bugs live

I didn't call an exterminator.  The bugs yet live.  Their numbers, however, do seem significantly reduced.  I've learned that most problems heal more quickly and completely with minimal intervention.  Or maybe I don't really give a damn.


Today was a trip to the landfill.  Most of it was four months worth of ordinary rubbish. I don't have a weekly garbage collection; we never did, having never generated that much trash.  But a few items broke the heart.  Two pairs of Rich's old boots, and worn-out socks.  Plus two used-up mops, both of which he bought.  From now on, anything leaving the house or garage will be harder.  The easy stuff is gone.


That's what this grieving game feels like, too.  For five years, life was focused on death and dying.  Now it's back to life, and this is the hard part.  I'm not sure how this problem will heal, not anymore.  And each day I have to remind myself that I still give a damn.  


Candace

bugs

Flying insects have invaded.  About a year ago, in fact.  But, really, who noticed such little things a year ago?  Death or deep sleep quieted them over the winter, and now they're back, and brought their cousins, friends, acquaintances.  Mostly, they confine themselves to one hallway.  They don't bite, or get into food, and die all too easily, succumbing to a slight swipe of the hand.


But, somehow, I now feel they must leave (pretty good euphemism, no?)  I need the illusion of clean.


So I will call an exterminator tomorrow and ask what gentle environmentally friendly methods are available.


Which reminds me of years ago, when the building where I worked was invaded by ants.  The exterminator, when asked if there was a way she could be gentle, laughed.


"You mean you want me to kill them without hurting them?"


Well, no...kill them, but don't harm the humans.  Somehow, that sounded virtuous, then.


Candace

an abandoned life

An abandoned life doesn't vanish whole.  It sloughs off, piece by piece. 


Eating, for example.  Alone is the new normal, but that doesn't always stop me from buying sunflower seeds in quantity sufficient to feed the avian stars of "The Birds," or oats enough for a stable of athletic polo ponies.  But I pretend it works.  Jars of roasted seeds and oats transformed into my maple granola can radiate abundance as much as stupidity.


Repairs, too.  I still expect Rich will do it.  Out of eight overhead lights, all requiring a ladder and a gymnast's skills to reach, three have gone dark.  Maybe, when I reach the halfway mark, I will get motivated.  Or go to sleep earlier -- that's fine, too.  


But these are small matters.  What is vanishing is Rich himself, an amazing possibility that startles my mind.  How can 10 months apart swallow 37 years together?  Unless one of the places where he has gone is me.  That could explain the abundance that someday will devour the stupidity and the pain and the life abandoned.


Candace

eight percent

I just read that eight percent of women in my age group are widows.  This info and more was provided in today's edition of USA Today.  Such as the tidbit that this blog is one of about 120 on widowhood.  That a "Camp Widow" exists for younger widows where dressing in black is discouraged, good times encouraged, and T-shirts with the logo "Widows Rock" and mugs with "Death Sucks" and books such as "I'm Grieving as Fast as I Can" are available for purchase.


As I've said before, each day is lived inside a paradox.  I'm horrified by the thought of a book suggesting that "grief" and "fast" can be used in the same sentence.  Grief is never finished; it is a chronic disease that can be managed but not cured.  And yet -- how much I want to move on!


I don't "rock," though I would love to remember what it is, again, to feel alive.  And what sucks is not death -- inevitable, after all -- but one particular death.  I calmly accept generic death while raging at the loss of the one person whose existence mattered above all others.


Still, today is not as bad as the preceding ones.  Perhaps it was the massage on Monday that relaxed me so deeply I was in bed before sunset, and awoke to find I could write again.  I cooked.  I cleaned.  I didn't rock, but this is a start.


Candace

drowning

I'm running out of tools.  Everything I have tried isn't working right now.  Alone I'm alone.  With others I'm more alone.  We're having a heat wave, I'm told.  Really?  I have hardly broken into a sweat, frozen still, no air conditioner needed.


So, I will let myself drown in the sorrow.  Fear isn't sinking, not anymore.  It's coming up to the surface again, alone.


Candace