Just a quick update to let everyone know that there is finally some progress in the criminal case. The DA has decided that the final charge against the other driver will be manslaughter. The case will go in front of the grand jury on October 22. Since I know many of you have not had exposure to the criminal system (no, Law and Order doesn't count) I will explain. My apologies if you already know this.
The grand jury does not decide guilt or innocence, nor does the defendant present any defense. The grand jury hearing is basically round one of the bigger process. The grand jury is composed of normal people from the jury pool. The DA's office goes in front of this jury and presents the basics of their case, and asks for an indictment on the charge the DA feels the defendant is guilty of. If the grand jury agrees that there is enough evidence against the person that he should be indicted, they return what is called a "true bill." This basically means the charges will go forward and an actual criminal trial will be scheduled. It does not mean the person is guilty or will be found guilty - just that the DA has enough evidence to hold a trial.
Grand jury proceedings are closed to the public, so we cannot attend. The defendant is also not there the whole time, and cannot have a defense attorney present. One of the things that is different about a grand jury is that they can ask questions of the DA, of the defendant, and of witnesses. I am told that in this case the grand jury proceeding is a slam dunk and that there is no doubt that they will indict him.
I am happy that this has been scheduled, but frustrated at the system still. You may recall that about 5 weeks ago I wrote that I had talked to the DA's office and they had just gotten the case. They told me that the very earliest I could expect anything to progress was the end of September. I waited until yesterday, and then called them. I was told these things take time, you need to be patient, we have a ton of cases, yada, yada, yada. No one seemed to know the exact status of THIS case - they kept giving me generic answers about how the process works in general, but no one knew what the current state of this particular case was. They just kept saying it is in "intake." In a nice but firm way, with a few unintentional tears thrown in, I pitched a fit and talked to about four people. They all reassured me that it was not buried on someone's desk and that it was being "reviewed." I pushed and pushed until someone went and found the file and told me that it had been reviewed, and that the current state was that the DA was deciding what charge to bring to the grand jury. They told me that even after that was decided, I should expect it to be at least another two months before it would be ready to go to a grand jury, because the DA has to be sure first that the evidence is solid enough to support the charge. I requested updates every two weeks and they reluctantly agreed. Then lo and behold, at 9 a.m. today I get a call saying the charges are set and it has been scheduled. I think the case was never looked at at all until I made them go open the file, and that they then realized it is such a clear cut case they could go ahead and schedule. How much more "minimum evidence" do you need than a confession from the defendant, a police officer who witnessed the accident, and a mathematical reconstruction of the accident proving that the guy crossed into Kirk's lane while going in excess of 100 mph?
If I hadn't pushed I think the case would still be sitting there. How else do you explain them telling me it would take two more months, and then all of a sudden it's scheduled? At any rate, I'm learning what gets action and what doesn't.
I will know at the end of the day on Oct. 22 whether he's been indicted. I'll keep you posted.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Progress
It is a little over five months now, and I can feel myself moving ahead. I still often cannot grasp or accept that Kirk is gone, but the rawness of it all has largely dissipated, and the grief and sadness is not as wrenching. Instead, it has become something normal that I carry with me all the time. It is quieter and no longer shocking. And although I still never seem to feel truly happy, there are moments, usually when I see someone I really like, when my smile feels like it is getting closer to being a REAL smile. Closer to being a smile with my eyes as well as my mouth. Closer to being an inside smile, not just an outside smile.
This often does not feel like a relief. I don’t think I like that the emotional extremes have worn off, because it makes me feel further away from him. In some ways I would prefer to still be overcome with pain, just so I won’t be moving through life without him. You will notice that in the first sentence of this entry I said I was moving AHEAD, not moving ON. I don’t know what the difference is, but I guess to me, “moving on” sounds like a choice, whereas “moving ahead” feels unbidden. Whatever it is, it is definitely not a choice – this “progress” is just happening to me. I don’t understand it, but it is not in my control and I cannot change it.
