Red Rain.

I can't believe it's fall, and feels like it's quickly slipping into winter, and I haven't written in about six weeks. I suppose it's a combination of inertia, lack of fortitude, and the changing landscape, both physically, and emotionally for me. Heady words spilling from my brain onto digital paper.

It's been almost three months since Abby passed away. Not much time considering we'd been together for about 32 years; married just shy of 30. But it feels like so much longer than eleven weeks; I've felt alone for a long time now, beginning from when she first came home from the hospital and rehab after her diagnosis, to when I quickly realized that I'd have to decamp to the guest bedroom because there was no way for me to stay in the room with her- there just wasn't enough space with all the equipment and her daily needs for meds, sleep, or whatever was required. I foolishly thought that we'd still be sharing the same bed at night (which we did on a rare occasion when the feel-good gods aligned). No, not to be, and in hindsight I can't imagine what I was thinking, being the hardened veteran of people I've known with debilitating illnesses. Silly rabbit.

So yes, my loneliness goes back about eighteen months when I really look in the mirror and still just see myself. Though I have plenty of company in bed these days (um no, not that kind, the furry kind; paws aplenty), nights are still very hard, no matter how much my wonderful friends, and Aliza, Ben and Dani (Ben's long-time girlfriend) keep me company, taking me out or in, and keep my mind occupied and my spirits filled with spirits, mostly of the Tito's variety. In a strange way, I may be going out more now than I did with Abby, and I guess it's not that strange, since I didn't feel the need to when you have your best friend at your side and you can just say "let's not hike the Matterhorn tonight". Of course, as most of you know, Abby was just a wee bit of a social butterfly, so left to her own devices she might've tried to climb all the Alps in one week. And she probably could've done if it wasn't for the fact that she: A) Hated the cold; B) Had no particular mountaineering skills except for watching "The Sound of Music" like seventy times, and those were hills, right(?) and C) None of the Alps are actually located in downtown Paris. Besides that, I have no doubt she could've planted a flag anywhere she wanted, even if it was just in the top of a bottle of Sancerre, which kinda sounds like the name of a mountain anyway. If Mont Blanc can be an Alp, then so can Sancerre.

As I'm dragging my somewhat lifeless body through the motions these days, I continue to teach my two classes at night at Emerson. For now it's still (mostly) my only gainful employment, with a tiny bit of freelance here and there. I've given myself to the first of the year to look for more full-time opportunities, or more steady freelance, if there is such a thing. Not to say that if an opportunity came along beforehand and slapped me in the face that I'd turn it down, but with the dreaded onslaught of the holidays coming, most companies aren't exactly in hiring mode. But if anyone knows of anyone looking for a recovering art director/designer who's brain truly would like to be kick-started again, please let me know(?) In the meantime, I'm trying to stay somewhat in creative mode, helping Ben redo his business card and new logo, designing Aliza's resume, grading projects/papers, and am planning on revamping my website. And hopefully, keep writing, as many of you have offered kind words of encouragement to continue; some suggesting a book, which I may think about. A daunting task no doubt, as I started writing a novel about five years- got to about 100 pages before crapping out. But it's still in my brain to get back to it one day, though I feel like the blog is where I want to be, need to be, these days, and where my passion is, if that's the right word. Maybe necessity is more appropriate, because I'm not sure how else to get this crap out of my head short of a brain transplant, which I'm pretty sure has not been perfected yet.

Therapy. Yes, I've gone. I started going last spring; only a few times. It helped a bit, though no groundbreaking epiphanies, and I honestly think at the time I was too embroiled in the battle, and was mostly being honest with my feelings, whether to myself, the kids, or friends. I just didn't have tons to say. Recently, I went to someone new through palliative care; they give you four "free" sessions as part of our health insurance plan. Turns out my therapist was a grad student, probably late 20's I'd guess. Perfectly nice and kind, but as I sat there, I wondered "What do you know about loss at your age"? And my answer to myself was "Hopefully nothing". As a teacher, I totally get that students need to, have to, learn through doing and practice. So that was my take on it; be kind and open, and let her learn what she can, and if I that's what I get out of it, helping her, than aok. I did get a bit of insight, and some encouragement, and she was wise for age. One day, she will be in the big leagues I hope.

