Chick-magnet

Jim’s new car.

Every Wednesday night I eat out at a restaurant with a guy like me who lost his wife.
I met him about a year ago at a church-sponsored grief-share we were attending at that time.
He was distraught, so I thought I could help him. I too was distraught right after my wife died.
The restaurant is just east of Canandaigua, so I pulled into its parking-lot after my long half-hour trip.
Jim’s truck was not there, but the white SS Camaro pictured above was.
So I pulled in behind the Camaro, and glanced at it as I headed toward the restaurant entrance.
I figured Jim was not there yet, but he was sitting at our usual table.
“Where’s your truck?” I asked.
He pointed at the Camaro.
“You bought that thing?” I said. I shook his hand.
Jim and I are both car-guys.
“What motor?” I asked.
“6.2 liters, the Corvette motor,” he said.
A lady who eats with us, who lost her husband, walked in, so Jim waved.
“So where’s your truck?” she asked.
I hadn’t sat down yet, so I pointed outside to the Camaro.
“Oh, a pretty white Camaro,” she said.
“Not just any Camaro,” I said. “An SS.”
“I don’t know all that letter stuff,” she meekly commented.
“Actually, it’s not new,” Jim said.”It’s 2010.
But the guy who owned it before me never drove it in Winter. He stored it, like I will do. It’s a used car, but it only had 9,000 miles.”
Jim is age-70, slightly older than me. (I’m also age-70.)
I could say something about old geezers like us buying cars deserving youngsters can’t afford.
“You only live once,” the lady said.
“I’ve thought about doing that,” I said.
“I now have a two-car garage with only one car in it. When my wife was alive we had two cars.
If I had had any idea what was gonna happen, I would have made an offer.”
Right after my previous hairdresser’s wife died, he bought the car of his dreams, a red C-2 Corvette Sting-Ray, ’67, 327 four-on-the-floor, four-barrel carb, no fuel-injection.
Extremely desirable.
He had to sell his ‘Vette after he remarried.

My old hairdresser’s ‘Vette (the actual car).

Fuel-injection Corvettes are more collectible, but the old GM fuel-injection can be a hairball.
I want to drive the sucker, not repair it.
And the average mechanic is intimidated.
The reason I didn’t make an offer was because I had two cars. I had no idea where I’d store it.
With my wife gone, I’ve been thinking about a Porsche (“poor-SHA”) Boxter, the mid-engine sportscar Porsche sells.

The second-generation Boxter.

“So where do you put your dog?” the lady asked.
“That’s one consideration holding me back,” I thought.
“Beyond that,” I said; “that’s 60, 70, 80, 90,000 dollars for a mere toy.”
“I’ve been thinking of getting another convertible,” the lady said.
“Yeah, but how sensible is that,” I asked; “when you’re more inclined to close the windows and turn on the air-conditioning.
A top-down convertible will muss your hair,” I added.
“Plus if the sun is out, you bake!” the lady said.
“The speedometer on that thing goes to 185 mph,” Jim crowed.
“Where ya gonna do that?” I screamed. “And at that speed the car flies, and then flips.”
“When ya gonna take me for a ride?” his daughter asked. She eats with us occasionally.
“What is it with these old guys?” the lady asked. “Their wife dies and they buy a sportscar.
You should name your car,” the lady added. “You could name it Shirley after your late wife.”
“I bet she’s spinning in her grave,” Jim guffawed.
“It’s a chick-magnet,” our waitress declared.
“I been thinkin’ about it the past three months,” Jim said.
“I was gonna buy a new one, fire-engine red.”
“That would also be a cop-magnet,” I said.
Nevertheless, I’m glad he bought it. Maybe I should be more serious about that Boxter.
“I bet he doesn’t have his seatbelt on,” his daughter said, as he motored serenely out of the parking-lot.

• “SS” is the Chevy Super-Sport model, not Hitler’s Secret-Service. Usually it’s a high-performance motor and handling-package.
• RE: “C-2......” —Corvettes go by a letter iteration. The first ‘Vettes ’54 through ’62 are C-1, ‘63 through ’67 is C-2, ’68 through ’83 are C-3 (basically a restyling of the C-2); and from ’84 on are C-4 through C-7. All are more-or-less the same chassis — much better than the C-3 — with major restylings, relocation of the transmission in the rear of the car, and handling upgrades. To me the most attractive is the C-6, although the new C-7s handle extremely well, even better than the C-6 —The letter iterations were promulgated by Corvette enthusiasts.
• RE: “327 four-on-the-floor......” —327 cubic-inch SmallBlock V8, four-speed manual transmission with a floor-shifter. —The Chevrolet SmallBlock V8 was available with fuel-injection from 1957 on, as an option. By 1967 fuel-injection was still available, but somewhat developed. It cost megabucks, but was usually more powerful and more responsive. —Current Corvettes are fuel-injected, but mainly to meet emission-requirements. Pretty much everything is now. Carburetion is sloppy. (“Carbs.”)
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost nine, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)

Legacies

Legacies. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

My wife and I lived 22 years in my current house.
She died a little over two yeas ago.

(April 20th, 2014.) (Photo by Bobbalew.)

My wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
She and I designed this house. An architect drew it up, and a contractor built it for us.
Our intent was to ease advancing age. Everything is on one floor, even the laundry and freezer. I rarely have to go down to the basement.
I also don’t have to climb stairs to get to my bedroom. It’s on the same floor.
The doors are all 36-inch; wide enough to pass a wheelchair, although I’m not in one yet.
The house is also super-insulated. Foot-thick exterior walls filled with fiberglass insulation.
Our goal was to reduce heating-costs. Our furnace is small enough for the average 1,200 square-foot house, although I think I’m 1,952 square-feet.
I also don’t have to turn on my whole-house air-conditioning until late June.
Over those 22 years my wife planted any number of things throughout our gigantic lawn.
Our house is on a retired cornfield. We let a lot of it reforest, but at least 2+ acres is grass.
I don’t know as what’s pictured is one of my wife’s transplants.
I know the bleeding-hearts next to our shed are. Those bleeding-hearts won’t flower for a while. I think I blogged them last year, although I thought they were something else.
I decided to walk my dog around our property last night (Saturday, April 19th, 2014), instead of to a small town park up the road.
My left knee aches. It seems to have worsened with advancing age; that is, as everything else got weaker.
I can do property-walks off-leash. My wife and I had a gigantic five-foot chain-link fence installed around our property so I could. It cost $16,000!
It keeps my dog safely out of the highway: NY State Route 65.
As I hobbled around my property, I came upon the daffodils pictured.
As I said, I don’t know as my wife planted ‘em, but I’m sure she nurtured ‘em.
I started crying.
Legacies like this are all over my property.
Under my bedroom are hostas my wife planted.
Every time she pointed them out, I’d say “Hasta-la-Vista, Baby!”

• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s almost nine, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)

Two years

This is years ago. (Photo by Bobbalew.)

Today (Thursday, April 17th, 2014) is the two-year anniversary of my beloved wife’s death.
We were married over 44 years, and I miss her dearly.
My brother in northern Delaware, who knew a brother-in-law who lost his wife in a motorcycle accident, told me I’d be over my wife’s death in two years.
I don’t know as I’m “over it.” I don’t know as I’ll ever be.
But people tell me I’m not crying every minute, or starting conversations with my wife’s death.
As I was at first.
Looking back, I’d say the first year I was stunned. Things happened, but I don’t remember anything.
All I remember is my camera failed in Altoona chasing trains, and my lawnmower-engine needed repair just to make it startable.
I also remember getting snowed-in once.
It was like everything went wrong after my wife died, but my house didn’t burn down.
I attended a grief-share for a while. It was beneficial talking to people who understood.
But I tired of continually explaining my commitment to my dog.
So when a cohort wondered when we should stop attending, I decided to stop attending.
Furthermore, the reasons I was attending were not coming, so why should I?
I decided to switch to an alternative bereavement-group, but I wonder about that.
People tell me I’m better than I was at first, but I still feel like I’m not in the real world.
I also can start crying at the drop of a hat.
But two years have passed, and it all seems long ago.
Millions of things go wrong, and I have much more to do with my wife gone.
The person who makes the bed is me, the person who feeds my dog is me, the one who does laundry is me.
I still continue many of the traditions my wife started, but I allow my dog on the bed.
My wife would have never allowed that, but now it’s my house.
Much as I don’t want it to be.
And no matter how little motivation I have to do anything, I figure I owe that much to my dog. She no longer has two caretakers, only me.
My dog has adjusted, but not this kid.

• RE: “In Altoona chasing trains...” —I’m a railfan, and have been since age-2; I’m now 70. In Altoona, PA the Pennsylvania Railroad built up over Allegheny Mountain, the railroad has a lot of traffic, so I chase trains in the area. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern. I do an Internet calendar with the pictures I take.

Here we go again......

Yrs Trly is gloriously sick.
The doctor’s assessment is bronchitis and sinusitis.
To me that’s coughing and sneezing/sniffling.
I could feel it coming last week, so I tried to fight it my usual way, aerobic workouts at the YMCA (get the blood flowing), plus citric fruits like an orange each day. Plus grapefruit-juice each morning.
It didn’t work. My fever was 101.9 degrees the other night (Monday, June 10th, 2013), although back to 97 degrees the next morning (Tuesday, June 11th, 2013).
I decided I should see my doctor.
So off I went for a doctor-appointment Tuesday, about a four-mile auto-trip.
After poking and prodding I was prescribed an antibiotic: “Azithromycin.”
“I don’t know if you know it or not,” I said to my doctor, a woman; “but my wife died over a year ago.”
“Yes, I know that.”
I started crying.
Here we go again!
Between the vet Monday, and my doctor Tuesday, a lot of crying has occurred.
“I haven’t been sick since my wife died, and I was always worried about it.
Now that I am, it’s like what am I worried about?
It’s because I have a dog, and being the only one left to entertain her, I didn’t wanna get sick. That getting sick was failing her.”
“I’m sure the dog wants now to just comfort you,” the doctor said.
“That seems to be the case,” I said. “I have to always take naps, and my highly energetic dog seems to want to just sleep with me.”
By now I wasn’t crying as much, but it always seems to happen. I can’t stifle it.
All I have to do is mention my wife dying to someone new, and I start crying.

• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east 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 east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.)
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s eight, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)

Here we go!

My dog developed a limp on her right-front paw. She started limping Sunday, June 9th.
I poked around and discovered two burrs in the fur right above her paw. I cut them out.
But I figured I better have the vet check it. Once it was an inch-long thorn between the pads. I couldn’t find any such thing, but to me a limp could be serious.
So we went to the vet.
“Is she licking it?” the vet, a woman, asked.
“No.”
They took her outside for a walk. Still limping slightly, about every fourth step.
The vet concluded I shouldn’t worry. If she’s still limping after a week, call back. —She doesn’t appear to be limping now.
“You may or may not know it,” I said; “but my wife died over a year ago.’
The poor vet reacted like she’d been punched in the solar-plexus.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said.
I started crying.
The skirts love that, that a husband would be so devoted to his wife.
“So now I’m the only one to entertain the dog, and I feel like I’m failing.”
“Well you’re not,” the vet said. “You seem to have a very healthy dog.”
This tearing up seems to never go away.
It happens all the time, and I never can stifle it.
I miss my wife dearly.
It doesn’t take much.
All I gotta do is say anything, and I start bawling.
At which point I say “Here we go!”

• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s eight, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)

Triggers

Last Friday, May 31st, I sent an e-mail to a friend I worked with at the Messenger newspaper in Canandaigua.
The name of the e-mail was “Triggers;” things that start me crying.
My friend watches over me, and me over her. She lost her husband about six months before I lost my wife. Losing a spouse is very hard, especially a beloved spouse.
I detailed five things that start me crying. I’ll only mention three; the last two aren’t as much a trigger as the first three.
—1) Every morning I empty my dishwasher, which I used to do before my wife died.
I open a cupboard to put away glasses, and there are her cups I’ll never use.
I always made decaf in a small ceramic pitcher; she made green tea in a cup.
—2) Auto-trips to Canandaigua involve a bypass to avoid the infamous Bloomfield speed-trap.
I’ve been snared by it many times.
I head south a short ways, and ahead in the distance are the verdant Bristol Hills.
They always start me crying.
My last trip with my wife was to a hospice in the Bristol Hills.
—3) “If you or anyone else sits in that chair Linda used while we watched the news and ate supper, I’ll start bawling. No one has sat in that chair for over a year. The chair just waits. I haven’t gotten rid of it.”
I’ll mention one other trigger I forgot to put in the e-mail.
I use a semi-roundabout route to get into the nearby village of Honeoye Falls (“HONE-eee-oy;” rhymes with “boy”).
The supermarket and bank and pharmacy are on the west side of town, so if they’re where I’m going, I take that roundabout route.
It passes “Countryside Flower-Farm,” a farm-market we frequented often, yet I’ll never go to.
That farm-market was my wife’s discovery. How many tomato-plants from Countryside Flower-Farm did she bring home? There are flowers in front of my house from Countryside Flower-Farm.
Countryside Flower-Farm always had a store-dog that welcomed you after checking you out. He wanted to be petted. “Oh, you’re the guys with that Irish-Setter. Tomato-plants are out back.”
I no longer have an excuse to patronize Countryside Flower-Farm and pet their store-dog.

• The “Messenger” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired over seven years ago. Best job I ever had — I worked there almost 10 years (over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern [I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well]).
• “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 east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester. (Adjacent is Bloomfield village.)
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. (Her name was “Linda.”) I miss her dearly.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)

Crying again

(Photo by BobbaLew.)

Yesterday (Thursday, May 9th, 2013) I’m returning to my big empty house with my dog from working-out at the YMCA in Canandaigua and shopping the grocery-store.
I turn in my driveway and see what’s illustrated above.
It starts me crying.
I’m not even sure what it is, but I think they’re sweet-peas.
My wife planted ‘em, probably dug up from some roadside.
My wife died in April of last year.
I was told it was anniversaries that would upset me, like birthdays and wedding-anniversaries.
I disagreed.
I said it was the many flowers she planted, that they would flower again.
The other day I was mowing my front yard.
I noticed the bridal-wreath was flowering, so here I am on my gigantic mower crying.
That bridal-wreath was flowering when she died last year; it may be the last beauty she noticed.
The bridal-wreath was early last year, it had been warm.
The whole hedge is wrapped in white, and it’s a long hedge, about 30-35 feet.
Our (my) entire yard is awash in color. There is the bridal-wreath and the weeping-cherry. Out back is a dogwood covered with white blossoms. Behind my bedroom-window is a red-bud tree.
The daffodils are done, and the magnolia-tree is about done.
There are at least five forsythia-bushes awash in yellow. Tulips are flowering in random locations.
And I am surrounded by lilacs.
Some were started by us from plantings about a foot tall, and now surpass 15 feet.
I pass the location of an old farmhouse taking my dog to the park. That farmhouse was torn down, but the surrounding lilac bushes are still there, a testament to their long-ago owners.
Similar testaments to my wife are all around my house.
They start me crying.
Yesterday I encountered the sweet-peas, which I didn’t even know existed.

• “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 east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester. I work-out at the Canandaigua YMCA.
• I’ve been told, by other than “CG,” the flowers pictured are bleeding-hearts. I remember that. —It prompts fond memories about “bleeding-heart Liberials.” (My blowhard brother-in-Boston, the know-it-all macho Harley-dude who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, loudly insists the word “Liberal” is spelled “Liberial.” He’s a tub-thumping Conservative, and Liberals are Of-the-Devil.)

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.

Today’s the day

This is over 40 years ago, but is the image that was always in my head. (Photo by BobbaLew.)

Wednesday, April 17th, 2013, the one-year anniversary of my wife’s death.
My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
As I recall, April 17th last year was a Tuesday. We had taken my wife to Hospeace House outside Naples, NY, on Monday April 16th.
Hospeace is a hospice. We had tried to do in-home hospice, but it became messy.
Hospeace could be more punctual about medications.
My wife lasted there a day. She was dying before we went there, although I wasn’t aware of it.
I still haven’t computed it.
I thought I’d be bringing her home from hospice, but no one ever gets out of hospice alive.
I know my wife is dead — her ashes are under her father’s sugar-maple on our property — but I keep feeling she’s still alive.
This is despite her being gone a year.
Lots of things happened over that year.
A lot of lawn got mowed, plus my mower was fixed when it went sour.
And I’m still alive despite not being compulsive about cleanliness like my wife.
I also have the new camera I considered upgrading to.
That was because my previous camera failed.
I also purchased a newer car, trading the two cars we once drove.
So far that is my only step forward. Most of my surroundings are just as my wife left them. Her “to-do” list, in her writing, is still on the kitchen counter. It includes a funeral-home. (Our safe-deposit signature-card at the bank has her signature.)
It isn’t that I’m attached. At least I don’t think so.
It’s just that so much needs to be done, and I don’t have the wherewithal to do it.
It took 10 months just to make that car-purchase.
What bothers me is I’m very happy with my new car, yet my wife will never see it.
No doubt I’ll get a letter from Rev. Max Bishop. I got one at three months, then six months. He probably has me in a tickler.
Sorry I disrespect his concern, but I feel he makes a living writing these letters — and they’re probably in his computer. (Copy/assemble.)
I guess he heads bereavement-counseling for Ontario-Yates Hospice. I live in Ontario County. Ontario-Yates Hospice is what we used. —Yates is another county.
Rev. Max is almost an hour away.
He suggested I call, so I did, and I got a machine.
I left messages twice, but no response each time.
I was devastated at first, but now I guess I no longer am.
I still cry a lot. Every day feels sad.

