Cancer Sucks!

There is no avoiding the fact that the next three months are going to be difficult for me. There are too many not so happy memories of what was going on in my life during this time period last year. When Art finished his round of chemo last March, he was feeling relatively healthy and we were hopeful, if not for a cure, at least for a long remission. In less than a month, it became clear that there would be no remission. It was pretty much all down hill from there. There were a few happy moments, but we were primarily consumed by the desperate search for some way to eradicate the lymphoma before it killed him. Although we put up quite a fight, cancer won the battle.

While I continue to try to come to terms with how and why Art died, three of my friends are now involved in their own desperate struggles to keep cancer from claiming their husband's lives. It breaks my heart to hear their stories of the unrelenting pain, the treatment side effects—hair loss, mouth sores, difficulty sleeping despite extreme fatigue—and of the hope that maybe the next treatment will be the one that finally works. I wish I didn't know what they are going through, and I wish there were something I could do or say to help them. At best, I can only encourage them to keep themselves informed, explore all the options, and (this is the hard one) get as much rest as possible, to keep their minds clear and their bodies strong for the fight. Cancer sucks, but it doesn't have to always win the battle.

Cleaning Out the Closet

It's been a bit over a month since I finally took Art's clothes out of our closet. I'm not sure why it has taken me so long to write about it, but it may be the same reason that it took so long for me to do it. It's so final.

For a while after Art died, it was upsetting for me to go into the walk-in closet we shared and see his clothes hanging there; but it was even more upsetting to think about removing them. Although I knew it would have to be done eventually, I just couldn't bring myself to take that step. After awhile, I think it was somewhat comforting to open the closet door and see his clothes still hanging there. Don't get me wrong. There was nothing morbid about it.  I didn't bury my face in his shirts in an effort to detect the scent of his aftershave (he didn't wear cologne). It was just such a familiar sight, and I wasn't ready to change that.

Ironically, it was Valentine's Day when I finally did it, with my daughter's help. There was nothing symbolic about choosing that day. It just happened to be a time that worked for both of us. Surprisingly, the act of removing Art's dress shirts, golf shirts, golf shorts, and long pants from hangers, folding them and placing them in boxes for donation to Goodwill, wasn't as painful as I had anticipated. It was sad, but not painful. What was painful, was seeing his half of the closet so empty.

In the weeks since that day, I have moved some of my clothes to fill in the empty spaces. It helps. I still have to deal with his shoes, and the coats, suits, tuxedo, sweaters and other things that are stored in other closets in our 4-bedroom home. And his golf clubs are still sitting in the garage—just the way he left them.

Cooking for One

It's been eight months since Art died and I haven't yet adjusted to shopping and cooking for one.  And eating alone still leaves me feeling sad. I have always enjoyed cooking, but I'm not finding much joy in it lately—at least not on a day-to-day basis. I have had opportunities to cook for company during the holidays and in recent weeks, and I found that enjoyable, but cooking for one still seems like too much of a chore. I often start out the day with a plan about what I'm going to cook myself for dinner (from "scratch"), but as dinner time approaches, I, more often than not, talk myself out of cooking what I had planned, and shift to "Plan B."

Plan B might involve scrambled or poached eggs and toast, plus fruit of some kind; or heating up some frozen "pot stickers"from the family sized bag I bought at Costco and keep in the freezer for just such an occasion; or opening a can of Wolfgang Puck soup and having that with some crackers and, maybe, some cheese. One of my favorite Plan B items is Madras lentils, an all natural vegetarian dish made with lentils, red beans and spices in a creamy tomato sauce. It is available at Costco in a box (TastyBite brand) containing 4 individual foil serving packets that can be warmed in a saucepan of boiling water, or emptied into a bowl and microwaved. Sometimes I eat it over rice or make a small side salad to go with it. Other times, I just eat it with a slice or two of bread, preferably whole wheat, of course. Either way, it is a delicious, nutritious and satisfying meal that can be prepared in a matter of minutes.

On days when I'm feeling more ambitious, I might cook something that requires a bit more prep time, such as a stirfry, made with chicken, whatever fresh vegetables I have in the refrigerator, and rice. I keep individually wrapped, boneless chicken breast quarters in the freezer for this and other quick dinners. I also keep a bag of uncooked shrimp in the freezer. I love shrimp and often sauté a few with olive oil, garlic, and lemon juice, and add them to a Caesar salad; or add some chopped fresh tomatoes and serve them over pasta or seasoned white beans. When I am in the mood to actually spend more than a few minutes cooking an evening meal, I try to make enough so that I have leftovers to eat for lunch—or for dinner on a "Plan B" night. I do try to maintain a relatively healthy diet and am, generally, careful to avoid the temptation to fill up on snack foods. I'm also fortunate to have many invitations to eat out, which gives me an opportunity to eat some of the favorite things that I wouldn't take the time and effort to cook for myself.

Obviously, I am not the only person in the world faced with the prospect of cooking for one. There are other people who live alone, either by choice or happenstance, who successfully deal with it every day. I am confident that I will eventually reach that point. Like so many other adjustments in this life I didn't choose, it's just going to take some time.

Surviving Valentine's Day

I don't think I've ever been so aware of the advertising frenzy surrounding Valentine's Day, and the media attention given to this, what I consider to be, minor holiday than I was this year. I suppose it's not surprising, since this is the first time in nearly 50 years that I have been without a serious "love interest." Granted, there are Valentines for parents to give to their children; for children to give to their parents; for students to give to their teachers; and for friends to give to their "just friends"; but, let's face it, we all know that the true focus of Valentine's Day is romance—at least, from the perspective of advertisers and the media.