A few weeks ago, I also went to one "group session" for the newly bereaved, which in this case meant 12 weeks or less. There were ten or so of us, though a trio of folks represented one person (spouse, and two siblings). It was one awkward round-table. There was a facilitator, plus my student therapist, leading our group of misfit toys. Once we got over the "name, who you lost, and how", it just rolled downhill from there. One woman left after 5 minutes- it was too emotional for her. I chimed in a bit, but soon realized there were a lot of people who needed to air their stories more than I did. And except for one woman who looked almost my age, everyone had about 10+ years on me. Woman in wheelchair with oxygen tank- check. Said woman talking about her deceased husband's Russian dinner plate collection and what to do with them for 10 minutes- check (no mention of Matryoshka nesting dolls thankfully). Woman who had now lost her second husband in five years (Black widow? Sorry... and check). Woman my age who's husband died within a month of receiving his diagnosis who cleaned out all of his things within 30 days and was putting the house up for sale- check. As an aside, I mean did she not like the guy? His taste in clothes and decor? I don't know about you, but that seemed kind of harsh to me after 24 years of marriage. I mean doesn't the guy even get a chance to come back and haunt, I mean visit, the house a bit? Guess not- out damn husband out. The point is, everyone had, and has their way of dealing with grief. No rights or wrongs, though I still think 30 days seems like a bum rush to me. So with about a half hour left of the two hour torture-a-thon, I stood up, said I need to be somewhere, and excused myself. There was nary a break in the conversation, short of the facilitator thanking me. Some people just need to vent more than others I guess. I did go back to my original therapist recently and I did get some good insight from him on all things grieving and the way you can have shared 32 years with someone, but somehow only have memories of the last two. I'm finding it hard to remember all the good and joyous times, short of life events like our wedding/honeymoon, birth of the kids, new fridge, etc. He said those memories eventually come back, and the bad ones, or maybe not "bad", but the difficult times of recent memory will recede over time. I'm looking forward to that- having my brain rewired back to how I vaguely remember it used be. I want to remember the good stuff- don't we all? Shouldn't we all? Just sayin'.

Going out these days is a strange new experience, being a "widower"- a word I've yet to utter in public yet. Just doesn't fit, not my size. And when I say going out, I mean as a person who is physically single, which I haven't done since I was 26. Not that I'm looking for (single) women, as I go out under the protection (and usually) with an armada of friends. And I still wear my wedding ring which gives me a level of comfort, never mind the fact that I don't think I can easily get it off anyway, though I've seen nurses do it using dental floss. Tricks of the trade I guess. But I digress, as I now spend lots of time observing "single" people when I'm out, not that I didn't like to "people watch" before, as one of Abby and my favorite pastimes were hanging out at Sonsie in Boston in the front cafe´ section, where they'd open the doors, European-style, and you could watch the world go by as you ate and drank or both. So watching people flirt, not flirt, cajole, fight, kiss, dance good or bad (more bad than good I'm afraid), ignore, get drunk, behave or misbehave, has become a sideline job for me. I'm certainly not smug about- if anything I'm pretty damn insecure and I feel like good for anybody who is brave to be out and about in the reckless abandon of daily life. It's a security blanket I suppose- call me Linus I'm ok with it, (but if you see me sucking my thumb please call my therapist asap). Sometimes it feels like I'm the midst of the rave scene from the Matrix Reloaded; other times like the outcast at an awkward high school dance or cast member in a John Hughes movie. I think I may been flirted with but I'm not sure, as my flirt-o-meter has been in the closet for decades and I've long since lost the manual. I suppose in time, I will acquire vast and strange new/old social skills that I never really felt comfortable with to begin with. That was one of the most pleasurable thinks about my marriage- not having to feel insecure about love, trust, friendship, why haven't they called, what does that text really mean, are they cheating on me, who's that guy, what did they mean by that, what was with that intonation? The loss of all that security, and having to wonder and possibly deal with all that shit again, is just, well, shitty. I know it's going to be awhile before I tread those treacly waters, but it looms over me like the bully you had to deal with in the schoolyard. My dad gave me some words of advice when I was younger- he said "never be afraid to stand up for yourself because the worse thing that will happen to you is you might get a bloody nose or a black eye, but you'll never be afraid". It actually worked, mostly. He also said if I ever started a fight he'd kill me, more or less. But I think he'd need to amend his advice now , to include "be wary of knives, guns, chains, politically incorrect people, and the occasional shod foot".

How this all helps me moving forward on my journey I have no friggin' idea- maybe it's just "don't be afraid" I suppose. But we're talking about the heart here, not taking a physical punch, though I feel like I've taken a lot of those lately these last two years, and plenty way way in the past. No, the heart is a delicate thing I think; something not to be played or toyed with or dropped or shattered or rended. How do you protect your heart and your head and keep your lungs filled with oxygen and move forward? I'm not really sure. I would like to consult "The "Handbook for the Recently Living", but I have to write it first. That's the conundrum folks, the Catch-22.

Happy Thanksgiving to everyone- we will be continuing our 15 year traditional foray into Chinatown for Shabu Shabu Hot Pot. Ben and Aliza wanted to keep it going, and I'm happy to oblige. No fuss no muss no clean-up no stress. Well, not sure about the last part, but we'll do our best to be thankful for what we have. It's a lot less then what we used to have, I mean an abyss-sized "whole lot less" and don't get me wrong it will never be the same, but it's still so much more than what some other's have, and that's the spirit of Thanksgiving isn't it?

Much love to you all, and be kind rewind.