Bloodsucking gratitude

Man, the bloodsuckers were out tonight…Midwest mosquitoes. Because our spring was so drab, the bugs were delayed in their arrival, but now they are here with a vengeance, making up for lost time. Which is what I am trying to do with my neglected garden as well, spreading mulch after work whilst swatting the bloodsuckers. My garden is out of control this year. I can’t keep up with it because, really, it’s a two-man project, and I’m down one man. But I’m doing the best I can, and some dear friends had extra mulch that they shared with me.

Death, and losing someone, will do the same thing if you allow it, suck the “blood” right out of your life. There’s a strange apathy that hits, coating everything in gray. I won’t deny that there have been times when I have wondered what the purpose is? What am I living for? I could get cancer tomorrow, and I wouldn’t even have a mate to take care of me. So they tell you to try and appreciate the small things. Look closely, there are little breaks in the clouds. Try to be grateful for the things you do have, the things you still enjoy, and eventually the color will come back. I know this to be true. But my gratitude is a work in progress, and it often feels as unruly as my garden. A “thank you” here, a quiet moment there…

…like spreading mulch on this hot summer night. I know my husband would have given anything to be here doing this with me. Despite his hatred of mosquitoes, he loved powering through a gardening project. If he could have made a deal with death, or with the fierce she-leader of the mosquito kingdom, trading his blood for his life (along with some itchy bites), he would have done it. If only that were the choice. Cancer is a much deadlier adversary, the oft victor of life-and-death negotiations, one bad-ass parasite.

I realize my blog tends to focus on the hard parts of loss. It’s a healthy way to work through the tough, honest emotions. A person can’t just go from grieving widow to happy clown in a day. I lost two people, and my life is less without them. I miss them both tremendously. But I’m trying to shift my focus, my attitude, my gratitude.

And I realized tonight that I have turned a corner. I am not out of the woods yet, but on this beautiful summer evening, I can smell the mint and the lavender my husband planted, I am sweating and swatting, and I am grateful. Not for the mosquitoes…(I mean come on, I ain’t the Buddha!), but I am grateful for the life-blood that continues to run though my veins. Some lucky skeeters actually got to enjoy my husband’s sweet blood; I got to enjoy his sweet and funny nature, taste his salty skin. I am still relishing it, here, now, as I tend to our lush garden, full of bugs and blooms, thinking of him, on this night.

Under it.

Man. I’m under it today.

And it’s only Saturday.

I know why they are afraid to ask, “how was your weekend”? On Monday, it will be written all over my face. The signature look of grief. It would be a compliment to call it a “hot mess”.

Most of the week, I am in “zombie mode”. On Fridays, I crumble. Saturday is “mad dog” day. I walk around in circles trying to remember where I hid my bone, or put my keys, unable to settle in a comfortable spot. But better drop that ass quickly because here comes Sunday! The variety-pack of anxiety, fear, and what-the-hell-happened-to-my-life?

Monday. It’s just not something people can take – early in the morning – seeing the big gaping hole in my chest, the dark circles under my eyes. Weekends are for rest and recovery, aren’t they? I’d be afraid to ask, too. So away we go, allowing clients, deadlines and pressing needs distract, derail and lead us all astray from the important things in life.

A presumptuous young doctor, (strutting around in his self-perceived cloak of immortality), asked my husband what he would “do” with his precious remaining time. I think the guy was seriously expecting some kind of fantastical answer about blasting up into space, base jumping from the Eiffel Tower, or frolicking over to Disney, and sucking on Mickey Mouse’s dick. Is that offensive? Well, so is asking deathly-ill people what they are going to “do” before they die.

Seriously. I wanted to punch him. But then my husband answered. And he melted my heart.

“The only thing I want to do, is go home, and spend time with my beautiful wife, our dog,  my family. Enjoy our garden, sit out on the front deck with my coffee, listen to the birds…I don’t need to go anywhere to find what is most important.”

Is it any wonder my weekends feel like a barren landscape, leaving me with dried-out eyes, and a mouth full of sand? It’s not something happy-hour and a little mascara can fix. I’m still under it, and can only dream of being over it.

Though I guess my morning cup of coffee does help…cheers, baby. Thank you for seeing the beauty.

Stronger Than Bone

“It looks so prehistoric…like elephant grass, or something. Why are you taking it out?”, my neighbor was admiring the tall ornamental grass I was furiously trying to dig out. I mumbled something about how this grass was actually a bully…squeezing out other plants and grasses with its “survival of the fittest” attitude and roots.

My husband had planted this grass; he loved ornamental grasses. And it was beautiful. It was at least 7 feet tall, and looked so elegant blowing in the wind. But it also seemed to triple in width every summer, was messy, crowding out the other plants, and almost impossible to cut down in the fall because the stalks were so thick. Last year my arms ended up full of jabs and scratches from its bamboo-like stalks and razor-sharp blades. Truthfully, this grass was just a pain in the ass, and I decided it had to go.