On Skunks, Scars, and Boxes of Grief

 Herself speaks.

I think that I should give up on apologizing for taking so long to get back to regular posting. Gentle readers, you know I am sorry. There's just been... a lot in the way. Let's play catch-up, shall we? 

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Fifty-nine.

So, I turned fifty-nine years old early last month.  Fifty-nine isn't in and of itself a bad thing.  It's still in the 50s.  The problem with fifty-nine is that SIXTY looms so ominously on the horizon. How can this be? Surely it's not less than a year until I hit the sixth decade. That's the point when newspapers start referring to us as an elderly woman or an elderly man in articles.  Lord help us.  I'm not ready to think about that yet. The birthday itself was fine, as far as birthdays go -- though (at my choosing) the focus of the day was primarily on a celebration for Offspring the Third, who was leaving town the following day.  Good luck with your endeavor, Offspring the Third! We love you and are incredibly proud! 

Thirty-five.

Beloved Husband and I celebrated our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary in the middle of last month. That's 59% of my entire life that we've been married (a nice coincidence with my 59th birthday).  My Mother, who is still adjusting to the fact that she turned eighty-nine earlier this year, commented, "I can't believe I am old enough to have a child who has been married thirty-five years!" Yes indeed. Where did the time go? 

Beloved Husband and I celebrated with a nice quiet dinner at a new restaurant nearby (and we went on the early side -- because Lord Help Us, we are getting Old), a few gifts (he outdid himself this year in thoughtful and interesting presents), and some time together that did not involve Work. Nice. Who could ask for anything better? 

Scars misbehaving.

I feel at this point that I should be on a first-name basis with everyone at the dermatologist's office, due to the frequency with which I cross their threshold.  While I was there, I had one of my scars -- the one on my chest from a basal cell carcinoma removal -- checked. It's doing something funny. A bit red and raised midline. What does it mean? 

Fortunately, it does not appear to be a recurrence (unlike the most recent precancerous spot, which I had to have frozen again, because who doesn't love a little liquid nitrogen on their face?). It's most likely a suture granuloma, which means that one of the internal stitches hasn't quite dissolved yet, and my immune system doesn't like having it there and is objecting.  We'll have to wait and see what it does -- will it go away on its own? Will it need a steroid injection? Nothing is ever easy.  I don't particularly enjoy having extra-visible scars. Visible, fine. Extra-visible because problematic and possibly inviting questions... notsomuch. 

What's with the boxes?

The boxes are metaphorical. They are boxes of grief: each box contains a person, a concept, a wish that I am letting go and grieving. I am trying so hard to compartmentalize them, so that I can mentally tackle them one at a time. Sometimes the boxes overflow and the bits and pieces get jumbled together and I have to re-sort everything all over again. 

There's one tidy box, and that is my lovely Daddy's grief box. His picture sits on my desk at work, and I say "Hi, Daddy" each day when I sit down. Missing him is not as acute as it once was -- it's the absence of one instrument in the orchestra of life. Every now and then I dream of him, and it's so bittersweet to hear his voice. I hope I never forget what it sounded like. 

There is a box adjacent to Daddy's box: that one is a box of What-Once-Was that I must also let go. In that box are items that remind me about how things used to be. These items surface, for example, when I double-check his email once a month and pay Mom's bills; or when Mom talks about her current activities and friends an busy schedule; or when Offspring the Third is off on his new adventures to places where Daddy once traveled, and Daddy is not there to talk with him about his own adventures in the same places once upon a time. This What-Once-Was box is a messy box, frequently and unexpectedly spilled, oftentimes by something small that someone else says or does in passing. It's taking a lot of time to tidy up. 

There's another box: the I Broke My Rose-Colored Glasses box (we'll call it the Reality Box for short). Since the multitude of terribles of the past few years, I have worked more at looking at my life as an observer, rather than getting caught in the wishful-thinking-inside-place where I'd been living.  It's been very eye opening.  The biggest lesson so far, relates to People: 

People are who they are, and everyone has limitations. No matter what we want, we cannot actually will them to do anything. We must take what is offered, and that is all that we can get. 

Thus, the Reality Box. The grief inside this box relates to relinquishing hopes that are attached to other people: wishes that they will behave a certain way, or take certain actions under certain circumstances; that they will remember certain things that are important to me but which are practically irrelevant to them. These things will not happen. I need to let go. 

This box is a tricky box because just when I think I have put something away neatly inside the box, I find it again outside the box and need to put it back all over again. A Sisyphean task. 

