I went out in this. Mother Nature saw fit to dump about 4' of snow on us in two days shortly before Thanksgiving. Already depressed and feeling trapped up here on the mountain, I watched it falling. We had forgotten to take the screen door off, something Bill would have planned for, so I couldn't get out the front door.
Power went off and on sporadically. Schools closed and plows didn't make it to our back road. Fire departments and emergency vehicles were called out all over the county, but I still went out. In two days I would have 23 people for dinner. I would get dressed, smile, welcome them and try not to have a melt down. It wasn't something I was looking forward too. As I sat there watching it pile up I thought about the new vehicle in my driveway. I'd spent, or would be spending by the time I make all the payments, $35k on a four wheel drive SUV, just so I wouldn't be stuck up here all winter. I started the car. My son-in-law came in and said, "You won't get out. The snow's up to my waist." I looked at my boots. "Make me a path to the driver's side door that's knee level," I asked. "You don't have to go to the ground, just not over my boots." "The snow's over the hood of the car and the roads are terrible." "I don't care." He shoveled. I made it to the car and got inside, pressed the button for 4 wheel drive and plowed through. I would have made it too had I not stopped to make sure nothing was coming. That's when I got stuck, right at the end of the circular drive. Between him shoveling the front of the car out and me rocking between drive and reverse, he was finally able to shove me into the road. I drove to the casino, trying to keep to the main roads. Avoiding my usual route where there is a steep hill and deep creek I took another road. It was not my best choice. Power lines were covered with tree limbs and hanging low but I made it under them and managed to stay on the road. I think the casino is the land of lost souls. Not that there aren't people having a good time. We used to do that. We used to go with a group of family and friends, have dinner and gamble into the wee hours of the morning. Those aren't the folks I'm talking about. I'm talking about the ones who sit at their machines, mesmerized as they watch the falling balls, the spinning wheels. It's not about winning money, although that happens occasionally, it's about the thoughtless repetition, the mindless killing of time. I stayed for hours and hours. My daughter asked if I would be home before dark, but that wasn't my plan. Why would I want to be on those horrible roads when people were trying to get home from work, rushing in and out of stores for bread and milk? No, I stayed till late. It was a long, quiet drive. I don't believe I saw 10 other moving cars on the road the whole way home. There were several cars off the road and I saw a few tow trucks, but for the most part it was just me with my low beams on trying to stay on the road. I told myself when I left that morning I was being brave, even listened to This Is My Fight Song, on the radio. I had something to prove, to others, to myself. I am not afraid. What should I fear? Death? I don't think so, but as I drove that long dark way home I wondered if I had a death wish. Normal people do not go out in that kind of weather unless they have to. Maybe if they are surgeons on a life saving mission or having a baby, but not to go to the casino to sit with the other lost souls. Bill would have been livid. We would have had the fight of the century. I loved the Twilight series. Read it accidentally when my daughter left the first book on the dining room table. I'm not a vampire, blood and horror woman, but that book grabbed me from the very first page and I read the entire series twice. I took a car load of teenage girls to the opening night in town and had a good time, but I hated New Moon. Hated how sad it was and watching Bella morph into a lifeless, empty young woman. I hated the things she did to hear Edward's voice, putting herself in danger. I never watched that movie again, always skipped it. For some reason it resonated with me back then and I couldn't be in the same room when the girls were watching it. Let me tell you, whoever wrote the screenplay knew a thing or two about grief. I wondered if I'd done it to hear Bill in my head. I don't think so. Maybe I did it just because I could. Maybe just because for the first time since I was 16 I didn't have to answer to anyone. I also went to NJ to visit a lady I love very much who is terminally ill. Cathy and I drove five and a half hours for a two hour visit and don't regret one minute of it. She has a lovely home that reminds me of a cottage in a Thomas Kincaid painting. A sweet place high on a hill with lovely vines trailing the porch rails. There's gingerbread trim and a rose bush at the bottom of the steep stone steps. She raised three boys in that house and standing on the stairs I could almost hear them raising hell, running up and down the stairs and slamming doors. The house has a life of it's own and I'm so glad I went. Then we went to PA and stayed the night at The Sands Casino, which is lovely by the way. We had a good time and were punch happy tired and laughing. At 3 a.m. I had to tell Cath to shut up so I could say my prayers. I bought a new freezer. Not because I didn't have one, but because I had a fear of falling head first into the chest one I had. I bought a new car I didn't particularly want, to please my kids. Most of this stuff is out of character for me, so I've decided to call them Random Acts of Grief. I think it's as good a label as any. We did have everyone for Thanksgiving, although Cathy did most of the work. Caitlin found a new napkin fold that was lovely where you slip the silverware into little pockets. She took care of all the china, crystal and place-cards. I peeled the potatoes and made the gravy. I did good. I took one break where I went into my room, locked my door and stayed in my closet for a short time crying into Bill's robe. I'm glad it's over. I had a hard time trying to be thankful, which is a little crazy as I have much to be thankful for, just not the one thing I need the most. Note the empty place at the other end of the table.
