Ex

I got an email from my ex the other day. His father passed away almost two years ago; I knew that. He and I had had to get papers notarized about 16 months ago and we took a few minutes to chat then. We had seen each other at a reunion in July and then again in August for a memorial service. He had been the contact person for the group and so I was somewhat used to receiving emails from him. But this missive was not about our college chamber singing group. In this message he said his mother had moved to a retirement facility and he was cleaning out their family home for sale. Oh! His parents had lived in that house for 60 years. Imagine the stuff! He said he found some pictures of me. Did I want them? Sure, I said. And the reason I said it was because he said there were some shots of my mother. Yes, I would love to have them. I have a dearth of photos from that period of my life. And extremely few photos of my mother. In fact, I have about one photo from my early college years and only a couple from the years at the university where I got my degrees (and met him). What then ensued was a polite and cautious exchange of emails. The last time I had seen him was two weeks before I found out that Bill was being put on hospice. I let him know that since I had last heard from him, both Bill and my father had passed. He wrote back and expressed sadness that my father was gone, but mentioned nothing of Bill. Why should he? He thinks Bill took me away from him. He expressed hope that my dad's passing had been peaceful as had his dad's. I wrote back that it was not quite so. I added that there had been a significant battle with pneumonia and that when Bill was on hospice the burden of his arrangements had fallen on Laura. He responded again politely that he was sorry to hear Dad's last weeks had been difficult and this time said something to the effect that he was sure Bill's final days were also tough. And it was at this point that I decided 'enough of the niceties.' No more emails. I'll thank him when I receive the photos. Why prolong this dialog? I was courteous. I have accepted his offer of the photos and have thanked him. No more. There is no reason to revisit that chapter of my life again. There's nothing more to say beyond being gracious about his willingness to give me some more pictures. He opened that door; there's no need to walk through it.

Wind in My Sails?

As I went to send a FB friend a birthday message this morning, I saw that she had sent me a message last fall. Her husband passed away suddenly three years ago. She is ahead of me on the grief trajectory. She had some sage advice for me. Had I seen this message before? Had I read it but not processed this information? What struck me this time were her words telling me to be patient with myself and not to worry if I felt like my life was a blank slate. Why am I having so much trouble being patient with myself? Is my history of going, doing and being productive so deeply ingrained in me that I am incapable of slowing down? Am I some kind of 'busyness' junkie? The quiet, the unscheduled hours, can be unnerving. Perhaps I will never be the old woman who sits in her house all day, putters in her yard and only uses her car to go to the grocery, or worse yet, to the grocery, church and doctors' appointments. I seriously doubtI will ever be that woman.It would have to happen as a result of physical inability. And although, sadly, that may happen, I won't give into it without a fight. Then I'll probably spend my time reading and watching TV. Now, however, I feel like I am spinning my wheels. And the HOUSE. Oh, heavens, THE HOUSE! There are rooms---yes, ROOMS!---I don't use. From being absolutely cramped for space as recently as six years ago, to having rooms I don't enter for days is such irony. This is unheard of in my past. And now I have plumbers and electricians and painters finding all sorts of things that are not in working order. News is being revealed to me that the remodel we finished five years ago was improperly wired and piped. The new heating and air conditioning system has opened up its own can of worms and the plumbing change I wanted to make to the guesthouse has resulted in the same. Today's treasure may be that the main line has a stoppage. NO! We had that last year---the day after the kids came home from the hospital with the baby. It can't be happening again. But in the midst of all that, I have this strange, uncomfortable feeling that I am a ship caught in the doldrums and can't catch a wind in any direction. There is a restlessness, a feeling of lack of purpose. I want to find a direction and get my life on some sort of course. This is all to say that I am temporarily feeling a lack of purpose, and that is not acceptable to me.

