AS IF...and Then

AS IF…and Then

Nothing quite hits a person between the eyes the way a loss does. I suppose it does not have to be the loss of a person that one loves—it could be the loss of a job, a silly thing, some ideal, or just about anything that we cherish. But in my case, this has been the loss of my husband. Someone said that the loss of our mate leaves a hole shaped like that person, and truly, I believe it because a huge part of what I consider to be “me” has disappeared. The hole shaped like Lewis is large and the edges of the hole are still pretty raw. Eventually the edges may not be as painful, but until then, I am just having trouble with the “as ifs” in my life.

I have to act—or at least I try to act—as if anything matters. But nothing except the children, a few friends, a random stranger or two—these are the only ones that matter. And I have trouble even making myself want to be around anyone. Yet I am still as lonesome as the last flycatcher heading south. I try to make myself find something to do each day. The cat gets me up every morning—whether or not I want to does not matter to him. The dog follows me from room to room as if to be sure that I don’t need something he can do for me. I wonder about that.  My friend Nan says that he senses my moods and knows that I need something. Maybe that is true. I still try, but I catch myself thinking: as if it matters!

I have lost two jobs in my lifetime. We lost a two-day old baby daughter, and then we had a miscarriage. Lewis lost his job—he called it being fired, and I guess it was, but basically the company finished out its agreement with Darr Equipment and let all the older men like Lewis go the day the agreement ended. He suffered terribly for a long time because of the way that they let him go and the fact that it was not his choice to leave. I hurt for him, but I had to keep telling him that it was probably for the best. These losses all hurt, but it seemed we held on to each other and had hugs, reassurances, and whatever we needed just because we loved each other. It is not the same now; he is not here to hold me when I cry.

He didn’t tell me not to cry. And danged if I don’t do a pretty good job of it once in a while. He came to our daughter in a dream and told her that I would be ok. I think he felt that way before he died. He seemed reassured for some reason when he found out that I would still be working with students as an editor and tutor. It wasn’t like I needed to go to work, but teaching keeps me from just sitting down and holding my hands like some little old lady. But keeping busy or reading, playing on the computer, or whatever I do toward keeping the house clean and orderly does not really serve to help me heal—or it does not seem to in my way of looking at things.

All the things I do bring me back to the “as ifs” in my attitude. As if it matters if I work or not, as if it matters if the house is clean, as if it matters if I go to services and sing with others: these are some of the tiny little things that don’t amount to a hill of beans. I try to eat decent food; I try to be sure that my clothes are clean; I try to talk to others with a cheerful attitude. But I feel as if I were on auto-pilot. I go through the motions and then see myself from a distance, as if I were not really there at all.

Folks who have been where I am—more or less—have told me that this experience—and that term irks me for some reason since “experience” has always seemed more like a choice—will take time. Healing takes time, they tell me. Yes, I have had some injuries and a pretty difficult healing from a surgery. But this does not even seem to compare. The pain stays with me in the background, welling up to grab me by the jaws and in my throat every once in a while about the time that I think I might be “getting better.” Getting better in this case means that I am not bawling and tearing up every time I am around someone. Getting better means I can take a deep breath and wait for the pain to subside while I duck my head and hold on to a better thought.

Sometimes I wish I had something that could keep my interest—something I could look forward to in anticipation. I thought that going to Scotland and Paris might be interesting, but now I just want something common—a good flower garden, a new roof, maybe a reorganizing of the junk in the storage and work sheds. I don’t mind getting dirty to keep me busy. I just don’t want to feel useless and empty—alone with the “as ifs” of life. I can’t have him back; I have to wait and go to him. And then maybe that damned hole will be filled with the love we had all those years. 

A House Divided

Today I was reading some posts on Facebook and found myself shaking my head and feeling both sad and astonished. Many years ago our nation divided itself along the lines of monetary and cultural differences. Now, I would never consent to seeing anyone enslaved in chains and their children sold out of their homes, but I am seeing something that looks decidedly similar in some respects. Once the industrial North declared that the South had to give up slave labor. The South was almost totally agrarian, so giving up their slaves meant that what they had depended on would no longer be there for their farms. And no, I would never want ANYONE to have to obey a "master's voice" out in the fields. But has anyone noticed that the fields have changed? Farms have tractors and huge plows, huge tanks of chemical fertilizers, and huge harvests--when there is rain. The back breaking job of hoeing out the rows is done either with chemicals or with cultivators on the back of tractors. So at least some things have changed.

