Loss

Death has some surprising consequences for me. I am no stranger to death. I am the last of my immediate family. My dad died when he was 42; I was 18. We were very close. I still feel the loss. My mom died when she was 57; I was 33, married with two children,and lived 1000 miles away from her. We loved each other, but we were not close. I have regret that I didn't make a bigger effort to develop a closer relationship with her. I'm not sure it would have changed anything; my mother lived in her own little world. My older brother was 59 when he died and my younger brother was 49. I was very close to the young brother, and I still mourn him.

Since Mr. Fixit's death Easter morning, I can't quite get it together. My emotional range goes from grief, to relief, to anger, and to mystification. I have lost my best friend, my companion, my raison d'etre for 54 years. The last few days have been difficult.

I have been trying to bring order to the chaos of Mr. Fixit's room. I had no idea what I was facing. We had separate rooms for practical reasons. His room became his own personal space. I only went in during the last few years to put away his laundry. I suggested when I knew it was time to wash the sheets. I vacuumed just in the entrance of the room. To make matters worse, when he came home from the hospital and began hospice care, I wanted him to be in the heart of the house. I asked our sons to make space in the living room for his bed. He could be a part of all the every day comings and goings. They had to move several pieces of furniture from the living room. The only place to put them was Mr. Fixit's room. Afterward, it was impossible to navigate from the entrance to the room to the other side without climbing over, or re-arranging, the extra furniture.

This week my mission was to clear the room. Here it is Friday, and it still isn't done.

As I may have mentioned before, Mr. Fixit was a hoarder of sorts. It just killed him to throw things away. I found things that touched my heart; I found things that broke my heart. I found things that made me angry. (How many cameras and camera cases does a man need? How many utility knives does a man need? How many calendars does a man need? How many Cross pens does a man need?) I have shredded several garbage bags of paper. For some reason that I cannot fathom, he collected Social Security yearly benefit books as well as the half inch thick books furnished yearly by our insurance company. The earliest one I found was 2013. I found stacks of Christmas cards most of which I never saw. They were many, many cards from the children, baseball stuff, programs from the school functions that we attended. Oh yes, I also have cards from the grandchildren and programs from their school functions. I found day planners for his work dating back to the year 2000. (He retired in 2006.) I found two never-used wallets and a brand new watch in its original box. I found two wooden perfectly round unpainted balls about two inches in diameter that are the source of my mystification' What could he have been planning that required two wooden balls? The man's mind worked in wondrous ways.

While doing this task, I have cried from sorrow, laughed at his idiosyncrasies, and became angry at his waste of money spent of goofy stuff. Dammit! I miss him.