And so you see, with the juggling of all the boxes, writing ends up being a very low priority. That's not my intention, because I do love to write. Someday, when I have finally gotten a solid grip on my boxes, I will be able to write more. 

There was something about skunks?

On the bright side, I have a new hobby!

About a month ago, one night I looked out the front door and there was a tuxedo cat standing at the end of the walkway, looking at me.  It had something to tell me, though I didn't know what. 

I began putting out a small bowl of kitty food and some water in the back of the house, in case the cat was feral and in need. And I put out one of the cameras I had from years ago to monitor the bunnies, to keep an eye on activity at the kitty bowl. 

And wildlife observation began!

As best we can tell, we have several regulars: tuxedo cat; a spotty tabby cat who is oddly tall; a bunch of birds of assorted sizes and shapes; and (we think) FIVE skunks -- two large adult skunks; two little skunks who always appear together (Frick and Frack); and one small skunk who appeared once or twice with one of the large skunks, and now appears alone.  According to the Googles, at this time of year, juvenile skunks are learning how to forage and starting to go out on their own, so my best guess is, we have two mother skunks, one of whom has Frick and Frack babies, and the other has a singleton baby, and they all live nearby (where, I have no idea). 

It's surprisingly polite at the kitty food bowl. Everyone has their regular time to have a bit of kitty food; there is no fighting (though the birds squawk at one another sometimes); it's tidy and there is no poop. And no skunk smell!  We do not go out when anyone is getting a snack -- they are all feral, and do not need human contact. (Plus skunks are a vector for rabies. No, thanks. Yikes.) The skunks are so cute. And surprisingly small, except for the tails.

We'll see what happens come winter. I may put a kitty house out, up on legs so the kitties can get in safely but the skunks cannot. We don't really want a giant pile of skunks wintering in the yard.

I shall include here, a few representative pictures, and then (hopefully) will be able to entertain you with additional wildlife observation photos in the future. It brings me a few molecules of joy, and that is a delightful thing. 

 

One of Offspring the Third's kitties peeks out the window at the solitary juvenile skunk.

Big skunk having a snack.

Frick and Frack.

Spotty tabby kitty.

The original tuxedo kitty who started it all. 

Puzzling

Beloved Husband and a couple of his friends went a-motorcyling by the Grand Canyon recently. They seem to have enjoyed it very much. (And they all work hard and deserve some relaxation and scenic vistas -- so good for them. It's important to take time for oneself.) 

He brought back a teeny puzzle from a gift shop, and we worked on it one evening. It has been approximately a hundred thousand years since I've worked on a puzzle, and I'd forgotten how satisfying puzzles can be. It was pleasant for us to undertake it together, especially since we so rarely are able to spend time on projects together that aren't Work projects. 

It was tricky, but we succeeded. Hooray! 

Happy Father's Day

Today we celebrate Beloved Husband, for his role as patriarch of our little nuclear family and father to the Offspring. Happy Father's Day, Beloved. I know how much you love the Offspring and how you want the best for them, always. They are like you in many ways -- work ethic, kindness toward others, joie de vivre. Eyelashes. Interested in extended family lore. They are Good People, brought to this world with your help. Thank you. 

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I also reminisce about my lovely Daddy. Father's Day becomes harder, not easier, as time goes by. Perhaps it is a bell curve, and we have not yet hit the nadir. 

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 I keep four photos on my desk at work: one of Beloved Husband and I, from the week before we were married (ah, so beautiful, the promise of a lifetime together to come); one of the three Offspring, taken at Offspring the Third's high school graduations (my beautiful Offspring, all fledged adults -- what pride I have in them, and what hope for their futures); one small one of Cherished Friend and I together, from my last visit to Oceanside (a small photo, because we both hate having our picture taken, but nevertheless present, because friendship is a sheltering tree, and it is nice to have that reminder when workdays are hard); and front and center, my Daddy and I, smiling together, looking alike, a moment captured in time, never to happen again. 

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The other night, I had a dream: I picked up a phone, and there was a voicemail message. It was from my Daddy, and it was his voice, clear as it ever was, speaking the first four words with which he began every message: Hi (nickname), it's Daddy. I woke up, knowing that the voice was a ghost, and haunted by the clarity with which it was his voice, that I can no longer hear except while sleeping. 

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Some days, I do not know what to do with myself. So much love, and nowhere to put it. Especially for Daddy. I don't think I told him enough how much I appreciated everything he did for me. 

I hope he knew. 

Happy Father's Day, Daddy, wherever you are. 

The Big Six-Oh

 As I mentioned, Beloved Husband celebrated a Big Birthday in March - Sixty! It seems impossible -- he is, as always, eternally youthful and young-at-heart: cheerful, fun-loving, humorous. The Ernie to my Bert. He makes me laugh. 

