Another day spent hauling books around and shredding things (and just now, sweeping up trails of shredded paper). I'll have a half dozen large black garbage bags of shredded paper to take to the dumpster at work, and two bankers boxes of books to drop off at the post office to send to Powell's in Portland, Oregon - they'll probably reject some of the books for mildew and some for being book club editions (from Jerry's and my short time belonging to a cookbook club), but I think there'll be enough there to make it worthwhile, and anyway, they pay shipping, so even if they reject some books, I haven't lost anything. As for the several hundred other books currently piled in the dining room, I'll call the library tomorrow and see what can happen. And mind you, this is just my stuff. I can't go through Jerry's yet, at least not for the purpose of sorting it out and deciding, um, about it. I did look for his trumpet again today, for Seamus, but still no luck. I hope he didn't go through with selling it and not tell me. I don't suppose he put it in the cedar closet in the basement with his clothes...?
Speaking of the basement, there's water appearing in places that I can't even figure out - the middle of the floor, with no rivulets leading to the spots? - and we haven't had any rain. And the dehumidifier has decided not to go on at all. After all the rattling noise it was making, I'm not really surprised it's stopped working. But I guess this means I need to go buy a new one. But back to the water, I don't know where it's coming from or how it's getting to those weird isolated spots on the floor, but definitely I need to get the contractor out here. Seamus says he's been out of town, so I hope I'll hear from him this week, or get hold of him, anyway.
I had vague plans to do some exercising today - even wore workout clothes all day. I did actually pick up hand weights and do some exercises with them (they were in the bedroom. I'd brought them in there so Jerry could use them to help regain his strength all those weeks he spent mostly in bed, "recovering" from the radiation and waiting in vain for his appetite to return. Everything hurts)... but it's so muggy, and I was so busy shredding, that I never did do any more. I think it would be a good thing, both for my physical health and possibly to get out of my mind a bit, not that I expect that really to happen - clearing my mind never having been something I've been good at. Still, must keep trying. Noticed the meditation cushions up in the Buddha Bedroom while looking for Jerry's trumpet up there and thought yet again that I should go back to trying that. Also noticed that I can't remember the last time I watered the house plants. Must do that tomorrow.
I want my honey back.
05 July 2010
04 July 2010
Triggers
Sometimes the things that make me cry are obvious, sometimes not. Just now came an obvious one, but unexpected, and it caught me off guard. I was looking at photos taken at today's singing at Liberty in Henagar, and came across a picture of the memorial list - thought, Oh, Jerry should be on there, without realizing I was really thinking that - found his name and it felt like a punch to the gut, suddenly realizing... he's on the memorial list. He might have been on other lists at other singings in these past three weeks, but this is the first time I've seen his name there, written out, under the heading "Deceased," on a memorial list at a Sacred Harp singing.
People will put his name on memorial lists at singings for the next year, in Sacred Harp tradition. Five years ago, Jerry spoke at the Midwest Convention in Chicago for Kelly Beard, an older gentleman from Texas that he'd been friends with, who had recently died. I remember sitting in the back of the alto, watching Jerry speak, and beginning to cry. Someone later mentioned to me that he'd seen me crying, and I don't remember if I told him why: but I had realized, as I watched Jerry speak so fondly of Kelly, that someday I might be sitting in the hollow square watching someone speak for Jerry.
Five short, swift years later, I will.
Tonight is three weeks since my sweetie died. How many more do I have to get through?
People will put his name on memorial lists at singings for the next year, in Sacred Harp tradition. Five years ago, Jerry spoke at the Midwest Convention in Chicago for Kelly Beard, an older gentleman from Texas that he'd been friends with, who had recently died. I remember sitting in the back of the alto, watching Jerry speak, and beginning to cry. Someone later mentioned to me that he'd seen me crying, and I don't remember if I told him why: but I had realized, as I watched Jerry speak so fondly of Kelly, that someday I might be sitting in the hollow square watching someone speak for Jerry.
Five short, swift years later, I will.
Tonight is three weeks since my sweetie died. How many more do I have to get through?
03 July 2010
Rockets
I keep hearing explosions - it's not the actual holiday yet, but people around here love to set off firecrackers at the slightest excuse, and they've been doing it for days now. I actually remember a large firecracker going off the first night Jerry was home in hospice - later realized it was at the moment the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup. (Actually, it sounds like some people might be doing fireworks displays a day early. Jerry and I would always hear the fireworks and try to see them out the window, but we have so many large trees around the house that we hardly ever could.)
