All the way up from northern DE

My brother Bill and his wife Sue drove all the way up here from their home in northern DE.
That’s at least 360 miles, maybe slightly more.
They encountered a horrendous traffic-jam driving up here. A trip which normally takes a little over six hours took seven-and-a-half.
Google, or MapQuest, whatever, says five hours his house to mine.
But obviously that’s not factoring in gas-stops, food stops or bathroom stops.
Nor are they factoring in parking-lot traffic-jams.
A few months ago I made the same trip (in reverse) to northern DE to attend a wedding.
My route went around Philadelphia on a Friday night. All the roads around Philadelphia were plugged solid, plus there were construction jam-ups farther north.
Help the grief-stricken widower (me), and check on him. Keep him company.
My beloved wife of 44 years died of cancer over three months ago. She was 68. I miss her dearly.
I doubt they met who they hoped they might meet, a confident guy in full command of his faculties,
Instead I’m devastated and heartbroken, way more than I expected to be. A hollow shell of my former self. I barely exist!
My condition became apparent as soon as they showed up. I started crying.
They came directly to my house instead of Baker Park in Canandaigua to walk my dog. It was raining lightly.
My brother Bill, who’s 14 years younger than me (I’m the oldest), probably has the best understanding of my condition, although not by much.
All my siblings have a pretty good understanding of my condition, but my brother Bill’s brother-in-law lost his wife of 33 years in a motorcycle accident.
My brother says his brother-in-law’s grief lasted two years, that his eyes were always teary.
I hope I don’t need to expect two years of grief, but it might be that. In fact, it might go longer.
Right now it seems like it will never end.
I’m okay at bedtime, but have an awful time in the morning.
At first we thought we’d take the dog to Baker Park. It was raining, but not very hard. A walk seemed doable.
But we only made it two times around instead of four. (The dog and I usually do four circuits.)
Time was moving quickly, and we wanted to make pizza back home.
This would involve hitting a supermarket for pizza fixings.
That would gobble 30-45 minutes, and making the pizza back home might take an hour.
My brother wanted to depart for home about 4, driving about half-way, then stopping for the night.
At the supermarket I was surprised how confident Sue was, and I’m not.
She asked a store-employee where the pizza-fixings were.
I can’t do that! (At least not currently.) No confidence at all. It seems to have been vaporized by my grief.
We found a pre-made pizza-crust, but then found better.
Sue set crust number-one aside where some clerk would find it. Again, I can’t currently do that.
I probably could before my wife died, but that disappeared.
Back home we set about preparing our homemade pizza.
In these situations I find myself executing the cleanliness and orderliness standards of my wife.
This happened last weekend when my friends were here to make tuna-fish casserole and spaghetti.
Probably the reason my house is not a mess (laundry and dishes piling up) is I’m being my wife.
I’m even making the bed. It’s just I feel awful.
An honest answer to the “How am I doing” question would be “concerning responsibilities, fine. But otherwise I feel terrible.”
While here my brother recounted the Kübler-Ross five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.
“I don’t expect anger or bargaining,” I said. “I seem locked in depression.
And sometimes I feel she’ll eventually return.”
“That’s denial,” he said. “It lasts a week or two.”
“Her death was factually obvious, but I couldn’t assimilate it,” I said.
“Then came a phase where nothing made sense, similar to a phase after my stroke.
That lasted a few weeks, but now things make sense. I just feel awful.”
“Keep going to that grief-share,” he said; “and things will eventually work out.
And stay in contact with your friends, especially that doggie-daycare guy,” who my brother met.
The doggie-daycare guy is probably my best contact with the real world; a person that seems to understand where I’m at, as opposed to all those that don’t.
“And if you need help, just call me,” my brother said.
“I have no idea what help is,” I said.
“Even if it’s just someone to talk to. Perhaps I could call every Sunday.”
“3 p.m.,” I said. “2 p.m. I call Linda’s mother.”
My brother called yesterday (Sunday, July 29) about 3:25. He was still driving home from his previous night’s stop.
“How ya doin’?” he asked.
The question I always dread.
The socially responsible answer is “fine,” but I feel awful.

• “Canandaigua” (“cannan-DAY-gwuh”) is a small city nearby where I live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 14 miles away. —Baker Park is a city-park therein, where I walk my dog. The park’s main feature is large athletic-fields, like soccer and baseball. I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• A dog-groomer in Canandaigua daycares my dog while I work out at the nearby YMCA. — I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named their “Wellness-Center,” usually two-three days per week, about two-three hours per visit.
• My wife’s name was “Linda.”