Moved

Hi All,
Thanks for checking in. You can find me at my new blog Poor Widow Me

Could You PLOTZ?

Some people are just hell bent on outdoing others. I say I'm cold. You're suddenly freezing. I'm hungry. You're starving. I'll bet this is how pnemonia was discovered. One cave man chipped away on his cave "I have a cold." The other banged out "I have a very bad cold" A few verys later - Bam. Pnemonia.

When bypass surgery became popular I was suspecious. I'm thinking there probably is no such thing as a quadruple bypass. It's just one guy needing to trump his friend's triple bypass. I remember mentioning my theory to Jimmy and he said, "Could you get me a glass of ice water?" We often had these deep discussions.

Anyway, I'm leading up to something, here. Grief trumping is big in the mourning process. We all hear about stages of grief, (shock and denial, confusion, emotional release, anger, guilt, depression and isolation and recovery) Got this directly from "Widow To Widow" By Genevieve Davis Ginsberg, M.S.

Great book, by the way. I thought my feelings were only my feelings and it turns out I'm not all that special. For the first time in my life I was glad to know that.

No one, not even Ginsberg (and she has an M.S. after her name) talks about the stage that has no end and that is 'grief trumping.' It manifests itself by the grieving in a million (real number - I counted) of dramatic displays and assumptions - for example - the wider the brim on the black widow hat the deeper the sorrow. (research taken directly from an episode of 'Dallas.'

That said, I have recently become aware that grief trumping is not only widespread among the grieving but it is a big practice by the consoling loved ones. It's usually under the heading "They mean well" which I'm thinking we (the grievers) should rally against and blast back, "Stop meaning so well - I don't want to lie by your pool. I hate pools."

My favorite in a parade of well meaning people are the ones who named their babies after Jimmy. When you get a moment scroll down and read my post of August 11th called "Let's Name Everyone After Jimmy."

Okay. Read it?

This just in: On Memorial Day Weekend of this year, just six weeks after Jimmy died, my friend, Teri's daughter, Daria married a man named Steven Plotz. Daria had considered keeping her name, (duh..) but happily Steven was eager to free himself of the life long abuse that goes with being a 'Plotz.'

They considered Steven taking Daria's name, but this choice was too emasculating. A fresh start was in order. They set out to find a new last name (perhaps from the phone book?) to spare themselves and their future little Plotzes.

Teri called me today to tell me they are down at the court house now legally changing their last name to 'James.'

I plotzed. I know Jimmy is plotzing.

Mr. and Mrs. Steven James trumped them all.

Just One More Time...

Jimmy loved a good backrub. He rarely had a professional massage, but when our 6'4 nephew Chuck came over Jimmy would lean over and yell to him "Blood, blood." This, of course, meant 'help get the kinks out.'

Chuckie came over yesterday and we were reminising about it.

"I could barely pass by his chair. He'd make me give him a massage. I always did, but I didn't always want to."

I nodded.

"He was so demanding" Chuck continued. "but now if I could do it just one more time..."

"I know what you mean" I said. "I feel the same way about blow jobs."

Let's Name Everyone After Jimmy

You have to think very highly of someone to name your baby after that person. Yes? No arguement here. It's an honor and it's a tremendous show of respect. Okay. That said...

On June 3rd my cousin Mike named their son after my husband Jimmy. (James) Oh, not the first name, but the middle name. I don't mean to sound picky because it's not my nature, but we all know a middle name is forgotten and unused as soon as the birth announcement goes out.

When the kid is five and he's not cooperating the parents may yell,

"Andrew James - no more drinks of water - just go to bed!"

Andy will know from that that they mean business or more likely he'll have no idea who 'Andrew James' is. For the most part that kind of talk is a Southern thing where they're used to having two first names, 'Mary Jane' 'Carol Ann' 'Jim Bob' - But, then what do they do for emphasis? I guess they add on 'Miss' or 'Mr.'

"Mr. Timothy John - I've had it up to here with you!"

I don't know anyone in the tri-state area who talks like that.

My cousin Mike and his family live in Brooklyn. With the exception of formal documents James will most likely be reduced to a 'J'. Still, a middle initial is a huge step up from 'nmi' which translates to 'My parents were too lazy to think of second name for me.'

In spite of my sarcasism I swear I really was genuinely touched that Mike and his wife thought enough of Jimmy to name their son after him...sort of...

Only six weeks later on July 25th Mike's sister Sue had a baby girl and named her after Jimmy. Her name? 'Samantha Zoe'

Hmmmmm...are you thinking what I'm thinking? Exactly. Is this a sibling rivelry thing or what? I'd better find a moment to clue them in that they're not in the will.

