Post #3725994

July 10, 1983 was a Sunday. My husband, Stephen, got up early to meet friends for a day of scuba diving and left the Sunday comics on the side of the bed for me. I had a lazy morning and then drove into Cambridge to do a few hours of work on a software project I was managing. I was listening to a Irish radio show that played music and storytellers and I was weepy. Irish storytellers are so good. I was planning to have dinner with friends nearby and got a phone call from them to let me know that one of our coworkers had been in a car accident driving from Boston down to Yale and was in a coma. So I left work early and headed over to their apartment to wait for news. The phone rang around 5:30 and Peter went into the back room to answer. When he came back out he was pale and Susan and I both asked, is it Mia? No, he said it's Stephen. Where is he, I asked, I'll go get him. No, he said you don't understand, there was an accident and Stephen died while scuba diving. It felt like time stopped for me and I was offered a choice - I could lose it or I could deal with it. I chose to deal with it and time started again. I didn't realize that it was not a one-time but a lifelong choice. July 12, 1983 was his funeral, four months after our wedding day. You just never know what's around the corner, so don't hesitate to love.