My husband died

My husband died. One night he went to bed and just didn’t wake up the next morning. He was 51.

I miss him everywhere I go and in every thing I do, but I try to look for silver linings and smile when I find them. He died peacefully in his sleep – a silver lining. My family came to my aid and rallied like I’ve never seen them do before – a silver lining. I can finally throw away that ratty t-shirt of his that should have been forcibly taken away by the government years ago – a silver lining. Except now I want that shirt. And, of course, the seat is always down now – a silver lining.

My husband was the proverbial gentle giant. Standing six-foot-three with a belly like Santa’s, he never once raised his voice about anything. He looked like he could take a tree out with his bare hands if he wanted, but he never got mad. There was always the daily morning rant about the idiots on the ‘Opinions’  page in the paper, but even then he never got mad enough to write back with his own opinions.

And he had charm. Mason could charm a snake charmer. It would be hard to find a person who didn’t get along with him. He turned that charm into a career as a big-time ad guy on Madison Avenue, and was a man with more friends than you can imagine. At his memorial service, we had 150 programs made up, just to be safe. We ran out of them. The cathedral was packed. There wasn’t a person who knew Mason who didn’t come from far and wide to be there.

*****

I still share a laugh with him now and then. When an inside joke between the two of us pops up, I actually look around for him, wanting to share that knowing smirk. I talk out loud to him all the time. I point out stories in the paper that I think might get him riled. I let him know when bands he likes are coming to town. Then I eventually realize there is no one there. And I stop laughing.

So now our too-big king-sized bed has become a desk, with mail, magazines and even a table fan, on Mason’s side – things that stay there from day to day, depending on if I need to change the sheets. I still hear him rattling around the house, typing on his computer, squeaking the upstairs floorboards, letting me know he’s there. For a while, his name even used to show up on my Facebook contact list, as having just signed off. I missed him every time. I used to think he was coming back to play Farmville, his favorite Facebook game.

I’ve been through most of the horrid paperwork and other unpleasantries of losing him, but there is still much more to go. Much more than I can face right now. I’m living alone in a 5-bedroom home that gets bigger and more lonely every day. People keep asking me if I’m going to move, when I’m going to move, where I’m going to move, what kind of job do I think I can get. These are all important questions, but not ones that I can answer right now. I couldn’t if I tried. I don’t want to.

I recently read a book by a famous psychiatrist, Kay Redfield Jamison, who lost her husband. She wrote that “there is a time between times,” the time between losing your spouse and the time when you feel you are ready, or need, to face reality. That time between times, when you’re just allowed to grieve, is so necessary. For the inconsolable sadness it contains, there is something comfortable about it. It’s a time when no one makes you feel embarrassed when you cry, no one expects you to be back to work, no one expects much of you. They just let you be. And it just makes things so much easier, when the weight of the world is temporarily off your shoulders, that you never want it to change. I’m still clinging to that time between times with all my might, because I can’t face a world without Mason by my side.

20-Yr-Old Dog Avoids Papparazzi



Delilah



So I just spent a three-day weekend babysitting two dogs. Delilah is 14 years old and Cuda is 20, and they are both quite fragile. They have very specific diets, needs for frequent walks and basic 24/7 on-call care.  They are, however, quite lovable, and since I live only two doors away, I didn’t exactly feel put out by the request from neighbors who have certainly done their all for my dog.

The first morning I woke up there, I opened an eye and there were two dark brown eyes, inches from face. It was Cuda, letting me know that it was dawn and they needed to go out. It was more like 7:30am, but when you’re a freelance writer, time is relative. So we got up and did the go outside thing. Then we made the involved breakfast concoctions, which included pulverizing different amounts of prescription Deramaxx for each dog for arthritis, and mixing it in with Iams specialized kibble, Iams specialized wet food and a little warm water. Seven in the morning not being my best time of the day, I amazed myself each time I was able to accomplish this task.



Mandy



Then I went upstairs to make the bed so I wouldn’t get back in and fall asleep all day. When I shook out the covers and blankets, to my surprise, a little gray cat named Mandy went flying out of the sheets and across the room. I felt horrible, but she looked at me like, “Oh, it happens all the time,” and went about grooming what fur she had, having had all but her head and the tip of her tail shaved for the hot summer months.

I brought my camera along so I could make a quick slideshow of what we did while Mom and Dad were away, but Cuda would have none of it. Every time I lifted the camera to snap a shot, Cuda would, literally, turn tail and run off.  So I have pictures of Deliah, a shot or two of the humorously shaven Mandy, all cuddled up in the new dog bed, and Cuda’s butt.



