I'm Not A Fortune Cookie

Nobody knows what's coming, eat the damn cookie

He said, “I’m not a fortune cookie, or a psychic.”
I laughed. “I think you mean fortune teller,” I said. “But I like fortune cookie better.”

I was chatting with my cousin about something ordinary, something small, when he said it. But it stuck with me. It made me think about the last two years. In fact, today marks exactly two years since Jeremy was diagnosed with the thing that took him eight months later.

And here I am.
Entirely changed.

My life looks so wildly different now that even if I had gone to a fortune teller, or cracked open some magical cookie with a neatly folded slip of paper inside, I don’t think I would have believed a single prediction. Not the losses. Not the shifts. Not the versions of myself I didn’t know I’d have to become.

In some ways, I’m less afraid than I’ve ever been. Less concerned with what people think. Less precious about getting it right. The worst has already happened. And I survived it.

I am exhausted.
Confused.
Still catching my breath most days.

But I’m here nonetheless.

A few weeks after Jeremy died, I spoke to my first fellow widow. She told me I would get through it. She said I wasn’t ready to hear it, but that if I wanted to, I would date again, laugh again, make music again, join the living world again. Maybe even be a mom again. She told me I was capable of doing hard things I absolutely did not feel capable of at the time.

Of course, I didn’t want to hear it. But she was someone I admired. I hoped I could one day reach the level of acceptance and perseverance she had found in her own life. She felt like an oasis in the desert, and I was deeply grateful she was open to becoming my friend.

She told me that one day, I would do the same for someone else walking this path.

I spoke with a medium about a week into losing Jeremy. I was searching for any and all signs that he was still with me, that he made it to the other side okay. I’ve had enough experiences to believe that when you find a truly gifted medium, it can be a real gift.

After an incredibly accurate conversation, before we hung up, he told me I would write books, live in Italy, and help a lot of people.

That felt comforting. I had already been working on a book. I had always planned on living in Italy. And I knew that if I could ever help someone through what I had gone through, I would. When I was ready. When I could breathe again.

So now I’m sitting at the start of a new year. The second year that begins without Jeremy’s physical presence in the world. Without his body moving through it. And I receive a message from a friend who has a friend who lost her husband this week, asking if it would be okay to connect us.

I said, of course.

While I am still a newbie, I am also sixteen months and nine days in. Four hundred and ninety-six nights have passed since Jeremy last took a breath. An eternity and a minute at the same time. And I feel equipped enough now to say this:

You will move through it. You have no other choice.

Even when it feels like there is no possible way to take another painless breath, you will. And while that truth can be SO hard to hear, joy will come. Even if it is laced with the constant undertow and hum of sadness. Because it almost always is.

And while I am no fortune cookie, one way or another, I can predict this: life keeps moving forward. I’m proud of you. x

Ideas for a Triggering Fortune Cookie:
“Everything happens for a reason”
“This will make sense one day”
“You’re stronger than you know”
“You’ve got plenty of time”
“It will all be okay”

The Fortune cookie we need:
“This is going to change you”
“You will not recognize yourself and that’s normal”
“You’re allowed to keep going”
“Joy will return quietly”
“You don’t need to know what’s next”
“Eat the damn cookie”