Another Saturday

This morning, I visited my mother-in-law...well, Rick's mom... I guess she stopped being my mother-in-law when my marriage ended by death, even though it wasn't a personal choice. She held my hand and told me the exact same things she always tells me when I see her:

"I'm angry at God."

"I can't believe my Ricky is dead. I wish it was me instead."

"You are too young and cute to be alone. I hope you get married again."

"I feel so sorry for you, my little girl."

I tell her not to be sorry for me. I tell her I'm doing great. I tell her life isn't fair, but we choose our attitudes.

She is a blend of tragic and hilarious. She repeats herself - because of her dementia - and usually by the end of my visit I'm blushing with embarrassment from all the cute things she says about my appearance and/or holding back tears from remembering the day I had to tell her that her son was dead. Today, she couldn't wrap her head around the fact that Rick has been dead for almost 10 months. To her, it still seems fresh every morning. Not fresh as though it happened yesterday, but not as old as 9.5 months either.

She remembers to ask me how my cats are. She remembers my parents live close by. She knows the day of the week when I'm there, because I almost always come on a Saturday. She always tells me to find a good man to take care of me and to bring him to meet her. She tells me I deserve to be happy again. She talks about the past. Then she does it all over again. Asks the same questions. States the same topics of conversation.

I try to think of things to tell her that are exciting. I talk to her about my nieces, my job, the wedding I'm in, the weekend trips I make to my friends' homes in Philadelphia or Connecticut, my decision to  sell my house. I try.

She passes her time in her private room at an Assisted Living Home, addicted to chocolate and Coca-Cola. I know she is content. I know she is well cared for. I know she doesn't need anything. She is always happy to see me...a familiar face and a link to her dead son.

I help her fix her hair, I help her use her walker to the dining room, I give her a hug and a kiss good bye, I tell her I love her. "I love you," she always says when I leave, "and don't worry, you don't have to come see me if you have other things to do sometimes." But I try. I try.

Victory

Finally, a good Saturday.

I made a to-do list last night to prepare myself for today. I had a list of things I wanted to do. I made my own agenda. And as I crossed off each one today, I felt great.

I woke up at 8:30... which is definitely "sleeping in" for me. I fed and medicated the cats. I drank coffee and did laundry. I paid bills and balanced the checkbook...

Then I went to see my mother-in-law. It was a good visit. She was having a good day. There were tears, but I left feeling restored rather than drained. She told me she can still see Rick and she described him to me in detail. She said that if she closes her eyes, she sees him standing there.

I told her about the little bear and the cookie sheet. She smiled and laughed and her eyes filled up. She said it seemed like something Rick would do and that he probably loved me so much, he wanted to still talk to me somehow. She said maybe Rick would still come visit her on a Saturday if she asked him for a message.

"You were always so nice to my Ricky," she said. "I'm sorry I can't do anything for you."

I told her I had everything I needed and I was okay. And for the first time when I told her that, I believed it.

I had planned not to go grocery shopping on a Saturday so that my routine would be altered from the old norm, but I had to buy some things that couldn't wait, so I went today. For the first time since Rick's death, I did not cry at the grocery store. I felt very victorious as I walked back out to my car in the parking lot.

Back at home, I ate lunch and went for a run. I went over some things in my head while I ran and returned home feeling great. I showered and got ready for dinner out with my work friends. It was a dinner of laughter. And the post-dinner drinks (and more food) were full of laughter too. I felt very normal.

I didn't feel like the lonely widow out of place in the crowd. I didn't feel like an impostor of a woman trying to have fun. I didn't feel like I was 1,000 years older than everyone around me due to grief. I felt normal.

It's 11:00 pm and I'm just blogging now, because I was out being normal. I considered not blogging at all, but decided I really wanted to document the victory of a good Saturday. I won!

Patience

Today is a day when I am trying to stay uplifting and uplifted. I feel down and irritated. The last time I felt like this was last Saturday. I'm sensing a pattern. The first day I'm not at work for the week kind of sends me into a funk of loneliness. It doesn't seem to matter how many things I do to fill my day (and I have no shortage of things to do) or how many people I see. The loneliness is there, eating away at me slowly until the night falls. And then it becomes this unbearable weight that somehow creates a void.

I don't want to be this way. I want to remain positive. I want to be that phoenix, that mountain climber, that woman with a grateful heart.

Today I woke up and fed the cats. Then I didn't feel like starting my day. So I went back to bed. I woke up again and pushed myself to go for a run. It made me feel better, a release of emotion and heaviness... but then I ran errands and my earlier heaviness and agitation returned. I came home and cried inside the shower like the world was ending. I reminded myself of all the beautiful, wonderful parts of life and cried some more because I was in there screaming to myself, "I DON'T WANT TO BE CRYING!"

Cue more crying. More agitation.

There's nothing like crying about the fact that you're crying.

I went to a cookout with my extended family and felt like a mopey person in a corner, far too aware of the emptiness that signified the absence of Rick.