Are you shocked? That I am beginning to progress? I am. Shocked, I mean. I could accept ADJUSTMENT after five months, but PROGRESS? How can I be doing better so soon? How can only five months be enough for me to feel even a tiny bit better, after 30 years of truly loving him? It doesn’t make sense to me, and I feel kind of guilty and sad and uncomfortable about it.
I just read the last paragraph and looked hard at the word “better.” Am I actually a little bit “better?” That’s the word that comes out of my fingers when I type, but is it the right word? I’m not sure it is. I don’t necessarily feel better, but I do know that I am different than I have been, and I’m not worse, and that this is easier than it has been, so I can’t find another word for it.
I finally took the sheets off the bed last night. Remember, the ones I have not washed or changed since he died? Sounds disgusting, I know, and in my other life, I would have thought so too. Five months on the same sheets? Inconceivable. But when you have forever lost the person who shared those sheets with you, changing them is what becomes unthinkable. I have long since accepted that they do not smell like him, the way I had hoped they would. But he died while I was at work, and when I left that morning, he was in bed, barely awake. That means those sheets are the last place we were together. And that the last time I ever saw him, or heard his voice, he was wrapped in them. "I love you. Drive carefully. Take a banana." The same thing he said every day.
Taking the sheets off is the closest thing to a religious experience I have had in a long time – maybe ever. I literally mean I felt reverent, even spiritual, as I did it, like the sheets were a symbol of worship, of something big and important. I didn’t just pull them off like I normally would. I handled them with care, like a priest with an altar cloth. I stroked them, smelled them, inspected them. I looked to see if maybe there was a piece of his hair somewhere. I didn’t find one. I saw that the fitted sheet is starting to fray in one spot, and I knew instantly what it was – the place where his feet touched every night, wearing thin because he always rubbed them over and over on the same spot as he fell asleep. He would rub them so hard against the sheet I could hear it. The sound sometimes kept me awake and I’d have to ask him to stop. I tried to ignore it usually though, because somehow the feeling was soothing to him, like a baby stroking a blanket while drifting off.
In the section where my head goes, the sheets have water spots – big ones. My first thought was drool – do I drool?! Then I realized – no, not drool. It’s tears. Five months and ten days worth of tears. I cried again taking those sheets off. I kept going though, not because I am grossed out by sleeping on them, but because I am as ready as I will ever be to take this step. I folded them carefully, and placed them, unwashed, in the drawer that has been dedicated to the only piece of clothing I have that smells like him – the shirt he wore the day before. The one with the hair clippings inside the neck from the haircut he had the day he wore it. The one I take out and hold when things are really really tough. I held it again last night, then closed the drawer, put the new sheets on the bed, and crawled in for the night. Baby steps.
I’m kind of scared to post this entry. Mainly because of the kids and his parents. What will they think? Will they be hurt? Because I have inched forward a little bit, so soon? Will they think less of me? Will they think I’m “getting over” losing him? I don’t think they will. I think they will be glad. I know I want them to be inching forward too, and would not see their progress as a lack of love or commitment to him. I would not think it would mean they are okay with the loss of him.
But maybe my progress will be hurtful to them. I am his wife, his partner. I am the only one of us who CHOSE him, who made a promise to him. I know the vow was “until death do us part.” How bizarre that vow sounds to me now – as if when someone dies, their spouse is instantly off the hook, no longer committed, free to walk away. Ridiculous. So as our family watches me, how do they reconcile the promise I made to him with seeing me moving ahead? Aren’t I the one who is supposed to show the most commitment? Shouldn’t I be the slow one? The one who should move ahead last? Or NEVER? I am struggling with these questions – why wouldn’t they? I hope they can tell that my vow – to love, to cherish, to honor - still lives. It is not eliminated by death, nor is it diminished by my progress.
