Too Busy to Bother

Hobbling through the door after a long day of work,  he made a limping beeline to the couch, situated not too far from the door.  He sat and grunted to pull off one work boot and one sock; both removed nearly in one, quick motion.

"What's wrong?  What are you doing?" I asked my husband.

"I've had a rock in my boot all day. 'Never had time. 'Til now." He cupped the culprit in the palm of his hand for me to see.  It was far bigger than I expected.

"It IS a ROCK! How the heck did you work all day without stopping to take it out?  It must have hurt."

"It did," he replied.  "I have a blister now."

Some learn the hard way.  My "boy" hobbled for days.

Relief

Yesterday was one of those days when I woke in darkness at 5:15 AM and screeched through the day at top speed until I rested my head on the pillow at about 11:20 PM.   My husband and I were the progressive couple (sort of) he did just about anything around the house from changing the cat box to getting down on his hands and knees and scrubbing the floor.  He did groceries, changed diapers, went to the dentist with the kids and taught them how to drive. I didn't have to bother with outside work like snow and trash removal nor did I have to risk splinters in my hand hauling split logs for the wood stove.   For a few months now, sadly I have negotiated life without him.  The details  of caring for a house and children are all mine now. My days are full. So it is no surprise that at 11:20 PM, I was finally able to tend to my needs. I noticed my ear had been throbbing.

Normally, I change my earrings regularly, however I have worn the same pair in since Christmas day.   My 19 year old son, who is in the Army gifted me a diamond necklace and earrings to match.  Aside from homemade cards and a fistful of flowers I received, this was the very first present he bought me with his own money. It is difficult to fully express how deeply this touched me. Diamond earrings.  I had never had a pair.  I just didn't want to lose them so particular attention was devoted to screwing the backs securely on the posts. Obsessively, I check to make sure I have both and that there is no risk of losing them.

My right ear throbbed.  The earring was on too tight. Quiet and in bed, the pain intensified.  I reached my left hand over to the back of my right lobe.  I twisted the back, but I was not sure which direction would release it.  It pained so. I turned one way, then got nervous and turned the other way. This uncertainty went on for about 15 minutes.

Ordinarily, my husband who has combed through tangles in my hair, dropped everything to scratch my back and massaged my feet without complaining would certainly have attempted to grasp and untwist a tiny earring back on my behalf.  Instead, I needed to find help.

"Eddaejia?" I yelled to my daughter.  Waited for a reply, but all there was was silence.  After all, it was the middle of the night; she was asleep.  It was clear I needed help and soon.  By morning she would be racing around, make-up and hair with no time to help me.  I would look elsewhere.

 I work among angels.  People who truly care for each other. Really.  My friend attempted to release my throbbing ear from the vice, but stopped.  Waving her hands she squealed, "I don't want to hurt you."

"You can't hurt me anymore than I'm already hurt," I  replied.

Right on cue, a colleague with young children steps through the door.  My friend asks her to help.  She bends down to look at my ear. "OOOH,: she says long and drawn out, a tone that carries bad news.

"What? That doesn't sound good." I look up at her, trying to read her face.

"'Just swollen," she replies. Undeterred she grabs the earring back and begins to twist. "Righty tighty, lefty loosey."  Within minutes both earrings are removed and I feel some relief.

For days, I ignored my pain until it was constant.  With no one available to help me at home, I relied on those I work with. How very lucky I am to work in such a kind and supportive place.  It is just another reminder of how I am surrounded empathetic, compassionate people.  I bet they would even give me a good back scratch, if I asked.  How lucky am I?

Doing It!

His arm muscles bulged as he lifted the bags of groceries into the cab. I was looking for someone strong and single.

It was getting cold.  I clutched my unzipped jacket to my throat and hurried into the store.  I couldn't believe it. What was I doing?  I swallowed hard and my eyes stung.  Guilt strangled.  I could barely breathe.  It was as though I had had a torrid affair leaving a tangle of sheets behind. Weeks before my husband of more than 36 years passed away suddenly.  It was clear that the man with the bulging forearms would be used selfishly for my own gain of security.  Whispers of love would not reach into this man's heart. It would not be a tale of true love like the relationship with my husband, but one of convenience; an arrangement.

Picking through the Pink Lady apples in the produce section, I plopped them into my bag one by one.  I don't need a man.  I don't need a man.  The current political climate helped me to muster my strength as a female and convince myself that I could manage on my own and acknowledge the fear pulsing through every cell of my being.  I was alone in my future. The once blissful life spent walking with my husband hand in hand and picnicking in the warm summer sun cooled by a sea breeze was no more.  My world was on shaky ground.  Life alone at best was uncertain.  I can do this, I thought as I lifted the hatch of my Prius and hoisted the bags of groceries into the car. Slamming the back closed, Wait, I thought with a sudden shift of perception, It is not that I can do this, but that I AM doing this.  

Postscript:  I have been told that this is a pretty normal response following the death of a spouse.  A number of widows have reassured me that this happened to them too.  For me, this phase passed quickly. I was relieved.

Learning All Over Again

Living the life of a pampered wife all those years meant that there were things now that I had to tend to and learn how to do again.

Fall brings images of earthy leaves, that crunch underfoot crisp apples picked off the tree and wood piles neat and tidy.  This past fall, all those these were void for me, instead I was spending precious days with my husband in the hospital as bad news trickled in like the drips from a leaky faucet; drop by drop so as not to flood our hearts and minds for what was unthinkable. On October 30th, our children began adjusting to our new lives without their father and me without the physical presence of my husband of more than 36 years.