So: another day ending. I didn't get out of bed this morning until after 10: I'd stayed up past 1 a.m., and right before I went to bed I tried a "sleep aid," a store brand of basically whatever the ingredient in Tylenol PM is that helps you sleep. I woke up at 7-something feeling zonked but alert enough to remember to take my thyroid medicine, then went back to bed, woke up several more times but kept falling back asleep. When I did get up, I wasn't as groggy as I'd have been with something like Nyquil, so maybe if I can't sleep at some point and take that sleep stuff at an earlier time, I'll be able to have a decent night's rest.
Anyway... I spent a bunch of the afternoon hauling my books up from the basement, typing in ISBNs on the Powell's website to see if they'll buy any of them (looks like about 20 they might buy, if the condition is okay, so far), and stacking the rest in the dining room. Still a bunch left downstairs. I'll call the local library next week and see if they can send someone to cart these away for their book sales. I don't know if Goodwill takes books. If neither of those options work... they may end up in a dumpster, which I wouldn't like - I always want books to have a good home. But I'm in no mood to search out more options. And there's just too much stuff in that basement.
I also made reservations to go to Lookout Mountain in August. I'm scared about going without Jerry, though: every plan I've made, every reservation, is for somewhere I've only ever been with him: the flights, the car rental, the hotel, even the parking lot at Midway. How can I do these things without him without it hurting too much to bear? I can't not be at his memorial; but how can I actually go? The only person who could make it better is Jerry. You see my problem.
But anyway, reservations can be cancelled.
Another round of fireworks.
A DirecTV tech came to the house in the late afternoon, moved the satellite dish down a bit on the side of the house, cut off a few branches on one of Jerry's dogwoods, and said there wasn't much left to do if the reception isn't better, with the aforementioned large trees blocking so much of the sky around our house. But the reception should be a bit better now. And even if it's not, I'm not paying for it at the moment anyway... Boguslaw, the tech's name was. Wore his wedding ring on his right hand, I noticed. I envied him his living spouse. Of course, I'm still wearing my wedding ring and don't plan to stop, so theoretically Boguslaw could have been a miserable widower still wearing his wedding ring and hiding his grief, and I had no cause to feel envious.
It would be really nice not to be having all these insane thoughts.
And another day comes to an end. God, I miss you, honey.
02 July 2010
Mathematics
Last time we had a holiday come around, it was Memorial Day, and I spent it by Jerry's side at the hospital. And now here comes another holiday. My only plans for the weekend are to go through stuff in the basement - my stuff, not Jerry's - and organize it. That is, figure out what I need to bring to Goodwill or the local library to donate - books I've been moving from place to place to place for years and will never want to read again. Considering the state of the basement, I'm sure a lot of the books are mildewed and will probably have to be thrown into the recycling. I'm also going through clothes and thinking about what I haven't worn in years and will never wear.
I can't go through Jerry's things yet. Not his clothing, anyway. Not his shoes. Joan Didion said it: I can't give away his shoes, he'll need them when he comes back. A brain in a more rational state would think about the urn in the bedroom and put two and two together and get something closer to four, to the fact that Jerry is not coming back and will not need his shoes, will not be polishing up his trusty Oxfords to wear at Lookout Mountain in August. Obviously my brain is capable of noticing that two plus two equals four, objectively, and yet when I do the addition I still keep reaching three, or five, some sort of scenario where he's coming back. Not yet, apparently, but soon. It's got to be soon.
Other than going through stuff, the only other thing I know is that mail will be delivered tomorrow afternoon, and between 4 and 8 someone from DirecTV will come and see if the satellite dish can be adjusted to get better reception or if the trees are blocking too much of the sky. Yeah, that thing about mail: sort of a high point to the day. Although its contents aren't always. Statements from Medicare and Blue Cross are still trickling in, with absurd numbers reflecting the insanity of the so-called healthcare so-called system. As long as the "Amount you may owe" continues to be 0, I'll be okay. Jerry still gets mail, of course - today it was a Daedalus book catalogue, a bitter reminder of the pile of unread books on a dresser in the bedroom that Jerry ordered from them in April, figuring he'd be spending a lot of time resting and recovering from chemotherapy and would have a lot of time to read. "A lot of time."