I had expected that this journey would take me from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other – that over a long period of time, I would move from extreme sadness back to real happiness again. I thought that when I got “there” (wherever in the future “there” is) I would sometimes feel happy, and sometimes feel sad, but that the happy moments would eventually come to be much more frequent than the sad. And that the happy and sad would be discrete – one or the other at any given time. But I am beginning to think I was wrong, and that this is not about moving along one emotional line, or having one feeling at a time. I think it may turn out to be parallel lines, and that where I will end up is carrying both feelings with me all the time. That I will eventually come to be happy even though I am also still sad.
I guess that’s okay. Maybe even good. Maybe if the moving ahead does not include fully giving up the sadness, it will make it more okay to keep going.
This often does not feel like a relief. I don’t think I like that the emotional extremes have worn off, because it makes me feel further away from him. In some ways I would prefer to still be overcome with pain, just so I won’t be moving through life without him. You will notice that in the first sentence of this entry I said I was moving AHEAD, not moving ON. I don’t know what the difference is, but I guess to me, “moving on” sounds like a choice, whereas “moving ahead” feels unbidden. Whatever it is, it is definitely not a choice – this “progress” is just happening to me. I don’t understand it, but it is not in my control and I cannot change it.
Are you shocked? That I am beginning to progress? I am. Shocked, I mean. I could accept ADJUSTMENT after five months, but PROGRESS? How can I be doing better so soon? How can only five months be enough for me to feel even a tiny bit better, after 30 years of truly loving him? It doesn’t make sense to me, and I feel kind of guilty and sad and uncomfortable about it.
I just read the last paragraph and looked hard at the word “better.” Am I actually a little bit “better?” That’s the word that comes out of my fingers when I type, but is it the right word? I’m not sure it is. I don’t necessarily feel better, but I do know that I am different than I have been, and I’m not worse, and that this is easier than it has been, so I can’t find another word for it.
I finally took the sheets off the bed last night. Remember, the ones I have not washed or changed since he died? Sounds disgusting, I know, and in my other life, I would have thought so too. Five months on the same sheets? Inconceivable. But when you have forever lost the person who shared those sheets with you, changing them is what becomes unthinkable. I have long since accepted that they do not smell like him, the way I had hoped they would. But he died while I was at work, and when I left that morning, he was in bed, barely awake. That means those sheets are the last place we were together. And that the last time I ever saw him, or heard his voice, he was wrapped in them. "I love you. Drive carefully. Take a banana." The same thing he said every day.
Taking the sheets off is the closest thing to a religious experience I have had in a long time – maybe ever. I literally mean I felt reverent, even spiritual, as I did it, like the sheets were a symbol of worship, of something big and important. I didn’t just pull them off like I normally would. I handled them with care, like a priest with an altar cloth. I stroked them, smelled them, inspected them. I looked to see if maybe there was a piece of his hair somewhere. I didn’t find one. I saw that the fitted sheet is starting to fray in one spot, and I knew instantly what it was – the place where his feet touched every night, wearing thin because he always rubbed them over and over on the same spot as he fell asleep. He would rub them so hard against the sheet I could hear it. The sound sometimes kept me awake and I’d have to ask him to stop. I tried to ignore it usually though, because somehow the feeling was soothing to him, like a baby stroking a blanket while drifting off.
In the section where my head goes, the sheets have water spots – big ones. My first thought was drool – do I drool?! Then I realized – no, not drool. It’s tears. Five months and ten days worth of tears. I cried again taking those sheets off. I kept going though, not because I am grossed out by sleeping on them, but because I am as ready as I will ever be to take this step. I folded them carefully, and placed them, unwashed, in the drawer that has been dedicated to the only piece of clothing I have that smells like him – the shirt he wore the day before. The one with the hair clippings inside the neck from the haircut he had the day he wore it. The one I take out and hold when things are really really tough. I held it again last night, then closed the drawer, put the new sheets on the bed, and crawled in for the night. Baby steps.
