The Judge, the Vet and the Widows

My poor little dog went into the veterinary clinic at 8:00 AM for a routine teeth cleaning and came back out at 4:00 PM with nine teeth missing. Several times during that time frame I was on my cell with the vet, going over options and making decisions while Levi was out cold, his tongue pulled over to the side. I know this because the vet sent me pictures of him in that condition and at least twelve x-rays pictures of his teeth and their roots. One time, I was sitting in the waiting of my orthopedic doctor saying things into the phone like, “Gosh, that one is gross, yes, pull it.” “How many teeth will he if left if we pull all nine?” It’s the only time I’ve ever had taken a cell call in public and it left little doubt that I was racking up a big denial bill---I never did explain it was for a dog.  

How on earth his teeth got that bad in one year since his last cleaning is beyond me. He’s only six. They tell me it’s common with schnauzers and nine extractions was bad enough but there is one tooth the vet says may need a root canal in six months. Can you believe that, a root canal for a dog! It’s a tooth dogs really need for chewing and if the treatment they did on it this week doesn’t clear up the puss pocket at the bottom of the root, he’ll be off to a doggie dental specialist forty-five miles away. One thing for sure, he’s not getting his allowance anymore. It can go towards fighting his gingivitis which includes---get this---brushing his teeth with peanut butter! Regular dog tooth paste, I guess, breaks down the cement-like stuff the vet put on his gum line to help with gingivitis. I am not looking forward to learning how to brush Levi’s teeth, which will happen at his two-weeks-out-from-his-dental-surgery appointment.

The next day I went to see The Judge with my Movie and Lunch Club, trying to ignore the guilt that came with leaving Levi alone with his pain pill and pillow. Here’s how IMDb sums up the storyline: “Big city lawyer Hank Palmer returns to his childhood home where his father, the town's judge, is suspected of murder. Hank sets out to discover the truth and, along the way, reconnects with his estranged family.” Robert Downey Jr plays the lawyer and the small town, Indiana judge is played by Robert Duval. They both brought their A-games to the film as did the rest of the cast. Reviews I’ve read after seeing the film were mixed and used phrases like “muddled melodrama” and “steadfastly old-fashioned” and more than one reviewer compared it to Kramer vs. Kramer for reasons I’ve yet to figure out. The seventeen of us in my group, though, all gave it a thumbs up. I felt there was never a moment when I wasn’t engaged in the many sub-plots. Of course, it was all those under currents that caused some reviewers to think the film was too "complicated" and glut with too many scenes---Hank’s marriage falling apart, his high school sweetheart’s daughter who he thinks could be his, his relationships with his two brothers, and the car accident that caused the family estrangement. There was even a tornado thrown in for good measure. How is all that “complicated?” Complicated to who, people under thirty who don’t understand that life gets messy?

What I didn’t like was the place my Movie and Lunch Club went for lunch. The movie was long and we didn’t get out until late afternoon and the restaurant they picked was on the other end of town, making it necessary for all of us to drive home during rush hour. Several times on the drive down I was sorely tempted to skip lunch, find a place to turn around and head back home. I hate rush hour driving! But I didn’t want anyone to worry if I didn’t show up, thinking maybe I’d been in an accident. Oh, well, you can’t win them all and next time when I get the email announcing the movie and lunch locations, I’ll pay closer attention to the route and travel times.

Speaking of rush hour, I’ll have to do it again at the end of the month when my orthopedic doctor has my labrum tear surgery scheduled on my shoulder. It’s only a one hour, out-patient surgery but I’ll be out like a light and will be wearing a sling afterward to remind me to keep my elbow close to my waist at all times---for up to four weeks depending on how much work he has to inside. But, he says, I won’t be able to shovel snow all winter even after the sling is no longer needed. That sure complicates my life! I have a little electric snow blower that I’ve never liked using but I’m going to have to make sure it’s still working and if not, buy a new one before I get cut open and can’t lift a blower down from the car if I need to buy a new one. I like to think I can totally take care of my own needs, but this winter might prove otherwise. ©

Widowhood Evaluation Time

Recently I was reading a blog of a woman whose husband died within a few months of mine. I don’t read her much anymore because her plight usually brings me down and that’s sad because we go way back to when we both blogged at a stroke support site. Back in those days our caregiver stories tracked almost the same in terms of the heavy load each we carried and length of time we carried it. Now, she says she misses her husband more, not less than in the beginning of her widowhood journey. She says that everything reminds her of her husband and that makes her feel even lonelier. She’s stuck in grief, she says, and is wondering if she needs counseling.