Same Title / New Meaning

The original title of this blog was meant to bid farewell to my husband. Since then life has taken a sharp turn and is now headed in a direction completely foreign to the one it was taking when I started writing. What was a time of uncertainty and insecurity is no more. Now is a time of new beginnings. The element of the unknown for me is still huge but the piece that included fear and anger is gone. I don't wonder how I will survive the next month or year or how I will pay my bills. The man who was my husband is now dead. My father has passed away. I have retired from my job. My daughter is married. I have become a grandmother. I have free time. My stress has been greatly reduced. I don't have to worry about money. I can travel. I can be generous. So, with that in mind, I see that the title of this blog can stay the same but the underlying meaning is changed. I can bid farewell to the old life, to the old way of living, to the lifestyle I had for thirty-seven years in teaching, to the life I had with Bill, to the life of a working parent, and to the lifestyle of an adult daughter with an elderly parent in her home. I see the tenor and tone of my life moving in a new and positive direction. The goodbye is no longer borne out of anger, misunderstanding and betrayal. The goodbye now can be gentle and tender. It is more like the kind of goodbye you give when you are turning, smiling and waving over your shoulder instead of the kind when you're slamming the door so hard you're making the windows rattle. This is a new chapter. I am excited about my future. I can have adventures and travels. I can do what I want and not what circumstances dictate. I can finally examine what my dreams are and how I can pursue them. The notion that teased me for years was: What are your dreams? I don't know. What are your dreams? I can't torment myself with dreaming. I can't go after them anyway. I have to work. I have bills to pay. And later when the same question came up, the answer would be: I have bills to pay and I have Bill to pay. I have an aging parent in my home. My dreams aren't thoughts for me to entertain. But now those impediments are gone. I can entertain thoughts of my dreams. I can address them and act on them. It is indeed a time of new beginnings and a enticing future. I will rejoice and be grateful for the new life ahead. This blog will still be, at least for a while, 'Saying Goodbye to You'. It's just that the 'you' has changed. The 'you' is no longer a person or persons, it is a way of life to which I bid farewell. And gladly.

Missing

As I mentioned earlier, several family members came to stay with me for the weekend of Dad's memorial service. Two of those people were my dad's younger half-sister and her husband. These are two very special people. They both are extremely talented, bright, hard-working, humble and down-to-earth. The husband is one of the few people I have ever known who make me think that nature has a stronger role in the ongoing nature/nurture argument. His family was right out of the pages of The Grapes of Wrath. When he was two years old his entire family piled into an old car and drove West. His place, he remembers clearly, was lying on the flat area behind the back seat, looking out the back window. A family could never do that with a child now; they'd be arrested. But those were the days long before cars had seatbelts, and mandatory seatbelt laws were unheard of. While the rest of the family gravitated to trailer parks, this child grew to be highly-educated, energetic, and successful. He eventually became principal of a high school for troubled teens which morphed into a highly-structured and innovative campus. By the time he retired the school was running schedules that started every day at 6:00 a.m. and went until 10:00 p.m. because they were designed to meet the needs of the unusual student body that included many teenage mothers and young working parents. It housed a childcare center and several job-training programs. The structure was solid and everyone knew and respected the rules. Along the way, my aunt's husband learned just about every trade that is ever taught in school: woodshop, auto mechanics, auto body repair, carpentry, drywalling, electrical and plumbing. He still excels at all of those but the one thing he really excels in is photography. It has been a favorite hobby for decades. Once when he was in a photography class, some old guy named Ansel Adams came by and told him to keep it up because it looked like he had a good eye for photos. Today he has a permanent exhibit at the capitol building in his state where he displays over 200 photos at a time and can rotate them at his discretion. He also makes all his own frames and mats. When he and my aunt visited us three years ago, he took Bill out to shoot pictures. They went to our local wetlands and we all went to the poppy fields together. He and Bill connected over photography. They could also talk cars, and I think that he understood that Bill had been a difficult teen and had an atypical learning style. While he and my aunt were here for the memorial service, I had just taken over driving Bill's old car. My aunt has the exact same car, except in red, where she collects speeding tickets. I was having trouble getting the heating system to put out hot air. It just kept blowing cold air on me and we were having a really cold spell. He checked under the hood and then showed me how to adjust the heater and make sure the a/c was off. As we sat in the car, he got quiet for a moment. Then he said, "You know what, Cindy? I miss Bill. I know you had a bad divorce and things were tough, but I miss him. We had connected with the photography and I enjoyed Bill. He was never inappropriate when I was with him. I know he didn't like your dad and that was really uncomfortable, but I just want you to know that I liked him and I miss him." And it was maybe then that I realized it was okay to admit that there are times when I miss him, too, that I didn't have to have a black or white feeling about Bill's absence, that it was okay to say----even after all the awful things that went on in the marriage and during the divorce-----that sometimes I miss Bill. So, I very slowly and quietly said, "Sometimes I miss him too." And the consideration and honesty of this man opened yet another door for me, the door where I could stop being all angry about Bill's bad behavior and walk through to the place where I acknowledge the emptiness left by no longer having the Bill who was intelligent, comfortable to be with, and interesting. And admitting that there are times when I miss him was a relief.

