"Life, as I had known it, was gone forever. I became someone else through all the emotional ups and downs and then to how do I spend the rest of my life."

Four years ago today, on July 16, 2006, my sister Judy's husband Bob was killed. His vintage plane crashed on takeoff at an air show in Oregon. Gone in an instant, in a cloud of smoke and flames.

And just like that, my sister became a widow.

Bob and I had a ritual of a good-bye kiss before he took off. We laughed and agreed this was necessary in case I never saw him again. I wasn't there at that last air show -- so no kiss. My fault?

It was national news at the time. I told some of you about the crash in detail on the 2008 anniversary. Fifteen minutes of horrendous fame we all could have done without. Grief, though shared with others, is inherently, intensely private.

Loss of a loved one consumes the bereaved, at least in the beginning. It takes time, but typically, at least outwardly, life must go on.

Unless the loss is a child or a spouse. That's a whole different level of pain. Because life may go on, but it will never be the same.

At the beginning people said I wasn't handling it well. Screw them. Let them live in my house and go to bed alone every night. Then they'll know how to handle it.

A friend who was also a recent widow said something simple, but incredibly profound, "I've lost my whole reality."

That's it. A five-word description of devastating loss. No matter how full a life we lead, no matter how busy, hectic, even separate our worlds are from our spouses, they are our center. Our true north. Our reality.

I miss him terribly. I wish he was here. There are so many things, big and small which catch me up.

If we lose them, we too become lost. And even if we find our way home, the most important person is no longer there to greet us.

I have thrown myself into work, long days, sometimes long distances, nearly always leaving the house in the dark. I love my work, it helps a lot, but I'm still disappointed that there is nobody to call to say I'll be late. There's nobody to sympathize with my slave labor.

At the time, I said to my friend, and to Judy with great sincerity and hope, "We'll help you build a new reality." Surely a shared goal for all who love the survivors of personal tragedy.

But first they need to grieve. My sister did. In private and among family.

I just do it one day at a time. Get up, take a shower, get dressed, eat breakfast, move on to the tasks of the day. Repeat daily. I find comfort in my routine. I hope it helps.

First her son stayed with her for a week, made the house seem less empty. And much, much more. Weeks after he left, she was still finding little post-its he'd stuck to closet shelves (Hang in there, Mom), on the dryer (Dry your tears too), inside the fridge (Eat something good), on the car's dashboard. (Don't drive yourself crazy). All written and signed with love.

Family, friends and associates seem to feel it would be insensitive to utter Bob's name in my presence. The name "Bob" is like the word "cancer"... in the course of a normal conversation, both words cause voices to drop to a whisper. That doesn't help.

I flew out to LA to help start the process of reclaiming normal. Though there's a second bedroom in the house, I slept in hers, on Bob's side of the bed.

A small thing. But not so small. Sweeping the imprint of a ghost gently aside, as the tide erases words in the sand. Leaving my own small outline, a subtle reminder of change. And of support.

The most difficult thing a person can deal with is change. Change upsets the body and the body chemistry and, therefore, the mind. It's a stressor and it makes you feel shitty.

And with all due respect to Bob --and recognizing the hole he's left-- it's the change that's the hardest to handle. So I'm trying to hear my own words and take my own advice: try to adapt to the change rather than the absence of the person.

We started to plan the memorial. What Bob would want, how he'd want it. Going through pictures, collections of airplane memorabilia. Talking about Bob in the abstract, making his absence more real.

I remember when Daddy died, we tiptoed around Grandma the same way until after about a week, one day she erupted in a tirade of angst. Reminded us that her son had indeed lived among us and not talking about him was abnormal, unnatural and hurtful to her. I'm forced to agree.

I returned for the memorial, held months later because federal agencies take their time investigating plane crashes. It was exactly as he would have wanted. A celebration of his life. Laughter and reminiscences, not tears.

At the memorial we set up a table covered with items from Bob's collection of all things aviation-related.

On that table we put signs: Please Take A Memory.