I’m kind of scared to post this entry. Mainly because of the kids and his parents. What will they think? Will they be hurt? Because I have inched forward a little bit, so soon? Will they think less of me? Will they think I’m “getting over” losing him? I don’t think they will. I think they will be glad. I know I want them to be inching forward too, and would not see their progress as a lack of love or commitment to him. I would not think it would mean they are okay with the loss of him.
But maybe my progress will be hurtful to them. I am his wife, his partner. I am the only one of us who CHOSE him, who made a promise to him. I know the vow was “until death do us part.” How bizarre that vow sounds to me now – as if when someone dies, their spouse is instantly off the hook, no longer committed, free to walk away. Ridiculous. So as our family watches me, how do they reconcile the promise I made to him with seeing me moving ahead? Aren’t I the one who is supposed to show the most commitment? Shouldn’t I be the slow one? The one who should move ahead last? Or NEVER? I am struggling with these questions – why wouldn’t they? I hope they can tell that my vow – to love, to cherish, to honor - still lives. It is not eliminated by death, nor is it diminished by my progress.
I had expected that this journey would take me from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other – that over a long period of time, I would move from extreme sadness back to real happiness again. I thought that when I got “there” (wherever in the future “there” is) I would sometimes feel happy, and sometimes feel sad, but that the happy moments would eventually come to be much more frequent than the sad. And that the happy and sad would be discrete – one or the other at any given time. But I am beginning to think I was wrong, and that this is not about moving along one emotional line, or having one feeling at a time. I think it may turn out to be parallel lines, and that where I will end up is carrying both feelings with me all the time. That I will eventually come to be happy even though I am also still sad.
I guess that’s okay. Maybe even good. Maybe if the moving ahead does not include fully giving up the sadness, it will make it more okay to keep going.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Trains
When I was a kid, I was really scared of nighttime (and all the scary things in it – mass murderers, monsters, the boogeyman, et al.) I was sure they were in my closet, out in the dark hall, coming up the stairs, peering in the windows. The worst was when I woke up in the middle of the night and everyone else in the house was sleeping. Every creak in the house was terrifying. I couldn’t go to my parents, because doing so would have meant putting my feet on the floor, and there was no doubt that whatever was under my bed would reach out and grab my ankle.
This made for some long, lonely nights. The only thing that helped was the trains. We lived pretty far from the nearest train tracks – probably five miles anyway. But at night, when the world was quiet, I could hear the train whistles. I loved that sound. It meant that someone else somewhere in the world was awake too. It comforted me, made me feel safe somehow. I would lie in the dark, scared to death, and strain my ears until I could almost physically feel them hearing, hoping for the sound of a train – another soul in the night. Once I heard that whistle, I relaxed and could often fall back asleep. I don’t know why they meant so much to me, but they did.
As an adult, I never lived alone before Kirk and I got married – I went straight from home to living with him. That meant that I had never spent a night completely alone until we moved south a few years ago. I moved on ahead of him to start my new job, and he stayed back at home to sell the house and wait for our new one to be built. This meant living apart from him and the kids for about five months. I remember thinking I wasn’t too sure how I would feel about living alone in the temporary apartment. I don’t know why I was still intimidated at night, but I was. And sure enough, the first night was pretty lonely and restless – until I heard the trains. Once again, I somehow ended up a few miles from a railroad crossing, and that made it okay. It happened again when I moved here. I came ahead and lived in an apartment for two months while Kirk wrapped up things in the last house, and once again, the trains were here. I never intentionally looked for apartments near railroads, and never knew they were even there in either place until the first night alone. I loved that something that gave me such comfort in childhood still seemed to follow me in adulthood when I needed it.
You’re probably thinking that they give me comfort again now when there are so many nights without him. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Oh, they’re here all right. Only a few miles away from the house we bought, and definitely “hearable” at night. But like so many other things, the comfort of the trains has been stolen.
