From 80 percent to 100 percent...

Our front door handle fell off a couple of weeks ago.  As I pulled the door open, the screws released and the entire piece came free in my hand.

The house remodel has a two year warranty, so I texted Blair, our project manager.  “I can come tomorrow,” he said, “but you can reattach it yourself, easily, with an allen wrench.”

A slight pause in the telephone conversation…

“What’s an allen wrench?” I ask.

Mark and I had disagreed about the allocation (or misallocation, as I saw it) of the work associated with maintaining our household.  I would get frustrated and accuse him of doing only about twenty percent of the chores.  He wouldn’t dispute that he didn’t do half, but he called the split more of sixty-forty.  I still think I was right.

But, now that he’s not here, I’m at a hundred percent, and that added twenty percent is weighing on me.  

Mark wasn’t much handier around the house than I am, but he would have known what an allen wrench is.  He might have fussed and complained, but he would have reattached the door handle.  I think I know a lot about many things, but those things have never included tools. 

So, first I do my research:  “An allen wrench is an L-shaped metal bar with a hexagonal head at each end, named for its manufacturer, the Allen Manufacturing Company of Hartford, Connecticut.”  Simple enough.  Off I go to Lowe’s, where unfortunately I encounter one of the nasty employees.

Lowe’s employees seem to come in two categories:  Some are charming and helpful, sometimes condescending (but I can deal with that).  Others are totally disdainful of a clueless woman trying to figure out a simple task.

I got one of the latter.  He glared at me over his glasses and jabbed his finger towards a set of bins.  “Over there,” he said.

The bins were filled with collections of small tools, but nothing was labeled as an allen wrench.  He watched me stare from bin to bin but he didn’t come over to help me.  I gave up and went back to him.  “I don’t know which one is the allen wrench,” I had to confess.

With a deep sigh he walked to the bins and pointed out the folding hex key sets.  But one bin had red ones and one bin had blue ones.  “Why are they different colors?”  I asked.

Another deep exasperated sigh.  “Because one is SAE and one is metric.”

Having no idea what I needed, but unable to tolerate any more of the conversation, I just got one of each.  

None of this stuff is hard.  It’s a good thing to know about tools and how to make minor repairs.  I’m sure I’ll be a better person (at least a more competent one) when I learn all this.  It’s just that there’s a lot of it.

Like replacing the furnace filter…Easy-peasy, once you’ve done it.  But the first time you have to figure out the right filter and where to get it.  (Amazon is the answer to the last question.  Amazon makes it so easy I can’t resist buying from them any longer.  Boxes arrive magically on my doorstep.)  Then you have to find the furnace manual for instructions, and hope that the whole thing won’t blow up in your face as you snap the old filter out.  What’s the big deal, you ask?  The answer is that it isn’t a big deal at all, but the first time it was…scary.  Furnaces are serious pieces of equipment.

On the other hand, I’m darned proud of myself each time I figure something out.  Wonder Woman here!

Ho-Ho-Holidays…

Chris and I attended a hospice seminar about getting through the holidays.  About twenty of us clustered around a rectangle of conference tables, boxes of tissues strategically placed in front of us.  

We introduced ourselves by reciting our losses.  Deaths of mothers, fathers, wives and husbands, our voices stumbling over our words.

Most of the seminar information wasn’t new to us.  I’ve read about the stages of grief, and what to expect as time passes.  I know each person’s journey is different in nature and in pace.  I know that the only way out of grief is through it.  Nevertheless, it was comforting and reassuring to hear the words said aloud.  I didn’t think I would get emotional, but there was so much feeling in the room that I needed that box of tissues.

The best advice from the seminar?  Think about the holiday traditions that are important for you to keep, and don’t be afraid to let go of the ones that won’t work for you now.

So we didn’t put up a tree this year.  The idea of opening those boxes of decorations floored me.  The handmade ornaments Chris made in school, now falling apart as the white glue dries and flakes and the cottony Santa beards thread away—memories of other happy holidays.  Each year Mark would buy me an ornament that was reminiscent of the year that just passed, the year that we had spent together.  When I was pregnant the ornament was a gold baby carriage.  The year we skied in Austria, it was a silver snow flake.  Those memories need to stay in the box a little while longer.  

But we did decide to have a big dinner Christmas Eve with friends, the way we always had in the past.  The extension leaves were popped into the big table and I pulled out the reindeer candelabra with the tall red candles.  Friends arrived with wine and gifts and good cheer.  The smell of roasting prime rib filled the house.  We toasted Christmas with glasses of champagne.  Yes, I was wistful, but I was happy too.  It was a good decision.

