Oh, not much of one because of lovely coffee dates, a mani/pedi with my friend Marie, a birthday party and lots of tool sales. (even more after the last time I posted) Who knew that a bucket of C clamps would be worth $100 when a table saw only garnered $140? My husband would have laughed at me over my ignorance. I miss the way he would raise his eyebrows and purse his lips, sometimes saying, "Are you stupid?" He didn't mean it unkindly and the comment was always sarcastic, but I AM feeling stupid these days. I'm struggling with people's platitudes about death and treasuring the loved ones memory when I express my sadness about getting rid of said tools and vehicles. Do they really not realize that we are all associated with our special possessions and that the loss of what meant so much to him is of course painful to me? As Patt would say, "Are you stupid?" I will never smell Brut again without thinking of him. I'll get a lump in my throat when I see a Chevy HiCube van with locking side boxes driving by(d*mn Summit Water!) It's still difficult for me to sit in his recliner or stretch over onto his side of the bed. I understand that people mean well, but they can't tell me how to feel or not feel. It was indeed serendipity that the man who bought my husband's beloved Jeep was a cancer survivor from the same cancer clinic(different oncologist) who shared my husband's radiation doctor. And his mom died of lung cancer, after 31 days which I guess should make me THANKFUL that Patt lasted 2 years. I really, really am grateful for all our memories of trips, bowling outings and game nights, but it doesn't make me miss my husband any less or feel happy about getting rid of his *things.*
In fact, I cried when I saw his CJ-7 disappearing down the road on a flat bed tow truck. Ashley and Alison both tried to learn how to drive it. Ashley came back crying and shared this memory in her journal, "There were also the times that he tried to teach me how to drive his Jeep. The first time I stalled it miserably and repeatedly, until he finally reached into the back seat,put on a helmet,and said, "Ok, I'm ready." :) Alison was just terrified with her eyes as big as saucers. The Jeep became a well-loved family joke.
Then there's the memory of my happiness hearing this engine coming down our cul-de-sac every night and watching him expertly backing it into its spot. I would feel a lightness in my heart that he was home and that the evening could start: chatting, doing the Super Quizzes from the paper, eating, venting, sharing and spending our time together. It will be heartwrenching to see it go because, although it is just a van, it represents who he was and what he loved most. (besides me and our girls of course!) You see that even a wee rant can last a while. ;)
This made me tear up. You're right and there is no way anyone else can really help. My soul cries for you. We can't fill the hole, not really. It will always be there, and can't be filled by any number of coffees, casseroles, hugs and well-meant platitudes. All we can do is cry with you and offer our love in whatever fashion you will accept it. I wish we could make everything all right for you, but we can't. And that is so frustrating. I hate seeing someone I love in pain, and it makes me angry. But there is no one to direct the anger toward, nothing to beat up. I can't kill death. Sometimes I wish I could.
Posted by: Adrasteia | January 21, 2013 at 10:32 PM
Many many hugs.
Posted by: mccgoods | January 22, 2013 at 03:52 AM
This brought back some of *my* memories of my former WWII pilot dad's attempts to teach me to drive a stick (VW Bug). Similar story but without any humor, alas. I learned *anyway* and we almost always own at least one manual transmission, including, for 17 years, a Jeep Wrangler. It left us on a flat bed tow truck.
Posted by: kayak woman | January 22, 2013 at 03:59 AM
Things go, memories stay. Funny how selling a Jeep you didn't like proves that. Great story.
Posted by: Ally Bean | January 22, 2013 at 06:04 AM
Margot, Adrasteia said it well enough for all of us: All we can really do is try to be there for you, and distract you occasionally -- and maybe feed you once in a while . And I understand perfectly about the associations with a lost one's "things", and how it hurts to see them go, no matter what the necessity. May I offer one small suggestion? There is really no reason to hurry the divesting process, is there? Please think about it, and tell me if it's really easier for you this way, okay? Love and hugs from both of us!
Posted by: Carl | January 22, 2013 at 09:46 AM
I think that everything from his recliner to a spoon or coffee mug he favored is probably filled with import and anybody who begrudges you your sentimentalism is full of crap.
Posted by: Karan | January 22, 2013 at 10:46 AM
So many things, places, and smells are associated with the people we love. They are so much more than just things, places, and smells. Hang onto them as long as you need to or want to.
Posted by: Tonya | January 22, 2013 at 01:08 PM
Sometimes it's just those little things (like driving into the driveway) that hold happy memories. The spur of the moment mani/pedi was a fun adventure for me. :)
Posted by: Marie K | January 22, 2013 at 10:04 PM
*I meant to take out the word "just"...*
Posted by: Marie K | January 22, 2013 at 10:05 PM
I am sorry you have this pain. I know it sucks. :-(
Posted by: Michelle | January 23, 2013 at 06:22 AM
Hugs from Massachusetts
If only I could be so funny as Patt while teaching a teenager to drive. I have thought about drinking a shot of scotch to keep me calm!
Posted by: Susan | January 24, 2013 at 05:02 PM