choices

Two days ago, I realized something remarkable. I am facing choices now, and they are not between "worse" and "worser." They all have an emotional price, but none are about death.


One is moving. After Rich's death, I thought I would be out, like a shot, of this charmless house. It was temporary, chosen for location, ease of care, and what we talked about only briefly because it needed no further explanation -- I could sell it easily. Sixteen months later I'm still here, in part because I want to do more than simply escape, and in part because of wonderful neighbors who I've come to love, and who in many ways have saved my life.


But now I have committed myself to developing a new community where, along with about 45 others,  I will be living as soon as it is complete. Remaining here is now bearable because I know it is temporary.


Temporary: my mantra from the choiceless days. Everything was bearable because it was temporary. The surgeries, the loss of Rich's body, the last days.


Some things, of course, are permanent. Rich is staying dead. My only choice is to make this, too, bearable.


Candace

champagne and chocolate

On Sunday I went to the spa, my indulgence for the year. I'm a regular; the staff knows me.


"Can I get you anything else?" she asks, handing me my slippers.


"Ummm...champagne would be nice."


"Got it."


I laugh.


I exercise. I shower. I put on the robe for a respite in the Tranquility Room.


"Chocolate would be nice, too," I tell the staff person.


"Just put more out," she says.


And she points.


The champagne is in an ice bucket. The chocolate selection -- artisanal, four varieties bred in tropical locales -- is laid out in hand-thrown pottery bowls.


I stare.


"I was joking," I say.


"I thought you read the e-mail. Valentine's Day special."


Oh, right.


I sip. Good. I eat. Very, very good. I don't have to remember. Enjoying is enough.


Candace

bumped

If you have been suffering from metaphor deprivation, you have come to the right place.


A few weeks ago, backing out of my driveway, I forgot a small thing. To look. Which, normally, would not be a problem on this low-traffic street. But at that moment a big brown UPS truck was making a delivery at a neighbor's house, and we met. It could have been worse. The truck's left front panel was crunched while the rear-mounted spare tire absorbed most of my impact. 


Not to worry, said the UPS supervisor who was summoned to the scene. It was only fiberglass, he said; we have a mechanic who can pop it out. Are you okay, he asked. I was grateful for their kindness; no doubt, this was my fault.


Because the damage did not affect any function, and I'm considering trading in the car come spring, the skewed tire mount remains, largely unnoticed unless until examined closely. 


Then, today. I emerged from my morning coffee spot to find a note on the windshield. It was the name and phone number of a witness who recorded the license plate number of someone who smashed into my front right bumper.


I called him, we met, I thanked him. I filed a report with the police, and within an hour I had photos, the hit-and-run driver had been issued a ticket, and now it's up to me to contact my insurance agent and, perhaps, have this repair made. But this, too, is only cosmetic, though the damage is obvious. Still, it could have been worse.


So, these are the days. I feel banged up from all sides, though most wouldn't notice, most of the time. I'm still functioning, even if I can't see where I'm going, and I get hit just standing still.


And I will try to get this blog back on track.


Candace