If It's The Fourth of July, It Must Be Time For Flashback Fireworks. It. Must. Be.

Four years ago, in 2009, Mr. J was in the midst of a hellacious chemotherapy protocol and I wrote one of my favorite posts. It captured the essence of pre-cancer TeamWedding and, better yet, how Samuel L. Chemo not only couldn't ruin TW's spirits but also how they were strengthened.

Three years ago, I reposted it, full of post-chemo TW joy and all of the things that were right in 2010 Halfglassistan, particularly in TWHQ. Jamie with no signs of cancer, officially in observation. I was happily and productively working full-time in my chosen field. 

And I also stated I'd post it again the next year, and the year after that. And I'm quite certain I thought at the time, I'd post it the year after that.

Which brings us to now. I've looked back in the archives.

I didn't repost it in 2011. I didn't repost it in 2012. Because as right as every thing was in my world in July 2010, it ended on November 1 of that same year. Mr J died. And the biggest part of me did, too.

Two years ago I was still in such a state of denial I pretended to everyone else that I was okay. I was anything but okay. 

One year ago, I was so far from okay, I had to look up to see rock bottom.

After espousing hope, gratitude, living in the moment, embracing how short life might be and after being praised for so much strength and positivity, it was hard as hell -- no it was impossible -- to put out here what I was really feeling.  

Because there is another half of the glass, and I've been living there an awful lot of the time. Out of control. Lost. Failing. 

Yeah. A self-admitted, overachieving, control freak. Failing. And falling, deeper and deeper.

Yet, in a single moment, exactly 379 days ago, I realized I didn't want to drown there. I wanted to fight. I needed to fight. And I had no idea where the woman I once was--the woman MrJ fell in love with--had gone.

The past year has been a lot of hard work climbing out of the bottom of that glass. A lot of hard work. Glass is slippery. And just because I decided I was ready to re-enter the real world, the real world wasn't exactly waiting with for me with open arms. So I've had to work that much harder.

Right now the hardest thing is actually accepting that Mr J is dead. Never coming back. Life will never be the same as it was. Crazy, huh? He's been gone two and a half years -- of course he's not coming back. 

Cray. Zee. Maybe. But I'm fixing it. And one way I'm doing it is replacing the scary, obsessive, I'm-never-going-to-feel-normal-again feelings with memories. Joyful memories. 

Which brings us (if you're still with me, and I hope you are) to the flashback fireworks.

FROM JULY 4, 2009: 

Saturday. In The Yard. Think It Was The Fourth of July.

I am an Army brat. A proud one. And I love the Fourth of July.  

This year, it will be a relatively quiet celebration, except for any neighbors in good-old-fireworks-legal-South Carolina who may be putting on a show. We can usually count on a few teens nearby to pop off more than a few sizzlers, and Jamie and I will venture into the backyard, beers or sodas (or bourbon) in hand, to watch the show. 

Remembering our first July in this house, I think that the kids thought we were coming out to complain about the playing-with-matches-and-what-not already in progress: 

A round goes off, we take our swigs and holler a hearty "WOO-HOO!" their way. They think (or so I like to think), "OK, those old farts are gonna be cool." Then a real old fart (who, surprisingly, is younger than we are) comes outside and throws off a few passive-aggressive huffs and puffs, only to be ignored. She (it's always a she) even walks over and says something to the teenagers, and then arms crossed, head down, still huffing and puffing, she radiates bitch-energy as she skulks back to her house.  

There's a pause in the show and we think that maybe the kids have bowed to young-old-fartista's will. Now I know they're thinking,"Crabby old fart," because we're saying, um, thinking, it, too.  

But, no. They're just stockpiling whatever mini-munitions they have left in a pile in the center of the cul-de-sac. One by one, their cars fill up and drive away. We notice, however, they've only barely driven outside the neighborhood gate and pulled over to the side of the main thoroughfare, still a good vantage point.  

When just one vehicle and two kids are left, our suspicions are confirmed. Ready ... driver starts the engine. Set ... passenger is poised at the end of a fuseline of sparklers. GO! Match is lit, dropped to the sparklers, and passenger hops in car, which pulls up even with our yard (I told you they knew we were cool) to watch the fuseline burn toward the pile'o'pops.  

And ... BOOM! HISS! CRACKLE! SNAP! POPOPOPOPOPOP! SSSHHHHCCCCOWWWW-OW-OW-0W! (that's what it sounds like to me; feel free to suggest alternate spellings below ...)  

The finale!  

We cheer! The kids beside us cheer! The kids on the road cheer! 

Just as it ends, a chorus of car horns starts up and they speedily retreat ... probably to buy more fireworks (it's only 10 p.m.) and go to someone else's neighborhood (the night is young) and piss off some other old fart (they're everywhere, you know). 

Our one-time "new" neighborhood is filled with homes now, with no more open cul-de-sacs in which to host impromptu sky shows. Not sure where Ms. Young Old-Fart is. She didn't venture out and complain much anymore after that night. She still may be huffing and puffing, peeking out her window every time someone's music is too loud, someone's dog barks, or someone laughs just a little too heartily. I feel sorry for her, and she doesn't even know why. 

Those same kids have grown up and have better things to do than hang around someone's yard on a hot summer night, drink beer or soda (or bourbon) and shoot off fireworks. They won't ask, but if they did, I'd tell them that one day they'll learn. 

I'd tell them:

"Twenty, 30 — hell, if you're lucky enough to keep a laugh in your heart, 40 or 50 — years from now, you'll learn that walking into your backyard, holding hands, sipping on beer or soda (or bourbon); watching fearless teenage boys impress breathless teenage girls; oohing, ahhing, and woo-hooing while the grumpy neighbors harrumph wa-a-a-a-a-y before their time; telling each other stories of summers long ago, stories you've heard already, but love to hear again and again because of the twinkle in the eyes and dimples in the cheek of your storyteller; kissing in the moonlight before going back in the house  ... You'll learn. You'll learn there is nothing better to do than just that."

But they won't ask. And they wouldn't listen. I wouldn't have.

And I was right. There really was nothing better than just that. And as short as it was, I wouldn't trade a moment of it.

If anyone is still with me (and I really, really, really hope someone is), I hope you stick around. I have asked that before and have said before that I was ready to write again. The thing is, the things I truly needed to write, I couldn't. The things I thought I needed to write just weren't true--at least not much of the time.

I launched this blog when I was going through a significant life experience. By sharing it here, I was told, more than once, that it gave people hope. Even if just a few people. If I can share this subsequent experience, perhaps it can help someone else. Even if just one person.

Even if just one person is me.