Why? Because of where he died. The accident happened on a highway that runs parallel with the train tracks near us. The impact sent his car off the road and it ended up with its nose right at the base of the small hill that the tracks are on top of. That means that while he was in the car, already “gone” but still in there with the investigation going on around him, the trains were going by him. Only about twenty feet up the embankment. There are at least two regular train runs that happen during the time he was there. Maybe more than two.
I think about the people working on the trains. Mostly the conductor. What did he see? He had to have seen all the flashing lights right next to the tracks as he approached. He must have seen the car – crumpled I imagine. Could he see Kirk waiting there for someone to take him out of the car? Does he see things like this all the time as he drives on the tracks? If so, is he numb to it? Or was he upset at what he saw?
I don’t like the thoughts of the conductor, but they don’t bother me nearly as much as the thought of Kirk in the car while the trains went by. They would have been whistling because at that location they are about to go through a crossing. I can’t think of anything sadder and lonelier than the person I love so much sitting in that car, with strangers taking measurements and making spray paint marks all around him, while the trains pass nearby. So much going on - much of it about him, yet somehow ignoring him as he sat there, probably slumped over the wheel. All those people, all those trains – such busy-ness, such activity, such purpose, such noise, with him in the middle of it, so still. All his busy-ness, activity, purpose, and noise forever snuffed out. Waiting for someone to take him from the car, to show the respect he deserved, to treat him like a person instead of an investigation. This is the picture that comes to my mind now when I hear the trains. Him waiting. While I, too, waited just a few miles away - waited for him to come home, or for someone to call and tell me where he was and why he wasn't home yet.
I hate that in having lost something so big, I have also lost things like the comfort of trains. The small things that could maybe have made this an iota more bearable – gone just like he is, taken from me the minute he was.
This made for some long, lonely nights. The only thing that helped was the trains. We lived pretty far from the nearest train tracks – probably five miles anyway. But at night, when the world was quiet, I could hear the train whistles. I loved that sound. It meant that someone else somewhere in the world was awake too. It comforted me, made me feel safe somehow. I would lie in the dark, scared to death, and strain my ears until I could almost physically feel them hearing, hoping for the sound of a train – another soul in the night. Once I heard that whistle, I relaxed and could often fall back asleep. I don’t know why they meant so much to me, but they did.
As an adult, I never lived alone before Kirk and I got married – I went straight from home to living with him. That meant that I had never spent a night completely alone until we moved south a few years ago. I moved on ahead of him to start my new job, and he stayed back at home to sell the house and wait for our new one to be built. This meant living apart from him and the kids for about five months. I remember thinking I wasn’t too sure how I would feel about living alone in the temporary apartment. I don’t know why I was still intimidated at night, but I was. And sure enough, the first night was pretty lonely and restless – until I heard the trains. Once again, I somehow ended up a few miles from a railroad crossing, and that made it okay. It happened again when I moved here. I came ahead and lived in an apartment for two months while Kirk wrapped up things in the last house, and once again, the trains were here. I never intentionally looked for apartments near railroads, and never knew they were even there in either place until the first night alone. I loved that something that gave me such comfort in childhood still seemed to follow me in adulthood when I needed it.
You’re probably thinking that they give me comfort again now when there are so many nights without him. Unfortunately, that’s not the case. Oh, they’re here all right. Only a few miles away from the house we bought, and definitely “hearable” at night. But like so many other things, the comfort of the trains has been stolen.
Why? Because of where he died. The accident happened on a highway that runs parallel with the train tracks near us. The impact sent his car off the road and it ended up with its nose right at the base of the small hill that the tracks are on top of. That means that while he was in the car, already “gone” but still in there with the investigation going on around him, the trains were going by him. Only about twenty feet up the embankment. There are at least two regular train runs that happen during the time he was there. Maybe more than two.
I think about the people working on the trains. Mostly the conductor. What did he see? He had to have seen all the flashing lights right next to the tracks as he approached. He must have seen the car – crumpled I imagine. Could he see Kirk waiting there for someone to take him out of the car? Does he see things like this all the time as he drives on the tracks? If so, is he numb to it? Or was he upset at what he saw?
