Two minus one

The words have changed. And language is taking its toll once again. Or maybe it is math that is causing this mayhem.

Where there were two, it is now one. Where it was us, it is now I. We are no longer....oops there is no we. It is now me. Couple? Nope single. Together is now alone. Mr. & Mrs. is now, can you believe this? I was addressed as Miss while  at a store tonight.

From Wikipedia a glimmer of hope: "The singular 'they' is the use of this pronoun as a gender-neutral singular rather than as a plural pronoun." So I can still be a 'they'? The entry continues: "The correctness of this usage is disputed." Hope is dashed.

Went to lunch with a friend and we were seated at a cute little table for two. Do they have cute little tables at restaurants for one? Walking through the bar area on way to bathroom I noticed several women eating alone. And noted where they were sitting. At the bar, you have the illusion of a space for one. At one of the tiny raised tables—yes a table for one. Perfect. I'll keep that in mind.

I can no longer drive in the HOV lane. Where do I sit in the movie theater? Dare I go out to a fancy restaurant and be asked, "Are you waiting for someone?" Or "Will someone be joining you?" How do I visit a museum or go to a play or a concert? I've always shared these experiences. Can I enjoy them alone?

The bed has two sides, I occupy only one. Meals are single place settings. Only my phone rings. I sit on the couch alone. Go to the grocery store to buy food for only me. Do my own laundry. And come home to the cats.

Friends are still couples. I listen to what "they" did. Everywhere I look there are couples. Is this our natural state? I was mine for my entire adult life.

They say time heals everything—well I'm waiting.

Waiting

I've been waiting. Not sure for what but found that waiting has become my natural state. Waiting for diagnosis, waiting for treatment. Waiting for results, waiting for improvement. Waiting for doctors and answers. Waiting for drugs to work. Waiting to wait.

Hard to say this out loud but I waited for Robert to die. And I waited for the grief to really hit. I waited for his car to become mine. I waited for his ashes to be delivered to me. I waited for the life insurance check to come in the mail. I waited. Patiently.

Didn't know I was waiting 'til Sunday afternoon. As I was wandering around the house waiting for the day to pass, I stopped, "What was I waiting for?"

For Robert to come home? To wake up from this nightmare? For something to change my reality? What? Was? I? Waiting? For?

With sobs I realized "This is it." There is no more waiting. I am here. This is it.

Hot cold

I like a cool...okay make that cold house. I like to snuggle under a quilt. I like to wear fleece to keep warm. Shirts, jackets, vests, socks, pants....did I forget anything?

From the chemo Rob could just not get warm. So the heat was set up high, there were heaters in every room and we got an electric blanket for the bed. The monthly electric bill includes is a chart of how your energy consumption compares with your neighbors. We were out consuming our neighbors. Our usage was in the stratosphere.

One of the first things I did when I returned home from the hospital the last time was reset the thermostat to just above freezing. Disconnect all the heaters and put them in a closet. Strip the electric blanket with all its wires off the bed.

My cats anxiously watched. They loved the heaters, the hot house, the electric blanket. "What the hell are you doing? We will freeze!" I made a concession to my energy conservation activities and plugged in their heater bed.

They slept with me in the bed without the electric blanket for a while. And then the nights started to get cold and they abandoned me in favor of their heater bed. Hmmm.

I'll admit I was now sleeping in layers of fleece with layers of blankets and it was all getting a bit unmanageable. Decided to go out and buy a high lofting comforter. The bed would be so easy to make—top sheet and comforter.

And herein lies the quandary. While I've put pictures back up on the wall, and put Robert's books back onto the bookshelf, changing the bedding seemed a radical decision. Remember its the little things that catch you. The irrational things. The unexpected common things.

It became "A Mission". Learned that while you used to be able to buy just a comforter now everything is packaged in 6 to 8 piece sets. Shams, decorative pillows, bed skirt, comforter. All I wanted was a comforter!

Went to four stores. Found the Marimekko comforter in store two (just comforter alone, you would think I could take this as a sign). Smiled. It felt so happy. Brought back memories of the 70s and our early years together. And thought, What would Rob think? Could I do this? Why was I so indecisive? How could I feel happy and sad at the same moment?

Remember I said I went to four stores? I left the Marimekko comforter in store two, drove on to stores three and four. Looked a more and more comforter sets. Drove back to store two. There was a couple in the isle eyeing comforters. Mine was still there on the top shelf smiling at me.

Stripped the bed and remade it with the Marimekko comforter. It brought a smile to my face and peace to my heart. And most importantly it passed the cat test. They slept with me!

Widow

I was on the phone talking with a friend right after Rob died. She had lost her husband suddenly two years before. There was comfort in talking with her as she understood the loss. The going from two to one.

And then she said, "Now that you are a widow...." And in that nanosecond I felt like I had been hit in the chest by a huge fist. I could not catch my breath. I could not hear anything else she was saying. My mind was reeling.

One word: widow and immediate total complete unequivocal denial. I'm not a widow.

I've thought long and hard about death and dying. Had to. Never even once thought of that word. To have all that I had gone through be condensed into such a word just didn't seem right or just or fair or acceptable.

