This is My Life Now

 This is my life now.

That's a phrase that runs through my mind every now and then.

It happened on Tuesday.  I had to go grocery shopping after work, but I was tired, hot, sweaty, and hungry so I did the logical thing and had some lunch.  There is a bagel shop between work and Publix; Bob and I used to go there for coffee, a bagel (cheese schmear for me, bacon with extra bacon for him),  read our books, and chat.

Tuesday I munched, sipped, and read.  Alone.  And when I got up, the thought drifted through: this is my life now.

I went next door to the pet shop to get a new air stone for my aquarium.  It used to be Bob's, but it's mine now.  Then grocery shopping for one.

I've been feeling it a lot lately.  Mostly because of our friend Kim.  She was the one who came to Gainesville for a couple of days to take care of Bob so that I could come home, regroup, check on the cats, and get my mind wrapped around the idea that we might be losing this battle.

And she just lost a similar battle.  About a month ago her mother went into the hospital to have a port put in for dialysis.  The plan was for her to be in the hospital for a day, maybe two, then come home but have to go to dialysis three days a week.  But, as too often happens when there are serious health issues, a cascade of events started going wrong.  So the plan got changed to having to go to rehab for awhile first.  Then the doctors started talking about palliative care.  And her mother fought the idea at first, but then realized it was the best option, and Kim brought her home.

So I've been in daily contact - several times a day - with Kim.  Texting because she wasn't sure she could hold herself together enough to talk.  I wish I could do more, but I'm in Florida and she's in Arizona, but moral support helps.

But let me tell you, the flashbacks have been fierce, both about Bob and my mother.  Making and standing by that decision to allow someone to die.  Sometimes I can almost feel my wings as the Angel of Death.  The angel who can love enough to let go.

Today I had to go into town to get labwork done for my physical next week.  Afterward (because it was fasting bloodwork) I went to Panera's for a coffee and pastry.  I don't often get to this side of town (heck, for the past 2 1/2 years, I've hardly gone anywhere.)  I pull into the center with Panera's and stare at the Publix there for a few minutes.  It's the "grownup" Publix, rather more interesting than the student Publix on our side of town.  The oncology clinic isn't far from here, so we would stop by after his treatments to pick up something good for dinner.  They had the "ready to cook" dinners like feta stuffed chicken.  I don't think they do that any more - another thing Covid took away.

I turned away and went in - I placed my order on a tablet and picked up from a counter when I got a text that it was ready.  No human contact.  I ate my bear claw, drank coffee, read my book, occasionally glanced around the room at the couples and small groups chatting away.  And thought "this is my life now."

The is an Old English word that I like: "geardagum."  Year days.  The days of years past.  In geardagum, when we had any sort of appointment we would go somewhere afterwards - shopping, or the book store.  Being as this is August, stores are starting to put out Halloween stuff.  Michael's was only a mile away, and on the way home.  I thought I should go look at Halloween Stuff, at craft supplies, instead of running back home the way I usually do.  At a volunteer appreciation party last year I was talking to a friend I hadn't seen for awhile, not since I lost Bob.  She asked if I was still getting out, as she had a friend who had lost her husband and basically had become a recluse.  I completely understand that (and Covid gave me the perfect excuse because people weren't supposed to go out anyway).  I do have the museum - and that's about it.  Otherwise, I really would prefer just to stay at home.

So I went to Michael's and looked at the Halloween stuff and craft supplies.  This may have been a mistake.  The Halloween stuff reminded me of how Rob and Jeff and Bob and I would be getting together designing the haunted trail and planning this year's props.  And I walked to the craft supplies and could almost peek down an aisle to see Bob standing there, looking at paints and brushes.  I realized that I was being careful with my breathing - long slow breaths in through the nose, quietly exhaling through the mouth.  Keep the tears behind the eyeballs.  On the outside, I was just quietly walking through the aisles.  On the inside I was throwing my head back and howling.

This is my life now.  And I came the hell home.

Kim' mother passed this afternoon.  She has taken care of her for some six years now.  I think she will be drifting for a bit.  She likes to drive, so there will be some road trips while she decompresses.  Maybe I'll get to see her again.