He works very hard at Work and at his Volunteer Projects. He plays hard, too -- trying to find time for his motorcycle, for off-roading, for spending time with his lovely Mom and brother and sister, for enjoying his work-outs at the gym. He crams as much life into Life as possible, making the most of every moment. 

I wish for you, Beloved Husband, many, many more years to do All The Things that you would like to do. And all the joy that can be found in this strange, complex world that we live in. 

January Eats: Octopus Chicharrones

Beloved Husband and I tried out a new restaurant. On the menu: Octopus Chicharrones. 

Sounds: questionable.

Was: delicious. 

Thirty-Four

 Herself speaks.

Beloved Husband and I have been married for nearly fifty nine percent of my lifetime now.  For some reason, it feels as though it has gone by quickly. Or perhaps the memories of the earlier years become crowded and compacted, like layers of sediment, by the later years. 

Every now and then, a piece of our shared history is unearthed, especially now as we are doing some much-needed upgrades to the house. I wade through a container of grade-school papers from the Offspring, or find an occasional photo from Days of Yore. I sort the box of little T shirts that our elderly rescue dogs wore for comfort. That little hook there? My Dad gave it to us, because it matched the decor in that bathroom -- I'd forgotten until Beloved Husband reminded me. Little pieces of an entire life, slowly being weeded and organized. It's odd, after years of organic chaos of Offspring and pets and Everything, to slowly and methodically tidy all the pieces of our life together.

There's such a sense of -- Completion? Empty nest? -- without any Offspring or dogs or any pets that make noise (the sound of bunnies rummaging in hay is not loud enough to count) on weekends. I feel old? Or tired? Perhaps it is time to plan some new adventures, as we step into this next phase of life. 

We travel on. And time moves ever swifter. 

Duet Under A Tree

A long marriage is two people trying to dance a duet and two solos at the same time. ― Anne Taylor Fleming

Herself speaks.

While Beloved Husband and I were at our alma mater a couple of weekends ago, we took a walk out to the golf course near campus. We looked carefully, and we found we found what we are sure is the tree under which he proposed, thirty-six years ago. It has grown quite a bit in the intervening years, and is just as beautiful now as it was then.

I don't think either of us had any idea way back then what the future would hold. And now, here we are -- we have been through so many years together, so many milestones. The only thing I knew back then when he asked me to marry him, was: I wanted to be the very best wife I could be for him. I still do today. I still try, every day. 

I am fortunate in that after all this time, even beyond love, I also like Beloved Husband. He's smart. He's funny. He's curious about the world and always learning new and interesting things to share. He wants the best for his children. He is devoted to his family and to his friends. 

He's the Quintessential Congenial Person: Cheerful, Charming, Likeable, Talented. Everyone loves him. The only problem with this, is that there is not enough of him to go around. So many demands on his attention and his time. It must be hard for him to prioritize, being pulled in so many different directions at once. Sometimes (oftentimes) I feel as though I get short shrift. Not something I considered under that tree, so many years ago. But what is to be done? I cannot change What Is. 

The best I can do is work on my own solo dance, until he is available for moments of our duet. 

Young at Heart

 Beloved Husband is fifty-[mumble] years old.  Eternally young at heart, always willing to try new foods, new activities, and new places, he will always be the cheery, born-under-a-lucky-star person that I have known him to be since the very first day we met. 

Happy Birthday, Beloved Husband. I wish for you -- with great love -- continued health, happiness, and adventures, for many, many years to come. 

33 and Sushi

Beloved Husband and I went out for sushi to celebrate our 33rd anniversary. 

Here's to the next 33 years. 

Santa Fe

Herself speaks.

It's remarkable how it seems as though it takes the entire workweek, to prepare to take one work day off.  

Last week, Monday through Thursday were extremely busy, so that Friday could be spent out of the office. Beloved Husband and I took that day off, and took a leisurely drive from our usual corner of this desert southwest, to Santa Fe, New Mexico. (We went to Santa Fe at around this time last year as well -- we are looking to make it an annual pilgrimage, in honor of our anniversary which is in a few weeks.) 

It's such an interesting place: so many contrasts. Rich and poor, desert and oasis, art and mundane. We looked in all the expensive tourist-y shops; had several very fine meals at very fine restaurants; perused Art in various galleries; saw a ballet performance at the lovely little theatre. It was quite nice. 

