Sick

 “I think I better go home.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m not sure.  I don’t feel quite right.”

 

And so I left the small-town fall festival just minutes after arriving, but long enough to capture straw in my shoes, dust in my hair, and pink on my cheeks.  Not the sun pink, I think, because 15 minutes later, when I drug the festival in my house, I felt achy.  I went straight to bed, did not pass go, and hunkered there for a solid week.  With a 103 temp.  And no one to take care of me.

 

Even a year ago, everyone maintained their stay-away-COVID masks and distances or at least mindsets.  Of course.  I don’t know if I had COVID.  Maybe.  Probably.  Nevertheless, I was left to myself.  First time to face sick all alone.

 

Talk about missing Bill.  I needed water.  I needed tissue.  I needed a toilet.  I needed a checked-on.  I needed him.  I shivered, sweat, and cried.

 

Broken heart on top of broken body. 

 

Amazingly, I survived.  I am very alive and very well.  And today I’m going back to the small-town fall festival.  I’ll probably bring the festival home again, but this time, I’ll shake it off before bringing it in.  This time, I’m ready to hold my littlebears’ hands, buy a treat, soak up some sun.  I’m ready for a new memory.  A new well-in-every-way memory.

Furniture

 

TV unit is gone.  Let all the cords adorn the room. 

Three pieces left.  The old wrinkly leather, falling-apart recliner, the end table, and the dining room table.  These are the only remaining Bill-chosen, assembled, and attached-to pieces of furniture left in my home.  Last year, when I moved into this foreign country, several things didn’t fit like we’d planned.  So they made an abrupt departure and, in my daze, I hardly noticed.  Since then, other things have slithered away, the TV, shades, a lamp, even a car — each one taking a bit of my Bill with it.  Ooosh!  So hard.

 

Then yesterday, there went the way-too-big TV entertainment center.  I posted it for sale, secretly pricing and hoping no one would bite.  But a lady crunched.  I asked God if He was sure about this.  As I was awaiting His answer, a trucked backed into my driveway, the crunchers loaded the Bill-beauty and drove away.  Answered.

 

Why am I torn apart over a sale I advertised?  It doesn’t make sense.  Except that, little by little, sentiments are being replaced with God’s future for me.  This is all part of the good.  Get excited, heart.  Be glad.

 

OK.  I will.  But first, let me cry a bit.  Then remind me that temporary furniture can never contain nor replace the whole of a gift of a husband.  Furniture comes and goes, but Bill lives on in my heart.  Jesus sits, watches TV, and enjoys furniture with me.

Trips

 “We will credit your account with $250 toward travel to anywhere you’d like to go,” she said.  “Where would you like to go?”

“Well, in recent years, I’ve developed an interest in the national parks.  Maybe to one of those someday,” I responded after a long pause.

“Great.  All we’ll need is a non-refundable deposit, then I will drop the funds into your account.  You have one year to redeem this offer.”

“I think I’ll have to decline the offer for now.  You see, I don’t have a traveling buddy.”

“You’ll find someone.  You don’t want to miss this opportunity.”

“Ma’am, I lost my husband.  He packed our suitcase.  He planned our stops.  He was my opportunity.”

“OK.  Sorry.” Click.

 

Oh the little things.  Or, I mean, big things, that poke a tender heart.  Oh the little missing details that are part of trips, part of deals, part of planning, part of excitement and anticipation.  Who will check me in?  Me.  Who will park the car?  Me.  Who will arrange for transportation?  Accommodations?  Who will take the photos?  Me.  Who will pay the bill?  Me.  Who will check the statement?  Me.  Read the directions, maps, pamphlets? 

 

I used to trip with a travel agent, tour guide, concierge, ticket master, taxi driver.  I used to just bag a snack, take a hand and go. 

 

I think I’ll decline the offer for now.  Unless God either provides a buddy or I muster more get-up, I think I’ll wait to travel the Heavenly landscape with you, Babe.  I know you and Jesus will take care of every trip detail again, just as it was before.  And, I don’t mind staying home. 

