For 30 years, Larry was the driver, I was the navigator. With the help of AAA Trip-Kits and maps; later with printed pages from Google Maps, Hotels.com, and Groupons, he planned the route, made any necessary reservations. I just needed to make note of our departure date and time and organize the packing. Some trips were more pleasant than others though my tendency to procrastinate on the last minute details of packing the car for two weeks at the lake, usually resulted in five hours of silence on our seven hour trip each summer. In 2003, our twentieth anniversary trip through London and Great Britain included a disastrous rainy night on a ferry coming back at 2 a.m. from Dublin to a locked up B and B on a Bank Holiday weekend. That night we slept in the car. The hotelier in Bath listened to our itinerary, scheduled to see as much of John Wesley’s sites in the shortest amount of time, and asked, “Do you always take a forced March on holiday?”
In the midst of grief this summer, I lamented that Larry and I had no time for the retirement trips we had begun to anticipate in May of 2013. By February, 2014, he was on dialysis, tethered to machinery. We kept planning, kept trying. We went to the Rose Parade in Pasadena on the coldest January 1 in history, made three five a.m. trips to the dialysis center, and Larry never got warm. We went with Alta and Snoopy Smith to Peurto Vallarta, which involved arranging for cases of dialysis solution that required a different set up system to work effectively, discovering that Ambien was not the sleep aid drug for him (sitting up in a chair for two nights, brushing imaginary things off his arms, having visions). We had the good fortune of a thoughtful and caring tour guide who made allowances for Larry to stay in the van as we explored the area. Each trip was more and more work, and I began to realize I needed to take charge of the details. We made it to Hawaii for Abigail and Lenissa’s wedding, but Larry’s fall on the path to the beach lead to an infection and fever and two days of bed rest before we came home. He was determined to cruise to Alaska last May to see the glaciers, but was transported to the hospital in Juneau and missed the grandeur of sailing into Tracy Arm and watching ice sliding off Sawyer Glacier into the ocean.
Alta and Snoopy listened to my lament about not knowing how to recapture traveling in my singleness and suggested traveling with Freedom Tours, a regional company which caters to senior citizens, offering opportunity to experience a full range of events, attractions and activities throughout the state, as well as extended tours farther away. We went together to Leavenworth for OctoberFest, and with their company, had a good day. I signed up again last week to go to the Tulip Festival in the Skagit Valley.
With our wedding anniversary on April 9th, it was a trip Larry and I often made together. I wanted a do-over of our last effort two years ago, when we drove through congested traffic,on the warmest, sunniest Saturday of the month, four hours up, four hours back, Larry drove, but was too weak to get out of the car. We admitted that day how hard even the most simple trips had become.
As I sat on the bus, watching couples find their seats, I felt the pang of my aloneness. Fortunately I had a book to read. Yet, I listened to the pair of widows behind me, talking about how hard it is to live alone; I watched with envy as loving husbands helped wives into their seats, held their hands, exclaimed over the beauty of the flowers, posed for pictures, shared their ice cream cones.
Because I keep my days as full as possible, I expected to get home in time to attend my pottery class. My interior clock set off alarms when the bus made an unscheduled stop at the ice cream stand/vegetable and fruit market. It was more than my timetable, it was my need for control that went on alert. Sure, I didn’t have to drive through traffic. I didn’t have to find a parking place and walk further to the entrances of attractions. I heard Larry’s gentle kidding about having control issues, and recognized how long I have felt not as an actor, but as a spectator in my life. I have been re-acting as needed to the reality of Larry’s illness. I have been extending care 24/7 with few (if any) moments of taking my own needs into account. The fatigue of the last four years swept over me again, and I realized my difficulty in permission giving. I asked myself who I am letting drive the bus of my emotions, of my life, of my destiny, of my future.
My interior coach has been ahead of me. On April tenth, after a day of grieving the anniversary we could not celebrate, I discovered my new favorite store at South Center, filled with Papyrus brand cards, stationary, and gifts. Although I need no more coffee mugs, I carried my find to the cashier, paid for it and brought it home. Underneath a drawing of the Buddha are the words: “Let That Shit Go.”
It has been ten months. There are reminders every day of how hard and painful the last four months of Larry’s life were. How hope gave way to inevitable loss. How loss has become the background noise of my life. How efforts to gain control, find my footing, make a new plan, learn to let the shit go, remain constant.
No comments:
Post a Comment