Most days I do pretty well. There’s daily routines, weekly routines, schoolwork, chores, occasional trips to Alabama to work on The New House, and spend time with the kinfolk. Grandpunkin is growing, he’ll be 2 in a couple of weeks. Can you believe that? It’s been 2 years since he was born and I became a Grandma.
And some days, stuff hurts more and some days, it hurts less. Today is kind of a “more” day. I see people with their spouses…ones they’ve been married to for many more years than Himself and I were together, and it hurts. Or, on Facebook someone will put pictures up of a trip she took with her spouse (of many years) to someplace romantic, and that hurts too. It’s not their fault and I surely don’t expect the world to tiptoe around and censor themselves so they don’t hurt my Delicate Feelings. Most days I really like seeing the pictures of castles and mountains and bridges. Most days I’m rejoicing with them, vicariously taking a trip somewhere interesting. But once in a while, I’ll see a selfie with a castle and it hits me: We were going to do that. We were going to go see that castle/bridge/canyon/mountain but now we aren’t. I am not interested in going there without the person with whom I shared so much fun. What’s the point in visiting that town full of interesting antique stores if I can’t hold up a thing and ask “Don’t you think this would look nice next to the (other thing)?” and then spend the next umpteen years going “Hey, remember that trip to (wherever) when we got (whatever)? remember that restaurant/coffee house/curiousity shop/guy selling things?”
Every now and then, out of the blue and without warning, it hits me that my friend, the one with whom I took the Route 66 trip and played on Big Brutus, is gone. I can’t talk about Pop’s or that place with the amazing pie in Vinita, OK with anyone who shared the experience. That hurts. 2-1/2 years later and it still hurts. They said it would and I believed them, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
I dislike wearing my feelings out there in the wide open. It’s embarrassing when someone has to hand me a tissue so I don’t wipe my nose on my sleeve (because I always forget tissues and an old receipt is an unsatisfactory nose-wipe.) And the problem with emotions is they compound themselves. Once they get going, it doesn’t take much to set them off again. Which starts the whole embarassment cycle all over again. I resent having lost that thick skin I once had, that allowed me to pat people on the shoulder without actually sharing their feelings. Now? Holy cow. Someone has a bad day and I’m all over that like gravy on a biscuit. And just as messy, too.
I don’t like that I am not “normal” anymore. Whatever “normal” is. I don’t like that my sense of self has been fractured, but I recognize that my identity isn’t really dependent on Himself now. I did see myself as half of a thing, rather than an individual. Being an individual is taking some getting used to. I still think of something and want to run the idea past Himself, or show him something, or ask a question, or lean on him when things are hairy. I can’t do that anymore and when someone else gets to do it with her husband it is difficult to watch. I know a couple of other widows (well, former widows? ) but they’ve remarried and have someone else to lean on now. I don’t know if I’ll ever have that again. I’m not going to go put myself “on the market” or anything, but I’m not ruling it out, either. I figure, if God’s plan is for m to remarry, then He’ll put someone in my life and I will. In the meantime, I am wobbling here like a dog that just lost a leg and hasn’t figured out how to stand.
Wow…First I’m a Grandma, then gravy coated biscuit, and then a 3 legged dog. I guess that’s better than being a 3 legged biscuit and a gravy coated Grandma.