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I reread my posts about Frank when I miss him.  Although I can replay our conversations just about verbatim in my head, I like to read my thoughts as it happened.  I don’t often remember those.  And when I’m really missing him, I feel like those emotions that I recorded here bring me back even more.  I can’t tell if that helps me or hurts me.  Hurt so good?  I don’t know.

As we are nearing Christmas I’m full of mixed emotions.  I’ve had some wonderful conversations with my husband the past few days.  I feel like I really need to find that article on depression again and post a link.  It’s amazing.  I’m not doing anything extraordinary to help him talk.  Although some of his issues are from his fragile relationship with his work wife.  She’s the one sending him into this funk.  I can’t say I blame her for her complaints but she’s also putting him in a bad position and she knows it.  I really do think he’s shocked that she doesn’t have more respect for him.  But whatever.

Anyway – I’ve spent my evening reflecting on this past year and how my diagnosis has changed me.  I miss Frank’s compassion so much.  I miss that feeling that of knowing it’s all OK because he’s there for me.  He’s making sure he’s asking how I’m doing.  And when he asks he actually listens to the answer.  He’s such an emotionally, comforting man.  I love that.  I don’t have that. I want that.