The problems today that seem to divide our country again really have nothing to do with the color of someone's skin. For a while we saw some backlash for the reverse discrimination caused by the mandate to hire so many folks of color or of a particular nationality--whether or not those folks had the skills needed for the jobs. And the colleges accepted anyone who applied regardless of their SAT or ACT scores--but simply based on numbers, not even numbers of colored or national origin. In fact, many of the colleges were thankful to receive the applications of many of the Indian students who came here from India to take their tests to qualify for medical positions in hospitals and pharmacies--mainly because this nation has not taken the shortage of qualified physicians and medical personnel seriously. And now the shortage is at an emergency level!

But the problems that divided our nation and caused many of the problems that led to the Civil War the first time have reared their ugly heads again. In a nation that once claimed God as its guide, we seem to have lost the ability to follow His laws and His way of love. We cannot tolerate others' opinions, much less allow others the same rights that we would claim for ourselves. The national election consumed as much interest as any previous election in my memory, but the amount of rancor has not diminished. The financial straits have bound those with lower income into an uneasy existence, but those with a moderate income have nothing to expect but higher taxes and more governmental control. Those with higher income are doing their best to remove their money and their businesses from such a volatile market place caused by higher taxes and compulsory insurance rules. For years companies like Walmart have reduced workers' hours in order to keep from having to pay any benefits, but now almost all companies with more than two or three employees will be doing the very same thing. If a company actually keeps employees on at regular hours, the cost of the insurance with be charged to their customers. The point of all this worrisome financial control is the fact that our nation no longer will have a choice about whether or not to be our brother's keeper. And yet, the government is actually not prepared to be much of a "keeper" of those who need health care. Without a sufficient number of health care workers, our country will be in the same boat as India and other third world countries. Yes, health care is "free," but just wait your turn. IF you have money, and enough of it, you can buy your health care in those countries, too. Gifts to a doctor are a type of insurance.

A woman I know used a broad paint brush to say that all the states who did not recently vote for the Democratic candidate were also the ones that were racists. Now that just makes NO sense whatsoever. Just because I don't think that the government has the right to tell me that I HAVE to have insurance or pay a "tax" does not mean that I am a racist. It really does not matter WHY I voted as I did when it gets right down to it. Castigation of others due to their beliefs or their votes is pure insanity--whether I do it or whether my neighbor does it. In my beliefs, God Himself puts those in power who He will. He used Pharoah to destroy a nation; He used Balaam's ass to turn folks back to him; He can use any man to bring this nation to its knees before His throne. Sad to say, but that may be the next major move for us. Whether we are a nation or separate states is beside the point. We are not a people under God's rule now because of our disrespect or Him and of our neighbor. God forgive us.

Watching Work

It is SO neat to watch some folks work. They know what they are doing and get 'er done! This morning the crew who are paving our road are out there doing their thing and were here before I even got out of the shower at 7:15--early in our part of the world. The backup alarms, the thunder and rattle of big machines and all the rest of the attendant noise just tickles the fire out of me. I take a gleefully devilish delight in waking up the neighbor across the street because he and his visitors wake me up at all hours of the night. Turn about fair play, right?

For as long as the road has existed up here in front of this old house, nothing but dirt or dirt and gravel have been on the surface of the road. When Fang and I were able to afford a load of crusher run gravel, we got a friend in the trucking business to dump a load to put in the worst of the mud places and spread it out some. We had to get another neighbor, now deceased--Leroy Fox--to spread it out for us since at the time we did not have a tractor. Fang and I have talked--and talked--about getting something done to this road, but we just never did. He had his heart attack trying to shovel the gravel back up on the approach. Then Donnie Anderson had a heart attack doing the same thing. Time to do something about it before we all start having heart attacks!

The City of Wichita Falls would not let Mr. Anderson deed this street to them for whatever reason, so we are responsible for its maintenance. But you can bet the trash trucks will be going up and down just like before--wallowing out more depressions. We want the trash service, but those trucks are something else again. This pavement is only going to be 12 foot across, so let's hope the trucks don't destroy what we are trying to accomplish.

A city can only provide so much out of its budget for improvements, but Fang and his family lived here for 63 years. I have only lived here with Fang for nearly 44, so maybe I would not have as much right to gripe, but it does seem that taxes ought to count for something in the overall picture of things. I know that we are in Wichita County and that the county commissioner ONCE had our street graded for us. Wow. I am underwhelmed by that kind of service. Of course, at the time it was all mud and dirt, but still. A load of gravel costs? And what is strange is that the city resents any "infringement" by the county services. Go figure.

