The following is the next excerpt from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life:
The thought makes me sick to my stomach.
How can I do this? How can I ever enjoy any of it?
And then I think of all the times I've wanted to be alone.
I've thought it, even said it so many times, and now the words turn to ashes in my mouth. I will never be able to separate the new kitchen from what Dave has unwittingly echoed from the back of my own mind.
The kitchen will always be part of his death. And I have done this, not him. I have wished, if not directly for his death, then for the one single thing that could at this point allow my solitude. I have not made it happen by wishing, but I have altered the reality of these days with the knowledge of it. I have changed the aspect of what is happening here every day by what I have wished over and over.
But, if that's true, I can change it back again. It's not too late.
So, from now on, it's not "when he dies" but "while he lives." This, I can do.