“God has not been trying an experiment on my faith or love in order to find out their quality. He knew it already. It was I who didn't. In this trial He makes us occupy the dock, the witness box, and the bench all at once. He always knew that my temple was a house of cards. His only way of making me realize the fact was to knock it down.”
― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
This weekend was a welcome departure from the normal widower fare. I did very little outside the apartment. I watched some movies. Cleaned. Did laundry. I purposefully did not work (much). I wish I could say I found "joy" this weekend, but I will say I wasn't as sad. Instead of wearing the cheap polyester leisure suit of grief (replete with disco-bells and absurdly wide collar) I was allowed the rare emotional equivalent of a sweatpants weekend.
Some of the things I learned or relearned this weekend, in no particular order:
1) I instinctively make my bed with hospital corners. This is leftover emotional conditioning (scarring?) from my military days.
2) My wonderful dog Chloe, who passed away last month, is somehow magically still shedding in my apartment. The jury is out in my mind if she's some kind of crazy Ghost Dog. I could build another dog out of the hair she's left behind, which I'm tempted to do except I'm sure it would either try to kill me Pet Cemetery style or the local villagers would storm my complex with pitchforks and torches (thank you, Stephen King and Mary Shelley!)
3) One no longer mops with a mop. There are all manners of contraptions to choose from, none of which look like the Raggedy Ann-style Rasta-dreadlocked mop of my youth. Why does the world hate mops, anyway? These weird sponges on a stick or dryer-sheet looking sticks don't cut it. If you think these are an improvement, you have been duped my friend. This is not progress. It's literally frustration on a stick.
4) I read for the first time in a long while this weekend I've dearly missed reading. The last two years I haven't retained anything regardless the number of times I'd re-read a paragraph. The five years before that I read medical journals and tips on care giving. Unless you're an even sadder and more depressed person than I, these things could never be mistaken for "pleasure" reading.
5) I spent a lot of quality time trying to remember the activities I enjoy. This will sound ridiculous to anyone who hasn't suffered loss / PTSD / depression or similar injustices of spirit and is not as easy as it sounds. The last seven years (the final of the last 17 years) were spent as shield bearer to my Soul Mate as she fought back cancer. When constantly in battle, you enjoy the quiet moments just being together. Going for a drive. Holding hands. The "little things" cliche is true when you spend every month unsure if this doctor's visit will be the one where the final shoe drops.
Now that I'm single (I could say a widower, half a person, alone, abandoned, but I think "single" is a sufficient euphemism especially as I really am having a good weekend), I've forgotten what I like to do. Sure, I know what I used to like to do but that's more like a vague theory than a memory. Ever try to recreate something your grandmother baked? You remember how much you loved it. You have the stupid recipe but you just can't quite get it. It's kind of like that. Only instead of a baked treat, it's your life.
No comments:
Post a Comment