A person commenting on the post said she is a widow in her seventh year out and she feels the same way, she still cries every day and she’s lost friends because she can’t move on. I have to wonder, though, if after so many years can you still call it grief? Perhaps a different label at that stage of the game would define the problem better and if it were me, I'd start with a lot of blood work to make sure a seven year-long depression doesn't stem from a chemical imbalance. These two widows’ stories make me wish there was a magic pill we could take to make everything okay again. Some would call that an anti-depressant and that may be a necessary tool for some but, in my opinion, after a while most widows need to pull that Band-Aid off and let the healing process happen on its own. Pills and alcohol just postpones the emotions one needs to move through to reach acceptance. At least that’s my layman’s theory.

One thing my friend wrote about I can truly relate to. She said she went from being a caregiver without a moment during the days to waste to being a widow who drifts from day to day wasting a lot of time. It’s a restless feeling to have so much time on your hands and it’s a feeling that still plagues me more often than I’d like. Guilt comes with the idleness. I have chosen to fill much of that time with whatever activities catches my eye in the senior community. Not that my way of coping is any better than anyone else's but we all have needs and I need to talk with someone other than the dog from time to time. Even if it’s mostly the 'shallow acquaintance' talk I find in my travels, there are times when the banner goes to a deeper level and the mystery of when and where that can happen is all I need to keep me going. Sure, I still miss my husband and think of him often. Sure, there are things every single day that remind me of him. But those memory triggers, now, are strangely comforting. They remind me that I was once loved deeply and I was important to the happiness of another person. Not everyone near the end of their life can say that. One thing we can all say, though, and say with conviction is the past is past and we can’t bring it back.

Just suppose we could bring the past back. Would any of us do it if we truly could? If we knew in doing so we couldn’t change a thing that happened back then? Not the outcome. Not the words we said or didn’t say. Not the painful parts as time marched us to the same ending as before. I wouldn’t. I would not want to see my husband go through his stroke again just so I wouldn’t feel lonely or restless now. Nope, once was enough. As I move forward in widowhood I am able to filter out the bad or painful memories of my husband’s and my struggles in his post-stroke world and, for me, that’s a miracle brought to us through gratitude and grace. I may stumble and fall in my pursuit to put meaning back in my life again, but without that goal would any of us get back up again? Some widows apparently can’t. So I raise my glass to toast all of us widow ladies who keep on moving forward! I see you everywhere---on the internet and in my activities here on the home front. We are women and we are strong which reminds me of a conversation I had with my audiologist last week.

She wanted to know if I was dating yet. I laughed and said, “No, way!” Then I got serious and told her that I would never put myself in a position where I might have to be a caregiver again, that I loved Don and didn’t mind doing it for him because we had a long history together of supporting each other through difficult times. I also told her that in my circle of friends from the senior hall there is a running joke that guys in our age bracket are only looking for cooks, house keepers and/or nursemaids. It was her turn to laugh. Then she said if your mom died her father would find another woman right away, that he was so helpless he can’t do anything for himself. Her mother, she said, was tired from doing it all for so many years and the audiologist predicts her mom would be like me and never get remarried. We chatted on for fifteen minutes covering topics like raising boys in her generation versus mine. Just think, that concept of marrying for a cook, house keeper or nursemaid will die out---and good riddance---with the 30-something generation. Young guys, today, can do it all and in my book that’s a good by-product of the Feminism Movement of my generation. Yup, my conversation with the audiologist was one of those light banner things that turned deep and philosophical and I left the place feeling good inside. ©

Politicians, Art and Stupid Computers

The dog let me sleep until 10:00 on this fine Sunday morning and that hasn’t happened in a long time. But alas one of his stuffies had to pee and so Levi shoved the bear in my face until I got up and let the two of them out the back door. I thanked them both for the extra sleep. I really needed it after the busy week I’ve had, a week that included seeing the doctor, dentist and audiologist and going to an art class and a fund raiser.