Cuda's butt



The big concern about the dogs was if they were going to have messy accidents in the house, but I was lucky. Not a one. Though there was the walk we took to my house where I ran upstairs for less than a minute to do something before we walked back. Sure enough, when I came downstairs, there was a nice little gift for me in the middle of the TV room floor. Both dogs looked up at me as if to say, “I didn’t do it.” C’est la vie.

Then there was the groggy-eyed morning when I got to the bottom of the stairs and stepped in it. Literally. So I cleaned myself up, cleaned the rug up, moved over a few inches and stepped in it. Again. It was one of those dark patterned rugs that are all the more confusing at 7am. Like I said before, luckily, there were no messy clean-ups.

On my final morning on duty, it was mid-morning and Delilah came to visit me while I sat on the couch. I petted her and then she headed for the front door. Like a shot I got there at the same time she did, but not before a small trail of “bread crumbs” had been left on the living room floor. At least most of it got outside that time.

And now it’s time for me to leave, which I find bittersweet. Realizing what it takes to keep these dogs going, I am afraid to leave for the three hours before the owners get home. And they’ve grown on me even more. Even that silly-looking cat, who is totally lovable. But I will gladly say good-bye to the poops on parade, and thank the newspaper guy for delivering the paper in a plastic bag.

H-O-T Spells HOT, HOT, HOT!

Lately it has been hot. Really hot. Pukin’ hot. I don’t ever remember it being this hot. There have been health hazards issued in the past because of the heat, but this is the first time I ever thought they might actually apply to me. Just a mile away, an entire shopping plaza lost power due to all the extra power it was drawing by cranking up the air conditioning at all of its locations.

At our house, my husband claimed heat exhaustion and sequestered himself in the one air-conditioned room in our house for two days, emerging only to ferret out some food or take a quick trip to the bathroom. When I asked him to help me put in another air conditioner, he immediately cited the health hazards and ran back to the already air-conditioned room. I thought for a minute about the irony of the relief the second air conditioner would bring versus the 10 minutes of activity it would take to throw it in the window, and then I moved on. The edict had been issued - there would be no second air conditioner in the near future.

Then came the weather teaser. Two glorious, sunny low humidity days. One could actually function without a fan, or that still un-installed second air conditioner. No more spending money at random locations just to soak up their air conditioning. The sprinkler was actually being used for the garden. The pool was no fun though, because the water had gotten so hot from the prior scorching days that it wasn’t any relief to go swimming.

Boom! Boom! Boom! The following days brought lightning and thunderstorms, fierce at times, but fleeting. Then the sun would come out and it was if it had never rained at all. At least that muggy, post-storm air didn’t hang around to give everyone upper respiratory problems. I’m convinced the only reason it started raining was because I had decided to keep cool one day by hand washing my car with ice cold water and using my last water-ionizing filter to rinse off the car so it would dry spotless and I wouldn’t have to stand around in the scorching heat to dry it. It poured that night, and rained every day for three days afterwards. And now I’m out of ionized water filters.

So far, the only good to come out of this horrifically hot weather is that the dog got a bath. I stuck her in her doggie pool, and wet her down with the cold water from the hose and she didn’t move a muscle. I soaped her up and she didn’t shake it all over me, which is usually part of the ritual. And then I rinsed her off with the same cold water, and she let me. One little shake and that was it. I think if the pool weren’t filled with soap, she would have curled right up in the ice cold water. Now that told me how hot it really was.

Meet the Doldrums

What to do, what to do? I am wandering around the house today, unable to decide what I would like to do, or even what I don’t want to do that needs doing. But I am at a loss. It’s raining, so I decided to give myself permission to start a new book. I tried three and gave up on every one. There isn’t even anything on TV worth watching. And I have to be in the right mood to do nothing.

Anyone who has seen my house knows that virtually everything, inside and out, needs cleaning, decluttering or just putting away. I tried to tackle a particularly dusty task, but lost interest halfway, so now there are just piles of dusty things all over the floor. And sometime during the week, I picked up contact dermatitis from gardening, so now I’m afraid to go near my plants.

There is just this vacuous presence around me, keeping me from being interested in doing anything. Motivation seems to have left for the 4^th of July weekend. But what’s this? In the act of flipping through the dictionary to make sure I was using the word “vacuous” properly, the book fell open to the word “watercolor,” and now I’m thinking of that bag of watercolor supplies, and special, expensive, paper I had for the watercolor classes I’d taken last year. The bag is on a hook in the hall closet, where it’s been hanging ever since my last watercolor class.

Maybe I’ll dig out my supplies and work on my technique. I painted two pieces that were worth framing, so I know it’s not a lost cause to keep going. Who knows? Maybe I’ll crank out another “suitable for framing” piece.

How about that? My old friend, the printed word, just flops down in front of me and solves the doldrums of my day. Well, I’d better get to it. I’m actually looking forward to this project.