2 Comments
I have a nice little house. It's not very big, about 1500 square feet, but at one time it housed a lot of love. This was pretty much our Thanksgiving Dinner every year. It's always been my favorite holiday, mainly because it wasn't about gifts, it was about family and giving thanks for all we'd been blessed with. This year my family is fractured. Bill was the peacemaker. Nobody, but nobody wanted to make him mad or hurt him. He was the glue. They say that's usually the mother, but in our case it was him. I was too outspoken, too truthful and to tell you the truth I always thought the kids loved him more than me. They would deny this, of course, but it's true. Make Mom mad and she will bitch and point out exactly why you're wrong. She'll battle it out until you tune her out. Dad would look at you with an expression on his face that would have you slinking away in shame. Your conscience would torture you until you apologized and mended fences. Two of my three boys aren't really speaking. There are problems with assorted girlfriends, ex-wives, unpaid debts to each other, jealously about who got what of Dad's, who is getting what of Dad's, I could go on and on. I'm grateful they sucked it up for the funeral, but as soon as that was over the real issues began. Or maybe while Bill was ill I ignored it. Maybe during the days following Bill's death I didn't notice the underlying trouble. It's hard to believe that grown children who came together to love and support each other during the most painful time in their lives would revert to sibling rivalry as soon as it was over. My two daughters aren't much better. For a variety of reasons too personal to go into they have a very contentious relationship. For Dad, they put aside their differences. Now that he's gone, each day is a new and wondrous opportunity for trouble. They are both loving women, too bad they can't love each other. Sometimes I wonder where these children came from. They were all raised in the same house by the same parents. Parents who for the most part treated each other with respect and love. Maybe it was me. I admit I have a temper and can only be pushed so far. There was the time I got so mad I threw an entire pizza on the floor and jumped up and down on it. There was the time I got so mad at the washing machine I tried to shove it out the back door and got it stuck. That was a little hard to explain when Bill came home. During the political season I've heard them whisper to each other as they come in the house, "Don't activate CNN," meaning don't get Mom started. Maybe I'm not the mother I thought I was, or tried to be. I've been thinking about the word 'home' and wondering where mine is. Home should be the best place in your world, the place where when you walk in the door you breathe a sigh of relief. This is the place where people love and accept you. This is where you come to put aside the days troubles. It's not really a place, it's a feeling. You're with your people, your family. They understand you. I don't have a home anymore. The only person in all the world who 'got me', who knew me inside and out, who understood what motivated me, what was in my heart and soul, is gone. So where is home? It's not in his arms. It's not in our bed. And I certainly don't think it will be around the Thanksgiving table. Do I really want to spend a small fortune, cook two turkeys, bake dozens of pies, get out the good china and crystal for a meal where people are only here to placate me, make me feel better when I know in my heart there is nothing in the world that can accomplish that? Maybe not. Last Sunday we celebrated All Saints Day at church. Bill and on were married on All Saints Day in 1975. If was a very emotional day and I cried through most of the service. Thank God I'm a silent crier. You'd never know unless you were looking at me, other than the occasional sniffle. By the time I went up to light a candle for Bill, my shirt was wet. Pastor Sue pulled me into her arms and whispered in my ear, "He still loves you. You'll be together again." In truth, that is the only thing that keeps me from checking out. I cried most of Monday and off and on all week. Yesterday Cathy and I went to lunch and shopping with my sister and niece. My sister cried through a good deal of lunch. I did not. I felt like I had to be strong for her. Also I didn't think the lunch crowd needed to see a table of blubbering women and that's what it would have turned into had I not kept my shit together. The tears are always there, hovering, waiting for their chance to fall. Sometimes I try to fight them off and sometimes I don't give a damn. Yesterday it was Linda's turn, and that's all right.