I don’t like the thoughts of the conductor, but they don’t bother me nearly as much as the thought of Kirk in the car while the trains went by. They would have been whistling because at that location they are about to go through a crossing. I can’t think of anything sadder and lonelier than the person I love so much sitting in that car, with strangers taking measurements and making spray paint marks all around him, while the trains pass nearby. So much going on - much of it about him, yet somehow ignoring him as he sat there, probably slumped over the wheel. All those people, all those trains – such busy-ness, such activity, such purpose, such noise, with him in the middle of it, so still. All his busy-ness, activity, purpose, and noise forever snuffed out. Waiting for someone to take him from the car, to show the respect he deserved, to treat him like a person instead of an investigation. This is the picture that comes to my mind now when I hear the trains. Him waiting. While I, too, waited just a few miles away - waited for him to come home, or for someone to call and tell me where he was and why he wasn't home yet.
I hate that in having lost something so big, I have also lost things like the comfort of trains. The small things that could maybe have made this an iota more bearable – gone just like he is, taken from me the minute he was.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Too Much Spare Time
This past month has been “easier.” I got through the five month mark okay (thank you to everyone who got in touch on or before that day to say you were thinking of us). But here’s the problem with “easier.” It only means I’m not crying as much. I don’t miss him any less, or want him back any less. It only means getting used to it. I’m adjusting.
What does “adjustment” look like? Well for one, I am spending too much money. I counted the other day, and I have bought about 25 pairs of shoes in the last couple of months. Then there’s the clothes and all the other crap. It’s not that I can’t afford it – it’s just that it’s unnecessary, and not the best use of money. I don’t need most of the stuff, but it fills time. It keeps me busy, especially on the weekends, which stretch long and empty in front of me. (This is proof of what I never admitted to him – that it was actually CHEAPER to own a boat than not, because once we owned the boat I stopped going shopping so much. I never told him, but I actually did the math, and the boat, gas, and insurance were less than I spent every month before we owned it!)
I also am car shopping, but that is almost done, and once I buy it, I have no idea what I will do with my free time. Sometimes I think I am dragging out the car decision not just because of my analysis paralysis, but because I subconsciously fear what I will do with my Saturdays.
What I am realizing is that I am not just lonely, I am bored, bored, BORED. I think I might even be borING. Me. I never thought I was, but I am starting to wonder. It’s ironic because Kirk used to tell me I was “no fun.” Always when he wanted me to do something beyond my limits, like enter a hotdog eating contest, or get my picture taken with the Naked Cowboy in Times Square, or go to the bathroom over the side of the boat, or moon a trucker. He would suggest some such ridiculous thing, I would say no, and he would tell me he didn’t understand why I never wanted to participate in any of his “good ideas,” and that I was no fun.
I always dismissed this observation, since he never really meant it, and besides, almost anyone would refuse to do all of those things (I think…). But now that I live without him, I realize that he was the source of everything entertaining that happened. I was the Robin, the Tonto, the perpetual sidekick. I made him better, but on my own I am pretty ordinary, and not too interesting to be around.
I have no hobbies either. I used to like going to the movies, and never minded going alone, but now going alone seems actually lonely. I used to decorate the house, but it’s all done. I used to go boating, but you know the status of that. I am learning to cook, but still don’t like it, and I do work out now, but that’s a chore too. (do you see a theme emerging? BORING…)
Additionally, I stink at making friends. I have never really had to – he was my most important friend, and almost all our other friends came via him. It is especially tough for me because I naturally gravitate much more toward men than women. I have always been more comfortable with men, and that’s been reinforced by usually being primarily with men at work. This all was fine until I became a widow in a strange city. Now I have to figure out how to make friends, and realistically, they can’t really be men. I can’t very well call up some guy I get along well with at work and ask him if he wants to go to a movie or dinner – they are all married and somehow I don’t think their wives would appreciate it. That leaves me with women and couples. I do have two couples I do things with sometimes, and I don’t feel like a fifth wheel with them, but in the end, they are really just occasional social friends.
