Too much hubris

A friend, also widowed, asked me what was coming up for us. I knew he was talking about difficult milestones, but it felt almost as if the question didn't apply to me. I talked about the anniversary of S's death next month, which will be quickly followed quickly by our wedding anniversary. No surprises here - I know the dates and I have full understanding of the passage of time. As long as things don't sneak up on me,  I can manage them. Right?

It hit me this morning. During this week last year, the week before school starts, we headed to the mountains for our last family vacation. We had the best time we'd had in months, and I was cautiously optimistic that we were through the worst of S's illness. Laughing with my family in a boat on the cool mountain lake, I had no idea that his final decline would begin on the way home from that trip. Then came the beginning of a new school year, then Pickle's birthday, then my birthday. Then the last tortured weeks, then his death, then the funeral, then our anniversary, then Critter's birthday.

Just a week ago, when asked what was coming up, I shrugged off the question. Now I see a rough road ahead for the next six weeks or so.  So it's back to basics for a while. I'll try to get plenty of sleep and exercise. I'll check in with my therapist and take a day or two off of work to just breathe. I'll spend time with the most special people, the few who don't need me to pretend everything is fine. I'll celebrate the girls' birthdays and surround them with the family and friends who love them most. Who knows? Maybe I'll even throw a birthday party for myself.

Double nickels

Today is S's birthday. He was looking forward to this one in particular, because a couple of years ago he thought of a way to mess with people. The exchange would have gone something like this:

"Happy birthday," his victim would say. "How old are you?"

"Forty-four," S would reply. "Double nickels!"

Then he would walk away and leave them to figure it out.

I thought of that a dozen times today. It encapsulates how smart, funny and absolutely maddening he could be. I thought of how many times he told me he was looking forward to today, and wondered why all of the things he had to look forward to weren't enough for him to stay alive.

My jacked-up life

The kids mentioned that their tub felt wobbly. It’s a really cool claw foot tub, probably original from when the house was built in 1926. So I chose to believe that a little wobbling was part of its charm… until I was cleaning and noticed that three of the four claw feet were lying on the floor under the tub, no longer attached. That explained the wobbling in a way that suddenly didn’t seem charming at all.

I saw the slots on the tub that were meant to hold the tops of the feet. I needed to raise the tub enough to get the feet back into their slots. It seemed like a simple enough operation. And it would have been, for two people.

First I thought of calling someone to help. Then I quickly progressed to needing to do it by myself. I was buoyed by my success in filling the peppermill earlier that day, the peppermill that had been mocking me with its emptiness for months. All it took was a flathead screwdriver, a Phillips head screwdriver, a small funnel, a medium funnel, a spoon, flexible spatula and an escargot fork, and voila - fresh-ground pepper! So I wasn’t going to let a little thing like a cast-iron tub intimidate me.

I tried various ridiculous positions in an attempt to lift the tub with my feet while leaving my hands free to deal with the feet. Nothing worked. I swore and glared and banged my head, and none of that worked either.

I was just about to give up when I had an idea. I ran out to my trusty station wagon and a minute later I was jacking up the jacked-up tub. I easily replaced the errant feet, gently lowered the jack, then stood back and admired the work for a good long while.

There are things to be done around here, lots and lots of things. Most of them were not in my job description seven months ago, but they’re all mine now.

I’m done with leaving them undone so I can be angry with S for not being here to do them.

Woe is Mii

We arrived home today from a triumphant Christmas tour. We spent yesterday with S's family, four generations under one roof. And my sister-in-law thanked me for not deserting them after S died! The girls had a good time with their cousins and were thrilled with their gifts. I ate and drank way too much, laughed a lot and cried a little. The three of us retreated to a hotel for some quiet time by ourselves, then drove back home in the morning. Under the circumstances, I can’t imagine that Christmas could have gone better.

I walked down the driveway to get the mail right after we got home. As soon as I opened the mailbox, I saw the letter I’ve been dreading for a month - a self-addressed envelope containing the autopsy report. I could feel my skin tingling as I walked back to the house with the letter. I decided to open it right away, so I hid in the bathroom.

The cause of death was never a mystery, but no amount of Quincy-watching in my youth prepared me to read the clinical account of my husband’s autopsy. I consulted the online medical dictionary more than once, and I still might ask our family doctor to go through it with me. Or not.

When I emerged from the bathroom, Critter wanted to play the new Wii game we got for Christmas. So I focused on that - unpacking the game, setting up the new Motion Plus devices, etc. I didn’t pause long enough to realize that we haven’t played anything but Guitar Hero on the Wii since S died. When we started up the new game and were prompted to pick our Miis, I wasn’t prepared for S’s avatar to be there. It’s amazingly accurate, except for the dreadlocks.