Another Dream

Lately I've been sleeping only about six hours a night, even with my best sleep aids. Last night I fell asleep during the 11 o'clock news. It's not unusual for me to fall asleep at that time.This morning I woke up at 6:55 and was going to get up. That's not unusual either. But then I was dreaming again. I was dreaming that I was moving into a house with other people. There was furniture being delivered but other furniture had already been delivered. The couple with whom I was to live had bought furniture at one store and then changed their minds and found different furniture that they purchased at another store. But somehow they didn't get in touch with the first store to cancel delivery. Now it was arriving. And somehow I was supposed to go out and tell the people on the truck that we wouldn't be taking the furniture. The next thing I knew Laura was walking into my bedroom with KJ. It was 8:00. I had fallen back to sleep and I was very tired. Maybe I will be sleeping well again now. However, the dream made me think. I have decided it was telling me that Laura and Kyle have turned to me to fix messes. The latest mess is not one they've asked me to fix but I feel it's one I must. The state has cancelled the Healthy Families health coverage that KJ was on. Laura and Kyle each have coverage through their employer but to add the baby was costly, enough to break their budget. They got him covered on Healthy Families, but now, since it is no more, he is not covered. I find this completely unacceptable. They feel he will be treated in an ER in an emergency. I think he needs regular check-ups, vaccinations, and the rest. I had been thinking of telling them I would cover KJ until either Healthy Families is reinstated or they find something they can afford.

Divorcee/Widow

When I found out Bill's death was imminent, I was visiting my siblings about four hundred miles away from home. During that time I had lunch with two friends from high school. These were two guys I used to hang out with, even cut school with, and one of them had been my boyfriend at the time. I have always felt comfortable with them and, even after decades of non-contact, I feel I can be candid with them. Although we don't see each other all that often, the companionship is good when we get together. It doesn't seem like four decades have done too much to erode the feelings of trust and friendship. When we met this time I asked them if as it appeared, Bill were to die soon, would I be a widow or a divorcee. They both said I would be a divorcee. It seemed that legally, divorcee was the correct description. The marriage had been dissolved. Bill wasn't my husband. If he wasn't my husband at the time of his death, then I wasn't a widow. How odd that seemed. Bill was going to die. I would not be a widow. The divorce would erase the twenty six years we spent together. Five months of being divorced would, in essence, take away widow. Twenty six years. Two years of ugly divorcing. Five months of divorced. On that day, at that lunch, it felt correct. There's the legality of being a divorcee but a sense of being a widow. And somehow, I knew my two friends were right. I wouldn't have 'widowhood' because of the divorce. I wonder if that ever occurred to Bill? When Bill died I felt I wasn't entitled to feel sad. Or to mourn. I wasn't his wife. I shouldn't be sad. The divorce, slightly under two years in the making and five months in finality, and acrimonious most of the way, should have wiped out any feeling I might have that would even resemble being a widow. On many levels I understood that I would mourn Bill. We had spent a lot of time together. He was the father of my child. He had been the love of my life. He had shown me all kinds of thrills and we had been on countless adventures together. And the sex had been great. Always, always great. From age 32 to age 58 for me and 39 to 65 for him. It had been consistently great. Even when he was ill. When he died, memories of the sweet and loving Bill washed over me so powerfully I was inundated by them, and in ways I can't describe, forced part of me to shut down. I remembered being swept off my feet by this handsome man who took risks and was afraid of almost nothing. I remembered how his face felt when I stroked it, the strength, beauty and tenderness of his hands, the camping trips, the windsurfing adventures, the beach-camping honeymoon at the mouth of the Klamath, the summers in Europe, the way he would keep talking to the French in English even after they had insisted they didn't speak it and then their breaking down and finally answering him. This was mourning. It was unlike the mourning I experienced when my mother or my grandfather, the first death I was to experience, had passed. This was different. It was a unique grief and mourning. Since September things have changed from those initial sweet memories. I am able to couple them with some of the unpleasant recollections and they restore my mind's equilibrium. There's always good with the bad. Or bad with the good. That said, there were twenty six years, and I was a loyal, loving and forgiving wife to him. His disease and addiction took me on some rollercoaster rides, he was not a team player, and he never even tried to support the family. He lied and betrayed and stole from me, and I forgave him, kept his secrets, and stayed by his side. Now that I spend a lot of time with our grandchild I find myself saying things like, "Your grandfather wouldn't have approved of this." "I wonder what your grandfather would do right now." "I wonder how much Bill would have helped me with you." "I think your grandfather would be unhappy with me for not feeding you vegetables." The thoughts go on and on. Even with the balanced memories I feel like a widow. I feel his absence. I wish he were around for KJ, Laura and Kyle. I wish he could fix the hole in the ceiling Kyle made when he lost his balance in the attic. I wish I knew what he thought about a multitude of things, from the neighbor's new girlfriend to the state of our economy. I miss riding bikes with him and going out to eat. At times like these I miss him and I feel like I'm sure most widows feel. But I don't get to call myself one.

