Slow recovery, sorta

The other day, two weeks ago, Tuesday April 17, 2012, my beloved wife of 44 years died.
The best friend I ever had.
She had cancer, a situation I blogged on this site many times. But if you need clarification, click this link, and read from the ninth paragraph on.
Devastation has been up-and-down. Sometimes I’m very sad and cry; other times I feel okay, especially if I’m occupied.
I’m also scared; I had a stroke almost 19 years ago.
But I recovered pretty well. I can pass for normal.
But my wife covered for me. I let her.
My speech is slightly compromised, so I avoided phonecalls and public contact.
If some mysterious hairball occurred, my wife did the problem-solving.
So for example if I couldn’t find something in the grocery, I avoided asking.
Now I ask. I can pass for normal.
A couple weeks ago, I left stuff in a wheelchair pouch at a hospital in Rochester, and then drove all the way home, about 20 miles.
Years ago I would have let my wife pursue the lost items. This time it was me. I got on the telephone and navigated the hospital’s insane answering-machines.
I got bounced all over creation, but managed to retrieve the lost items.
I guess I could do it if I had to.
Now I’m alone, and apparently I no longer just throw up my hands.
What’s really sad is the person I’ve become was never that apparent to my wife.
She was worried I couldn’t manage.
But apparently I can.
I have a huge lawn to mow, I make the bed every morning, and so far I haven’t eaten out or had anyone cook for me.
That is, I cook my own meals and continue to eat healthy.
Eating out is too salty, and I notice.
Last Spring when my wife was in the hospital I managed to stay ahead, although I was living out of the dryer.
And I ain’t livin’ out of that dryer. The contents get tossed on the bed to fold and put away.
Nothing ran out back then, and nothing has run out yet.
The difference this time is sadness.
We have lots of incredible memories together.
I can’t look at her picture without crying.
The other morning I even put the shams on the bed-pillows. My wife used to do that. The idea was protect the pillows from our Irish-Setter dog, which I’m not giving up.
The dog is suffering somewhat. There are no longer two of us to pay attention. “Where’s Mommy?”
But I was the boss-dog, so we’re managing. It would have been worse were it me that died.

• I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester, NY.