I felt the loss more sharply at that moment than I have in weeks. That was him up there, and now he's gone. I didn’t fall apart, but it did make me realize that moments like this will be coming at me for a long time. I’m not out of the woods yet.

Halfway back to Smartville

I left my cell phone at home yesterday for the second time in three weeks. I’m not a power user, so it doesn’t bother me too much to be without it for a day. What does bother me is the fact that I forgot it again. Add that to things like leaving the dog outside all night, forgetting entire conversations and developing a blank stare that shows up on my face far too often, and it all adds up to a disturbing pattern: I am not as smart as I used to be.

Get out!

Very soon after S’s death, people started talking to me about dating. The first was a woman named Heidi from the Social Security Administration. I was on a long phone call with her, setting up benefits for the kids. There were some lulls in the official business as she waited for the computer system to respond, so we got a little chatty.

“When you’re ready to get back out there, you better get yourself a big ol’ can of clown spray,” she advised me. “Because there’s a lot of clowns out there!”

Really? I had just given her my husband’s date of death, and it was only about 10 days ago at that point.

Next was the attorney who was helping me set up my will, trust, power of attorney, etc. I think he’s only about 15 years older than me, but a bit of an anachronism. He uses carbon paper.

“You’re a cute girl. You’ll marry again,” he said with conviction.

At 42 and newly widowed, I can hardly be considered a cute girl by any standard. Nevertheless, he told me that when I marry again, I will need a prenuptial agreement. And on a personal note, he told me how to select my next mate.

“You don’t want to be his nurse and you don’t want to be his purse.”

My reaction to these early transgressors was to mentally stick my fingers in my ears and say, “la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la.”

When my therapist raised the issue, I couldn’t really do that – they frown on that sort of thing in therapy. So I told her that I wasn’t opposed to the idea in theory, eventually, but was far from being able to imagine it in practice.

Now that almost three months have passed, the limits of my imagination stretch to the point of being able to envision eating dinner at a restaurant with someone who doesn’t always order chicken fingers and fries. So far that person is faceless, and might well be a girlfriend. I just know that sometime soon, for my kids' sake and my own, I need to get out.

Opting Out of Christmas

On Christmas, it will be exactly three months since S died. Right before Thanksgiving, I had a realization: I cannot participate in Christmas this year, at least not in the way I usually do. Not in the baking-shopping-crafting-FedExing-oh-my-god-will-they-like-this-birdfeeder way. So, without agonizing over it, I unilaterally opted out of all of that. I hope everyone will understand.

I did all of my shopping for the girls in a 15-minute spree on Amazon. I haven’t baked a single cookie, folded a single paper star ornament or fought for a single parking space at the mall. I haven’t festooned a damned thing.

I have spent time with friends, giggled with my daughters and taken long bubble baths. I have thought so much about the promise of the new year and so little about making sure the Ice Moose is always full of homemade cookies. And somehow, against all odds, I feel far better than I usually do five days before Christmas.

Rarely do I make decisions with such absolute certainty. I’m not a big risk taker and I tend to noodle over things until even the best ideas wilt under the scrutiny. Looking back to the times I’ve felt so certain, though, I realize that my instincts are pretty good – the best decisions I’ve ever made never involved lists of pros and cons.

I don't think my daughters will remember the year their dad died as "the one where Mom didn't put ribbons on any of our presents, and the tags didn't even match the paper!" My hope is that their memory will be more sweet than bitter, because we know he's no longer suffering, because we have each other and because we have the most amazing family and friends anyone could ask for.

Lesson 1: Assisted Living

I was greeted in the emergency room by a woman called the Patient Advocate. Minutes later, she was holding my hand when the doctor told me my husband was dead. My recollection of the next several hours is hazy, but one thing she said has come back to me a hundred times.

“People are going to want to help you,” she said. “Let them.”

Here I was, four decades into a stubbornly independent life. I suddenly needed help in a way I never knew was possible.

I called my sister-in-law from the hospital to tell her what happened, and she asked if I wanted her to come. “Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Please come.”

Normally, I would have told her to get some sleep and come the next day. She lives 90 miles away and it was already evening. I would have thought about traffic and darkness and whether she had eaten dinner yet. I would have told her not to worry about me, I would be fine. Instead, I asked her to come.

The next day, I opened the door to find a neighbor with tears streaming down her face. She was holding a plate of chocolate cake. “I don’t know what to say, so I made this. It’s still warm.” She came inside and sat with me for hours and I let her. We ate cake and cried and laughed, and I never told her to go home even though I knew this was messing up her family’s busy schedule.

In the last two months, I have become the ultimate “YES” woman. I have come to think of our home as a kind of assisted living facility, where no offer of help goes unaccepted. The boundless generosity of spirit in my family and friends is truly amazing, and I appreciate every single act of compassion - no matter how small or grand.

“People are going to want to help you,” she said. “Let them.”