Her daffodils are up. (Photo by Bobbalew.)

After the death of my wife I became aware of a simple truth.
More-often-than-not partners in a long marriage rarely die at the same time.
Usually one dies first, leaving the other alone.
My wife and I always thought it would be me that died first.
My wife was sturdier stock than me. Her mother is still alive at age-97. Most of the women in my wife’s family lasted well into their 90s. I predict her mother will make 100; and she still lives independently.
But my wife got cancer. I’m told it was not my time yet.

• “Tickler” is a bank-term, or at least was. —I once worked for a bank. We kept a “tickler” in the loan department to tell us when loans came due.

Another rotten day

“And so begins another rotten day.”
I say that every morning as I roll out of bed, usually at 6:04 a.m.
If that sounds early, I’ve been awake since 5-5:30 with my clock-radio on a nationwide classical music-feed from Minnesota.
The clock-radio does a dip at 5:40, what its alarm was set for.
Then at 6 a.m. radio-station WXXI, the public-radio classical music station out of Rochester (NY) I listen to, begins local programing by transmitting bird-song.
The birdsong lasts until 6:01, when WXXI transmits National-Public-Radio’s short new update.
That ends at 6:04, usually with a short report of national stock-futures, and stock-performance abroad.
“I wish there were some way we could make you feel better,” say various friends.
But they can’t.
“So begins another sad, sad day without my wife,” I say to myself through tears.
My beloved wife of over 44 years died almost a year ago. She had cancer.
My dog has accepted that, but not this kid.
I know in my head, but I can’t crunch it yet. I guess I just don’t wanna.
I attend a grief-share.
The other day I met its facilitator at the grocery.
She was thrilled! “How are you doing?” she bubbled.
“Well, okay I guess,” I answered; “but I feel like I just exist.”
Ever the stick-in-the-mud. I put a damper on everything.
Recently the guy who daycares my dog while I work out at the YMCA asked how I was. He asks just about every time I drop off my dog. —He’s concerned for my wellbeing.
“Well, I haven’t burned down the house yet, and I’m still on my feet,” I said.
“And you’re still fully clothed and fed,” he added.
“In other words, you’re fine.”
“I am not,” I said. “I cry all the time, and I’m always sad.”
Almost a year has passed, and I’m still affected.
Perhaps not as devastated and numb as at first, but enough to limit my doing anything.
I still have a house full of stuff that needs to be dispersed. And it took 10 months to downsize from the two cars we drove to only one.

Blindsides

I received two notifications from my auto-insurance yesterday (Thursday, March 14th, 2013)
—1) was a bill for my motorcycle insurance due April 3rd.
—2) was policy-declarations for changes to my auto-insurance policy since I traded-down to only one car.
Another Blindside!
The declarations said I was unmarried.
That’s technically correct, but I can’t crunch that yet.
My wife died almost a year ago, yet I still feel married.
Another widowed friend was telling me how she was filling in her 1040 income-tax form, and didn’t know how to fill in her marriage-status.
She called IRS.
“Single,” they told her, as if to comment “don’t be stupid!”
She was married 20 years, me 44.
You don’t just all-of-a-sudden become unmarried.
Well yes you do, technically. But you don’t just immediately feel you’re single.
In the process of trading down to one car, I had to access our safe-deposit box to get the titles for my old cars.
“Please sign the signature-card,” the bank-clerk said.
BLINDSIDE ALERT!
There on the card was my wife’s signature. She was last to access our box.
I managed to sign the card without crying, but I was holding back tears.
Almost a year has passed since my wife’s death, but I can’t just reverse 44 years of marriage to a really good one.

Make it all go away

Every night about 9 p.m. I start thinking about going to bed.
This isn’t how it was when my wife was alive, when bed by 11:30 was a struggle. Often it was midnight.
It isn’t that way now.
Come 9 p.m. I’m often out of things to do, or out of the energy to do things.
I’m told grief is exhausting.
Probably so.
Next to this computer is a mountain of papers to process, and checks to write.
A gigantic pile of boxes is in the other room that need to be cut up for cardboard recycling.
I have stuff in the refrigerator that needs to be processed before it spoils.
Everything gets put off until mañana. I seem to not have the energy to do things that might get me to bed later.
I also have a dog, and I try to make her life pleasant.
There’s enough sadness around here as it is; her master is a wreck.
I’ve given up watching an hour’s worth of news. Only a half-hour while I eat. I try to not avoid my dog; she gets enough of that as it is.
There are no longer two of us to entertain the dog, and I’m always busy.
I’ve had to semi-retire her toy-box. I no longer have time to play.
So come 9 o’clock I’ve had enough.
Turn the lights out, shut my brain off, make it all go away.
Lose consciousness and thereby forget my sadness.
When I wake up the next morning: “So begins another sad, sad day.”

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. At the time she was 68. I miss her dearly.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)

One more nail in the coffin

And so concludes another chapter in the sad passing of my beloved wife.


This is the actual car.