Goofs

An empty lane especially for goof ball me as I check out

It’s no secret, I’m a goof ball.  My family knows it, most of my friends know it.  I do things like wear shirts wrong side out in front of VIPs, get “stuck” in elevators forgetting to push the buttons, think bald eagles are really bald (I mean, why do they call them bald if they’re not bald), and put cell phones in sock drawers.  Goof ball.

 

This week was a 2X goof.

 

Meaning to surprise a friend with a loaf of homemade sourdough and jar of honey, I surprised someone… I don’t know who.  I left the gift on a front porch.  Complete with a personal card, heartfelt thanks for sweet friendship, scripture verse, and a prayer for a happy weekend trip.  I left it on the wrong porch.  Goof ball.

 

Today I drove 15 minutes to the grocery, collected all the things I need for a family gathering tomorrow, waited in a 4-person line, watched the dollars multiply, and bagged the groceries.  It turns out it’s smart to bring your debit card with you to the grocery.  Ding dong.  I drove 15 minutes back home to get the naughty card, 15 minutes again to rescue the homeless goods, and 15 more minutes home again.  I spent an afternoon driving to and from the grocery store. 

All I could do was laugh.  I love to laugh.  I really love it when people laugh with me, and at me.  I can’t wait to blab it, exaggerate it, gesture it, and slam dunk it with, “Can you believe it?”

 

Bill was my first audience.  We would laugh and tease and laugh.  Not only did he share the goof, he also rescued me in my predicaments.  Today he would have paid my debt with his debit card, then load the bags and take the whole thing home for me.

 

Now my laughs have to find other willing hearers.  My kids?  Yip.  They’ll roll a couple crinkled eyes.  My mom?  Yip.  She’ll give me a heehaw.  But I surely miss the gut splitters with the man who married a goof ball and was proud of it.

 

LOL

Counsel

    Sometimes I get weepy re-reading posts I’ve written.  They recall vivid scenes, which in turn summon familiar senses.  The smell of Bill’s favorite lotion as I massaged his feet.  The rustle of the river on our last date together.  The phone calls with my mom relating and encouraging me as I stirred the morning oatmeal.  Suddenly I’m not actually here typing at my kitchen counter, I am there deep in the place, the pain, the past.

 

I’m not sure, but I think this is part of healing.  I haven’t been to counseling, but I think this is what’s called processing, working through, coming to terms with.  I think it’s a good thing to release emotions that may be swept aside or swept under.  I’ve briefly read through the stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.  To be honest, I have no idea where I am on this spectrum.  I don’t actually feel the need to know.  A particular memory may shift me up or down on the slide.  For me, it’s one more thing that defines me.

 

Not that I’m closed to counseling, but for now, I’d rather be completely and wholeheartedly defined by God.  Even in my grief.  I know He has the power to reach me, talk to me, counsel me.  I am confident He can bring me to green pastures beside still waters on this walk.  Already I’ve had turn-outs with Him that strengthen my wobbly knees and set my feeble mind on Him.  Not exactly psychotherapy, but somehow just the counsel I need.

 

So I let myself recall and relive.  I let myself cry.  When I’m alone, I don’t even fight it.  In my rocker, on the uh hum…, in the pantry, behind the wheel, and always under the covers.  I miss this man of mine so much.  I am so very much in love with Bill.  God knows that.  He will counsel me.  He will meet me when I’m deep in memories.  He is the Wonderful Counselor.

Football

 Football is my friend.  When there isn’t much to look forward to, I look forward to football.  Bill and I counted days in August, kept track of training camp news, pre-season game players and scores, who made the roster, and odds to go the distance.  I even snuck a jersey on a littlebear or two and picked up Dollar Tree fan-ware.  Ready to go!  Let’s do it!

 

One year, for my birthday, he took me to a Sunday game.  A real live game.  My first professional football game.  I was out of my mind.  Other women dream of a day at the spa, swoon over flowers or… oh, could it be?… diamonds?  Give this girl a trip to a game and you have given her the moon.  I used to not-so-quietly wish for live games.  Due to time and traffic and money, I settled for row 1, seat A in front of our monster TV screen with the promise of no interruptions.

 

Football without Bill has lost some luster, but then everything without him is lusterless.  I don’t know a single gal like me, decked in red and gold and checking the don’t-miss-kickoff time.  At least not one close to me who can pop over for chips, soda and a win.  And I’m not joining Fantasy Football men for a 1:00 game… awkward.

