Much of what I write here consists of the same. Over and over and over again, I either write about how much it hurts, how I don't understand, or the overall disbelief for the entire situation. She is still gone. It is still unfair. It still hurts. I still miss her. I still can't believe that she won't pick up my call, and her phone has been turned off for quite some time now. I still don't understand how she could have been so stupid that night. She was so selfish to leave me here to deal with this. I was told that it would take a year for me to get through the grief. Well, it has been one year and 4 days since she died and I am at home, crying once more.

I did not go to the cemetery today. Instead I drove up the coast to Santa Barbara, and drove through the city remembering her in every place imaginable. From the house on San Pascual, where she came over the first night with Piper while I was living with Josh. I drove to Chapala and Fig, and watched people get off the bus imagining and remembering what it was like to see her get off the 24X with her sunglasses on, always smiling and happy to see me. I drove to the house in West Beach, where we spent so many lazy days together. The tree that was struck by lightning years ago during a particularly stormy winter has since recovered. I went and visited 1134 Garden, and saw her opening our window to toss the keys down for me to open the front door. I noticed the prius taxi that would drive us around and heard her say "red to garden," because she thought that it was so funny that she was in on the taxi lingo. I watched couples walking down State St. on their way to the farmers market. I watched as they held hands and enjoyed the first few days of fall. I drove up to the Mesa to Elise Way. One of the last memories I have of her is standing outside of 2059 Elise Way, watering the flowers in the front yard in her red bikini. I sat and cried in my car as I looked at the front lawn of that house, and noticed that the flowers she watered that afternoon are gone. I drove through the city over and over, and on each new corner I passed a memory that had faded was there again in my mind. From the rainy night we walked to the italian restaurant on lower state, to riding our bikes to butterfly beach. I have used Santa Barbara as an instrument of pain the past year. Each time I feel her fading, I drive up the coast and thrust myself into these memories. More and more time passes between my visits, and I hope that one day I can go up there and not feel pain and simply enjoy the beautiful nature of the town. One day.

Tomorrow will be one year. I have been dreading, and to some extent, avoiding the thoughts of what this day means. Of the thoughts and memories it brings up. For the past year, I have been able keep telling myself, "oh, last year at this time we were in santa barbara" or "we were driving up pch" or even knowing that she was alive and in the hospital. Tomorrow will mark the last day that I can say those things. The last day actually begins the day before. Saturday afternoon. I walked into her hospital room, as I did everyday, and knew that something was wrong. When I say wrong, I mean that I could tell that her fever had risen, and as I wiped the sweat from her face and forehead the only thing I could think of was how are we going to get this fever down. Her blood was infected and she was less than 36 hours away from dying and the only thing I thought was wrong was that her body temperature had risen a little. I will never forget how the sweat drained from her body. All my life playing sports, and watching sports on television, I have never seen anyone sweat as much as she did that day. She was drenched. I kept drying her off, thinking that a cold rag would keep her cool. I told the nurse that we needed to give her tylenol to help with the fever. The nurse just looked at me unaffected, and I am sure she is used to giving tylenol to patients in an effort to appease loved ones last ditch hopes. I stayed with her that day for as long as I possibly could. No one else saw her that day. I woke up early Sunday and went straight to the hospital. As I entered the room, she was elevated in her bed, sweating again, and shaking. She spent the entire time in the coma in constant motion but today it was much more violent. I imagine angels in the room with her that day, standing by her side, shaking the last bit of life out of her so she would finally be able to rest. There were 6 or 7 nurses and doctors running throughout the room, and this is when I knew that I wasn't going to be able to get her fever down. I was the first one in the room that day, and by nightfall I was kissing her forehead and telling her goodbye for the last time.