I feel depressed about it.
Like it’s one more step in accepting the horrible fate that’s befallen me, the death of my wife of over 44 years last April.
I’ve committed to purchasing the “pre-owned” 2012 Ford Escape pictured above.
“Doncha mean ‘used?’” I always ask.
At least it wasn’t “pre-enjoyed.”
I still have the two cars we had before my wife died, a 2003 Honda CR-V, and an All-Wheel-Drive 2005 Toyota Sienna minivan. (The CR-V is also All-Wheel-Drive.)
But two cars for only one person seemed silly. I could have sold the Sienna and kept the CR-V, which I’m very happy with; but it’s 10 years old, and not very dog-friendly.
There’s no dog-swallowing gap behind the front seats, and I have a flat floor with plenty of headroom.
But folded up the rear seats block the rear-door entrance. A dog has to jump around the folded seats, and my dog has fallen.
I didn’t feel attached to these cars; the delay was logistics.
Getting trade-in values for my cars, and finding cars to look at.
But now that the deal is consummated, I feel depressed.
And of course my wife will never see what I purchased, a fact that got me crying as I drove home the other night (Thursday, February 28th, 2013) after consummating the deal.
A number of factors were at play:
—1) The car had to have All-Wheel-Drive. This staves off blowing out my driveway. With All-Wheel-Drive I can usually negotiate snow up to eight inches deep.
I’ve only had to use my snowblower twice this Winter, and one of those times was a little less than eight inches.
We’ve only had two substantial snowfalls so far. The first I blew out was about 14 inches, the second time about six or seven — more was predicted.
All-Wheel-Drive also makes it possible to chase trains in difficult weather-conditions.
Two Winters ago I drove up an ice-encrusted farm-track as if the ice didn’t exist.
Two months ago my brother from northern Delaware was driving me around in his BMW sedan to chase trains.
We started up a similar ice-encrusted track, and had to turn around — a track my CR-V would have conquered.
—2) I need an SUV to chase trains, namely the under-clearance that seems to come with an SUV.
Years ago we chased trains in my friend Phil Faudi’s (“FOW-dee;” as in “wow”) Buick. But farm-tracks were worrisome. We had to make sure his car didn’t bottom.
With my CR-V I don’t have to worry about that.
It has about a foot of under-clearance. With Faudi’s car it’s about eight inches.
We were driving in Altoona toward a dip that would bottom a car. Faudi became alarmed, but in my CR-V I just drove over it without drama.
—3) I’d like a car to be small and at least semi-sophisticated.
My all-knowing blowhard brother-from-Boston, the macho Harley-dude who noisily badmouths everything I do or say, loudly insists I buy a full-size Chevrolet pickup; every 400 miles, 30 gallons.
Such a vehicle would also be as big as an aircraft-carrier, and would require two moves to park at the grocery. (My E250 was like that; we called it the “Queen Mary,” because it was like docking a ship.)
I get to drag around perhaps 2,000 pounds I rarely use. —How often do I need a pickup bed?
And groceries get stored outside, unless I got a pickup with an extended cab. —That’s more weight to drag around.
Desiring “semi-sophisticated” rules out various Jeep products.
And there are similar vehicles that are non-Jeep.
The Jeep Liberty looks interesting, but it’s solid rear-axle. The Liberty is also no longer made. They stopped making it a few years ago.
The Geo Tracker is also interesting, but like Jeep it’s solid rear-axle. —I think the Tracker is no longer made either.
A solid rear-axle is antediluvian. The Ford Escape is independent rear-suspension.
—4) Most important is dog-friendliness.
Which is why I preferred the previous Escape over the new Escape.
The bottom seat-cushions fold forward filling the dog-swallowing gap, and the rear seatbacks fold down leaving a flat floor with plenty of headroom.
Would that my CR-V was like that. If it was, I’d hang onto it.
And so it goes. I’m committed to trading my two vehicles for the used Escape. Both my vehicles were purchased new. I considered a new Honda CR-V, and the new Mazda CX-5 SUV.
But both are not as dog-friendly as the previous Ford Escape. The new Ford Escape I don’t like, and it really isn’t better than the new CR-V.
Not too long ago my local postmaster, my wife’s boss when she worked for the post-office, let me look at the Escape she had just purchased. It was the previous Ford Escape.
I was blown away!
“Why can’t they all be like that?” I cried.
It was the most dog-friendly SUV I’d ever seen.
Here I am buying used, when my previous cars were new.
But the previous Escape is preferable to the new SUV offerings.
So now I have to not start crying when I look out into the garage and see only one car, the Escape.
Instead of the two cars my wife previously drove.

• A “dog-swallowing gap” is a gap behind the front seats a dog can fall into. It’s usually a foot or more wide, although less is just as dangerous.
• “All-Wheel-Drive” is always on. “Four-Wheel-Drive” has to be activated.
• RE: “Chasing trains......” —I’m a railfan and have been since age-two (I’m 69). —The idea is to beat a train to a location where it can be photographed.
• “Altoona” in PA is where the old Pennsylvania Railroad began its climb over the Allegheny mountains. It’s where I chase trains. —Pennsy no longer exists; it’s now owned and operated by Norfolk Southern Railroad. The line is still very busy.
• “Solid rear-axle” design has been around since before the Model-T Ford. The rear-wheels are connected by a solid axle with a heavy differential in the center to turn the drive-rotation 90 degrees, and provide differentiation in turns — the outside wheel turns faster than the inside wheel. Such an arrangement disturbs both sides in bumps, even if only one side hit the bump. The heavy differential also has momentum. “Independent rear-suspension” breaks the axle into two independently-suspended halves, usually with the differential mounted solidly to the car. With such an arrangement, only the bumped wheel is disturbed, and no longer can differential momentum affect handling. IRS (independent rear-suspension) usually handles rough pavement better than solid-axle, but solid rear-axle can be made to handle quite well, as in NASCAR. — I had a Vega with a solid rear-axle that was very well located and handled fine, except it was a bear in rough-pavement curves. The rear-axle would hang up due to differential momentum allowing the back-end to jump sideways.