With brute force, I pulled the lever at the top of the box and opened the damper.  I took a sheet of newspaper and crunched it into a ball as I had seen my husband do over and over, but didn't really pay it much attention.  I've built fires in the pouring rain. 'A cinch. Then came a few dry twigs.  When I placed the heavy logs onto of all this the structure collapsed.  This is how Jerry did it.  It's OK.  My husband a bit unconventional (he did things his way) I knew that flame needs air, I wondered if this would work. Still I scratched the match to the box and then held it under the edge of the newspaper. It took.  Stepping back, I sighed and watched the light spread.  Once it caught, I closed the damper, latched the door and stepped away. Soon afterward I grabbed my red sweater from the hook and pulled it on.  I think it was colder inside than outside.

Something had gone desperately wrong. Opening the wood stove, the barely charred wood was cold. With each passing day, it didn't get much better.  There were many times I went to school (I am certain) with an air of smokey perfume wafting through the halls. There was plenty of smoke to start, but little heat. It had to get better.  With frigid winter temperatures ahead, there was no choice, but to persist.  Instinctually, I began noting elements of fire building that worked and those that did not feed the flame.  I adjusted.

Here's what I learned:

• Don't use wet wood.  If it sizzles inside the stove, you know you have made a bad move.
• Use plenty of kindling. Choose wisely.
• Keep the damper open for a bit of time. (I still get a little nervous with this one and remember the fire trucks showing up, but that is for another story.) Be patient.
• Always invoke your husband's help. Ask for help when you need it.
• Remember to keep calm, persist and believe it will happen. Miracles happen.
  

Last night, I stood by the wood stove my palms feeling the heat.  The red glow of warmth flickered through the smokey window.  I remembered the early days of widowhood just months ago, stepped back, sighed and smiled.  Now, it's mid-March and I have survived most of my first Maine winter, alone.  My husband is rooting for me.  I just know it.  Like the weak smokey flame that grew over time, I too have evolved. 

a routine of GRATITUDE

The bags were heavy.  I was carrying my purse, (that is much like hauling a load of bricks around my neck), my bag from work, a laptop, two heavy bags of groceries and a jug of almond milk. Teetering on the first step under the weight of the load I thought,  It's all about core strength. 'Got none. Get up these steps.  Then I adjusted the load, evening out the weight from hand to hand.  Grunting and pure grit got me up those steps.

With the food put away.  I thought about the morning.  Coffee.  Fill the decanter.  Nearly empty. Not enough for a cup.  I saw a pound somewhere. The cupboards opened and slammed  in a fury.  Where is it?  I don't see it anywhere.  'Should have bought some.  Just in case.  My mind whirled and swirled in the vortex of panic. Ahhh, no coffee.  Can't be. Store's closed. The search continues.

I dip the stainless coffee spoon into the aromatic grounds measuring two heaping spoonfuls. The water hisses.  The microwave beeps.  Two steps to retrieve the almonds milk warmed.  Then the electric kettle clicks and the water is poured into the tube holding the coffee until the liquid reaches the top.  With chopstick near, I stir the mix, let it sit for a varied amount of time.  Sometime seconds or sometime minutes.  This is a gauge of patience or how late I am running in the morning. Then I use a plunger in the tube to force the liquid passed the grounds and into the mug.

The device is engineered for small hands whirrs with the push of a button.  I remember the first time I tried the frother.  It did nothing.  My husband interceded and showed me how I had to aerate the milk from bottom to top and back and forth until I got the right amount of creaminess.  Now I am a pro. The white billowy froth seems to sit atop the coffee.

I am strangely grateful for this routine every morning.  Each step is a delicate orchestration.  With a sprinkle of cinnamon, I grab the pottery mug (a gift from my late husband) and I sit, breathe and watch the birds.  Morning gratitude begins with a prayer and a homemade latte.  All is right with the world, when there is coffee in the house.

Talk

Recent widows talk a lot or not at all.  When we talk we talk about the pain.  We talk about the empty feeling in our gut that just won't go away.  We talk about how we fill the loneliness and how we cope with the brain fog.  We begin to talk about our cats and dogs with such love and animation, stories about them rival tall husband tales.

"Oooh, I am devoted to you.  I love you so." looking into his brown eyes I coo.  He was silent, but suddenly without warning leaping legs landed on my chest.  His tail wagged, zigging and zagging the third back end of his body.  Rex loves me.

My feet, two little ice cubes most winter nights, I would start with my big toe and run it up and down my husband's legs, just to acclimate him to what was to come.  He was a perpetual furnace willing to keep me warm.  I never slept well unless I began by draping my arm across his torso, our bodies melting into the other.  Warm. Together.

Now his body presses into mine.  He does not tolerate diving under the covers. I have tried.  Instead he sleeps on the top making the sheet, blankets and comforter taut, because of this my body is routinely held captive under the load of downy fluff as I try to roll over.  He is near.  Prone on his back, his legs splayed I rub his belly.  He smiles.  He actually smiles.  This becomes a pleasurable experience for both of us.  I am in love.

Sitting in my chair sipping my morning coffee, he is under my feet.  Always close. Never far.  My first and last kisses of each day come from the one with brown eyes and a cold moist nose.

Recent widows talk a lot or not at all.  We talk about pain.  We talk about our dogs or our cats.  They fill the loneliness.

A Perfect Marriage

                                                                  Sample fare.

Sweet onions are diced and the organic carrots become small chunks plopped into a bubbly brew of split peas.  The bay leaves float until I stir with my smooth wooden paddle that fits just right in my hand, a gift from my husband.  It is Sunday.  This day has become a new tradition to cook for the masses.  Soup fills the biggest pot in the house with the intent of having some through the week, a portion is reserved for a friend who has not been well and the rest for supper with my eldest and his girl.  He is baking the bread.  This day becomes a perfect marriage of culinary delights and precious time with family and friends.  We talk.  We eat. And talk some more.  Just perfect.