Here's how I found out about Jimmy's 2nd namesake - I visit Sue and she summons me to sit on her hospital bed. I do reluctantly because these days my radar is on high alert. Any one can say anything at anytime that will bring me to a place I don't want to be. Once there, I want to just curl up and disappear.

Sue sweetly takes my hand and looks at me soulfully. Uh-oh...my mind is racing.
Something is up and something is expected of me. I hope I'm able to respond appropriately because I'm really feeling uncomfortable just being in a hospital. Walking through the halls has brought me right back to Jimmy's last week.

I make a concious effort replace that awful memory with the joyous one two years before when my granddaugter, Skylar was born. Maternity floors are happy and hopeful and this is the facade I am hanging on to until I hear Sue say,

"I want you to know that we named our daughter after Jimmy."

Sue's mom is sitting on the bed next to me and I'm afraid to turn my head to look at her because I can tell by the sound she sucked in that she is holding back tears. I, on the other hand, because I am a normal person am holding back a laugh.

"I'm not sure what to say" I say concerned that the smirk I'm feeling on
the inside is leaking out.

Sue looks perplexed and unaware that 'Samantha Zoe' being named after Jimmy
needs an explanation.

I stammer, "I'm flattered and well, happy, well, not really happy, but you
know...not sure how..."

Suddenly it clicks for Sue that I may be wondering how "Samantha Zoe" and
'Jimmy' have a connection.

"Well, we always wanted 'Samantha' and so we thought about a 'J' name for
a middle name..." she begins.

I'm thinking, 'duh' a J would be good...

"But, we really didn't like an J names and we love Zoe which means 'Life.'"

She left me there, my smirk turning to something else that felt like grief.
I had time to process the irony of my Jimmy who is dead being regarded as
life-like.

"Jimmy was so full of life. He loved life." she said.

"Yes. Oh, yes, he was. He did" I chimmed in.

Then, my smirk came back as I pictured Jimmy watching this. He'd be
saying,

"I loved ice-cream, too. Maybe someone should name their kid
'Rocky Road.'"

People Die Near Their Birthday

I've always been an idiot savant with dates. I remember everyone's birthday even if I can't stand them. My brain refuses to delete that Mrs. Ellenson was born on February 9th. She was my next door neighbor 34 years ago.

Long gone, Mrs. Ellenson was always annoying and she continues annoy me to this day by taking up valuable room in my head. Damn it. Get out! Now, I need that space to remember where I leave my glasses.

My obsession with dates led to my theory that 89% of people die near their birthday.
I made up the 89% part. It's actually more like 'a lot' but 'a lot' that doesn't sound nearly as scientific as a hard number. 89% makes people sit up and take notice. "Really? 89%?" And, then I mumble something, anything. But, it's true...you always hear "She was just 74." "He would have been 81."

Every year I harrassed Jimmy with "Be careful. You're in your danger zone, you know" from a month before, the month of and a month after his birthday. That's the three month window. That's my definiton of 'near' your birthday.

Jimmy's birthday was March 14th so from February 14th until April 14th he was suseptible to falling down a manhole or getting the killer cancer that actually did take his life on April 13th. Some people never get a chance to say good bye. I never got a chance to say, 'I told you so.'

Actually, I tried. I'll never know if he heard me, but I begged him to hold on. "You know how you hate it when I'm right" I whispered to him that last day.

We were only four months apart in age. We were in the same grade and when Jimmy turned 21 and I was only 20 I wanted to be 21, too. (although, the drinking age back then was 18) Naturally, as we got older I held on to every second before I turned "the same age." Forty was huge. "You mean YOU'RE forty" I would taunt. "I'M still 39."

When Jimmy turned the corner this March to be 56, a year closer to 60 than to 50 I smirked. I was still safely smack in the middle and we played our silly back and forth routine. Not so funny, anymore looking back because I had no idea that he was sick and never ever imagined that this would be his last birthday.

On July 7th my own 56th birthday arrived without fanfare, without Jimmy. He wasn't there to tease 'You're catching up.' I had to face that he will never be older than me. His time here on earth is over. I may continue to my next birthday, but he will always be 56.

You'd think I would have realized we're not going to grow old together before that moment. I'm sure I did but not quite in the same gut wrenching way. This date obsession thing puts it all out there for me to see.

And, I had been dreading today, August 7th, the day I am past my own danger zone. If I had died yesterday Jimmy and I would have lived the exact number of days. It doesn't seem fair.

My friend told me I'm feeling 'survival guilt.' Could be...A lot of spouses left behind feel this - exactly 72%.

What Was I Thinking?

I was driving along feeling sorry for myself listening to Michael Bolton belt out "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You" when my accountant called. He told me how much money I owed in taxes and my mood went from 'suicide watch' to 'watch out BMW - I'm about to sideswipe you.'

"Oops" I said into the phone. Then, I promised to call back and I hung up.

