It's December 9 2011.
For those who came in late, today marks 10 years since my wife, Sharon, went into surgery to discover the source of an infection that had taken hold of her since our first child had been born four days earlier. She never regained consciousness, and died later that evening. She was 32.
As decades go, it's been a turbulent one. I find myself, 10 years later, in a loving, happy marriage, with children-- both genetic and inherited-- who fill me with laughter and delight, in a day job that stimulates and inspires me, with a writing career that (as you shall soon read) is about to step up to a level that I didn't even envisage back in 2001, when I was still coming to terms with a major car accident, had my 2nd short story sale under my belt, and was a Tax Officer expecting his first child. I am, quite simply, not the man I was 10 years ago. I have rebuilt my life, and am happy with it. But I've had to fight for that happiness, every inch of the way, and many people who could not make the adjustment, who would not allow me the chance to try, who needed me to remain as I was-- tortured and tragic and a convenient source for pity-- have not made it to this point of my journey with me.
Sharon should never have died. But for the criminal negligence of an incompetent doctor, she would still be alive, and the life I have, vastly different though it would have been, would have been hers to share. She was a beautiful, lively, and wondrous person, and she deserved a life to match. And I wish nothing but pain and anguish upon the man who took it away from her. I will never forgive him.
But I survived, and I have found incredible happiness with the beautiful and inspirational woman who shares my life, and I cannot look around me and see anything that matters to me that does not give me joy.
A decade can be a long time. But you have to work at it.