It finally happened. I went on a senior hall outing that
turned out to be a waste of time except for the fact that writing about it will
take up space in my blog. We took part in a pilot program at the art museum that involved viewing of a classic black and white movie plus an extra hour to check out
the museum’s exhibits. I’m not a fan of black and white films but I signed up because
I haven’t been to the art museum since the last century---I love saying that.
It makes me feel old and wise to have lived in two centuries. (I know that’s
crazy. Everyone old enough to buy beer can say the same thing.)
Before my husband’s stroke we used to love going to the old art
museum but after seeing our new one, I don’t care if I ever go again. The beloved
permanent collection is gone and they had a whole gallery devoted to “collections”---mostly
filled with tennis shoes and tiny rubber toys none of which were as old as the
bra I was wearing. I’ve got better collections in my house. The other main exhibit
was all about a tattoo artist who lives in Hawaii and has popularized tribal
tattooing. People from around the world apparently pay good money to go there
to take one of his classes and get a small, trademark tattoo to prove they’ve
met him. I hate tattoos and I especially do not understand people who feel the
need to turn their skin into a facsimile of a zebra or an ancient piece of
pottery unearthed in an archeological dig. Tattoos in an art museum: we’re
supposed to respect the artistry but the term ‘circus freak’ crossed my mind a
time or two while viewing the photographs. But what the heck, if I had stayed
at home all I would have done is knit and feel guilty about wasting that time.
One of these days I’ve got to have a serious conversation
with myself about what I’d have to do to feel like I’m not wasting my time. The
older I get the more often I think of my days as wasting my time and I suspect that
bothers me because it’s closely connected to the term “bidding my time” which
is scary close to saying I’m just sitting around waiting to die. But I’m not gonna
go there today, not when I’m celebrating the rebirth of my ergonomic keyboard.
I spilled water on it, gave it firstaid then stopped at the computer shop for
an expert opinion on whether or not I’d electrocute myself testing it out, and
after impatiently waiting the required four days they suggested I leave it
sitting upside down and wrapped in a towel, I’m now using it. They said it
could take a week for malfunctions to show up so I’m not out of the woods yet.
Whether I’m debating on political sites or blogging, sitting
at my keyboard is one of those times when I vacillate between feeling like I’m
accomplishing something and wasting too much time. When I’m blogging, the computer prompts me to
leave the house at regular intervals because the cold, hard fact is I need a
life in order to have something to write about it. It’s a catch-22 and I'm okay with that. Blogging
has been the single most driving force in widowhood that keeps me from drying
up like an unidentifiable object in a vegetable crisper. That may be a little
melodramatic but it was one hundred percent true in the first few years after
Don died. Now, I recognize that getting out and about is reconnecting me to the
life-long learner part of my personality. It’s always been there, but during my years
of caregiving I was learning things I didn’t necessarily like having to learn. My do good days are behind me. Pencil on some eyebrows, put on some Bert’s Bees lip
gloss and I’m out the door.
Speaking of learning things, this week I also went to a
travelogue about eastern Canada---a Maritimes and Newfoundland tour covering New
Brunswick, Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island. It made me homesick for
our old motorhome and the days when Don and I poked around wild and woolly
places. The video was filled with untouched land, lighthouses, water, sunsets, sailboats,
birds and beaches. And I don’t know why it never occurred to me that Canada also
has places where you can whale watch. Duh! This tour also stops at Halifax,
Nova Scotia, to the maritime museum and the cemeteries where people are buried who lost
their lives when the Titanic sunk. 1,500 people lost their lives
that night but only 328 bodies were recovered and 118 of those were never
identified. I used to collect North Star Lines memorabilia and that stop at Halifax
calls my name. I’m glad the White Star Line set up a trust to maintain those gravesites.
Jeez, that’s the least they could do!
Now that I’ve taken this blog entry down to death and dying I might as well share something I got in the mail recently. A survey from the funeral home I used for Don’s service, mailed out shortly after his 5th sadiversary. “In order to assist others with sensitive, caring and professional help when they need it, we need to know real thoughts and feelings of individuals like you.” My first impulse was to write across the top: IF YOU WANT TO BE SENSITIVE, DON’T SEND WIDOWS SURVEYS NEAR THE ANNIVERSARY DATES OF THEIR SPOUSE’S DEATH! I didn’t do it, but the stupid survey still sits close at hand taunting me. ©
Now that I’ve taken this blog entry down to death and dying I might as well share something I got in the mail recently. A survey from the funeral home I used for Don’s service, mailed out shortly after his 5th sadiversary. “In order to assist others with sensitive, caring and professional help when they need it, we need to know real thoughts and feelings of individuals like you.” My first impulse was to write across the top: IF YOU WANT TO BE SENSITIVE, DON’T SEND WIDOWS SURVEYS NEAR THE ANNIVERSARY DATES OF THEIR SPOUSE’S DEATH! I didn’t do it, but the stupid survey still sits close at hand taunting me. ©