I was hoping I had hit a parked car so that I could just leave a note on the windshield with all my information and not deal with anyone or not deal at all and draw a much less incriminating sad little face.

I wasn't tested. I was halfway out of my car when I saw a small, dark middle aged woman standing next to a smashed in front end (of her car) pointing her crooked finger at the shiney black BMW with MD plates.

I stood face to face with her while she hit me over and over again with her words, "What were you dinking? What were you dinking? What were you dinking? What were you dinking?" (I found out later this 'dinking' was an Armenian accent)

I blurted out exactly what I was thinking.

"I was talking to my accountant. He was giving me bad news. And, my husband passed away three months ago."

Boom. That stopped her. I turned away, went back to my car and came back with my information.

I had thrown her a curve ball and she was pissed. She was quiet for a few moments as she began to copy my insurance junk on her persciption pad. Later she tore off a sheet for a calling card making sure to x out the blank part...like I was sixteen and going to run off to score some cool pills with it or something.

Finally, without looking up she acknowledged what I had said.

"Well, okey, I hear you - Your husband passed away (pause) but mine is going to keeel me."

I had to laugh. She didn't. I had to say

"Well, I guess that's a perk. That's something I don't have to worry about anymore."

Is That Your Husband In The Bag?

I feel safe at home. I like being among the familiar things that Jimmy and I bought together or fought about buying. I always won, of course and that's why they're here.

Photos can be painful and depending on the day I conciously avert my eyes as I pass by, but other days I'm able to hold up a picture very very close, often with a magnifying glass and search for any sign of disease or impending doom.

Like a jeweler with a loop checking a diamond for a flaw, I compare the pictures of Jimmy taken just months before to the ones a few years ago. I remember where we were and what we were doing and I close my eyes to visualize if he seemed tired or 'off'? but, wait...we danced and laughed and he was fine.

When I'm home I don't have to worry about running into someone. That's a big fear I have when I leave the house. I've considered putting a paper grocery bag over my head like 'the unknown comic' but decided that might attract extra attention. I entertain myself this way.

I'm uncomfortable seeing people from the neighborhood because there are many ways it could go and none of them are pleasant. It's not pleasant for me or or for the poor soul who had the bad timing to push her shopping cart into aisle 8 just as I am rolling mine in from the other end. Let's face it - A face off like that must be acknowledged. If I ran into me I know I'd be saying to myself, 'Damn. Did I really need those eggs?'

Running into me is a lose/lose situation. Here are a few possibilities:

1. They heard. They never sent a card or called and now they feel guilty. They
react defensively.

"I just heard two weeks ago. We were away. We would have been there. You know
that, don't you?"

I end up consoling them. "Of course. Please don't worry about it. We're friends."
(I'm thinking,'What the hell is her name, again?)

2. They don't know. "How's Jimmy?" is the first sign. Sometimes, I mumble and
move on...and sometimes I blurt out "-------------" This usually results in a
gasp followed by a very very long and suffocating hug. They search
their memory for the last time they saw him and look at me perplexed.

They demand details. They mean well. They're worried about their own husbands.
'Could this happen to Mike? I think he's actually a few years older than
Jimmy...' They ask Jimmy's age and when I tell them they gasp again.

So, this is why I've developed hermit tendencies. I stay home and sit on the couch sadly smirking as I look at the chair Jimmy told me not to buy because it was too expensive, the one he ended up sitting on all the time.

But, I do have to go out once in a while. One day, a few weeks ago,I was dog sitting for my next door neighbor and good friend's chocolate toy poodle, Marley.

Marley is used to be carried around Paris Hilton style by Brooke, his 22 year old Mommy. I had to do a few errands, bank, cleaners, etc. and when I got out his leash to take him along, Marley sat on my pocketbook to tell me that he wanted in. "Ohh, I said to Marley 'You're not that small. I'll go get an overnight bag for you.' So, I did.

Marley and me (like the book) shlepped around town and he was a very good boy content to stay in the bag with his chew toy. Wherever we went strangers saw his little wooley head sticking out and they ooohed and ahhhhed.

Our last stop was the card store. To get there I had to walk past a jewelry store where I go from time to time and have a great rapour with Sy, the owner. He's a man close to seventy who should belong to the Friars Club He's full of life and fun and we are always joking around. He complains that I hardly ever buy anything except a battery for my watch.

I see Sy is sitting outside his store on a park bench. I have to pass right by him. I know he doesn't know. How would he? I hesitate and begin to walk. Sy spots me, a bag over my shoulder, a little curly brown head sticking out and he shouts to me,

"Hey, is that your husband in the bag?"

I approached him and said, "Sy, you are going to be so sorry you asked me that." I told him and then I vowed never to leave the house again.