Making one's neighborhood look half way decent should not have to cost that much. But obviously someone has to start somewhere to get things going. When we had our second child on the way, we tore down a derelict house next door to us. Most of the lumber was salvageable so some of the family and neighbors took the lumber and siding out of the way for us. Then we hauled off as much of the roofing material as we could pick up and burned the little pieces of wood that no one wanted. For all these years we have maintained the area and kept it mowed, even putting a garden in most years.

I think of the areas up north and how much debris has accumulated just from hurricane Sandy and feel sorry for the folks up there. It is going to take some massive efforts to reclaim the areas hit hardest by that storm. However, this is a good time to clean up and rebuild on a better basis. Just like the area between our home and the highway, we keep it picked up, mowed, and maintained the best way possible. Some things are just not possible for someone my age to do, but when it can be done with a little help from the neighbors, it is worth the effort to make home and one's home street look decent.

That Time of Life

I have decided that I have entered the time of life when everything and everyone is changing faster than my mind is going to accept. This entire year has been pretty strange in my book. Of course, the biggest change came with Fang's death, but this Monday Daddy died and we buried him yesterday. He was 85--would have been 86 on November 24. He led a long and relatively happy life. The last several years were a bit difficult because he had lost his hearing. He could still see a snake across the river last fall when Lewis and I went to the river with him. But now he and Lewis can look for snakes, squirrels, and anything else that they want to see in God's kingdom. And neither one of them will have pain and can see and hear clearly.

My mother seems not to be sure she knows me, but she is nearly always pleasant when she speaks to anyone, so I get the same treatment. Dementia or whatever it is called that takes away our memories has both good and bad aspects. In Mom's case, she seems not to be suffering from the loss of her husband. They were married for 68 years, so she will still know that she was married if she even has two brain cells that still function together. Some things are pretty hard to lose.

In the store a bit ago I saw someone who looked too familiar to NOT know. It turned out to be Lewis' cousin and his wife. It seems their son-in-law had had a heart attack and had been transferred to the hospital here in Wichita Falls. I told them that Lewis' sister was up there with her husband Lehnis. He had quadruple bypass surgery and was still in the hospital. It is amazing what medical science can do for us. Even so, our lives change as we age and those changes become more drastic with each passing year. Accepting the changes can be a very real challenge.

Yesterday our oldest son Lance and his family spent the afternoon visiting with me. It was so nice to have them here even for just the afternoon. Our daughter Jennifer had spent six days with me while we were waiting for Daddy to die, but those days were semi-stressful. As much as I enjoy having Jennifer around, it seems that we always spend our time together having to take care of situations instead of just enjoying being together. Of course, my children may get to the point that they feel the same way when they come see me. Last time Lance was here, he helped put a new roof on the workshed. Maybe next time won't be quite as busy or full of work--unless it is fun work.

As I age, I see that my children are taking on the responsibilities that I took on with my own parents. I never minded taking care of my parents, but sometimes it was all I could do to keep up with their needs and take care of my own household. I never want to cause my children stress, but it is wonderful to know that they care as much about me as they do. I guess it is just the time in our lives that changes as we age. And now I see that the grandchildren are just as sweet and loving as the children. Some things never change, and love is one of them.

Politics and Good Taste

One of my favorite professors once informed me that I lacked sophistication because I did not particularly appreciate John Updike's description of semen infused scrambled eggs or the wife swapping in the book we were reading. I told him that lack of sophistication had nothing to do with one's gag reflex. Just this week I have been reminded again that good taste and intelligence/and/or education do not necessarily go hand in hand. Around a table with several other women, the prevalent opinion concerned the "wonderful" speech given by former president Clinton. One woman enthused that even though she had never given her former husbands a blow job, she would be happy to give one to Bill Clinton. Somehow I kept eating.

Political discussions among those of like mind can be difficult for those who do not agree with the viewpoints expressed, but thankfully most folks have sense enough to know that not everyone will have the same perspective. One of the major benefits of a democracy is the right to express one's differences in politics or even one's opinion about Fords and Chevrolets. And most of us can be downright respectful of those differences. And for the most part, our differences are based on honest opinions rather than prejudices. At least, we hope that opinions are based on honesty. Sometimes we don't recognize our own prejudices.

