Small Changes

My life changed dramatically and irrevocably when Art died. That's obvious. What's not so obvious are the small changes in my every day life—things I do differently than I did when Art was alive—that have generally gone unnoticed. For some reason, I started to think about them this week. I'm not sure if there is any significance to the timing, but I guess it's worth examining.

Some of these changes have made my life easier in small ways; some have brought me some semblance of joy; and some seem just plain silly. For example, I'm eating a lot more onions and peppers then I did when I was cooking for Art. I love onions and peppers, but Art said they upset his stomach, so I rarely cooked them, even for myself. If a recipe called for onions, as many good recipes do, I would add a small amount, just for the flavor. I would either cut them really large so Art could pick them out (and put them on my plate) or cut them really small so they weren't visible. Amazingly, they usually didn't bother him when I did that.  I also eat more green beans. Green beans were the only vegetable Art didn't like, so I never cooked them even just for myself. I could never understand Art's aversion to green beans.They seem pretty innocuous to me, but he said they tasted "fuzzy." He used to say that "green beans were one of God's mistakes."

I've written about this before, but, while I'm on the subject of food, I need to confess that I'm still eating my dinner on a TV tray every night while watching the news, or a movie, or something I've taped on TiVo. It seems less lonely that way. Art and I always sat at the table to eat, either in the kitchen area or on the lanai, when weather permitted, except on nights (usually a Friday or Saturday night) when we had a good Netflix movie to watch. We found that the only way we could be sure we would both stay awake through the entire movie was to start watching it while eating dinner on TV trays. And, no matter where we ate our dinner, we almost always had a glass of red wine with our meal. Now, I rarely have wine with my dinner unless I have company or am eating in a restaurant. I also never cook on the grill, although it is something we did often when Art was alive.

I realize that focusing on the small changes related to food makes it seem like I'm obsessed with eating. I'm really not. However, I think it probably is a reflection of how important family mealtime has always been to us. When the family is all together, one of our great joys is to join forces to plan and cook good meals. That's probably why dinner time is still such a lonely part of the day for me.

Other small changes have made life a bit easier or have allowed me to do some things I enjoy, but rarely, or never, did when Art was alive. I now only have to do one load of laundry a week, I run the dishwasher every 7 to 10 days, I read in bed, I occasionally go out with friends in the evening to Happy Hour, or to a movie, and I always have full control of the TV remote.

Would I give all these things up if I could have Art back in my life? In a heart beat!

Revisiting Old Memories

I'm sitting in the O. R. family waiting room in a Chicago hospital waiting to hear news that my daughter, who is having back surgery, is out of the operating room and in the recovery room. From the moment we entered the front door of the hospital, my mind has been flooded with memories of Art and all the hospital and doctor's office waiting rooms I spent time in—sometimes with Art and sometimes by myself—during our year-long journey, first to find out what was wrong with him, and then, as he underwent surgeries, chemotherapy, blood transfusions… I'm in a different hospital, in a different city, in a different state, and the situation is not life threatening, but the feelings of anticipation and worry, and the silent prayer that everything will be okay, are the same. It's funny how the body remembers and reacts even when we try to distract ourselves.

Where Do I Go from Here?

Last Thursday, June 24, was the one-year anniversary of Art's death. It's not the kind of anniversary anyone looks forward to celebrating, but it is what it is. Knowing I didn't want to be alone in this empty house, I made plans to fly to Connecticut, where I could be with three of my children, and spent what would have been our 48th wedding anniversary on a plane. It was as good a place to be as any, I guess.

As it turned out, that dreaded anniversary wasn't as difficult as I had anticipated. The kids kept me busy during the day and we all went out for sushi that night. Art loved sushi, so it seemed like a good way to honor his memory. Although it was difficult to be there without Art, I couldn't help feeling  a sense of pride and joy in watching the children we raised together laughing, teasing each other and sharing memories of their Dad.

So, if I believe what everyone has been telling me, "the first year is the worst," then I guess the worst must be over. I've gone through all the significant dates—birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Eve, Valentine's day, our anniversary—without Art. I've learned how to do some things I'd never done before, because Art always took care of them. I've kept myself busy, made a few changes in my life, kept myself from falling apart… The problem is, I still have this big empty hole in my life that I can't seem to fill no matter how busy I keep myself. I can't imagine there will ever be a day that I won't miss Art, but I suppose it will eventually get less painful.

The truth is, we probably assign too much importance to the "first year" thing. It may be the worst, but everything doesn't suddenly get better once it's over. Still, now that it is over, maybe it's time to stop dwelling on all those significant dates and try to figure out where I go from here.