Every Day Life

I wasn't able to sell the car. The notary told me that we had to wait until 30 days after Rick's death. The concept of time is no longer understandable for me. It feels like he's been gone for so long, but at the same time, it feels like this is all so terribly new and raw. There seems to be a snag with everything I try to tackle. I called the funeral home and told them that I have every intention of paying the funeral bill ASAP, but that my capacity to pay is contingent upon the sale of Rick's car. I explained the 30 day rule to them. One week from today, we can try again to transfer the car title. Then when the check clears, I can pay for Rick's service.

I can't wait for it all to be done. Over.

Grief is exhausting. Grief while contending with the paperwork that makes my existence possible is even more exhausting.

I find myself missing every day life. I look at the calendar and see Rick's handwriting noting appointments or reminders. I think about what would be happening each day if Rick was still alive.

Today Rick was supposed to get his hair cut. Last night, the woman who cut Rick's hair found me on Facebook. I know her, because I used to go with Rick sometimes and wait for him. "Tomorrow would have been Rick's appointment," she wrote to me in a message. "I will miss him."

A postcard with Rick's dentist appointment reminder came in the mail the other day. I asked my mom to call the office for me, because it was one less person I'd have to tell that my husband was dead. She told me that the dentist actually answered the phone himself that day. When my mom told him about Rick, he was shocked and really sad. He talked to her for a while, extending his sympathies to me.

The other day, the couple who used to live next door to us found me on Facebook. They told me they had just heard about Rick and were so sorry, wished they got to know him better, wanted to reach out to me.

The allergist he saw every two weeks for decades, the pharmacist, and of course, the dry cleaner - they all miss him. They were all part of his every day life.

It hurts to think of him in the past tense.

Tonight my mom brought me an envelope. She and my dad are going on a cruise soon and she's concerned about leaving me.

It's so nice to remember Rick. To hear what other people remember about Rick. Remembering is all we have now. 

Remembering, though, is kind of tiring. I want to so much to be able to just walk into my kitchen and see him. I want to be able to hear his voice on the other end of the phone. I want to roll over at night and push him out of the way. I want to argue with him, laugh with him, and talk to him. If he was here, I wouldn't have to remember. 

So I guess what I'm saying is I'm tired. And I just want to throw a tantrum sometimes. Instead, I'm going to wear Rick's bathrobe and go to sleep. 

A Painful Encounter

Today I did something I've been dreading. I went to the dry cleaners after work. Ever since I realized that I'd have to get my black funeral dress dry cleaned, it hit me that I'd have to tell the dry cleaner that Rick is dead.

Rick had been going to the same dry cleaner for decades. The owner knew him and talked to him every Saturday when Rick took his dress shirts in like clockwork. When you see someone every week for years and years, you learn snippets of existence. You exchange real smiles. You become part of each other's lives.

7 years ago, on one of his weekly stops at the dry cleaners, Rick told the owner that he was in love. He told the owner that he was getting married. He was happy and the dry cleaner was happy. The dry cleaner was excited for Rick, knowing that Rick had been alone for so many years. Rick told him about me, that I was younger, that I was funny, that I was cute.

The dry cleaner heard about me weekly. He saw Rick smile more.

Rick and I got married. The dry cleaner congratulated him. Rick showed him my photo.

Then one Saturday, shortly after we were married, Rick was getting a haircut and I went to the dry cleaners instead. Holding Rick's ticket, I entered. I approached the counter. The owner took the ticket, read it, and threw up his hands, beaming at me. "It's Mrs. Bair!" he yelled excitedly. "Mrs. Bair!" He shook my hand. He called all the employees forward from the back of the store. "It's Mrs. Bair!" He was so excited to finally meet Rick's wife. He told me Rick talked about me all the time.

After that, every time I'd run errands with Rick, the owner would look behind Rick through the glass and wave to me where I waited in the car. He always had a huge smile. If I went in for Rick's clothes, he would joke with me about Rick being lucky or tell me he liked it better when I came in instead of Rick. It was like a game of banter he had with Rick. The owner knew that I would tell Rick what he said and then Rick would call him out on it the next time he stopped in. They'd laugh. Rick would often come home and tell me.

Fast forward to this afternoon. I knew this day would come. I knew that eventually I'd have to take my funeral dress to the cleaners and tell the owner Rick was dead. It hurt just thinking about it.

On my way there, I found myself behind a white car with a New Hampshire license plate. The license plate said: MR & MRS on it. It made the pit in my stomach lurch. My funeral dress swung in the backseat as I turned into the parking lot.

As I walked in, the owner recognized me right away and grinned as usual. He pointed at me over a customer's head and mouthed, "Mrs. Bair!"

When the woman ahead of me finished, the owner happily asked how I was. I passed him my dress and said with eyes full of tears, "Rick died."

He just stared at me. "What?" he said, not understanding.

"Rick is dead," I told him.

"No!" he said, his face falling. He held my hand over the counter. "I'm so sorry, "he said. "He was such a nice man."

I cried for several seconds in silence, trying to regain my composure.

"When?" he asked. I told him it was just over 2 weeks ago. He replied, "I had just seen him."

He took my dress, gave me a ticket, and the look on his face just made him appear a completely different person from the man I thought of as a grinning maniac. "You take care," he told me. I nodded and left. There was nothing more to say.

I cried for a minute in my mom's car where she was waiting. Then we went to a store for a few minutes. I couldn't focus. She went home in her car and I went home in mine. And...2 stops and 30 minutes later, I found myself behind the same white New Hampshire car with the MR & MRS license plate. I blinked back tears and verified that I was miraculously again behind the same car on a different road.

The first time, it was a painful reminder. It made me sad. The second time, it was a message. It doesn't matter what day it is, what year it is, or who's here and who's not. We'll always be MR & MRS Bair.