 

It’s a lonely football life. 

 

The whoops are not as loud, the food not as important, the wins not as… fun.  But football is still my friend.  And I’m looking forward to it, to fill some hours, to flutter up my joy, to remind me of Bill.  I can see him even now, peeking over his newspaper to catch the replay.  I can hear him even now calling my dad to complain about the penalty.

 

I’ve got Carry Underwood’s “Woa oa oa” recorded, Babe.  Sure wish you were here.

Lonely

 When, on a Saturday morning, you look forward to your lawn man so you can affirm there are people in the world besides you, when you long for a smile or a “how are you,” you probably live in Lonelyville.  If the house doesn’t really need attention, you’ve recently called your usuals, you’ve baked gift cookies, and you don’t have a single plan, you are the mayor of Lonelyville.  It’s a fairly inactive, quiet, solitary place, so even this job of getting things done, making things happen, seems… hopeless.

 

You listen to a pastor’s message and then some worship music.  You wonder why worship makes you weep.  You turn to a podcast and learn about something that you’ll probably forget.  After that you turn on the TV just because the quiet needs noise.  There’s always Lonelyville’s grocery just down the road.  Surely there is an item you need.

 

It’s relatively new.  You can’t quite get used to Lonelyville.  What was that your college chaplain said?  We really do need each other?  Why is that 40-year-old statement sitting on your empty couch?  And what are you supposed to do about it?  You’ve hosted lunches and dinners.  You’ve driven yourself to that group and those bleachers.  You’ve all but moved in to your kids’ lives.  You’ve tried. 

 

So on a Saturday morning in Lonelyville, you write about feeling lonely.  You’ll read it to Jesus, post it online, back it up for future… who knows what.  You’ll choke down the rocks in your throat and watch the minutes flip.  You’ll try to envision a road out of Lonelyville or at least someone who will spend a minute beside you there.  A council counsel member.

 

Until then, on Saturday, you’ll live in Lonelyville.

Assignment

 Have you ever thought of marriage as an assignment?  Assignments do not have the most appealing connotations.  One might think of homework, a burdensome task at work, or a role on a committee.

 

But in the case of marriage, an assignment is first a calling.  Calling — a desire to do the work.  Assignment — work to do.  Rick Warren’s book, The Purpose Driven Life, taught me that God places desires within us.  Then He assigns us.

 

“Nevertheless, each person should live as a believer in whatever situation the Lord has assigned to them, just as God has called them” (Corinthians 7:17).  God assigned me to be a wife to Bill, the best wife I could possibly be with His help.  He assigned me to do my best work.

 

Now that I’m not married, I look at my married life so differently.  There are a zillion teachers inherent in this assignment that I hadn’t considered well enough before.  For example, arguments.  Arguments prod our selfish nature and, if we allow them, bulldoze a hard-packed mound of pride.  After the dirt crumbles and settles, the heart beds down on softer ground.  Another example is perspective.  Our vision extends only so far.  A married partner takes you around the corner.  Lessons from arguments and Bill’s perspective continue to instruct me.

 

Once upon a time Bill scolded me for throwing away, without shredding, a document containing identification information.  I pooed pooed his over-protective self-saying no one would search our stinky garbage.  Well, the next morning, garbage day, as I opened our kitchen curtains, there he was.  A stranger scrounging through the recycle bin.  The very next morning!  Good grief!  I’m more than wrong.  I am completely underground wrong.  Afterward, Bill said nothing, and I learned everything.

 

Of course married life means compromise, partnering, understanding, acceptance, service, — packaged with struggle, stumbling and setbacks.  But oh to know someone better than anyone else in the world.  To be assigned to care for, sacrifice for, learn from and love.  Huge!

 

Assignment completed and turned in.

 

I miss my married life.  I miss conflict!  Is that crazy?  I miss caring for a sick husband.  That’s crazy.  Ask me if I would accept the assignment again.  Yes!

Business

 

Hello, may I have your name please.

My name is Kathy.

Hello Kathy, how can I help you today?

I need to remove my husband’s name from our account.

We will need your husband’s permission to do that. 

My husband died.

