Veuve Perdue

Another year of gazing over the same ancient photos of our wedding day.  Photos taken by fools who had no idea, and no idea of how valuable those poorly composed, cluttered, badly lit photos would become.

Photos I’ve edited over and over as I try to breath new life into still images, as if I can bring him back to life.

Remembering certain details with such clarity, and other moments lost over time.

Sixteen years. I often wonder how our marriage would have looked at this stage.  Would we even be together? So many couples just don’t make it, do they?  Would we have decided to have kids? Doubtful.  Dogs? Yes, surely.

Would we have even made it off the island? Would his music ever be recognized? Would he have helped me shape my business? My craft?

In a parallel universe did we ever get the house with the pool so he could have those blue drinks he wanted?

I tried so hard to make him happy, but I wonder if he ever was.  Did he exist in a natural, perpetual state of angst? Or was that just the Nick I knew? The Nick that had been formed by his story, his past, his family obligations, his frustrations.

So many questions unanswered.  And still our love story shaped me. And left me unwilling or unable to move forward.  In a way.

The Fates brought us together, grief followed and then a decade of stagnation and unwillingness to even consider finding love, especially in this hell-scape.

I remember one night after a photo shoot with Brandi I bought her dinner and drinks at the fancy bar down town.  Feeling adultish and young, we were talking about my lack of romance. She asked what I sought in a partner…  My match really.  In travel, in languages, education maybe.  She scoffed and said, “You’re not going to find him here.” 

So here I am, sixteen years ago I was married in this house, on this day.  Thirteen years a widow. Now caregiver to my ailing mother.

She was brought here by duty, I was brought here by grief, and stayed out of guilt. Both of us stuck, like insects trapped in amber. Lost in time.

Got my first vaccine. Have to wait here for 15 minutes. Listening to the yammering of fools bragging they never get flu shots and how their sister or son or so and so didn’t want the Covid vaccine because it contains the virus etc etc.

I now know about Jon’s diabetes. I know about Leann’s son who has autism. I know that Sue and Jon were just married and got the flu so bad her mom had to come over to cook for them. I know about the grandkid who is in third grade and how he can take a computer apart.

And I’m just standing in fucking line.

Americans are so free with personal information and misinformation it’s no wonder the country is a fucking disaster.

So... about 2021.

Like I said, things haven't been great for us. Mainly because it started with this little one running full tilt in the night, hitting the wall and breaking the shit out of her arm.

I have never heard such cries of pain from her. It was gut-wrenching.

Long story short, she had to have surgery, the put in a tiny, tiny metal plate and wee little screws in her arm. “The cutest little bones you ever did see,” her surgeon said when he was done with surgery and reporting to me at the end of the day.  

(I had discussed the option of amputation, but her surgeon said this was probably better for her wellbeing, and hopefully a still a long life of thrashing toys and barking at garbage men. And postal workers. And gardeners. And pizza delivery.)

It’s been seven long weeks of making sure she doesn't jump up and off furniture.  We have failed at least enough times to count on both hands.  Each time we go out I tie a sock around her arm to protect it from the elements -- that is the extent of my sewing skills-- on long straight sock.

She has been so patient, so good. Each week we have to go for a check up, and a bandage change; her surgical team loves her, they say she’s always well behaved. And because of Covid, each time we go, I have to wait in the car in the parking lot while they take her from me.

Naturally I started a Go Fund Me page for her surgery costs and friends, family and strangers have donated, and I still keep hoping We Rate Dogs will feature her as their Friday fundraising dog, but so far no luck.

I don’t know how many of my original readers still come here. But those who do may recall a day in March when everything changed.

Nick called. He had cancer.

Yesterday I came home from having blood work done at my doctor and my mom was puttering around the kitchen and said that two calls came in while I was gone. One was irrelevant.

The other:

“Image Care called and they want me to come in tomorrow to have an ultrasound of a spot on my right breast.”

Dear readers. There was suddenly a cold feeling in my stomach.

I drove her here. She put on her masks and went in. Silent. Scared.

Another of my uncles died.

That’s two in four months.

Dear Nick,

Some say the fourteenth anniversary is gold.

And with my birthday right after that— I got myself these two trinkets on your behalf.

The charm sums up the year as well as it being my most over used word.

I turn 50 this month.

I originally had visions of a group of loved one somewhere at a beach rental or a lake.

Just a small group of really close friends and family. Which boils down to maybe 9 people.

Celebrating something. Even if my 50 years on this planet hasn’t been stellar.

I had hoped 2020 would have been a bountiful time. We would have moved. I’d have a new job or a new audience.

But no. We’re here.

COVID-19 is here.

So my step mom thought — what if they came to visit.

And we were all ok with it, with all the safeguards in place, until a Vice article yesterday ….

And after reading it. I knew we were being foolish. I told my mom it was their decision. It couldn’t be mine.

My mother decided it was too foolhardy to risk me losing 3 parents, and she’s right….

I also checked in with a friend who is a nurse in epidemiology & preventative diseases who said, she personally wouldn’t gather at all. Stay with your roommates/spouse/etc and that’s it.

So I’ve been crying for the better part of the day.

A lot of it is just self pity, I had better plans for 2020 and my birthday. Fuck. Who didn’t!?

And I needed a respite. Something to look forward to.

It’s envy too. Seeing my friends in Europe vacationing. Going to the beach... or even people here enjoying a break. Which we can’t do.

But really, beyond my self pity is the sorrow for the 170 thousand dead in this nation due to the virus and the gross ineptitude of the administration.

And the incandescent rage I feel for those who don’t social distance at all. Who go to bars and beaches with crowds. Who go out to eat. And those who refuse to wear masks.

I knew ages ago that if we didn’t get our shit together early on, by August we’d be in the same place or worse.

So to every fucking one of you who made light of it. Fuck you.

You’re dead to me.

Happy fucking birthday.

Love,

I turned off the light, pulled the sheets up and said in the darkness,

“Goodnight my love. I love you.”

And I was speaking to my dog.