The class:  Friday I got up before the sun and off I went into the morning mist along the river to go to a one day class at the sculpture garden on using pastels. Actually, a half day class and, boy, did the time go fast. We all worked on the same, cookie cutter landscape which made it easy for the instructor to demonstrate technique. She had some of her own work on display and it was impressive. I liked working with the pastels and I can see me dabbling in the median on long winter days.  After class, I had lunch at the gardens and wandered around the temporary exhibit of sculptures from around the world, none of which I’d like to own except for the fact I could sell one and use the money to pay cash for a luxury car or two.  I don’t know, maybe I’m getting too old to understand ‘cutting edge.’ Ya, I know Michael Angelo has already been there, done that with realism----it’s old school---but I still like his naked marble men better than hunks of metal that look like they were produced by a bunch beer guzzling guys in a junk yard in the wee hours after last call. “You wanna have a welding contest?” “Count me in, Bubba!”

Saturday evening I went to a political fund raiser…nothing fancy. It was a hot dogs and beer affair with a handful of political figures coming in to pitch themselves or another candidate. I went mostly because I’ve been going to these for nearly two decades and I know a lot of the people who organize the event. It was more fun when Don was alive and we stayed to the end but I mostly just put in an appearance this year and picked up a bunch of literature. I don’t drink beer but I took a break from my diet to eat a hot dog, beans and chips and to shake a few hands, hoping none of those hands I shook came in contact with someone with coming down with the flu. I really don’t like shaking hands this time of the year…especially at doctor’s offices. Why do they still do that? I learned from Facebook a few days ago that I’ve already been exposed to highly contagious virus that gives you severe diarrhea.  Oh, goodie. If I get it you can be sure I won’t be posting an SOS on Facebook for someone to bring me Gatorade and toilet paper. That’s what phones are for. Is there nothing too personal for young people to post on Facebook?

Have I mentioned lately that computers drive me nuts? You get one thing working just the way you want it, then a mysterious force comes along and changes your settings or otherwise messes with programs and you have to start all over again. It took me several weeks to get my email working after my month in Computer Hell, now it’s gone again. Then yesterday I wanted to edit some photos and discovered I no longer have an editing program, presumably a victim of having to have Windows wiped off my computer and reinstalled. I don’t remember the name of the program I used and loved and now I have to research photo editing programs…and I can’t get back to my eBay sales until I do. I wanted do a heavy round of auctions leading up to Thanksgiving, then quit for the winter months. That’s not likely to happen now. I also can’t do the photo albums and genealogy books I want to work on over winter until I get the photo editing issue resolved. I’m too old for this! Woo is me! I need a grandchild to work some magic on my keyboard and say, “There, grandma, it’s all working again.”

I promised myself I would manage this coming winter’s expectations better than I did last winter in terms of signing up for too many activities that are subject to cancellations due to bad weather. But then the senior hall newsletter came out for November, December and January and I put in my reservations in for eleven events. Add nine Red Hat Society outings and, oops, I did it again. They are predicating another bad winter for Michigan so expect me to be belly-aching, again, about being too chicken to drive to interesting lectures, luncheons, outings and classes or they get canceled due to the weather. Oh, well, as long as all my petty problems remain first world, middle-class problems I am still one lucky widow lady, aren’t I. But if the day ever comes that I have to stand on the deck with a shot gun to protect the dog and his stuffie from ending up in the neighbor’s soup pot then I reserve the right to complain and be heard!  ©

Not the greatest painting, but I haven't picked up a pastel crayon in 35 years and the set they gave us to work with didn't have all the colors I would have liked to use.....excuses, excuses.  The class did inspire me to try the median again, though. I liked it much better than the color pencils I tried last spring and quickly abandon as too frustrating.