All right? Not yet.

Walking arm in arm with my thirteen year old granddaughter from the Farmer’s Market to lunch, I said, “Lluvia, I love having you with me and spending time together, but you need to know that Grandma won’t need you to be with me 24/7 for very long. I’m going to be all right.”

It was the day after Larry died, and for the next week everyone was on Grandma watch, making sure I ate, slept, had someone with me to help make decisions, someone to drive my car, take me wherever I needed to go, remove reminders of constant medical care from the house. I was grateful, I was tired, I was numb. As I reassured my family that I was going to be all right, it was a way to assure myself. It was my way of getting through for three years. It was drawing on my survival mode from forty-five years before, widowed at 24, keeping the promise I made to my military husband, headed to Viet Nam, to be strong, to be brave. It all kicked in again.

These days I find myself having conversations with friends and acquaintances who mention something from Larry’s Memorial service and I realize I hadn’t known they were there, or I have forgotten. I thought I was prepared to keep track, to be able to say thank you, to acknowledge their caring, to let their love uphold me. Maybe not, until now.

I also hear myself retelling that last week in the hospital, reliving the very last day, the day I knew Larry was dying, when he was having visions of “the girl in the yellow dress” standing at the foot of his bed. Waiting? When he was asking over and over why he was in a hospital bed when he had just been sitting in another room, filled with light. Strong again and free from pain. When he unwrapped and offered me an imaginary piece of chocolate. Sharing his love for me.

I left that afternoon to go to the doctor. I had never recovered from the hacking cough and laryngitis I experienced on our trip to Alaska. It had been six weeks. When she diagnosed a sinus infection, an ear infection, and bronchitis, she prescribed antibiotics, an inhaler, and codeine laced cough syrup. She urged me to go home to rest. Larry and I talked once that evening on the phone. His doctor called to update me. I went to bed. I slept.

When the phone announced the call from St. Peter’s Hospital at 6 am, I knew. I drove to a nearly empty parking lot, parked at an angle near the front door. I walked past the hand lettered sign on his hospital room door which said, Do Not Enter. 

The room was sterile, all tubes and machines removed. His face was shaved. His hand was still warm.

Sometimes I think I should have stayed that night, I should have been there, I should have been holding his hand when he died. He should not have died alone. I think there should have been last minute assurances that he could let go, that it would be easier if I told him again I would be all right.

I’m tired of “shoulding” myself. 

February 10, 2014, when he was first hospitalized with renal failure, when he was so very sick, we weren’t sure he would live. His words to me in the emergency room were, “I want you to know I’ve had a good life.”

It was then we said our preliminary good-byes, when I first gave him permission to let go of this world, that he needn’t worry about me, I would miss him, but I would be all right.  I scoffed when he told me he wanted me to get married again, to find love. I knew that the pain of another loss would be more than I can bear. I was certain that even with a kidney transplant, his life would be limited, restricted. I anticipated this loss for the next three and a half years.

It washed over me with the force of a tsunami this week. I knew he was dying. I went home. I would not, could not stay to give him permission to let go of this world. Although it was the most healing thing for his body, to release his soul, I could not bear it. I am waiting to be all right.

Rearranged

I am successful selling furniture-- Larry’s power lift recliner, his desk chair, his dresser.  Repurposing spaces to remove triggers of emotion beats moving, I think. One small discovery was a carved stone turtle, a recent gift from a neighbor, which had gone missing during a visit by grandchildren. Inquiries of whether they had played with it, added it to the toy basket of my wind-up toys, or might have dropped it between the cushions in the couch all were met with innocence and denial. I discovered it, head broken off, as I moved the love seat.  It seems repairable, as soon as I find that super glue. Hiding it must have been prompted by fear that I would be angry and the perpetrator would get in trouble. Not so. There are many more important, more valuable things in this life than things.

I seem to be nesting. Rearranging my life. Reclaiming spaces. Discarding artifacts. Gifting stamp and coin collections, sorting and boxing books, donating shoes and clothing. I bump into bits and pieces from life with an invalid. Finding the digital thermometers for daily temperature charts, the ever present cough drops, boxes of kleenex, the scale set to weigh in kilograms, low sodium foods, protein powder, protein bars, bottles of vitamins and supplements. I cancel the newspapers, the cable TV service, close credit card accounts, sell a car, fill garbage bags. I have second thoughts and sign up for Hulu and Netflix.

Letting go of possessions has been easy. Letting go of patterns of behavior, expectations, feelings of grief and loneliness has been harder. I travel alone. Driving to the cabin with an audio book to keep me company, embarking on a cross country flight without needing wheelchair assistance, nor medical equipment, nor a suitcase full of supplies, no priority for early boarding, no one to hold my hand when taking off and landing.

The day I unplugged the telephone I was surprised by grief. The last point of connection to hope for a someday miracle, the last symbol of the constant anxiety of being available at all times for the possibility that a kidney donation had come our way, that an offer of life would be made. The end of the frustration, the anger, the disappointment, the impossible dream. It provided relief.

Larry’s former office is now a guest bedroom. I gained skills with roller and paint brush, conquered some power tools, and wrestled a queen size mattress from one room to another. The walls are now somewhere between the color of marmalade and nasturtiums. His favorite print of Don Quixote is all that remains.  As I walk past the open door, I am comforted by the change, the sign of hospitality, the possibility of unscheduled visitors, late night conversations, the freedom from routine, the banishment of shadows.