Back in the days when I worked a lot of overtime hours around
the holidays---Easter, Valentine’s Day, Memorial Day, Thanksgiving and
Christmas---I’d get to work at 8 AM and didn’t leave the flower shop until 8 to
10 PM. With a quick lunch out of a sack and dinner brought in by the boss we
never left our work stations. It was a wholesale/retail operation so holiday
schedules dragged on for several weeks. Decades later when I worked for my
husband we’d be out on parking lots plowing snow for long hours. And during a notable,
record breaking blizzard we didn’t get out of our trucks for anything but
bathroom and gassing up breaks for three days straight. We’d take turns
sleeping in two hour shifts while slumped over in our seats. Where on earth did
all my energy and stamina go since those days?
The past two days I’ve had four things penciled in my day
planner with three other events on tap for the end of the week and already I’m
dog tired and wishing it was Sunday so I can sleep in. Monday it was to the
dentist and The Gathering at the senior hall. As I drove the long trip to
a dentist in another county south of town, I made a decision that I need to find
one closer to home. Heck, I probably go past 100 others as I drive
the dreaded S-curve through the city. I’ve known my dentist for forty years,
before he even went to dental school. But on the way back home I made another
decision to postpone the idea of leaving my tooth guy. Being around people
who knew my husband and me before and after Don's stroke makes me feel
good.
Though I have to admit at The Gathering (for people looking
for friends) I came close to feeling that same way with some new acquaintances.
A woman in the group who has an extensive background in dealing with
deaf people got us all sharing our life experiences with disabilities. I
was able to talk about my husband’s and my experience going to speech classes with
future speech pathologists. For six years, two days a week, I sat behind a one
way mirror with a college professor and her class as a series of student clinicians worked
with my husband on the other side of the glass. Even though his vocabulary never
got above twenty-five unprompted words), my husband often had all of us
laughing so hard it was hard to stop and he could intone a single word in a dozen
ways in an effort to be understood. The
professors kept him at the college for so long because, they said, he taught their students
to see their clients as more than just textbook language disorders; that real people
with unique personalities are underneath the disability they’d be treating out
in the field.
Most widows who were caregivers to our spouses have our battle
scars and war stories to tell. Some fought the revolving doors of medical
clinics and treatment changes. Some witnessed the slow decline of the mind and/or the
body. We caregiver veterans recognize kindred spirits and we seem to bond over
being “valued and understood” in that context. I was a daughter, a sibling, an
artist, a wife, a florist, and a snowplower and people everywhere understand
what those labels mean but somehow summarizing the last twelve years of life
with Don up with the single word of “caregiver” seems like it lacks clarity to
anyone who has not-been-there-done-that. One woman who was at The Gathering
talked about how the local widows group helped her with that. I had been invited by mail
to join that widow's group in my first year out from Don’s death, but going meant I’d have to go
through the dreaded S-Curved after dark so I passed on the opportunity.
Tuesday I was back to the senior hall for the Matter of
Balance class and a luncheon where a Korean violinist entertained us with Bach
and a few hard rock pieces that he arranged himself. His talks in between
sonatas (or whatever they’re called) made me wish I could find a music appreciation
class. That guy could make his two hundred year old instrument sing and he had
a wonderful sense of humor as he answered our many questions. Someone asked how long he'd been playing and he took out his phone and said, "About ten minutes." Someone else asked if
he could play The Devil Went Down to
Georgia and he answered that he can play it but he won’t, adding that all violinists
hate getting that request. He didn't explain why but he did explain the differences between a fiddle and a
violin—the same instrument held in a different way, one featuring finger work,
the other featuring bow work. Being a long-time fan of blue-grass music it wasn’t
much of a stretch for me to thoroughly appreciate this solo act. Lunch and a great floor show for
$6.00. It doesn’t get much better than that and he made it worthwhile to be dog tired this week. ©
I love this two minute video with its upbeat message about
love, death and looking at life. If anyone knows who this guy is, please clue me in. I should know but I've been drawing a blank for days.