My Wedding Ring

I’ve stopped wearing my wedding ring.  After Mark died, it was of great comfort to me, and I couldn’t imagine ever taking it off.  But then, at some point, it became a symbol of my loss.  I would twirl it around my finger and grieve afresh for all that’s gone.  I’ve seen some of my friends glance at my bare finger and they must wonder, but no one has asked about it.  I’ve put the ring away in a safe place.  From time to time, I’ve felt the urge to put it back on, but I’m not going to.  I don’t know where my life is leading, but as much as I love and miss Mark, I’m on my own now.  

Talking with your dying spouse about what will follow his death isn’t easy.  I’d avoided the conversation as long as I could.  When Mark was still undergoing treatment, we both only wanted to focus on vanquishing cancer, somehow beating the terrible odds.  When Mark entered Hospice, we wanted to stay hopeful, managing his symptoms as best we could, desperate for a few more months, a few more weeks. 

When it became apparent that Mark didn’t have much time left, I took his hand and carefully pitched my voice into neutral.

“Do you want a memorial service?"

He shrugged.  “Well, I don’t.  You can have one if you want one, for you.  Don’t do it for me."

“Where do you want me to scatter your ashes?"

“I don’t care."

But I persisted…In the ocean?  In Alaska?  In the desert?  How about in the ponderosa pine forest at the top of the Palm Springs aerial tram?

He first hesitated, and I thought he was going to tell me again that it made no difference to him.  But he answered:  “Yes, the pine forest.  I love it up there."

In the end I didn’t schedule a memorial service.  I don’t know if that was the right decision, but when I envisioned a formal ceremony, I didn’t think I could make it through it.  Mark had been blessed with opportunities to see beloved friends and associates in the weeks before his death, and he’d said a lot of goodbyes.  Dear friends visited and sat with him, recounting old stories, sharing memories, and telling him how important he had been in their lives.  Although his physical state was weakening daily, he managed a final trip to see his golf buddies in southern California, and he even played a couple of holes of golf.  He was exhausted and could barely sit upright without help, but he relished his time with his friends and family.  In my mind, the important stuff had already happened.

It’s the positive side of dying from a lingering illness rather than from a sudden death:  There is great suffering to endure, but there is also the opportunity to say what should be said, to close doors gently, to cherish the love and friendship in your heart, bittersweet with the knowledge of the change on the horizon.

Last week, just about six months after Mark’s death, our son Chris and I packed up his ashes and headed to Palm Springs.

I originally thought that there would only be three of us walking Mark’s ashes into the forest:  Chris, Mark’s sister JoAnn and me.  But in the end we were twelve, a lovely accretion of friends.

There were some minor obstacles to overcome.  I wasn’t quite sure (ahem) though I hadn’t researched it (ahem) that scattering funerary ashes in a California state park was—shall we say—a condoned activity?  I knew that scattering a small box of ashes in a remote area wouldn’t be harmful in any way, but there are those pesky rules…  And in order to access the tram, all backpacks and packages are inspected at a security checkpoint.
 
Mark would have enjoyed the humor of my stashing his ashes at the very bottom of my backpack, under our packed lunch for the twelve of us who ascended the mountain.  He would also have appreciated that I traveled through the security line right between his sister and her friend, both Catholic nuns in habits, to enhance my image as a law-abiding, rule-following passenger—not that carrying the ashes should have created any security concerns.  I just didn’t want to answer any questions about them.  The security guard patted down the backpack and felt the hard box at the bottom, but when I opened my pack for inspection he declined to dig below the slippery mass of sandwiches in ziplock bags. 

From Mountain Station, we walked down the long ramp into the forest.  The top of the tram is over 8000 feet above sea level, and the scenery is stunning.  A series of trails wind over ridges and through meadows, huge honey-colored rock formations and stands of ponderosa pines.  It was one of the tram's busiest weekends, but as we descended, we left the crowds behind.  (Mark and I found this to be true every time we took the tram to the forest to hike.  I estimate that only about one percent or less of those going up the tram make the effort to walk to enjoy the forest.)  We found a meadow area a short distance off from the trail, and the twelve of us were on our own, in silence.

The day was cool and the ground was covered with a thin layer of snow, but the sun had some warmth and the air was still.  We opened the box of ashes and I asked each person to help with the scattering, saying any words that they wanted to say.  We passed the box from person to person.  Sister JohnEllen and Sister JoAnn offered a prayer.  Mark’s ashes tumbled into the snow, ivory against white.  

It was very simple.

I don’t believe that Mark is in those ashes.  They are the mere remnant of his physical being.  Nevertheless, standing in that forest with those lovely people who cared about him, watching the fine ash drop to the ground, is something I will never forget.  It didn’t given me closure (I have a way to go for that) but it has given me great comfort.

Down to the valley floor in Palm Springs, at night, Mountain Station beams a single white light.  The brown mountains disappear into the darkness, and the light becomes a low-hanging star.  I look at the star and bid Mark good night.