Anyway, I got thinking this week about all the great things I've posted about Bill. I don't lie, in fact I've been know to be brutally honest. A sin? I'm not sure. In any case I've thought about how we almost idolize the dead. I started trying to think of bad things about Bill and pretty much came up empty-handed, at least for the last 30 years or so. In the beginning, it was different. We had some fights that should have had the neighbors calling for help. Bill was older and pretty dominant. I was the baby of my family and really, really, felt I had to have the last word. At times we were combustible, even volatile. On the other hand we could steam up the windows in the car faster than anyone I ever knew. We had a passion for each other that defied reason. While I tried to remember fights from when we were younger and times he was a total ass, all I could remember was standing in the back stairway two steps up from him so I wouldn't get a stiff neck and making-out like crazy. One terribly cold winter's night we were tearing each others clothes off in the car parked in the driveway when my mother came out in her robe and slippers. "For heavens sake," she said. "Come inside before you freeze to death." My mom was pretty cool like that, and she loved Bill. He had a temper, I was stubborn to a fault. We had issues, so don't think it was all hearts and flowers between us. Bill was far bigger and stronger than me, but I wasn't afraid of him, even though he did think of me as sort of portable. More than once he flung me over his shoulder when he thought it was time to go home and I disagreed. Jerk. He also could be a mean drunk. Give him beer and he would have a grand old time, dance with a mop and throw his last cent, possibly his car keys and his wallet into the hat they passed to keep the band playing. When he drank whiskey, preferably 'Old Grandad', he could be a mean son of a bitch. One night after a party we went to a local bar where he got into the Grandad. Suddenly he thought some guy was coming on to me a little too strong and it being New Year's Eve and all, he didn't like the way he kissed me. Seriously, I thought the guy was a great kisser although he wasn't much to look at. See, you can never tell. Still waters run deep and all that. We left quickly. I don't mind a good fight now and then, but bloodshed is not my thing and then there's all the apologizing when the poor bastards sober up. We didn't really speak on the way home, but once on the porch Bill took his massive fist and punched out all six sidelights on the door like a jackhammer. I mean really, he did it so fast I couldn't say a word until he was done. "Feel better?" I asked, tapping my foot. "No," he replied. "It's going to cost me money and I think I lost my wallet." "It's in my purse. Are you hurt?" "Naw." He got as far as the couch and passed out. I left him there. Another time he got so drunk I drove him home with his legs sticking out of the back door of my best friends little Omni. It was the only way I could get him in the car and it was only from across the street. He made it to the couch on the front porch, and he was sicker than hell. The woman mixing the drinks at the graduation party damn near gave him alcohol poisoning. I brought out a fan and plugged it in hoping that would help. The kids were actually crying. "Mommy, is daddy going to die?" they asked. "No, he's just going to wish he were dead," I replied. "Go on in the house. I'll take care of daddy." After that I always asked the same question when he asked me if I wanted to go out "What are you drinking?" If it was beer, I was in. If it was whiskey, I'd pass. Around 40 he pretty much quit drinking altogether. Oh he'd have a beer or two or maybe a cocktail, but that was it. I didn't quit, but I had the worlds greatest protector who watched me like a hawk. When he figured I'd had enough my beer would disappear to be replaced by a coffee fixed just the way I like it. That was my signal and while I might pout for a moment, I knew he was only thinking of me. Somehow, without planning to, we'd grown up. I learned not to push his buttons and he learned how to cherish what he had. I no longer wanted to grab a step stool so I could wring his neck, and he no longer got mad enough to flip me over the hood of his car and spank me in broad daylight while I screamed for his mother to come help me. That four foot nothing woman came out of the house with a flyswatter and smacked him till he let me go. Bless her heart. My point in all this, is that Bill was not a saint, even though no man could possibly be more loved and adored. For the last couple of years as his health began to deteriorate, I would find him sitting in his office where he was supposed to be working on a model car. He'd take my hand, his eyes sad. "I was an ass for a good number of years," he'd say. "I'm sorry for all the times I hurt you." "Why are you bringing this up now? We've made mistakes, and done some pretty wonderful things too. I don't think about the past. I want to treasure each and every moment we have now." "But I hurt you," he'd say. "I forgave you a long time ago, and to tell you the truth all the good things have pushed any bad memories away. When you truly forgive someone, you forget and I did. If I had to do it all again, go through all the bullshit to have what we've had for the last 30 years, I would. Please don't think about those days. I don't. I remember the good times and I know there isn't a man alive who could love me like you do." Everything I told him was true, and I think that's why it's so hard for me to remember bad times now. Our life was about love, and love isn't always neat and shiny. Sometimes it's messy and painful and you wonder why you're still in it, but you hang on to it, because it's really rare. One of my favorite memories is from when we first stated dating. I asked him if he could skate and he said sure, he was really good at it, so we went skating. I remember laughing as he struggled to stay up on hockey skates he hadn't worn in a number of years. I, on the other hand, wore my white figure skates with the little pink pom poms. He had me on strength and speed, but I skated circles around that man and there was no way he could catch me. After a while he was out of breath from trying and I skated closer. He made a grab for me, but I laughed and eluded him. "Sooner or later you're going to have to take those skates off, girly girl," he warned with a promise in his eyes. I smiled and skated right into his arms. "I can't wait." God, how I miss those days, how I miss him. No Regrets! I went to vote today, and in case you're wondering, I'm With Her. Anyway, my polling place is about six miles up the road. Driving home I passed a little bar and no I did not go in and drink myself into oblivion- they were closed. While I was driving I suddenly remembered that when Bill and I first moved to the 'back of beyond' in 1991 we went to that bar one night with some friends. It was a fun night. We drank a few beers, played some pool and sat on the deck laughing and talking. When it was time to go home, I drove. It's only two miles down the main road and as I was driving along I was chattering about what a good time I had and how nice it was to have a fun little bar so close to home. "Boy," I said. "This is so cool. It only takes a couple minutes to get home." "Well it would", Bill replied calmly, "If you hadn't just driven by our road." I smiled remembering that. To be fair, our turn is on a curve and at least half the time there is no road sign as people keep knocking it down, not to mention you'd have to drive at least five miles to find anything resembling a streetlight. If he were alive, he'd be laughing at me for feeling like I have to justify something that happened 25 years ago. WTH! Are we forever in limbo? We are not physically dead, yet neither are we alive? I regret feeling the loss of Bill's mobility was a big-deal, when the loss of him, his heart, his soul, his warmth, his breath is so much more.