Migraines - Can you say torture?

I have a migraine. This one has been raging for two days and I’m out of migraine medicine. It’s pure torture. I used to think people who called in sick to work because they had a migraine were lightweights. Now I feel their pain. It feels like someone has driven a railroad spike through my head, directly over my right eye. Every once in a while that same someone twists that railroad spike, just in case I’d become numb to the original pain.

I’ve taken five different kinds of headache medicine since yesterday. Some lessened the pain, temporarily, but none has been able to conquer it. If I walk into a room with lights on, I reach a new level of immediately searing pain, and grope for the light switch with that kind of vision you get when a camera flash goes off in your face. At least maybe I’ll drop a pound or so because I’m too nauseas to eat.

I’ve got to cut this one short. The glare from the computer screen is just too much to bear right now. Hopefully this insanity will end soon, but for now I have to crawl back into my dark, quiet cocoon. Thank God for Law & Order marathons.

My All-Consuming Everything

I haven’t posted in a while. I’ve become totally consumed with a new project, to the neglect of my other projects, all of which have started to wither on the vine. I am slowly getting back on track, but not without that dreadful feeling of going back to the same ol’ same ol’. Yet these are the very projects that had that new car smell not long ago.

It happens to me all the time. I can’t seem to stay interested in anything for long. And when something new comes along, I’m all over it. I’m in it for the challenge. It’s like the proverbial “thrill is in the chase” for me. Once I have wrapped my brain around something and understand the logic behind it, my mind starts to wander.

I can’t be happy that I’ve mastered something and just go along being good at it. I’m constantly jumping to the next, more challenging, project, regardless of where I left off with the last. That’s probably why I currently have four writing gigs going at once, in three different genres. Shifting gears like that once or twice a week keeps me from losing interest in any one project. But with the acquisition of my latest job, which pays more than the other three put together, I’m thinking that maybe I should try to devote some time to getting good at just that, and staying that way. At least until the next thing comes along.

I’ve been writing hard for one source for nine months, but I just can’t make it pay. I think that the lack of reward vs. effort has been contributing to my reduction in submissions lately. And for two painful years, I’ve been writing short story after short story, with the best writing group I’ve ever been a part of, but feel like I’ve made marginal progress at best. Did I mention that if I can’t wrap my head around something, I get frustrated and lose interest, too?

Then there’s my blog. I like writing my blog, but feel it is a guilty pleasure - that the time I spend writing it takes away from time I could have been working on a paying gig. Hopefully, now that I’ve got a month’s worth of new writing under my belt, I’ll feel more inclined to give myself a break to get back to some of my other interests. As I said, I’m great at letting stuffy, and sometimes not so stuffy, projects fall by the wayside, but I always get back to the good ones.

Like my blog.

Start something, anything - you might finish it

　
I have three writing gigs going, and a house with six bedrooms, of which we use only one. Then there are five rooms downstairs, a laundry room and two big bathrooms. Not to mention the wrap-around porch. Oh, and the whole house is standing by a toothpick.

I know why the house is always in such a state of disarray, because sometimes it’s just too much. My husband helps where he can, but the lion’s share of keeping our lives together falls to me. Sometimes I decide I don’t feel like writing so I go to sort the wash. Then I realize I have nowhere to put all the fresh laundry because I still haven’t weeded out all the clothes that don’t fit or are out of style, because they might fit or come back into style one day. So I give up and decide to dust.

Big mistake. This house creates dust so fast that if I don’t dust every day, which I don’t, it gets out of control. Looking at this overwhelming task, even in just one room, I am immediately defeated and go look for something else to accomplish. I start to think about doing laundry, then remember the previous laundry dilemma and give up on that, too. And the vicious cycle continues.

I end up back at the computer to write, but my muse is nowhere to be found. Then I remember seeing a tweet the day before that said, “Write just one page, one paragraph, one sentence, one word…” So I dust off an old idea and try. It’s slow going. Very slow going. After 20 minutes I’ve written three sentences. They are three good sentences though. Pretty soon I realize that I’ve written that one word, that one sentence, that one paragraph and then some. I’m still not enthused about writing, but I keep going, thinking that now I can stop any time and not feel guilty.

Before I know it I’ve got a good start to my story and decide to keep at it. And I finish. It only needed to be two pages, but those two pages were nowhere to be found the last time I sat down to write. If only I could apply this theory to housecleaning - well, then I’d get no writing done because I’d be cleaning all the time.

So the house is going to stay in disarray. I still get paralyzed by writing sometimes, the way I get paralyzed when trying to figure out where to start the rest of my life, but at least each piece has a defined finish. Which makes it easier to start writing that first word. If only the house would stay clean after I finish, maybe I’d try folding that first t-shirt and then actually find a place to put it.