Ammo

As I was re-organizing the driveway last weekend (Oh, Lord! Will my driveway EVER be clean?), I came across two boxes ammunition. Now WHAT am I going to do with that? Although I know how to use a gun and have been to shooting ranges on numerous occasions, I have no guns, I have no interest in guns, my shootin' days are over. At least that's my plan. So, the question was, what do I do with these boxes of bullets? I called the local police department. The desk sergeant told me it was no crime to have bullets. In fact, it was perfectly legal in this state to sell bullets. You just can't sell guns. Therefore, I could do one of two things: I could bring my collection of bullets down to him at the station or I could sell them. I finished my driveway work and then the kids came over. I temporarily forgot about my munitions. Then at 6:15 I remembered my little errand. I got in the car and drove down to the police department. I had had very clear instructions: Put the ammo in the trunk, not the passenger compartment. Drive to the station. Walk in. WITHOUT the ammo. They would come out to the car with me and get it. When I arrived, the desk sergeant who, by his own admission was a goofy guy, was engaged in a conversation with some man who had had a cashier's check stolen from the mail in Minnesota. The officer was trying to explain that it was in Minnesota's jurisdiction. I had to wait. I was feeling a little impatient. Another officer came out to the desk and, after a while, asked me if he could help me. I explained my task. He then told me that it was 6:45, and his and his partner's shift had ended at 6:30. If I were to have them retrieve my ammo they would have to fill out a big report, and he held up a long piece of paperwork that would be his responsibility to complete should I impose my bullets on him thus causing them to work even longer than they already were, causing them to be even later getting home to their families. I was intimidated. The good little girl in me felt guilty and I was busy scolding myself for having neglected this errand when it would have been a better time in the policemen's shifts, when the desk sergeant completed his task regarding the forged cashier's check. The desk sergeant said not to feel bad about coming in so late and that he didn't mind filling out a report. Ugh. We went out to the car, and I opened the trunk. He went through my 'treasures' and again told me I could sell them. He said people have gotten very angry with him for not telling them how much cash they could make off of bullets. Apparently I have .22 caliber and 9 millimeter bullets. I have hollow tips and full metal jackets. I have child safety locks and gun cases. He said these are all hot ticket items. I could sell them on some websites. I could take them to gun shows and would have them sold before I even had them all unpacked. He said they wouldn't even hit the table at a gun show. Really? Sell them online? Set up a spot at a gun show? Let's suppose for a moment I sell them online. Where do I meet the buyer? At my house? At a local Starbucks? What if someone used my bullets to kill a cop? Or a bunch of schoolkids? This sounds just crazy to me. Selling ammo. Driving around with ammo in my trunk. Throwing my ammo on a table at a local gun show and selling it to crazy survivalists. Or nutjobs. Sheesh. Ah....but then cha-ching! My 'stuff' is worth a few hundred dollars. The Scotsman in me was in a quandary. Money? Aide and possibly abet a murder? Donate to the practice range at the local police station? Cause this nice officer another half hour's work filling out a report? This was tough. I'm still driving around with a bunch of ammo in my trunk.