The memory I took didn't come from that table. Instead I carried home --and will keep forever-- the look of pride and peace on my sister's face as she listened to the loving and heartfelt tributes to her husband, her soul mate, her true North.

There have been low moments, too. I wept at photographs. I choked up as I drove past 'our' places. I thought I would never travel again because I had lost the best trip planner and travelling companion.

I still wonder if I'll every ski or dive again, but it isn't critically important any more. I've had the experiences and I'll always have the memories. So I just wait and see where life takes me.

I went to LA again for Judy's first birthday without Bob. Each time I was there, we filled more boxes. And bags. With clothes for the Salvation Army. With things for Bob's brother. For Karen and Gary's kids. And with, well, trash.

Changes I don't like: having done something fun/good/noble and not being able to share. Doing a long day's work without anyone caring if I come home late. Weekends. Empty bookcases and the lack of the perennial piles of 'stuff' all over the house. It's neater than it was. The clutter made me uncomfortable. I learned to live with it ... because the clutterer himself was fun and that part's tough.

We began, at her pace, to create her own imprint on her home, as opposed to their home.

I got rid of a few of those pieces of furniture he liked and I didn't, but I haven't bought anything new. Except the new bed we had already chosen. It's comfortable. But emptier now.

Judy didn't keep this bedspread but did change the room.

Still, I let her take the lead. Her grief, her husband, her life, her internal --and external-- clock needed to be reset all in her own time.

Thank you for helping me hang the posters we made for the memorial, those final pictures of Bob at the air show. Sometimes we chat. Strange, talking to a wall but it makes me think more clearly. I realized I'm beginning to forget how he felt and smelt, but with a little effort I can conjure him up and that feels pretty good.

When we weren't together, Judy wrote me letters chronicling her journey through grief. Ideas, experiences, emotional highs and lows, thoughtful self-examination. Along with loneliness and doubt. Guilt and yes, anger too. Longing. Pain.

April brought his birthday. That, followed by a Blue Angel crashing in South Carolina dumped me into a deep hole. I got some help and while I'm still occasionally on the ledge, for the most part I am living my own life.

I take a perverse pleasure in getting my own way without 'the look.' But I miss it anyway.

I still sleep on my side of the bed. (I try to think it's because the other side is 'yours').

I still occasionally stumble into what used to be 'my' bathroom.

I can't bring myself to go through the box of 'our' personal items.

And on her own terms, slowly, slowly, the beginning of healing.

I have one of his flight suits hanging in the closet that was 'his' and is now mine.

I've kept his blue blazer with the Harvard buttons and a ski jacket there too.

My favorite is the Hawaiian shirt he wore when we went to Maui ... and the last picture of US in which he's wearing it.

You've been reading quotes from those letters as her journey progressed over three years.

I found I don't have to explain myself to anyone, I really can do anything I want, I can manage just fine with some expert help, and I'm doing okay.

I don't minimize the depth and importance of our relationship, but I have come to grips with reality. He isn't here, I am -- moping my way through life accomplishes nothing.

Did you notice I said her journey progressed over three years? That's because this past year, the fourth since Bob's death ... well, damn. Judy's had to change course again, radically.

She lives here on the East Coast now, in a lovely house near her daughter Karen. You know Karen, a lot of you have joined Team Karen to support Karen's mighty battle not to crash and burn from stage IV malignant melanoma, mets to liver and spleen.

We've recently gotten renewed hope from a medical breakthrough, a tumor-killing drug protocol. If all goes well, Karen will start that soon.

In hard reality, the whole chapter of Judy's life with Bob is now closed. So Judy and I put together her new home, still filled with memories. The posters of Bob are there, along with pictures and special mementos of their life together.

His flight suit hangs in her new closet.

And promise hangs in the air. Of a happier future for Judy and our family.

Gary, Alex, Bob (Karen's husband), Karen, Judy, July 4, 2010

Postscript, 7/16/11: In August we will face two more anniversaries, oddly juxtaposed... 1 year since losing our Karen, Judy's daughter, and 50 years since the death of our father, for whom Karen was named. Life is strange. Judy's courage continues to encourage us all.