That leaves me with women. I don’t know what to do with them. Don’t they really just want to be with their husbands, the way I did? How would they have room for me? And why would they want to be MY friend? I have never really had much confidence that anyone actually likes me. I don’t know why – you all really seem to. But somehow the thought of trying someone new – putting myself out there – is scary. Making a friend is kind of like dating I guess – you have to take a risk if you want a chance at something. But then again, you might just get rejected and end up with nothing.
So here I sit – bored, lonely, and to top it all off, whining about being bored and lonely :). That ought to attract new friends by the droves.
What does “adjustment” look like? Well for one, I am spending too much money. I counted the other day, and I have bought about 25 pairs of shoes in the last couple of months. Then there’s the clothes and all the other crap. It’s not that I can’t afford it – it’s just that it’s unnecessary, and not the best use of money. I don’t need most of the stuff, but it fills time. It keeps me busy, especially on the weekends, which stretch long and empty in front of me. (This is proof of what I never admitted to him – that it was actually CHEAPER to own a boat than not, because once we owned the boat I stopped going shopping so much. I never told him, but I actually did the math, and the boat, gas, and insurance were less than I spent every month before we owned it!)
I also am car shopping, but that is almost done, and once I buy it, I have no idea what I will do with my free time. Sometimes I think I am dragging out the car decision not just because of my analysis paralysis, but because I subconsciously fear what I will do with my Saturdays.
What I am realizing is that I am not just lonely, I am bored, bored, BORED. I think I might even be borING. Me. I never thought I was, but I am starting to wonder. It’s ironic because Kirk used to tell me I was “no fun.” Always when he wanted me to do something beyond my limits, like enter a hotdog eating contest, or get my picture taken with the Naked Cowboy in Times Square, or go to the bathroom over the side of the boat, or moon a trucker. He would suggest some such ridiculous thing, I would say no, and he would tell me he didn’t understand why I never wanted to participate in any of his “good ideas,” and that I was no fun.
I always dismissed this observation, since he never really meant it, and besides, almost anyone would refuse to do all of those things (I think…). But now that I live without him, I realize that he was the source of everything entertaining that happened. I was the Robin, the Tonto, the perpetual sidekick. I made him better, but on my own I am pretty ordinary, and not too interesting to be around.
I have no hobbies either. I used to like going to the movies, and never minded going alone, but now going alone seems actually lonely. I used to decorate the house, but it’s all done. I used to go boating, but you know the status of that. I am learning to cook, but still don’t like it, and I do work out now, but that’s a chore too. (do you see a theme emerging? BORING…)
Additionally, I stink at making friends. I have never really had to – he was my most important friend, and almost all our other friends came via him. It is especially tough for me because I naturally gravitate much more toward men than women. I have always been more comfortable with men, and that’s been reinforced by usually being primarily with men at work. This all was fine until I became a widow in a strange city. Now I have to figure out how to make friends, and realistically, they can’t really be men. I can’t very well call up some guy I get along well with at work and ask him if he wants to go to a movie or dinner – they are all married and somehow I don’t think their wives would appreciate it. That leaves me with women and couples. I do have two couples I do things with sometimes, and I don’t feel like a fifth wheel with them, but in the end, they are really just occasional social friends.
That leaves me with women. I don’t know what to do with them. Don’t they really just want to be with their husbands, the way I did? How would they have room for me? And why would they want to be MY friend? I have never really had much confidence that anyone actually likes me. I don’t know why – you all really seem to. But somehow the thought of trying someone new – putting myself out there – is scary. Making a friend is kind of like dating I guess – you have to take a risk if you want a chance at something. But then again, you might just get rejected and end up with nothing.
So here I sit – bored, lonely, and to top it all off, whining about being bored and lonely :). That ought to attract new friends by the droves.
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