Went to the shop today and put the last coat of white lacquer on an extra piece for a mostly finished job. My last-ever use of the white lacquer? I used to complain about it, since for a while there I had all sorts of problems with it, air bubbles or particles spitting out of the gun. Now I seem to have the hang of it... just in time never to need to do it again. We sent out letters to local cabinet shops, hoping someone will want to ride in at the last minute on his white horse and buy Wood Bros. And as I looked up the shops on line, I felt so angry that they're still operating, they're still alive.
We began to get rid of years and years' worth of saved woodworking catalogues and magazines. Jerry really wasn't good at throwing things out. Again, I felt sad and guilty throwing out stuff he'd saved all these years. As if he's going to come back and need them. And besides, some had layers of dust on them that showed he hadn't looked at them, or thought about them, in all this time. It still hurts, though. Everything hurts.
I can't go through Jerry's things yet. Not his clothing, anyway. Not his shoes. Joan Didion said it: I can't give away his shoes, he'll need them when he comes back. A brain in a more rational state would think about the urn in the bedroom and put two and two together and get something closer to four, to the fact that Jerry is not coming back and will not need his shoes, will not be polishing up his trusty Oxfords to wear at Lookout Mountain in August. Obviously my brain is capable of noticing that two plus two equals four, objectively, and yet when I do the addition I still keep reaching three, or five, some sort of scenario where he's coming back. Not yet, apparently, but soon. It's got to be soon.
Other than going through stuff, the only other thing I know is that mail will be delivered tomorrow afternoon, and between 4 and 8 someone from DirecTV will come and see if the satellite dish can be adjusted to get better reception or if the trees are blocking too much of the sky. Yeah, that thing about mail: sort of a high point to the day. Although its contents aren't always. Statements from Medicare and Blue Cross are still trickling in, with absurd numbers reflecting the insanity of the so-called healthcare so-called system. As long as the "Amount you may owe" continues to be 0, I'll be okay. Jerry still gets mail, of course - today it was a Daedalus book catalogue, a bitter reminder of the pile of unread books on a dresser in the bedroom that Jerry ordered from them in April, figuring he'd be spending a lot of time resting and recovering from chemotherapy and would have a lot of time to read. "A lot of time."
Went to the shop today and put the last coat of white lacquer on an extra piece for a mostly finished job. My last-ever use of the white lacquer? I used to complain about it, since for a while there I had all sorts of problems with it, air bubbles or particles spitting out of the gun. Now I seem to have the hang of it... just in time never to need to do it again. We sent out letters to local cabinet shops, hoping someone will want to ride in at the last minute on his white horse and buy Wood Bros. And as I looked up the shops on line, I felt so angry that they're still operating, they're still alive.
We began to get rid of years and years' worth of saved woodworking catalogues and magazines. Jerry really wasn't good at throwing things out. Again, I felt sad and guilty throwing out stuff he'd saved all these years. As if he's going to come back and need them. And besides, some had layers of dust on them that showed he hadn't looked at them, or thought about them, in all this time. It still hurts, though. Everything hurts.
01 July 2010
At home, again
This is the urn Seamus made for Jerry's ashes - a true work of art and love, incorporating wood veneers that Jerry collected over the decades and kept, meaning to do who knows what with them someday.
The design under his name on the front is from a sketch of my first (and until a couple of weeks ago, only) tattoo that Seamus made while we sat by Jerry's bed in his final days at home - Jerry had done the original sketch, on a napkin while he and I had breakfast out at a local restaurant on a cold February day a few years ago, of my vague ideas for what became that tattoo. It's the ascending and descending notes of the major scale in the four shapes used in the Sacred Harp, intertwined with a vine. "The Child of Grace," on the lid, is the title of the song in the book most associated with Jerry by singers who, over many years, sang the song with him leading it - he called it his "Sunday song," and would lead it on the Sunday of a convention. In a lot of places where we sang, if it was a Sunday and the song hadn't already been used that day and Jerry was called to lead, people would already be turning to page 77 before he called his song. (That's what the 77 on the lid is - the page number for "The Child of Grace.")
The urn is in my bedroom now. What is left of my husband's body is in the urn. It's all very, very surreal.
And I have his work boots. Originally, earlier in the week, when I noticed them by his desk at work, and Seamus asked if I wanted them, I said no. And then I was sorry I'd said that, and then today I noticed they were still in the office, and I asked Seamus if it was okay if I took them after all, and he said yes. They're breaking my heart, but then again, so is everything else these days. You'd think a heart that had already cracked into pieces couldn't be cracked anymore, but every day just shows that it can, many many times over.
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