“Sandra,” I replied showing a little annoyance along with gut-wrenching sadness and overwhelming confusion, “what’s going to happen to me that is worse than has already happened? I must sell the van and I want it to be mine before I do. It has to be only mine. I have to get my life back. I need my life in some kind of order. I can’t stand the way I feel. I feel like I’m in limbo.” I wanted to scream at her for being scared for me. I wanted to scream at everyone who was telling me how I should feel, what I should or shouldn’t do, where I should or shouldn’t go. I wanted to scream at the world. I wanted to scream at myself because I was so scared and confused.

* * * * *

When I told my sister, Mona, about my plans to return to England and spend my summer on archaeological digs she was as concerned as Sandra.

“You really don’t have to do this,” she reminded me over the phone from her home in California.

“Mona,” I replied, “ I don’t care if they hand me a shovel and tell me to dig down to the next twelve centuries. I just want to run someplace, to do something…..anything.

“That’s the problem,” she said, “they’ll give you a teaspoon and tell you to dig down the twelve layers, then someone will come along with a teeny-tiny paintbrush and with one little flick of the wrist, blowing softly on the centimeter of dust that is covering ancient history, will claim the glory.”

“Mona,” I asked, ignoring the previous comment, “do your friends still ask about me? Do they ask how I’m doing?”

“Yes” she replied, “all the time. They never heard such a sad story. It is every travelers greatest nightmare that something will happen on a vacation when you’re so far from home, but to be alone in a campground…..” her voice starting to quiver. “Yes, they still ask how you’re doing.”

“The first time someone asks how I’m doing and you say “not too well, she’s really depressed,” they’ll wait about a month and ask again. The second time you say “she’s not doing well,” they might ask again. The third time they ask and if I’m still not doing well they will not only stop asking about me but they will avoid you like the plague because they don’t want to know.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” she replied, “but what’s your point?”

“The next time your friends ask how I’m doing you tell them that your sister is on an archaeological dig in England and check out their reaction. They will hound you for every tidbit of information. They will want to know every minute detail. I don’t care if it is boring. I don’t care if it is backbreaking work. I don’t care where I have to drive to find it. This is something that Paul and I wanted and planned on doing together. Besides,” I said as cheerily as I could muster, trying to be optimistic, “just think of how this is going to look on my resume of life.”

“I know you’re right,” Mona replied. “I love you, and since I can’t talk you out of it, please be careful.”

“I will, I promise. I love you too. I’ll write you all the time so you won’t have to worry about where I am or what’s happening to me. You know that I have lots of friends over there and I will contact them so I won’t spend too much time on my own.

* * * * *

It had been almost a year since my husband, Paul, had died and the pain, most of the time, was still overwhelming, almost crippling. He died so quickly. We had been traveling through Germany on our way to Denmark and camping in a small van that we had named the Puddle Jumper. We had been on and off the road for about two-and-a-half years and still loved every minute of our adventures. He went jogging, had a heart attack and died in a stranger’s car, never even getting out of the campground. His life and mine were over in minutes.

How a person’s life can go from riding high to the depths of despair, in one stopped heartbeat, will always remain a mystery to me. I wanted my life back.