Now I'm at home, curled up in a blanket, drinking red wine, and giving myself a pep talk about all the reasons I don't need to cry again. For what feels like the millionth time this summer, fireworks boom nearby, sending shockwaves through my body that just wants to be at peace. I'm irritated all over again. It's August. They can stop setting off rockets now.

I honestly wanted to run outside and scream at the top of my lungs to whoever was doing it: "PLEASE STOP! I CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE! MY HUSBAND SHOT HIMSELF IN THE HEAD AND I AM SO SICK OF HEARING THAT GUNSHOT NOISE EVERY WEEKEND!"

I threw open my front door. I walked outside. I stood there. My body cracked back in a whip of movement as another BOOM sounded somewhere in the neighborhood. I didn't yell. I didn't cry. I just walked back inside. Irritated. Alone.

And here I am blogging in my living room. I glance to my right and see this:

A reminder to stay afloat. This will pass and hope is here to stay. Every night will not be like this. My days are flowers and tonight is just a weed that popped up. I have to pluck it, breathe, and let the rain bring new flowers. I have to be patient.

Mother-in-Law, in Heart, in Mind

Besides the actual day that Rick died, the day Rick's brother and I had to tell his mom that her son was dead was the hardest day of my life.

We sat waiting for her in a room at the assisted living home where she lives. Watching her face crumple and twist was excruciating. She took in our words and though she understood, she didn't want to believe. That day broke my already broken heart. Trying to be strong for Rick's mom was next to impossible. No amount of hugs and hand-holding could make the terrible news better.

She wished she could die instead.

She wished she could die immediately so she could see Rick again.

She wished she could see him one last time.

I couldn't give her any of her wishes.

My brother-in-law and I visited her again together the next day. My brother-in-law visited her with his family the day after that. Then it was the funeral and she powered through with the rest of us, medicated so her anxiety wouldn't be through the roof. 

The day after the funeral, a Friday, my brother-in-law and his family visited her again to say good bye as they prepared to head home to Florida. Too immersed in my own grief, I did not go see her.

When the Saturday after the funeral came, I still couldn't bring myself to go see her. Rick and I always went to see her together on a Saturday. We would bring her chocolate and make her laugh, tell her stories from our week, or listen to her tales of woe about her room mate. 

I just couldn't face Saturday with her so soon. I struggled with not going because I knew she would be all alone there, thinking of Rick, hoping for a visitor, lamenting the fact that her son who visited like clockwork every week was never coming again.

Two days after the Saturday I could not make myself go, I called the assisted living home and asked them how she was doing. "Is she eating okay?"

She was.

"Is she sleeping okay?"

She was.

"Is she crying a lot?"

She was...but the appropriate amount. 

I told them I wanted to come as usual, but I just couldn't do it. I got choked up and cried. They told me she was okay and to take my time because she was being cared for very well.

Saturday rolled around again...and today I made myself go. I cried on my drive there. I cried in the parking lot. I cried as I walked inside the building. I found my way to her room as I always did, week after week, but this time there was no Rick by my side. This time I was alone, painfully aware that I was no substitute for her son. I was only half of the company she wanted, half of the equation, half of the weekly ritual. 

She was sleeping when I got there and when she saw me she smiled and jumped up, excited to see me. She said my name and, "I'm so glad to see you!" She made room for me on her bed. I hugged her and kissed her and she looked me right in the eyes and said, "Where's Ricky?"

My eyes welled up immediately, but before I could answer, she said, "He died. I know it. I was just hoping maybe it wasn't true."

We sat together on her bed, holding hands and crying. She had Rick's photo by her bedside and I showed her the framed one I had brought for her: a very recent one of her and Rick, taken on Easter. She looked at it for a while and asked me to put it on her bedside table where she could see it from her bed.  

"I'm so mad at God," she said. "I hate God now. I say that all the time."

I told her it was okay to be mad.

She told me she felt sad for me, sorry for me, that I was a widow so young. She told me again that she wished she had died first. I told her that it would be nice for her now, because this way when she does die, Rick will be waiting for her. She smiled like she hadn't thought of that.

We talked about Rick. I told her he wouldn't want us to be sad. She wisely said, "He wouldn't want us to be, but he knows we would be. So it's okay."

"My sweet little Arielle," she said. "It's not fair, is it? You're just a little girl and now you're alone."

She asked me for a recent photo of Rick and me. She said it always made her so happy to see us together. I told her I would bring her one.

"My heart hurts and my stomach hurts too," she said as she squeezed my hand and put her head on my shoulder. I told that was exactly how I felt too.

"I love you," she said when I was leaving.

"I love you," I told her. And I kissed her good bye. Just like my last moments with Rick.

The routine is back, even with my husband missing. Saturday visits have begun again...and I survived the first one. My mother-in-law and I even decided on a plan for our next visit: I'm bringing photos of Rick for us to look through...and more tissues.