To date – as of right now – I have lived 334 days
without Bob’s physical presence in my life.
10 months; 8,008 hours & 29 minutes.
I am living the best I know how.
Solo.
And dying a little each minute of every day.
There are days Bob’s physical death still seems so
surreal. Those are the days I manage to get through the day – but have no
fricking idea how-what-where-when-or why. As I crawl into bed, I ask myself where
the day went so quickly; and what I did with it.
Other days, when the amputated part of my bleeding
heart starts throbbing and forcing me to feel the full force of his absence in
my new life … the “knowing” literally sucks the air our of my lungs, leaving me
gasping for breath and shaking like a leaf in one of Fall’s windy furies: alone
& desperately hanging on.
And some days I actually hear myself enjoying
parts of my life: I am conversing with friends, and I am even laughing. And I know
Bob can see me and hear me. Bob is still alive – just not in the flesh. Bob is
more alive now then he has ever been.
BUT MAN! I.M.I.S.S.M.Y.M.A.N.
This morning I woke up crying.
My new life was missing Bob.
Even in my sleep.
I woke up remembering his hands – and how they
felt on me. I remember how they held a hamburger before his teeth bit into it.
I remember how his hands held the steering wheel … and how his large hand would
reach for my hand over the car console & curve tenderly around my small
hand; almost covering my hand completely. And sometimes how he would
tickle the palm of my hand with his long fingers while smiling his sexy smile
and wiggling his eyebrows playfully at me while I laughed.
I know Bob’s hands and his hands' actions ... his touch by heart.
My heart remembered what it felt like to have his
arms around me; to have my life wrapped up in his love.
I woke up crying.
My life misses my husband.
Bob was a tall man: 6’2” … I had to stand on my
toes to kiss his check – and sometimes, in a playful mood, he would sweep me off
my feet and swing me around in a circle while I squealed like a little girl before
he set my feet back on the ground. My ears ring with the memory of how we both
laughed at our silliness.
He had to bend over and lean his arms on the kitchen
island to look into my eyes. Bob does not have to be here in the flesh for me
to remember what it was like to stand next to my gentle giant.
I can feel Bob’s energy all around me, even though
he casts no shadow any longer.
This afternoon, I drove into town to pick up a couple cases of bottled
water, and become a bona fide member of the Senior Center.
At Winco, I loaded 6 cases of water into the back end of
the Highlander … and then I drove a few feet further down the road to pick up my Membership
Card. And I cried passing under the overhead traffic light, on my way to the
Senior Center.
My new life was missing Bob.
While I was standing at the counter, paying for
my card, an old friend of ours spotted me, and I heard, “Hey! Val!” I turned
around, and there was Denise, smiling and coming towards me. She is a widow
too. 2 years older than me. We chatted, exchanged phone numbers, and promised
to get together – I like Denise, and though she and Bruce were more Bob’s
friends than mine (Bruce and Bob were friends all through High School & their
first marriages, and Bruce’s dating of Denise before Bob & I became a
couple), I think she and I can become close friends – we have an air-tight
bond already called Widowhood. We can talk about our husbands and share our
lives and memories with each other (things we can’t share with our children);
we will not be dwelling in/getting lost in the twilight zone.
Membership Card effective from today through 2020
When I settled back in the car, I thought about
the step I had just taken: to make a decisive decision to become part of
something by myself – this decision was not a joint decision made with
my husband. I did this solo. Aside from Denise, which I knew a
little bit before, any friends I gain here, at the Senior center will be made
entirely on my own … except for Denise, they will all be strangers to me. None
of them – besides Denise – knew Bob. That is a bittersweet thought. Bob was a
great guy to know.
Everyone felt this way about Bob, not just his High School pals. Bob was liked by everyone who ever had the pleasure of meeting him.
I sure miss Bob.
And somehow, I have survived this Widowhood
Journey, just like Bob knew I would this time last year. Bob is still the wind
beneath my wings – and his love will help me soar above the debilitating sorrow
when it strikes out of the blue. For no apparent reason other than my new life
is missing Bob in it.