It’s my house

Every morning I make my bed.
Since my wife died 10 months ago (today, Sunday, February 17th, 2013, is 10 months), she’s no longer around to make the bed, and I couldn’t stand climbing into an unmade bed.
So I make the bed myself.
It’s a process that takes perhaps 10-15 minutes, unmaking the bed, then remaking it.
Sheets get pulled up and tucked in.
Then a bedspread gets put on, and a small blanket after that.
A quilt goes atop that, followed by a blanket to protect from the dog.
My dog is sleeping on her bed at the foot of my bed, but waiting the whole time.
She knows when the bed is made, she can jump on it.
I don’t think my wife would have allowed this, even with that blanket to protect that quilt.
But now the house is mine.
I never wanted it that way, but now it is.
I figure the dog endures enough insanity and sadness to allow her on the bed.
So, pillows shammed: “There, Big Meathead, the bed is made.”
BOINK!
“The house is mine, so you are allowed on the bed,” I say through tears.
I thereafter pet the dog.
Shamming the pillows, I always get “The Look.”
“Can I jump on it yet? Can I? Can I?”

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. At the time she was 68. I miss her dearly.
• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)
• RE: “Meathead.....” —Every dog we (I) ever owned I’ve nicknamed “Meathead.” With me Scarlett knows of herself as “Meathead.” (A previous dog, who was rather small, I called “Little Meathead.”) —“Meathead” because like a pot-head likes marijuana, my dog likes meat.

I shoulda known

...That is, I shoulda known I might be the last one standing.
As my wife and I aged, we realized sooner-or-later one of us might be left alone.
We always presumed the last one standing would be my wife.
I’d had various health-problems over the years.
—1) in 1993 I had a stroke. It was severe at the time, but I recovered fairly well from it.
It was caused by a patent foramen ovale (“PAY-tint four-AY-min oh-VAL-eee”), an opening between the upper chambers of the heart that allows blood-flow before birth to the brain when lungs aren’t working yet.
The opening is supposed to close after birth, but mine never had.
A patent foramen ovale is fairly common. Linebacker Tedy Bruschi (“BREW-ski”) of the New England Patriots had one which also caused a stroke.
A blood-clot passes through the flaw, and then goes up to your brain.
I’m left with a few minor stroke-effects: -a) my speech is halting and difficult. Obviously my original speech-center was killed, and now something else is assembling speech, gray-matter not designed for speech. -b) my balance is somewhat compromised. It’s not bad, but I notice it, and I work on it. -c) my emotional control is somewhat degraded. This manifests itself in an increased tendency to cry. -d) my concentration is compromised. It works fine while driving, but I can’t read, something I used to do a lot.
—2) About six or seven years ago I began experiencing so-called “dizzy-spells.”
To me that wasn’t precisely what they were. It was as if my heart had stopped, so blood was no longer getting to my head.
I never actually blacked out, but the “episodes” were worrisome.
After 89 bazilyun tests a neurologist suggested they sounded like a side-effect of the calcium-blocker blood-pressure medication I was taking, so I stopped taking it.
No “episodes” since.
Furthermore, every woman in my wife’s family lasted well into their 90s.
My wife’s aunt lasted until she was 98. My wife’s mother is still alive at 97. We figured my wife would make 100; her mother might too.
My paternal grandfather lasted into his 90s, but my father died at 79, although he contracted Parkinson’s.
No one on my mother’s side made 90, so it seemed I might not either.
So we presumed my wife would outlast me.
I tried to set up for this. I tried to show my wife how I pay bills, which I do online. It was a feeble effort that went nowhere — my wife wasn’t interested.
She had paid them snail-mail when I had my stroke — which we were still probably doing at that time.
But then my wife contracted cancer. We were never told she would die, only that she might.
Her cancer was non-Hodgkins lymphoma, and is fairly treatable.
And it seemed we were always defeating it, although I suppose that was partly me wanting and expecting to defeat it.
Two years ago my wife got terrible swelling in her legs.
Her cancer was blocking blood-return from her legs.
One kidney had also become dysfunctional. Ureter-tubes were also being blocked.
She had to be hospitalized. It seemed severe, but we beat that back.
Chemo just about vaporized the cancerous tumors, but they returned.
We had run out of treatment options. The only one that worked was the most toxic, the one that causes hair-loss. We couldn’t use it any more for fear of causing heart-damage.
We had one treatment option left, a hyper-expensive chemo pill. But that so lowered her immunity we had to stop.
She had to be referred to hospice, but we had beat back her cancer so many times I thought I would eventually be taking her home.
It was the old waazoo, not expecting to be the last one standing.
She lasted only one day at hospice.
Then suddenly she was gone.
It wasn’t what I expected — to be left alone.
An outcome for which I was totally unprepared emotionally.
I was devastated and terrified.
I’m still heartbroken, but probably not as terrified as at first.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. At the time she was 68. I miss her dearly.