I don't dream of him, at least not that I remember, but the other night, I did. I would think it should have been about something monumental, but it was stupid really. A silly thing, a simple thing. Around the house I tend to wear clothes that are way to big for me. My point of view is that technically, I'm dressed, but it's really like being in your pajamas all day. I always have to keep one hand free to grab my jeans and keep them from dropping to the floor. This has happened on many occasions when I was picking something up or carrying something with both hands. Bill always laughed and shook his head, but he understood my attachment to my 'pajama jeans'. I'm big on comfort. Bras are instruments of torture in my opinion, something to put on when company is coming or I have to leave the house. I have several sizes of these too. Ones to toss on for modesty's sake, and others for when I actually care what I look like. Anyway, in my dream I was at some sort of party. The weather must have been warm because I was wearing faded jean shorts and a purple tee. I think I was cutting a cake using both hands and sticky with frosting. There seemed to be a lot of kids running around. Suddenly I felt my shorts slipping. I knew it would be a matter of seconds, one small move and they would be around my ankles. I would be exposed in front of everyone present. I felt his hands on my hips, sliding them back into place. He held them there, leaned down and kissed my hair. I woke up still feeling his hands, the warmth of them, the gentle strength of them, his huge grip. I smiled and reached for him, forgetting he was gone. I opened my eyes and saw the smooth covers on his side of the bed. Death glared at me with a sick smirk on his face. Grief punched me in the heart. Loss stole my breath. What becomes of the brokenhearted? Thoughts On Cremation Just a reminder. I good deal of the time I'm in an emotional fog, so if I repeat myself or ramble, try to overlook it. If you can't, you might want to stop back when I'm feeling better. I never though much about cremation. My family does not usually go this route. In fact, the first person I knew personally who was cremated was my brother-in-law. Since then many people have said they were going to be cremated, but I still have mixed feelings about it. My brother-in-law was not 'laid out' and had no viewing. I can understand this is a personal preference for some people. There was only a picture of him at the funeral home. There was no chance to say good-bye or see him one last time. I felt a lack of closure. Maybe this is because I was raised in a time when the funeral process was a long, drawn-out three day affair. If the person was unfortunate enough to die in the dead of winter, their body was 'stored' until spring when the burial could take place. This happened to my Grandfather who died in March, but my Grandmother, who died in December, was buried after the funeral. My cousin, a priest, pulled some strings and insisted the family was not going to go through the pain of a later burial. I was thankful for that. Seeing your loved one put in the ground months later brings the pain you felt at their passing back to the forefront of your thoughts and the incredible grief is renewed. Bill wanted to be cremated. He was not afraid of fire, like me. He was already a fireman when I met him and I've seen him go into a burning building with nothing but a damp handkerchief over his mouth and nose. Back in the day, you used what you had if it was reported that someone was still inside. I often wonder how much of his lung problems came from that sort of thing. The main reason he wanted to be cremated was to be buried with me, and he will be when I go. He specifically instructed our daughter to put his urn "right next to your Mother's ass", and she promised. He could be pretty insistent at times, lol. Personally they could open his urn and pour his ashes over my body and it wouldn't bother me. Then, when I am dust as well, we will be forever entwined and no one could tell where he begins or ends, what is him or what is me. My grandparents bought five plots in the 1920's when their young son died at five years old. They are buried beside him and my mother is as well. I tend all the graves, well I buy the flowers. It's usually my daughter who is down on her knees, planting and weeding. Before my mother passed, she gave me the last plot. This is where Bill and I will be. We won't be able to have a big fancy stone, just a normal sized marker that matches the others. I don't care about that. I'm sure anyone who is looking for us will find us. I had Bill laid out. I wanted some form of closure,not only for myself, but for my kids and grand-kids, especially the ones who saw him while they were working on him at the hospital. I didn't want those to be the last images they had of their father and grandfather. I also wanted our family from out of state to have a chance to actually say good-bye, to see their brother, uncle, grandfather, brother-in-law, one last time. I'll also admit it was for me too. It was hard to let him go, so very hard and I think knowing I would see him again made making the arrangements easier. It didn't seem final somehow in the days between his death and his funeral. Sometimes it still doesn't seem final. So here's the thing I didn't/we didn't think about when we decided on cremation. He's not gone. I don't have to drive miles to the cemetery to see him. This is both good and bad. His urn is