Concerning my well-being

The one-year anniversary of my wife’s death occurred the other day, Wednesday, April 17th, 2013.
I was deluged with a torrent of cards, e-mails, and phonecalls concerning my well-being.
I was taken back by this, since I was always told I was a disgusting, reprehensible, Of-the-Devil ne’er-do-well.
The fact I had the awful temerity and unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to question this, indicated I was rebellious against the all-knowing wisdom of my judges.
So for people to be concerned about my welfare seemed untoward, at least unexpected.
College, long ago (’62-’66), was the first time I encountered a positive approach to myself. Adult authority-figures there valued my opinions. I was enthusiastically welcomed into philosophical discussions.
It was the complete opposite of what I got as a teenager, that I was “degraded;” as I was once told by a church-deacon.
My father was incensed I didn’t worship him. He used to clobber me.
I finally left home, tired of the madness, and worst of all I didn’t return, the prodigal son.
My wife contributed. She valued my very being, unlike my family. She didn’t surmise me as rebellious.
To my mind I was always borderline insane. My wife was stable, although apparently she considered suicide as a teenager.
That was because she was unable to believe in God like all her women relatives; that is, be a Christian.
For this she was labeled “guilty.”
Our college, Houghton College (“HO-tin;” not “how” or “who”) in western New York, was pretty religious, yet we both graduated unbelievers.
My attendance there was a compromise with my father, who wanted me to attend the same Bible-institute he attended.
But (Gasp!), I wanted a college-degree, and at that time his Bible-institute wasn’t a college. (Now it is; Moody College, at that time Moody Bible-institute.)
Moody was in Chicago, an extremely urban setting.
Houghton was extremely rural, more welcoming (less frightening) than Chicago.
Why my wife attended Houghton was never clear. I suppose it was because she had to attend a New York college to get financial-aid. —And other New York colleges wouldn’t accept her. She graduated as valedictorian of her high-school class, but it was a tiny class in the rural outback.
Despite that, I’d say she was smarter than me.
Insanity was always apparent in my mother’s family, though not overwhelming.
My mother would “lose it” at times, plus an aunt was committed to an asylum, and her family sundered.
My father came from a tortured past. Apparently he did quite well in school, and even skipped a grade.
His mother was very assertive, and as a product of the Depression he was required to “GET A JOB” as soon as he finished high-school — that is, not graduate college as he could have done.
His going to Chicago to attend Moody was perceived as “running away.”
He bought heavily into religiosity. It gave his life meaning — and made him feel morally superior to everyone else.
My father was not awash in self-worth, but religiosity gave him that.
The other thing I see one year after my wife’s passing is how extraordinary she was.
Prior to her death I took her for granted.
Although there were various distractions over our 44-year marriage.
As a bus-driver I attracted a lot of female attention. I’m told it was our frumpy uniforms; they signified a constant income.
There was one girl, a young high-school student, who was very attractive.
It came to a stand-off. Did I wanna switch or stay? I elected to stay. I decided I had done pretty good, so I was loathe to walk away.
Much earlier it seemed the insanity was getting the better of me. But I put a stop to it, and in so doing, I suppose, saved our marriage.
There were other female distractions, but I stuck with what I had. To my mind she was much better than the alternatives.
We pretty much thought alike. We finished each other’s sentences.
This all benefited me after my stroke. My wife was very committed, and may very well be why I recovered as well as I did. —Although I was ornery too, so I refused to listen when people told me I’d be a vegetable.
My wife used to say she didn’t wanna die and thereby miss all my snide remarks, twisted humor, and different thoughts.
She also covered for me after my stroke. She did things I lacked confidence doing, like phonecalls to solve problems.
I have since discovered I can pretty much do these things myself, so I regret I didn’t show her that. (She worried about me.)
So now that she’s gone, I see what an extraordinary person she was.
People tell me that, and now in hindsight I see it.

• The “prodigal son” story is Biblical; my father was very Biblical. A rebellious son returns broken to his family; which is what my father wanted when I left home. (The fact I didn’t indicated I was “hard-hearted” rebellious.)
• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs. My stroke October 26, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability.