choices

Two days ago, I realized something remarkable. I am facing choices now, and they are not between "worse" and "worser." They all have an emotional price, but none are about death.


One is moving. After Rich's death, I thought I would be out, like a shot, of this charmless house. It was temporary, chosen for location, ease of care, and what we talked about only briefly because it needed no further explanation -- I could sell it easily. Sixteen months later I'm still here, in part because I want to do more than simply escape, and in part because of wonderful neighbors who I've come to love, and who in many ways have saved my life.


But now I have committed myself to developing a new community where, along with about 45 others,  I will be living as soon as it is complete. Remaining here is now bearable because I know it is temporary.


Temporary: my mantra from the choiceless days. Everything was bearable because it was temporary. The surgeries, the loss of Rich's body, the last days.


Some things, of course, are permanent. Rich is staying dead. My only choice is to make this, too, bearable.


Candace

champagne and chocolate

On Sunday I went to the spa, my indulgence for the year. I'm a regular; the staff knows me.


"Can I get you anything else?" she asks, handing me my slippers.


"Ummm...champagne would be nice."


"Got it."


I laugh.


I exercise. I shower. I put on the robe for a respite in the Tranquility Room.


"Chocolate would be nice, too," I tell the staff person.


"Just put more out," she says.


And she points.


The champagne is in an ice bucket. The chocolate selection -- artisanal, four varieties bred in tropical locales -- is laid out in hand-thrown pottery bowls.


I stare.


"I was joking," I say.


"I thought you read the e-mail. Valentine's Day special."


Oh, right.


I sip. Good. I eat. Very, very good. I don't have to remember. Enjoying is enough.


Candace

bumped

If you have been suffering from metaphor deprivation, you have come to the right place.


A few weeks ago, backing out of my driveway, I forgot a small thing. To look. Which, normally, would not be a problem on this low-traffic street. But at that moment a big brown UPS truck was making a delivery at a neighbor's house, and we met. It could have been worse. The truck's left front panel was crunched while the rear-mounted spare tire absorbed most of my impact. 


Not to worry, said the UPS supervisor who was summoned to the scene. It was only fiberglass, he said; we have a mechanic who can pop it out. Are you okay, he asked. I was grateful for their kindness; no doubt, this was my fault.


Because the damage did not affect any function, and I'm considering trading in the car come spring, the skewed tire mount remains, largely unnoticed unless until examined closely. 


Then, today. I emerged from my morning coffee spot to find a note on the windshield. It was the name and phone number of a witness who recorded the license plate number of someone who smashed into my front right bumper.


I called him, we met, I thanked him. I filed a report with the police, and within an hour I had photos, the hit-and-run driver had been issued a ticket, and now it's up to me to contact my insurance agent and, perhaps, have this repair made. But this, too, is only cosmetic, though the damage is obvious. Still, it could have been worse.


So, these are the days. I feel banged up from all sides, though most wouldn't notice, most of the time. I'm still functioning, even if I can't see where I'm going, and I get hit just standing still.


And I will try to get this blog back on track.


Candace

growing up

A Happy New Year to all. Somewhere, in the waning days of a year wandering in fog, I lost the thread of this blog. I was trying to move forward without knowing my starting point, without having sure footing. Nothing unusual in this, I know; if we waited for firm ground and fixed direction, we never would have left the womb.


What I realized I needed most was this: To Grow Up. And I'm not speaking of my battles with the IRS and hospital bills and other mundane matters. It is in a way I am reluctant to admit, but some lessons of the past two months have finally hit home.


Living with Rich, I assumed everyone was good, honest, trustworthy. Well, maybe not. I wasn't that stupid. Let me re-phrase. Everyone was not good, but that didn't matter. Rich was the antidote to whatever evil was in the world. And if something bad happened -- it happened. That wasn't the way of my world. That wasn't the norm. No sleep lost, no lessons learned.


Now I am suspicious. Of new relationships, of repair men, of any offer that seems too good to be true. So far, no serious wounds, only my loss of innocence. I don't like this way of existing. It doesn't come naturally to me, and in my heart -- the place where Rich permanently dwells -- this doesn't feel right. I fear I am losing my core belief, my knowing that this world is perfect. All we need to do peel away some of the nasty pieces, but can I do this without becoming entangled in them?


The adventure continues.


Candace

joy unbound

Because it is so fragile, I am reluctant to put this into any container, even something as sturdy as words.


It is joy.  A release that has come, and I fear explaining will destroy it.  


But I will try, a little.


The Year of Mourning is officially over.  Not grieving, no; but my view must now change, moving from death to life, from the past to the future.  To accomplish this, I am making lists, and soon I hope to act upon them.  About my relationships (a question mark, of course); about moving from my house (within a year, and this is already in motion); about my writing (stuck, but I have those lists...)


I wish I could say more. But for now, I will simply cradle what is, as I once cradled grief.


Candace

birthday boy

Yesterday I bought a 2011 calendar.  A big decision, every year.  Into what container will I be counting down my life?


This year's was a plain, just-the-facts day-by-day in a faux medieval binding.  In truth, I didn't buy it until May and paid 50% off the normal price, surprised that the rest of the world was already five months into another year.  Looking back, a lot of white space remains.  


For 2011, I wanted something that, in itself, would be sufficient; a Sabbath calendar, existing outside of time.  So I rejected the dailys filled with flowers or famous paintings; ditto for those designed for writers, for runners, for procrastinators (I'll think about this one).


In the end I chose one new to me:  Chris Hardman's Ecological Calendar: A New Way to Experience Time. While small print follows the Gregorian Calendar, front-and-center is a reminder that our days are more than "a march of numbers, a business machine telling us when to be where."


This calendar reminds us where we already are, infinitesimally small creatures on a tiny plant circling a star that is one of 200 billion in our Milky Way galaxy, and the Milky Way is one of at least 200 billion galaxies in a universe about 13.7 billion years old.


This is not to say we are insignificant, or that how we use our time is trivial. Even if the day is "blank," we are part of something ancient, magnificent, and beyond our ultimate comprehension.


So I think these thoughts as I weep on Rich's birthday. Not because his life was so small, because I now understand how one life, deeply lived with another, can contain it all.  And I don't think it's a coincidence that this day which we call Tuesday, 9 November, is in the calendar marked as "ForestMulch" in the season "Fall of the Leaf."  


And a sweet-fragranced rose is in front of me, picked this morning, the last of the season.


Candace

serendipity

A few days ago, a friend said she was having a great day.  Everything was serendipity; it appeared that no matter what needed doing, it would happen in a most excellent way.  And as each event confirmed this belief, her confidence grew.  When she accidently knocked over a portable heater, I murmured well, maybe not everything...

"No," she insisted. "See?  It didn't catch on fire!  It didn't break!"

I laughed, and agreed.

"But why can't this be all the time?" she said.

I was in a poetic/pontifical mood.  It can, I said.  Become a lover with serendipity.  Then, even when you're not living together, you will yearn for the other, have the qualities of the other, you will want to hang out together more and more.

"Hey, you're good," she said.

But, as is usual these days, I was also talking to myself, and when finished not quite sure what I was talking about.  Days past, with a flesh-and-blood lover?  Or now, except that my lover is:  Grief, First Name; Loneliness, Surname.  And Rich is this lover's middle name, wrapped in the midst of first and last.

I don't want to leave this lover.  I do want to learn how to live with what is tearing off piece after piece of me, breaking and catching fire.  

Candace