a constant reminder of our loss. He is the last thing I see before I go to sleep and the first thing I see in the morning. My eyes go immediately to where he is. The urn is beautiful and I'm glad I didn't choose one from the funeral home, but waited a few days and found one that I loved. I had it engraved and they did a beautiful job. However, the fact remains that he's here. I never went anywhere without Bill and I never left him alone, at least for the last few years. When I first brought his ashes home, I felt like I should take him with me if I got in the truck. I had an almost uncontrollable urge to strap him in with the seat-belt. Now, even though I'm not currently in my right mind, even I had to admit this was slightly crazy. I had visions of placing that surprisingly heavy urn on the seat next to me at the casino. Bill loved going to the casino. I also had horrific images of having an accident while driving the 'orange beast' and Bill's ashes ending up scattered all over the place. I considered buying a dust buster and keeping it in the truck, just in case. Okay, now bordering on insane. I fought these ideas off. For a while I had him in the dining room where he could see his birds feeding. Again, slightly nuts. He cannot see the birds and in fact if he could see them it would be as a spirit, for there was no way he could see through that metal urn. I took over his seat at the table as I couldn't bear to see his empty chair, but I found my eyes constantly straying to the urn beside me. A couple of times I expected him to suddenly spring out of it and tell me it was one of his sick pranks. Moving onto delusional now. (Remind me to tell you sometime what he did to me after we went to see the Exorcist - the son of a bitch!) So, to try and solve some of these issues I redid my bedroom. God that sounds strange - my bedroom. But it still isn't. It's still ours and he's still in there with me. I gently touch the urn when I walk by. It's cold, very cold and I know my husband is not in there or it would be warm. Bill was very warm and loving. He gave the best hugs in the world. What's in there are the remains of his earthly body and I swear if he is nothing but a could of dust when I get to heaven, I'm going to be really, really pissed off. My sister-in-law buried her husband's ashes at the cemetery. She has a beautiful bench placed there where she goes and talks to him. It's lovely, but I can't do that or I'd have to have Bill dug up to go in my casket. That seems like a huge mistake and something could go wrong, like my daughter could get sick and not be able to handle all that. Or the funeral home could refuse to agree to the plan and right now we have one willing to honor our final wishes. We were also told not to have the stone put in place prior to my death. If there are two names on it, the cemetery will try to charge us for two burials. Good grief, it will be one burial, one grave-site. Is everybody out to make a buck? Anyway, it is what it is for me. I posted this in case you're considering cremation and keeping the ashes and urn with you. There's a very strange feeling of responsibility that goes along with that and you will find yourself possibly kissing a cold, inanimate object, talking to it and wiping away fingerprints. Bill was not afraid of fire, and I did exactly what he wished. My lovely niece sent me a book yesterday of pictures she quietly took during and after Bill's funeral. It's amazing and so heartrendingly touching. One fits exactly the kind of man my husband was. The empty locker says it all. I have no idea why I'm posting about this today, only that it's been on my mind. Perhaps I'm trying to dredge up bad memories prior to our anniversary. Perhaps Bill is trying to remind me of a time when his superior faith in our marriage outshone mine. I really have no clue, but I'm posting it anyway and I hope I never have to think about it again. It was not a good time in our lives. See, it started with a family picnic, mine, not his. We all met at the lake. The kids were little, so this was not high on my list of fun ways to spend a summer afternoon. As a rule, by the time I got everyone ready to go, someone had already gotten dirty. Add to that the list of crap I had to tote along with us and the food I had to prepare, well let's just say a dental appointment might have been preferable. Nevertheless, off we went with a car load of kids and a very frazzled me. It went as well as can be expected with the men standing around drinking beer and the women working their asses off getting the food out and rounding up hoards of wild children. The scene looked nothing like this lovely picture, but I want you to pay attention to it anyway. Now I want you to ask yourself a very important question. Why are the drinks on ice and the food is not? You'll understand my concern in a bit. The afternoon wore on. People ate, and ate again. Kids swam, sand was washed out of ass cracks, arguments between cousins were broken up and in general everyone enjoyed themselves, especially the aforementioned beer drinking men. Near dark we all disbanded and went home where I put some very tired and slightly sun-burned children to bed. Sometime in the night, it hit me. I was horribly, violently ill. I equate it to seasickness as it came in waves. I vomited for hours and hours along with debilitating diarrhea that left me as weak as a kitten. The next day I could not get out of bed and when I hit the twenty-four hour mark with no