I don’t know

If anything came out of this sad, sorry situation precipitated by the death of my wife, it’s that I end up saying “I don’t know” all the time.
People tell me I’m doing a wonderful job of coping on my own, and I probably am, but what I know for sure is I still feel awful, so I feel perhaps I’m not doing that well.
My cleaning-lady tells me my wife would be extremely proud of how well I cope, that I get up every morning and perform my daily routine as if nothing happened.
“Well believe you-me,” I tell her; “I know something happened.”
I make my bed every day, I cook for myself, I do laundry.
I also do other things to distract myself from utter sadness. I walk my dog, I mow lawn, I work out at the YMCA.
But to me, that’s what they are, mere distractions from utter sadness.
I still have a house full of stuff that needs to be dispensed, plus the two cars we had, when I only really need one.
Both problems are more logistics than anything. But I can’t seem to be inclined to pursue them.
So surveying all this, I say “I don’t know.......”
Everyone tells me I’m doing a wonderful job, but I don’t know.
The other problem is my dog.
People tell me I’m doing a wonderful job of taking care of that dog, but I don’t feel like it.
I walk her a lot, at least twice a day, and one of those walks may be very long at a nearby park.
But that has to be interleaved with long periods of down time when I can’t pay any attention to the dog at all.
I wonder if there were long periods of down time when there were still two of us, my wife and I?
Perhaps, but I can’t remember. In other words: “I don’t know.”
I also know those telling me I do a wonderful job of taking care of that dog are not me, and were not living with that dog beforehand.
“She just wants to be with you,” I’m told.
Well yes, but that includes long periods of inattention and non-play that didn’t seem to occur before my wife’s death.
“I can’t play,” I tell my dog. “I have to eat my own supper.”
The dog must languish while I do things.
And now that I do everything the two of us previously did, I have little time to pay attention to the dog.
Yet I’m told I do an exemplary job of taking care of my dog.
I don’t know.
She’s a high-energy dog. When there were two of us we could render lots of attention.
We could play with her, something I can no longer do.
My perception is the dog has noticed. I’m not being held to account for it, but the deficit is noticeable.
Beyond that I’m always crying. I wonder what the dog thinks of that? —Is there any way to actually make him happier?

• My current dog is “Scarlett” (two “Ts,” as in Scarlett O’Hara), a rescue Irish-Setter. She’s seven, and is my sixth Irish-Setter, a high-energy dog. (A “rescue Irish Setter” is an Irish Setter rescued from a bad home; e.g. abusive or a puppy-mill. [Scarlett was from a failed backyard breeder.] By getting a rescue-dog, we avoid puppydom, but the dog is often messed up. —Scarlett isn't bad. She’s my fourth rescue.)
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east 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 east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.)

Seeds of Hope

Dr. Friedberg.

The other night (Wednesday, January 30th, 2013) WHAM Channel-13, the local ABC-TV affiliate in the Rochester market, held a telethon to support Wilmot Cancer Center (“will-MOTT;” as in Mott’s applesauce).
Wilmot is the cancer-center that treated my wife Linda, who did not survive.
The camera surveyed a sleepy phone-bank of inactive people. One was yawning.
The WHAM reporter brought in the CEO of Wilmot to interview.
“Wait a minute!” I shouted. “That looks like Jonathan, Jonathan Friedberg, the Doctor we dealt with so many times.”
He tried awful hard to save my wife, and then had to face the fact he was gonna lose one.
He was made CEO of Wilmot during our time there.
He never seemed the type. Not elitist enough. A nationally-recognized expert in lymphoma cancers, which my wife had, but more a researcher than a CEO.
The reporter interviewed Friedberg, and Friedberg stumbled a little.
He’s not a self-assured blowhard, full of cogent and snappy sound-bites.
All the many times we saw Friedberg, I didn’t feel like I was dealing with the Wilmot CEO.
So I wonder how he feels about being CEO? Like it might be getting in the way of what he’d rather do: find a cure for lymphoma.
The TV reporter shut him off. I could hear Friedberg off-to-the-side thanking the station for the telethon.
Seeing old Friedberg started me crying. Me, him, and my wife tried mightily to save my wife.
But we failed.
Cancer ultimately won.
The telethon was called “Seeds of Hope.”
“Medicine of the highest order,” the University of Rochester Medical-Center trumpets.
“For stories of hope, visit ‘uofrmedicalcenter.org’.” (I can’t get that to work.)
“Well,” I’d think; “my wife didn’t make it.”

Dem changes

Over nine months have passed since my wife died.
My mind knows her ashes are under her father’s sugar-maple on our property.
But I still don’t feel like she’s gone forever.
I’m told this is quite common among bereaved people.
I keep feeling she’ll return some day, and if that were to happen I’d have explaining to do.
—1) “How come the hair-dryer cord is now wrapped in a rubber-band? It never was before.”
“Because the cord began unraveling,” I’d say. “It didn’t before, but now it does. I have to wrap it in a rubber-band to keep it from unraveling all over the floor.”
—2) “How come the Igloo dog-house is no longer in the kennel?”
“So I could mow that kennel with the zero-turn mower.
In fact, I now mow that entire immediate backyard with the zero-turn, what once was verboten, because mowing it with the trimming-mower took 10 times longer. You’re no longer around to do it for me, and damage by that giant zero-turn is hardly noticeable.
I couldn’t afford an hour-and-a-half when I could mow it in 10 minutes with the zero-turn. Pulling out the doghouse made mowing the kennel with the zero-turn possible.
With the zero-turn I just sit. That trimming-mower has to be pushed, and it’s only 20-inch cut, not 48 inches like the zero-turn. —That’s five, maybe six mowing swaths, instead of just two.” (The kennel is about 56 inches wide.)
—3) “I notice you’ve retired that lo-flow toilet in the master bathroom from number-two duty.”
“That’s because I got tired of plunging it every time I used it.”
—4) “I notice you’ve marked the range-hood insulating-panels ‘right’ and ‘left.’”
“That’s because the left panel was hesitant to fit in the right opening, yet fit fine in the left opening.
Plus the right panel fit fine in the right opening.
I got tired of always experimenting to find what fit the left opening, so I marked the panels.”
There are plenty of other things I’ve instituted since my wife died.
The kitchen-floor is no longer verboten, unless it’s inordinately dirty, which I don’t let happen.
If something falls on the kitchen-floor, it’s no longer immediately in the dishwasher, toxic until washed.
My wife would probably wonder about the vegetable-pans I’ve only rinsed out and left to dry in the sink-drainer.
“I’m still alive,” I’d say. “Those pans only go in the dishwasher if they were licked out by the dog, and if they don’t fit -a) they sit until they do (hopefully the next day), or -b) if I need ‘em I wash ‘em out with hot-water and dish-soap.
Sheets and towels go unlaundered for more than a week (Gasp!), unless the towels got dirty in food-processing; in which case they get laundered with colored clothing (about once per week).
Food-containers often only get rinsed out. They look clean enough, and I’m still alive. Often containers are “top-rack dishwasher-safe.”
There are other shortcuts I’ve made I’m sure wouldn’t pass muster. But I do make the bed. —I couldn’t stand that bed being unmade.
But I allow my dog on it once finished, and I allow the dog to sleep with me. I don’t think my wife would allow either, but I figure I owe that to my dog when her master is still a wreck.
The house hasn’t burned down yet, and I’m still erect and fully clothed. People tell me I’m doing wonderful; I guess some bereaved people fall apart.
I’m doing wonderful, but I still feel awful. I cry a lot.

• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.
• My “zero-turn” is my 48-inch riding-mower; “zero-turn” because it’s a special design with separate drives to each drive-wheel, so it can be spun on a dime. “Zero-turns” are becoming the norm, because they cut mowing time in half compared to a lawn-tractor, which has to be set up for each mowing-pass. —It weighs about 700 pounds.
• RE: “Lo-flow toilet in the master bathroom.....” —The lo-flow replaced a toilet that became defective. Two other toilets remain, and they aren’t “lo-flow.”
• RE: “Range-hood insulating-panels....” —My wife made fabric-covered cardboard panels to fit the stove range-hood ventilation-openings. Otherwise, cold air comes down into the kitchen. The panels have to be installed.

PASS!

Yesterday (Friday, January 18th, 2013) I got another one of those letters from Rev. Max Bishop, Bereavement-Counselor at Ontario-Yates Hospice.
Ontario-Yates Hospice is the service we used when my wife died.
Ontario and Yates are both NY counties — I live in Ontario County.
My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her dearly.

“Dear Hospice Family:

Many months have passed since the death of your loved one. It may seem like the death occurred yesterday or it may seem a distant event. Some people believe it takes four full seasons for grief to ease. For many it takes much longer.”

Why not “Many moons?”
I couldn’t help thinking does he keep these letters stored on his computer hard-drive? Already composed and ready-to-print?
“Dear Hospice Family” makes it generic, although you could program your computer to put “Dear Mr. Hughes,” or whoever, in its place.

“We remind you again that we are here for you if you need someone to talk with. Just talking is good therapy.”

PASS!
Get real, Rev. Max.
I tried calling you once, long ago.
At the six-months anniversary of my wife’s death, when your tickler suggested you send a similar letter.
I called and got your machine. I dutifully left a message, and your machine said you’d call back.
You never did, as promised.
I don’t know if things are any different than they were last October, but I’m not inclined to find out.
Heaven-forbid I interrupt your donut-break!

• “Mr. Hughes” is me, “Bobbalew,” “Bob Hughes.”
• “Tickler” is an old bank term, but may apply other places. It was a book that indicated when loans came due for renewal. It indicated future events. (I worked at a bank in the late ‘60s after I graduated college.)

Adventures in bereavement

.....or should I call it “misadventures?”
Since I drove all the way to Altoona, PA and back over the past weekend (blog coming), my car was slathered with road-dirt.
I decided it needed to be washed, so yesterday (Tuesday, January 15th, 2013), after working out at the YMCA in nearby Canandaigua, I decided to run my car through a car-wash.
It only costs eight bucks, and I use my credit-card.
The car-wash has a computer interface with an interactive touch-screen.
“Welcome to Car-Wash,” a disembodied female voice bubbled. “Select car-wash, basic or ‘The Works.’”
I must have hit something wrong. It wanted a code.
Start over, but get back to that point.
Now, “Select method of payment, cash or credit/debit card.”
I hit “credit-card.”
“Insert card.” I did so, forgetting to immediately retrieve my card.
(It hadn’t read it before, when I took it out too quickly.)
The machine crunched my payment, and raised the gate.
I drove into the car-wash, inadvertently leaving my credit-card in the machine.
Car-wash complete, I drove down to the supermarket to get groceries.
Groceries selected, I processed everything with their U-scan.
“Select method of payment.”
UH-OOOHH; no credit-card in my wallet. It’s still in the machine at the car-wash up the street.
My groceries were only $14-something, so I paid cash; first time at a U-scan.
Back to the car-wash. My credit-card was no longer in the machine, which was processing a line of cars.
I went to the car-wash office, and after poking around I noticed my credit-card on a desk. (No-one was there.)
I retrieved my card, and notified a car-wash employee.
Now, anything different here since my wife died? Did I leave my card in the machine because I’m distracted?
I think not. A mistake like that could happen to anyone, death of wife or not.
And did I pursue my credit-card similar to before my wife’s death?
Probably.
Although it would have been fairly likely it would have been she pursuing the card.
Although I was more likely to retrieve the card myself, and would have done so even if she were alive.
Thank goodness I didn’t have to call the bank to cancel my card, an act I would have delegated to my wife — although I could have done it.

• I drove to Altoona to chase trains. I’m a railfan, and have been since age-two (I’m almost 69).
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about two-three hours per visit. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east 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 east. —I live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield, southeast of Rochester.)
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. Like me she was 68. I miss her dearly.