Oh, I’m very sorry to hear about your loss.  Is he the primary account holder?

I think so. 

We will need his phone number for verification.

His phone line has been cancelled. 

Ok then, if you’ll just answer his identity verification questions.  What was his mother’s maiden name?

Debrosky.

Spell that please. 

I’m not sure if it’s spelled De or Da, ki or ky.

Ok then, how about this one: What was the first concert your husband attended? 

I have no idea. 

I’m sorry, Kathy.  Let me transfer you to someone who can help. 

Hello, Kathy, I understand you want to remove your husband’s name from your account. 

Yes, it will solve a lot of problems and confusion. 

I understand.  Can you provide his full name, date of birth, social security?  …Can you tell us his golf handicap, his favorite pizza topping, the last purchase he made, and his blood pressure? 

No.

Do you know if he aired the tires recently or checked the filters?  Do you know if he ordered cord of wood?  Cancelled the flight?  Paid the last electric bill?

No.  No.  No. 

Ok then, you’ll need to fill out a form, it shouldn’t take more than 20-30 minutes, and return it along with his death certificate to the attached address.  Allow about 6 weeks to process.  At that time, please call us again, we can work toward a satisfactory solution. 

OK.

Is there anything else I can help you with today?

No.

Then please stay on the line to answer a few brief survey questions.  It has been my pleasure serving you today.  Have a wonderful day. 

Sigh.  Cry.

Miss-yous

Celebrating Luca

 Just the mention of Bill’s name can usher tears.  Not always.  Sometimes, I think about the way he rolled his eyes at me when I did a ding dong thing like drive right past our driveway.  Then I giggle.  Or when I hear him calling me to “come to your step,” which meant to stand on the top as he stood on the bottom putting us at perfect kissing level.  Then I melt. 

 

This morning, a friend asked me about Bill.  What do I miss most?  She recalled his smack-talk during televised rival games.  She missed Bill’s good-natured ribbing.  (She thinks it was good-natured.) She hears his laugh.  She misses him. 

 

What do I miss most?

 

Everyday is such a “miss you.” I miss that no one is across the bed as I read myself, then will myself, to sleep.  I miss that my recliner buddy is not behind his newspaper peeking over the top catching the football replays.  I miss that our littlebears’ grandpa is not carting us to the ice cream shop.  Ordering for us, paying for us, handing cones to us.  I miss the door slamming at every entrance and exit.  (I can’t believe I miss that.) I miss his weekly invitation to get gas with him!  I miss the Sunday morning, warmed-up car waiting for me to take my seat and ride to church.  I miss my personal fan who never failed to celebrate me.  Us.  I miss a thousand things.

 

When my friend asked me about Bill and what I missed, I could only cry.  There is so much to him to miss.  Let my tears say all the things.  Let me miss him, missssss him, until I’m with him again. 

Peter

 Peter tells me to do good, even if it means suffering (1 Peter 2:21).  He might not have meant it this way, but for me, today, he means during suffering.  He even means aching-heart suffering, not necessarily for-the-gospel suffering.  Do good, Kath. 

Reach out to my daughter-in-law, pray for my parents, plan an anniversary gift, call my hurting friend… love deeply (1:22).  Do good. 

 

Because (Peter forgot to say) this is the way to your healing.  Forget about yourself because God remembers all about you.  Think about others because they need you.  Wrap up that pain, tuck it inside and do good.  See if good does good.

Thank you, Peter, for clear thinking (1:13).  Just what this gal needed.  I’m getting out of my chair now.  Drying my eyes now.  Putting on my good-doer boots now.  Thanks.

Generations

Great Grandma Smith, Grandma Alene, my mom, Jan, and me.

It occurred to me, this widow thing, it runs in the family.  Both my grandmas were widows, I think my great grandma was a widow, and my mom became a widow.  Now I’m a widow.  I’m pretty sure there is a gene passed down, and I inherited it.  Never mind that losing a spouse has nothing whatsoever to do with genetics.  I am part of a family plagued with widow cancer.  The disease has no respect.  It doesn’t exclude because of merit or include because of sins.  The beast just chomps.