improvement, in fact, getting worse, Bill took me to the emergency room. It was very late at night as I recall. My mind was not clear at all and I'm sure I was severely dehydrated. Bill passed me off to the 'skilled professionals' and went to wait for the verdict. Some of what happened is a blur and some things are so clear I wish they were blurred. The young doctor on staff looked like he was about sixteen and when he asked to preform a GYN examination my one fear was crapping all over him. At the same time I wondered if he'd ever seen a vagina up close and personal and why he wanted to see mine. In any case they got me ready and with my legs in the stirrups and Dogie Houser's head barely visible between them, he got a bird's eye view of a twenty-six year old vagina that had given birth to four babies. Hang on, it gets worse, much worse. That night I learned that apparently the wise-ass gene is the last to die, and I was dying. Dr. Youngster proceeded to examine me while I vomited to the side in a little plastic basin. Here's what he asked me. "Mrs. MacFarlane, do you cheat on your husband?" "Why, what do you have in mind?" immediately flew out of my mouth. See this is what comes from being married to a wise-ass for so many years. It just comes so naturally. After a while you can't stop it, even at deaths door. "Does your husband cheat on you?" he continued. "Not that I know of, why?" I responded. "I believe you have Gonorrhea." Mostly there was silence in the room, or perhaps I passed out. Soon I heard snickering from a couple of the nurses. Apparently, I'd become the 'case' of the night for suddenly all the staff felt compelled to find a reason to enter the room and add their two cents. One or two looked at me with sympathy in their eyes as I hyperventilated in complete and utter shock, but mainly I was the joke of the ER. They gave me four massive shots of penicillin, which I'm now allergic to, thank you very much, and watched me to make sure I didn't so into anaphylactic shock. Finally they released me telling me the test results would be back in about a week and to check with my doctor. In the waiting room Bill rose and helped me to the car. "What did they say?" he asked. "You don't want to know," I growled back. "Yes, I do," he insisted, puzzled at my attitude. "They said I have Gonorrhea," I weakly screamed at him. He laughed. Seriously, he laughed and said, "Idiots." We went on home where I proceeded to torture him for the next seven days. Seriously, I tortured him and he took it very well, all things considered. I would not sleep with him, I slept on the couch and we barely spoke. I followed him around with Lysol and rubber gloves sanitizing everything he touched. Even my best friend, Karen, felt bad for him. "Don't you think your taking this a little too far," she asked as she followed me to the bathroom as I raced to wash and spray everything off. Bill rolled his eyes as I passed him. "You just watch the village," I hissed at her as I pointed my yellow glove in her face. "I want to know who's going to the doctor's and for what." "Okay,okay," she sighed backing away. "Take it easy." I can't tell you how many times I called my doctor's office that week demanding results. Finally he got on the phone with me. "What's this all about?" When I told him what happened, he laughed. "Who told you that?" he asked. "The doctor at the ER." "Most of them don't know their ass from a hole in the ground," he insisted. "He probably wasn't even a doctor, maybe a resident. (Seriously, my doctor was old school and just so cool.) "Based on what you've told me it sounds like a case of food poisoning and the penicillin probably saved your life, even if it was a misdiagnosis. Now stop calling here. You're driving everyone crazy. I'll call you as soon as I get the test results." "Okay," I said meekly. Bill was standing next to me, his arms crossed. "Get the results?" he asked. "No, they aren't in yet." "You, little girl, are going to feel so bad," he said, shaking his head. I sprayed Lysol in his direction as he walked away. In the end, I did feel bad. The results were negative. I think my Doc took manly pleasure in telling me that. He liked Bill. I felt bad for not trusting Bill. I felt bad that my entire house smelled like a giant lemon and the kids ran from me afraid of getting sprayed. I felt bad that my hands looked like shriveled old lady hands from wearing those gloves. I felt bad about everything. Bill could have been a real jerk about it, but he wasn't. He just welcomed me back in our bed and said he was glad I felt better. We did see a lawyer and the lawyer said we had a good case against the hospital. After all, they had no way of knowing if I was the kind of woman who would go home and shoot her husband instead of sanitizing him to death. We decided against, well really I did. It was a horrible episode in our lives and I just wanted to forget it, not relive it on the witness stand. Later I found out I wasn't the only one who got sick. My sister in law and my sister both did. I think it had something to do with our penchant for potato salad. I don't know why I'm counting the days. It's not as though when I reach a certain number of days I've survived without Bill I'm going to win a contest or something. At times I think I keep track so won't forget what happened fifty-two days ago, which is so stupid. As if I could forget, as if I might not notice that the big man who took care of me for more than forty years is missing.
