, weekends were when Bill and I would makeI tal the most of our time off together and have fun! I miss him so much--even after almost five years without him--that I am still amazed that I can feel this empty and still function. There are two me's. There is the one that the world sees; I go to work, I talk to people, I laugh, I joke around, I function just fine--people who don't know me would have no idea that I've lost my best friend, I'm sure. Then there is the other me, which is internal. It's hard for me to even explain, but I'm going to try; I need to try. I talk to him in my mind and when I'm not talking to him, I'm playing the movies in my mind of our life together. While all of this is going on in my mind, there is the sinking feeling in my stomach, and the "internal crying"--that's when I can keep myself from obviously crying, but I feel it inside. Then there is the broken heart. When my Mom died, I found out what it feels like to have your heart hurt. With the combination of my Mom, Bill's Mom, Bill and Grandma; my heart went beyond being hurt to being broken. I miss and love them all SO much, and I just will never, ever be the same. In some ways, that's good. I think I'm a very good (step)Mom, and an excellent Grandma (which all still blows me away); I put much more into those roles than I did when Bill was alive. I think that is because I am so aware that Todd and Tracy also lost their Dad; when he was alive, he was a good Dad to them, and he loved them SO much and was so proud of them. And they love him. The three of us love and miss him. When he was alive, it wasn't quite so important for me to play a big role for them; they had their Dad. As soon as we finally got the cancer diagnosis, that changed because the four of us--Bill, me, Todd and Tracy--started spending a lot more time together, and our bond was cemented. Because their biological mother is basically "absent", they had no one else to turn to during that time. And I tried to be strong and there for them. I did not let them see me cry; although Todd did see me melt down twice; I wanted them to know that they weren't alone and that they could count on me, so I would cry at work. In the early morning hours when I was all by myself at work, doing those strange hours so I would only be gone while Bill was sleeping, I would cry and have breakdowns. I figured, I was all by myself there, so I wasn't bothering anyone else. I still cry at work, but I am no longer crying everyday. For me, that is progress. I think that anybody who can just "get on with it" after the death of their spouse is much stronger than me, or something. And to get married to someone else? That is fine for other people, but not for me. In fact, right after Bill died and I got the paperwork from the Social Security office, wrapping things up, I had a revelation. In the body of SSI's letter, they numerically listed the facts. One of the items, either #4 or #5 I think, was something like "William H. Danielson married Kimberly J. Danielson April 28, 1989. Marriage ended by death April 26, 2001." I was sitting right where I'm sitting right now, all by myself, and it was a weekday morning. As soon as I read that one statement, it was like being punched in the stomach, and I moved straight to near-hysterical crying. I can't quite remember if I said it out loud, I think I did--"my marriage DID NOT end; yes, Bill died, but I am just as married to him as I always have been. Death has not ended my marriage." My marriage vows said "til death do you part", but death did not part us; I will never be parted from Bill. His influence on me was much too profound to be wiped out by death; he lives on through his children and grandchildren, but he also lives on through me because I am a much better person for being married to him.