Generally speaking, prejudice is opinion based on lack of knowledge or facts that are irrefutable. In at least one aspect of American life, our so-called knowledge is quite often based on what we read on the internet--whether or not what is written or spoken is based on anything even slightly resembling the truth. And I have been as guilty as the next person--maybe more so--about believing things that have been sent to me by e-mail. After several embarrassments, I have learned to look at snopes.com or ask.com to see if some of the "facts" are indeed facts or pure garbage. And some of the opinions expressed by respectable journalists are not exempt from stupidities, either. Just because I admire someone's work does not mean that person's opinions are free from prejudice or even perjury!

I can remember a time when politics was not quite such a dirty term as it is now. Back when I was a little girl, the politicians still held up little children and kissed their cheeks to the admiring glances of their grandmothers. And a dime in the hand of a little child was as good as a vote for a good Democrat. Tony Fenoglio got many a good vote out of a trip through North Central Texas just because he knew how to talk to farmers and knew how to admire small children. But those were different times. My own parents and grandparents were Democrats because they felt that the Republicans did not care about the common man or his financial circumstances. In truth, I have no idea if the Republicans were much different from the Democrats back in that time. And I am reminded by a friend whose son-in-law was also in Texas politics that most of the time the politicians were simply show horses--willing to be seen in certain circles and neigh or yay for the one's who could pay their way. Politicians don't do much, but when they do, we all have to pay for it.

But more to the point of how I feel about opinions expressed: When did good taste go out the door? Yes, I might be the first to say that a certain politician is an idiot, but I would be happy to support his right to do his job the best he knows how--especially if criticism leveled is unfair or extreme and personal rather than measured objectively and intelligently. If anything has convinced me that political parties, clubs, groups, and other social gatherings have value, it will be for the good that they can DO for others in this world. I have enough grounds for my own opinions without the need for socialized gossip. Good taste obviously does not depend on becoming a vegan, a Buddhist, or an "enlightened" reader. For me, good taste means going about doing good quietly and with compassion with the least amount of offense given. I can't change the political system to one of unselfish concern for others, but I can at least keep a civil tongue in my mouth and refrain from insulting the intelligence of others with a different perspective.

Processing Grief

Today I am reminded that grief is universal. My friend Beth Graf lost her husband back in December of last year. We have shared so many similar feelings and frights in our lives. As she says, "We have history." We have known each other for a long time, but even if we had not had so many years of common experiences, I think Beth is the kind of person one just naturally trusts with one's heart. I wish everyone could have such a friend.

Tomorrow our daughter will attend the funeral of a young man who just dropped dead at 36 years old. He leaves a wife and children. Our youngest son will attend the funeral of the grandmother of his best friend. The grandmother was also the mother of his dear friend and "other mother" Vicki. While they are attending those services, I will be sharing a meal and some fellowship with a large group of women and a man from a local church--all widows and one widower who have come together to find some solace in learning to grieve. It is not easy to grieve, but it helps if someone is willing to listen and to share the tears.

I have been reading books about how to deal--and NOT deal--with death. Of course, drugs and alcohol are supposed to be no-nos for those of us who are trying to make it from one day to the next. Yet last night I could not sleep again. It would have been nice to just take a pill of some kind to get my mind to shut up and let me stop thinking and sleep. Instead, I got up and did a little work and eventually got to sleep sometime after 2 a.m. I can understand why someone would think a beer would do it or something like that. I don't think it would work for me. But I also know that sleeping pills were created for some of these situations. In fact, the lady from Hospice called today and talked to me about taking something made by one of those over the counter drug companies. The name of it alludes me at the moment, but I am sure the pharmacist would know what it is. Maybe I will pick some up tomorrow. Not sleeping cannot be a good thing.

I went to see my parents in the nursing home on Tuesday afternoon after I had visited our family doctor about my allergy symptoms. When I took them out on the porch to smoke, my dad wanted to know how Lewis was doing. I tried to ignore his question and finally had to make him look at me while I said the words very clearly, "He is dead. He died in May." And yes, I just broke out in tears all over again. Later when I took them to their room, he asked how Lewis had died for the fourth time. I told him again. Seeing my parents like this is its own form of torture, but adding these questions just pours salt on the wounds. I guess at least the salt won't cause infections.