We never spent much time apart. Neither of us traveled for our jobs or anything like that. I could easily count the nights we weren't together. It was when one of us was in the hospital. Either I was having a baby or something was going on with his heart. In 1992 he was in Saint Joseph's having his aortic valve replaced with a mechanical valve. I never moved my car from the parking garage for eight days. Across the street was a nurse's dorm and they let me sleep and shower there. Bill's mother and sister, Patti, stayed with me. I think I lived on M&M's for that week. I stayed strong for Bill, they took care of me as much as I would allow. I did everything wrong during that time. Frozen in fear, I shut people out. I wouldn't even discuss Bill's illness with the kids. Months later I read a book my Aunt Jean gave me entitled, 'Heartmates'. If was full of suggestions and helpful information for getting through heart surgery. After reading it I realized how wrong I'd been when I told the kids, "Don't cry to me. You have sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends, cry to them. If I start crying, I 'll never stop." I'm not like that now. We all cry, nearly daily. I have no reason to suck it up anymore, nothing or no one to be strong for. I no longer care what I look like. So what if my eyes are red and puffy. My tears, fears or worries are no longer causing him pain or emotional distress of any kind. Oh my God, he was so protective. A single tear from me and he was ready to rip someone's head off, lol. I tired to explain that sometimes women cry just because, it's no one fault, but he didn't buy it. He always wanted to know who did what and he always wanted to fix it. I usually tried to hide my emotions if I knew they would upset him. Back in the day we used to be apart for several nights each November. Bill liked to hunt and each year he would go down to the southern tier with his buddies. Someone had a hunting camp of sorts and they would all pack up, take horrific amounts of food and be gone the week before Thanksgiving. I can't tell you how many years he strolled in just as I was putting dinner on the table. It used to really piss me off. Bill had a dog for a while that hated me. He was a pure white German Shepard and I had to feed him by pushing his food close to him with a stick. That dog was pure meanness and viscous with anyone but Bill. One year when he went hunting the dog got loose and we couldn't get out of the house. I was so mad! Finally one morning Bill found the dog dead. I think someone poisoned him. I swear it wasn't me, but I'd thought about it enough times. I figure it was a neighbor who got sick of him. Whoever did it had my gratitude. One year when Bill was down south hunting I went out. This was not something I usually did. We were a team, but for some reason I got a brain fart and thought why the hell not. I got a babysitter and Bill's sister, Ruth went with me. I had a great time. I danced and drank and generally cut loose, but I swear I didn't do one thing wrong. In hindsight, bar hopping was probably not my smartest choice but it never occurred to me just how many of his friends would see me out. We got home late and I fell into bed. The next morning Ruth asked me if I was going to tell Bill. "I haven't really thought about it," I answered. "Well someone is going to tell him," she sighed over her coffee. "In fact if you don't tell him, I'll have to." Great, I thought, a traitor in my midst. I'll never forget the day he came home from hunting. I crawled onto his lap and confessed, not that there was much to confess, but still. He would not like hearing that his little wife had been out raising hell while he was gone hunting. All in all, he took it well. Let's just say he grilled me a little and leave it at that. The truly amazing thing was, he never went again, never. Oh he hunted locally with some of his friends, but that was the last overnight trip. I sort of felt bad about it and the next year when they all packed up to leave I encouraged him to go. I promised I would not go out, but he wouldn't. He said he'd been wrong to go for all those years and leave me to take care of everything on my own. He said I shouldn't have to wrestle that turkey, getting it in and out of the oven, and that he was going to be there to help me. And he was, from that year forward. I don't even want to cook a turkey this year. Friends and family have pointed out how hard the holidays will be this year, as though it's a surprise to me. Every day is hard, every night is even harder. Our anniversary is next Tuesday. If I wasn't already taking Xanax for anxiety I would buy a big bottle of champagne and drink it all by my lonesome. In fact, there's a drunk out there with my name on it and one of these days I'm going to run into it and drink myself into oblivion. That sounds bad, doesn't it, but oblivion is pretty appealing right now. On a totally unrelated note, I mean to getting drunk and losing my mind, this is one of my favorite pictures of Bill and our granddaughter. My friend, Jan, advises me to tell happy/funny stories about my life with Bill. Those times seem far away, stored in my memory, but very distant. For Jan, I'll give it a shot. Bill and I have been known to 'tip a few'. I'm not much for fancy cocktails, but a cold beer on a hot summer night, well that's a different story, or it was at one time. I also like Champagne, the cheap stuff. (Once my Dad gave me a bottle of really expensive Champagne. It was horrible). We used to go to a bar called Pine Hill. It was a big old honky-tonk and our favorite band was Julie Crawford and Amarillo. We traveled with an entourage back then. All we had to do was mention that we were going out on the weekend and suddenly 20 