I am learning to roll with the rebirthing metamorphosis
that is taking place. It is an ongoing process: my old life came undone at 8:05
a.m. last December 14th, 2018 … and I have been running around like
a chicken with its head cut off, trying to find lingering remnants of Bob in
the lives of family members for the better part of this year: but he is not
there; their lives do not hold any remnants of him in them. Only MY memories
and MY love honor him and keep my husband’s memory alive. So, this month – a full
year from when Bob told me I would learn to live again, “… because we both know
Val, that whatever you set your mind to do, is as good as done …”, I have
arrived here – in this moment of decisive decision.
Exhausted.
And somewhat tousled.
But here. In the present. Establishing roots and catapulting
my new life forward.
Solo.
Decisively.
And the kids are partly responsible for that
decisive decision to send my tap root down deeply in establishing a new life, here.
Locally.
I have decided ... once and for all ... to stay put &
build a new life here. Locally – in the home Bob bought & made for me.
Permanently.
The road Elohim has laid before me has not been a
smooth one. It has been filled with blind spots and poor GPS readings. I have
been blinded, sideswiped, near T-boned, and steered by cruel emotional high-jackers
down rough-rutted-holey goat trails where I was abandoned and left to find my
way back home: completely alone for the first time in my entire life. But I
made it through safely.
Because Elohim was faithful.
And Bob’s love surrounds me.
I also received news this evening that another
old friend’s brother had passed earlier today. It was expected news, but still
hard to hear. My thoughts go out to David and his family members. Bob worked
with David’s Dad, as well as with David when he was a logger. I have known
David & his family for 53 years – ever since my family moved here in 1966
from Minnesota. David was a grade above me in school - Debbie was in my class. She was my sister ramona's best friend all through childhood and early adulthood. David's first wife, Marla & I, were friends for 30 years - until cancer finally claimed her: our children grew up together. I didn’t know Dwaine as well as I knew David and Debbie, because
Dwaine was older, but what I remember about Dwaine was that he was always
smiling.
Death is always lurking.
And somehow – some way – we survive it’s toll on
our lives.
I don’t know about anyone else dealing with the
toll death extracts from us, but I am tired. Living without Bob these past 10
months feels like an endurance test I wasn’t sure I could endure as the stresses
piled on/up – I could actually feel my heart race and then stop … to sputter to
life again. It still limps along, trying mightily to fully ignite. I am sure
there were times my blood pressure spiked as I was forced through obstacle
courses designed to test my physical, emotional and spiritual limits. Though it
was never really diagnosed by a physician, I KNOW my breath stopped several
times … and I still experience breathlessness: separate from the environmental asthma issue.
My old life desperately missed Bob, and went
through a Period of Adjustment that lasted – well, frankly, it is STILL
going through a period of adjustment.
My new life misses Bob in it.
Neither life gave me a chance to train for this
endurance test; it caught us both off guard. As far as we knew, no one was
supposed to die yet; certainly not Bob when I took him to ER August 29th,
2018.
I was unprepared for the endurance test I was
expected to engage in.
I am still unprepared.
Even now, at this very moment, my amputated heart
is trying to process what has happened, and my sputtering brain is trying to
drag me back to the Land of The Living.
This has been going on for 47-1/2 weeks.
I am passing {1st’s} milestones with
each passing week.
And each month I become stronger.
I am healing.
And I am no longer going
around obstacles that keep me hamstrung … I am leaning into them & blowing
through them … on my way towards the goalpost touchdown.
I intend to win this endurance test.
Solo.
Decisively.
Perhaps not with flying colors, but certainly
with an Award.
Even if I have to design it and give it to
myself.
Bob would be proud of me … I can almost hear him
laughing with my small successes and applauding my small halting steps forward ;-)
Bob, 2016
I love you, Babe.
Always.
OX