It doesn't seem to me that I ever had much trouble making decisions when Lewis was around, but then, he was always there to listen or suggest things to think about. Now I have the full responsibility for all decisions and choices. I try not to ask the kids to help me too much in decision making. They have their own lives to live and their own decisions to make. And I want to retain my independence as long as I can tell that I am making decent choices. If my life extends out to the same number of years as my parents or grandparents, maybe the decision processes won't totally go downhill as fast as the muscles in my arms. But that process depends on the determination to KEEP making my own decisions.

Probably one of the best things I can do is to get up every morning and do something--as Granny Lucy would say, even if I do it wrong! So I go to the mall and walk, or I get up early on Sunday morning and make the 8 o'clock service, or I sit on the front porch on our favorite bench and just remember how much I was loved once upon a time. Grief allows that. I can just keep on loving him, even if he is not here to hug me.

Monsters Like Me

Monsters Like Me

When I was little enough to sit on the ground and notice the stems of flowers and the textures in the soils around me, I would fantasize about the little creatures that slept in the grasses and among the flowers at night.  I always hoped to get up early enough to find one still sleeping in the flowers.  All I ever found were bugs, caterpillars of various hues, or a toad or two.  I wouldn’t touch the bugs or caterpillars until much later in life in my life, but the toads were my friends.  I must have attracted flies and mosquitoes because the toads were close enough to have lunch on the gathering clouds of insects.

While I wouldn’t touch the bugs or caterpillars, I was not really afraid of them---unless they started toward me!  Bugs were supposed to go the other direction.  Caterpillars were never going anywhere too fast, so I didn’t really care where they went or which direction they were going.  But bugs were different.  Some of them really moved quite fast.  And if they were going toward me, I wanted to move away.

One day I was happily playing with my little figurine horses in the dirt by our front porch.  The wonderful horses galloped around the flowers and jumped little twigs just like champions.  But suddenly a frighteningly large, black beetle came toward my favorite horse.  What was worse, the bug went right past the horse and toward me!  I was sitting; the bug was racing!  I screamed; Mother came racing.

Mother was not impressed by the dangerous black bug.  Instead, she picked me up and swatted me good for scaring her.  “Next time get up and move,” she said, after I had cried that the bug was coming toward me.

It didn’t take long for my mother to relate the story to my daddy.  And, of course, my brother thought it was SO funny that his little sister was afraid of bugs.  But I wasn’t really afraid of bugs.  I just did not want them to come toward me.

Soon afterward my big brother brought me a June bug.  He finally convinced me to let it crawl on my hand.  It tickled.  Then he put a string on its leg and told me that I could fly it.  After holding the string above my head and watching the bug fly around as if it were a helicopter, I had to duck and dodge as it attempted to land on my head.  Its landing prompted a scream from the top of my lungs along with what must have been a hysterically funny ballet of wild dancing and jumping accompanied by thrashing arms.  The poor June bug didn’t have a chance, but it settled on my shoulder to ride out the storm.  That’s when my brother shook his head and told me that the bug must like me.

How can a bug possibly like someone?  Does the person have to smell good?  When butterflies, lady bugs, and other small creatures alight on a child, are the creatures attracted to the small child for some reason?  My brother tried to convince me that little creatures were attracted to me, but then something happened that made me believe that even larger creatures liked me for some reason.  Standing in the sun in the field across from our house, I felt a sudden fanning of air as a large bird landed on my head.  His claws and beak raked through my hair and pulled some away from my face, frightening me into screaming again.  My mother had just glanced out the window to see a huge crow swoop down upon her golden-haired daughter.  After I had been assured that the bird was not trying to injure me, Mother explained that crows like shiny things—in this case, the golden blonde hair on my head.  My brother just shook his head and said that he wished crows liked him.  He wanted one for a pet.

Eventually my brother convinced me that most creatures could be handled and petted.  I learned to pick up the Texas horny toad and stroked it into a relaxed state.  I knew the lizards that would climb on the house trying to find flies and other insects to eat.  A pet possum rode on my shoulder; an owl “chirred” to me from our back porch.  And even a toad became a familiar friend.

My brother knew how to frighten me:  he would growl and crawl toward me as if he were a lion.  Only eventually I knew that the monstrous creature really liked me.  And now my daughter holds the hands of her boys to teach them to tie a string to the leg of a June bug, to leave out some water for the toads, to watch for lady bugs and lizards.  Yes, monsters like me.  And now “monsters” like my children and grandchildren.