other people were tagging along. Those were such good times. Of course that was before all the DWI laws went into effect and we were still young and foolish. Believe it or not, Bill and I knew how to have a good fight. Add a few pitchers of beer, and it was on, lol. One particular night we were one of the last of our group to leave the bar. God forbid we leave before the last set, the last dance. We hadn't gotten far down the highway when I began to comment on his driving. I thought he was going too fast and 'takin' his half out of the middle'. Finally I informed him he was to drunk to drive. Annoyed he pulled over to the side of the road. "Think you can do a better job?" he demanded. "Yes," I insisted. "Have at it," he snapped and got out of the car and started walking. Being the stubborn little thing that I was, (note past-tense) I slid over and got in the drivers seat. Starting the car I pulled up beside him and asked if he wanted a ride. Being the stubborn man that he was, he replied, "Nope", and stomped away, his boots expressing his mood. So be it! I drove away with a squeal of the tires. About a mile or two, or three, down the road it occurred to me that I myself was to drunk to drive. Shit! I pulled over, shut off the car and got out. I was so drunk in fact that I left the keys in the ignition and my purse in the car. I hoofed it down the dark, deserted highway, my heels clicking on the pavement. After a while my feet were killing me, so I took off my shoes and carried them, bitching every step of the way. At some point I noticed a car following me and got a little nervous. It was dark, I was alone and cell phones were not an option yet. Finally it pulled up next to me and a State Trooper rolled down his window. "Are you all right, ma'am?" "Yup." "Do you need help?" "Nope." "Can I call anyone for you? Give you a lift?" "Nope." He kept pace with me as we had this short conversation and finally drove away. Later I saw him drive back up the road, slowing as he passed me, but he didn't stop. Apparently he got to Bill just as Bill was approaching the car that I'd left a few miles back. "That your car?" he asked Bill. "Yup." "That your wife up the road?" "Yup." "Buddy, you've got enough problems," he told him. "Have a good night." "Thanks." Bill sobered up after his hike and by the time he got to the car and then found me, I was more than ready for a ride home. He never said a word, just pulled up next to me and waited. I got in, tossed my shoes in the back and we went home. Argument over. We went back to Pine Hill many times over the years, but I don't think we ever got that drunk again. Either that or I got so drunk I don't remember, no just kidding. One time I did walk right off the porch, missing all the steps. I was too busy watching an attractive man's butt, but Bill caught me. Actually he caught me in two ways. He caught me looking at the man's ass and he caught me in his arms so I didn't get hurt. He was good at taking care of me. So Jan, there's my funny story. Considering I cried off and on all day, I guess it was nice to think about something else instead of how much I miss him. Love you, my friend. I want to be brave. I want to be like Kathy Bates's character in Fried Green Tomatoes! Towanda! It stands to reason that when the worst thing happens to you, when what you've feared most comes to pass you should be able to be brave. Every thing else should be small beans, right? Right? Then why am I shaky and uncertain? Why can't I make the simplest decision without second guessing myself a million times? I'm signing the papers on a new car and I'm not even sure I want it. It's got most of the bells and whistles, a 10 year warranty and the damn thing is even orange in honor of Bill. It's all wheel drive with a four wheel drive button for idiots like me who live in the snow belt, but how can I buy a vehicle when I can't make up my mind whether to eat a sandwich or M&M's for dinner? I'm frightened to the point of panic and it's not just about the car. Picking out paint for the bedroom was a major feat. I was nearly sick in the store. What happened to the sassy, brassy woman I was two months ago? Without Bill I am not who I thought I was. How sad that I've deceived myself all these years. It was all him. He gave me bravado, strength, wit and charm. It's easy to believe all those things about yourself when you have a man who adores you. Bill was a giant of a man in every way. He was tough as nails, stronger than anyone I've ever met and as gentle with me as a teddy bear. I've seen him back down six men at a field day just by rolling up his sleeves and asking if they wanted to go down one at a time or all at once. There was a 'you don't want to mess with me' look about him that frequently put people off until they got to know him. His voice was deep, a little gravely and he could scare the bejesus out of you with a glance. Why would I be afraid of anything with him by my side? So who am I ? Once, a long, long time ago I was a 5'2", 100 lb spitfire. Maybe he fell in love with me because I wasn't afraid to take him on. Maybe it was to save my sorry ass before I got hurt, the kitten who thought she was a lion. Over time, with him at my back, I became a lioness, or so I thought. Now I don't know myself at all. It's unbelievable to me. There is an emptiness I don't know how to fill. A void that defies reason. I feel like I'm walking in a thick fog and can't find my way out. I am lost. |
This page is now my blog/journal about Widowhood. I'm not qualified to give advice. I'm new at this. I don't want to be qualified. I don't want to be a widow, but no one asked me. These are my thoughts, fears and feelings. Please don't equate them as anything but that. Archives
October 2022
Categories |