Type "widow" into Google images and look what comes up. And hearing widow I'll admit long black dress, veil and old old woman filled my mind's eye. I am not a widow. I could not fight death but I sure as hell can fight being labeled as such. Nothing I've been through prepared me for this. But then again, I can say that about everything I'm experiencing these days.

A month

Its been a month since Rob died. And it is getting harder.  When I wake up I miss him so and cry. I cry while I'll going about my morning routines. I cry when I get into bed alone at night. I cry while I’m driving the car.

Music reminds me of him. I hear lyrics I never heard before in songs I've listened to thousands of times. And I cry. I'm running out of kleenex. All the boxes that were full and all over the house are disappearing.

I thought it might, just might, get easier. Maybe at first it was too easy. And now its catching up with me. Maybe its just the way it is for me. Maybe.

Last weekend a friend called and asked me if I was getting out of the house much. I said when and where?  Last night - dinner and then a production of Oklahoma. Arranged to meet at a restaurant in town. It was all straight forward. A nice way to deal with an "anniversary". I seem to walk around with my eyes wide open and my mind on pause.

I parked in the garage that was one block for our very first apartment. We had dinner right across the street from the theater school Rob attended. We walked right past our old street, on streets whose names are achingly familiar.

My mind was offering all sorts of memories of the neighborhood as I knew it. Of antique shops, laundromats, a place where I bought my first floor easel, a great old hardware store with walls of drawers, the market where I bought "cracks" (cheap eggs).

I was walking two paths simultaneously. I was walking with my friend and walking with Rob. If only I could make it a three way conversation. I was young and excited and living in the city for the first time. I was older and visiting the city I know so well. That it was nighttime with street lights created the perfect milieu for the collision of my two worlds. Living and grieving.

Eulogy

We were soooo young when we met on the high school newspaper. He was an outgoing editor and I was an incoming one. I vividly remember that first meeting—sitting on the floor in front of him. I reached back and touched his knee and felt an electric current run though my body.

I knew in that instant that he was “the one”. And during the last several months as we have reminisced he told me that he had felt that same current. He quipped that we met editing copy all those years ago (45) and were still editing copy together.

We had a marketing and advertising business and at Robert’s urging we refocused it last year to align with MY passion—horses. We found and worked with passionate loving compassionate people. And I have new friends across the country from this reaching out to the equestrian community. The recent culmination of this was being contacted by Cavalia, headquartered in Canada, to be their equestrian representative during their engagement here. This was my nirvana.

He went back to school in his 50s for a PhD in Clinical Psychology. And he found his greatest meaning of life in his work as a therapist. His internship offered him the opportunity to begin the experience of working one on one with people. And it was his greatest disappointment when he had to fill out the forms ending this work due to cancer. “Robert was such a sweet man with a beautiful spirit and generous heart,” said his friend and supervisor.

I have watched in awe these last two years as Robert touched the hearts of everyone he met along his cancer journey. He never complained about the pain. Or the injustice of the NG tube. At each hospital admission he took the time to learn each and every person’s name, and remembered them. Such a seemingly small thing.

 

We had a constant stream of visitors the last three weeks at the hospital. And I don’t just mean old friends. Nurses who were not assigned to him stopped in to chat. Doctors who were no longer involved with his care, stopped by to visit. Palliative care, ministers, oncologists, rabbi, case manger, social workers, patient care assistants, surgeons, IV nurses. One would leave and someone else was right behind them. The case manager commented that he was harder to get in to see than the President!

All the years together, the good times, the tough times, dropped away as we sat together in the hospital each time. Then it was only that moment that mattered. 

45 years is a long time to love someone. We always allowed each other to grow and change, and even challenged one another. He was my constant companion, my soul mate, best friend, lover, husband, teacher, student, business partner. I know our love will endure and that our souls will find one another again.

Just books

Robert was working on his dissertation and had accumulated a ton of books. He always loved books and rarely met one he didn't want to take home, or order online. His psychology library grew and grew and grew.

He put up shelves in his room/office and was quickly surrounded by all his books. It got to be overwhelming while he was battling cancer. So he began to organize and box them up. Then he put them in a storage unit. And that is where they've been sitting.

Robert told me to donate them to Jungian Institute as his dissertation was on dreams. That there was no rush to do this. However I decided to empty the storage unit now, not willing to continue to pay the monthly fee. And I started the process (look there is that word again) of filling up my car (my 4-door car, not my car that was his car) with said boxes of books. 14 boxes of books for Institute.

Books went from house to storage unit (Robert did this). From storage unit to garage (I did this) and today from garage to Institute (me again).

Went like clockwork. Director of Institute helped me move books from my car into her office. They will be added to their library. I even designed a bookplate in Robert's name.

All this time I've thought of these books as well...books. Boxes of books to be moved. I handled the boxes numerous times. And while I noted Rob's organization by topic and notation on the boxes, they were just books.

Just books. I mean I had no use for them. I would never read them. There was no room in the house. They were just books.

And then the Director thanked me for donating Robert's Library. Thanked me for our generosity. And they became Robert's books. And I was leaving them there. And the grief welled up. And I'm sobbing once again.