 

Each woman that I have known in my family history has suffered loss just like me.  Each one cried herself to sleep, collapsed in the hole of dysfunction, begged God for relief, and at times, yielded to loneliness and despair.  As far as I know, each godly lady was devoted to both Jesus and husband, which connects us to the core.  Each one has become a hero to me. 

 

All of them set an unknowing example, walking before me, faithfully trusting Jesus, looking forward to reunion day.  Except for my own mom, each one stands beside her God and her man right now in Heaven.  I’ll be there before long.  I’m coming.  I’m walking just as they walked.

 

A quick Google search turns up statistics citing women more likely to be widowed.  Google only confirms it though, because church parking lot slots, slot after slot, of single women’s cars, prove it.  The wild thing is, a few recent losses around me evidence it in my own life.  It almost feels like an epidemic.  But then, my antennae has never been so tuned in.

 

My mom reminded me: “Kath, even Mary, Jesus’ mom, was a widow.” Oh.  That’s right.  Even she, chosen among women, walked this road.  The Bible calls her “favored woman” and adds a promise, “the Lord is with you” (Luke 1:28).  She endured unthinkable pain of her own.  God loved her, favored her, helped her all the way home.

 

I must be suffering from a severe case of widowitis.  The bad news is, there is no cure.  The good news is, I’m among a family, not an entire world history, of favored women.  And Jesus is with us. 

Holiday

Another holiday by myself.  Not every holiday is by myself, but it feels like every when I am by myself.  So I did the by-myself things.  Take a walk, read a chapter, call a friend, crochet a row, eat a cookie.  Hmm, somehow a holiday rather resembles most days.

 

It used to be that a no-plans holiday, was still a holiday because it felt much different than any other day.  Give Bill and me a no-plan day, and we planned.  On the fly, in the moment.  Go to the movie with me.  Let’s barbecue burgers.  Want me to beat you at Backgammon?  Take me on a drive.  Even a holiday with some usuals was special in some small way.  Does anyone else kinda enjoy doing dishes together?  Washing the car together?  Miss it!

 

I suppose a single gal can make plans.  Supposedly.  What would they be?  How do I do that?

 

Maybe it’s the company, more than the plan, that makes a holiday special.  Maybe it’s your forever friend, the person you do life with and holidays with.  Maybe holidays are holidays only because you get to do the day a little differently — together.  I think that must be the special in a holiday. 

Starting

 Homemade Welcome Sign for my new home with my Kbear.

 

Today marks 1 year in this new place, new house, new life, new start.  Whoosh!  I’m shaking my own hand, patting my own back.  I have made it through a year.  In honesty, it was a toughy.  Don’t want to start over again.

 

On September 1, 2023, my boys packed a moving truck, a hunting truck and a trailer, drove caravan style, and arrived to a porch of willing, strong-backed church students.  And a downpour.  Being the only one with a key, I darted dry from car door, drenched to front door.  Then, I directed traffic down halls and wiped mud off walls.  Hadn’t done this in 35 years.  Starting over.

 

Since Bill’s illness, my Bible reading practice gave way to God’s Bible reading practice — Holy Spirit led.  On September 1st, I turned to Genesis 1 and resumed cover to cover practice.  Starting over.

 

As a school director, I steered clear of social media wanting to avoid mistakes resulting in horrendous consequences I had witnessed.  On September 1st, I opened a Facebook account.  Woo.  Starting.

 

A drive home from our kids’ home usually took a good 2 sleepy hours.  The drive home on September 1st took 12 minutes.  Twelve not-sleepy minutes.  Thankful for this start over.

 

Since the move, there have been abuncha new starts.  Roads, grocery store shelves, kitchen layout, doctors, community parks and baseball fields, not to mention the biggies… church, people, too much all-alone.

 

Starting over was supposed to be beside my Bill but has been without my Bill.  A year later, I am still struggling to start over.  I imagine I will struggle for a while.  Starting a new life at mid-life is like balancing the exact middle of a teeter totter, feet spread apart to keep from tipping too far but knowing it must tip and the walk must begin.  I’ve discovered that the balance itself, before the tip, takes a minute… or a month… or a millennium.  The tip begins with a sliding step.  The walk begins only after a few stable steps.  I’m still at the start, but I’m starting over and thankful to be this far.