The funny thing is, Art and I never really did much to celebrate Valentine's Day. When we were first married, he had a job that paid him once a month on the 15th of the month. Unless we planned ahead, we were lucky to have enough money left to buy each other a card, let alone a gift. Over the years we may have occasionally exchanged gifts, or gone out for a special dinner, or, more often, cooked a special dinner at home. After he retired and moved to Florida, we did start going out with friends for a special Valentine's Day dinner; and, when Norman Love opened up a chocolate shop nearby, Art started giving me a box of delicious, and decadent, chocolates; but we never made a "big deal" out of it (no diamond jewelry or long-stemmed red roses).

Now that I'm a widow, I have developed a new found sympathy for the Charlie Brown's of the world. Many people, under normal circumstances, may be perfectly contented with their "singleness." Some may have even chosen to remain single, because they value their independence. Others may not have chosen to be single, but have lost a spouse through death or divorce. In either case, when Valentine's Day rolls around, thanks to the wonderful world of advertising, it's difficult not to feel a bit like a "loser."

"I Dreamed a Dream"

In my dream, he was standing there,waiting for me with his arms outstretched and smiling his beautiful smile. "I missed you so much," I said as I ran into his arms. "Life is too short and 10 days is too long for us to be apart." The dream was so real that I thought I could feel him hugging me back. But, of course, he wasn't. It was just a dream after all. This isn't the first dream I've had about Art since he died—and it's not likely to be the last—but it was the most real and it left me with an overwhelming feeling of sadness that I couldn't shake all day. Just another aspect of the grieving process.

I'm really not into analyzing dreams, but it did seem strange that I had the dream the night after I arrived in Honolulu for a vacation (and to spend some time with my college professor daughter who was there chaperoning a group of students) and I was going to be there for 10 days. I suppose the dream reflected my mixed emotions about making the trip. On the one hand, I needed some time away and I was looking forward to spending time with my daughter. On the other hand, it was a long way to travel by myself and the destination was Hawaii—my favorite place in the world, and a place where Art and I had vacationed three times before. I knew I would have to deal with some memories, but they would be happy memories and, because Art and I had never spent any time on Oahu (we preferred Maui), there weren't likely to be many "triggers" there. Of course there were more than I expected.

Although my vacation started with an unsettling dream, I was able to rest, relax, and have a nice time. My daughter and I didn't travel to Honolulu together, and while I was there, she was busy with the students during the day, so I had quite a bit of time by myself. Taking this trip gave me a taste of what it might be like to vacation alone—to make all the arrangements and fly that long distance alone, managing the luggage and the tips and the hotel; to walk beautiful beaches or explore new places alone; to eat alone and sleep alone in a hotel room… I'm not sure I'm the type, but I guess time will tell.

Art and I had already planned how we were going to celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary. We were going to go to Maui with the whole family. I never dreamed we wouldn't be able to do that.

Over another hurdle

Everyone tells me that all "the firsts" are the hardest, so now that Christmas is over, I guess I can say I survived another "first."  Actually, I found the weeks leading up to it, and the days following, to be more difficult than the actual day itself. I found the pre-holiday frenzy, with all the talk about cards and gifts and holiday entertaining, somewhat stressful, probably because I wasn't participating in any of it. That really should have been a good thing—I think I've done my share of complaining about the commercialization of Christmas in the past—but I just couldn't shake the feeling that I was missing out on something.


Because all four of my "kids" were planning to fly down to spend Christmas with me, we decided to forgo gift giving, so there were no presents to buy. I did intend to send cards this year—something I hadn't done last year because of Art's illness—and even got the cards I'd purchased in a post-holiday sale two years ago out of storage. But in the end, I couldn't bring myself to do it. That turned out to be the most difficult part of the holidays for me. As cards began to arrive in the mail, too many of them were addressed to "Mr. and Mrs.," a painful reminder that there were many friends from our past lives, friends we only communicate with during the holidays, who did not know that Art had died; and, because I didn't send cards last Christmas, many of them didn't even know he'd been ill. Before another year goes by, I know I need to communicate with these friends, all of whom Art and i cared about even though we didn't communicate regularly. That is my New Year's resolution. 


Thanks to my wonderful adult children and their significant others, and my sister and brother-in-law, Christmas eve and Christmas Day were filled with good food, good company, and an abundance of love. To honor Art, we put candles in empty red wine bottles, and felt his presence. There were tears, of course, but there was more laughter than tears. And that is just the way Art would have wanted it.

The Things I Took for Granted

I don't think I ever took my husband for granted, but since his death, I've realized that I did take for granted many of the things he did for me, especially after he retired. Nearly every week I discover something new he did that is now my responsibility. The list is endless: he took care of the pool and did all those chores that are unique to Florida—like power washing the lanai, outdoor furniture and other places that are prone to developing mold; he washed the windows on a regular basis; he took care of my car, making sure the oil was changed, tires rotated, and the insurance and licensing was up to date; he changed the air filters in the air-conditioning system and arranged for the yearly inspections; he handled the finances and paid the taxes; he took out the garbage; he opened jars that were sealed too tightly, got things down from high places, did the heavy lifting…And he always, ALWAYS, put up the Christmas tree. He took it down too and put everything away—neatly, in special storage boxes. That alone made me the envy of all my women friends.

On a bad day, I'd say there's not much to envy about me now. But on a good day, I realize how much I've learned about living alone and dealing with the everyday issues that I never even thought about before, because Art took care of them. I've learned a great deal about myself too. During this past year, I've found an inner strength that I never knew I had. I guess that's something to celebrate.