There are some parts of Santa Fe that give me pause.  There is a lot of art in the galleries that depicts idealized Native Americans: beautiful maidens wrapped in furs or skins, waiting expectantly; stoic warriors in full regalia or war paint, staring defiantly; plump children contentedly gazing at  small carved toys, and such. I would be very surprised if any of these works were created by actual First Peoples artists.  It feels a little bit like Indian pornography -- exploitative, false, glossing over the ultimately terrible history of Native Peoples in the area (and throughout the United States). And there are the indigenous street vendors selling their wares on the weekends, on numbered spaces on the sidewalk by the center square -- there is the same vaguely uncomfortable feeling of exploitation and discomfort there, too. Is it just me? I don't think so. 

 There is also the conservative politics of some people of the region, that we strenuously avoid (particularly with the apparent assassination attempt on July 14, while we were in Santa Fe). The present state of the nation, of women's rights, of the Supreme Court decisions and other current events, fills me with such despair that I can no longer read the news. It's hard not to think about what's happening. But that's a discussion for another day.

We took the scenic way back to our corner of the desert, which was a very nice drive. Long freight trains, wind turbines, cows, a few pronghorns, and stretches of dry landscape as far as the eye could see.  It was a refreshing nothingness. I could spend forever in that interim.

Alas, we are now Back to Business As Usual.

It was a good trip, though.  We'll do it again next year. 

Young at Heart

 Beloved Husband has completed another trip around the sun. Cheerful; eternally young-on-the-inside; a man who is fond of Dad Jokes, of four-wheel-driving in the desert and motorcycling and traveling along on the open roads; the human whom the rabbits all quickly approach in the hopes he will share bananas with them. 

He works hard, plays hard; enjoys spending time with his friends from a wide variety of walks of life, not only from business acquaintances but also from extracurricular activities, and even from as far back as high school. Everyone loves him, speaks highly of him, relies on him. 

It's a full life he leads, and each year seems to pass in the blink of an eye. I do the best I can to better his life every day --  to ensure that all the minutiae of Life are handled, so that he has the time and freedom for what he desires. 

Happy birthday, Beloved Husband. I hope you find time for all of the Good Things.  And I hope that all of your dreams come true. 

Thirty-two

Happy anniversary!

"In every good marriage, it pays sometimes to be a little deaf." - Ruth Bader Ginsberg

Young at Heart

Happy birthday to the perpetually young-at-heart Beloved Husband. You are so well loved. I wish for you, continued joy as you move through life, led by your ever-cheerful, ever-youthful, ever-playful spirit. 

Credit Where Credit's Due

 Beloved Husband gave me a Harry Potter-themed purse for our anniversary this year.  (It was an unspectacular anniversary otherwise, seeing as I had COVID at the time. Nevertheless, the gifts were quite thoughtful.) It's an excellent purse: backpack style (my favorite kind), just the right size, subtle, tasteful. Nice.

As I've mentioned previously, I've had a spate of routine maintenance appointments lately, plus have also run a bunch of errands -- gone to the pharmacy and the grocery store and the eyeglass place and the bookstore and whatnot. (I'm the only one wearing a mask these days, but that doesn't bother me: I have festive holiday-themed masks! What could be better?) The purse has come with me everywhere, and I've received numerous compliments on the purse. Everyone loves it. 

Each time someone comments on the purse, I give appropriate credit to Beloved Husband: thank you - I need to give credit where credit is due, it was a gift from my husband. He did a good job. And the compliment-giver invariably says, he did! 

And they're right. He did!

I think that there's a tendency, not only in the media but in society in general, to portray husbands as being poor gift-givers. People roll their eyes and scoff at men in general and husbands in particular when it comes to presents, and allow them to maintain deliberate incompetence in the gift-giving department. We're doing men a disservice. They can do better. We should let them. And we should always give credit where credit is due. If they do a good job, we should say so. 

I really like my purse. Thanks, Beloved Husband!

The Angels Who Walk Among Us

 Herself speaks.

I had a short text conversation this past week with my mother-in-law. We'll call her Buela, because that is what everyone calls her. 

Buela inquired after my parents' health, and I let her her know that things are going as well as possible. She was delighted to hear. She then she inquired after Cherished Friend, saying that she hoped he was doing well also. I answered in the affirmative and let her know I had spoken to him recently. And she replied:

Mija, that is wonderful! Please give him my regards next time you talk to him, tell him he is not forgotten. <3 

And this simple statement somehow both broke my heart and healed it. She keeps my Cherished Friend in her prayers and in her heart, always, even though she hasn't seen him for years, because she knows how important he has been, and continues to be, to me and my family. 

This is the kind of person Buela is: she loves a person, because someone she loves, loves that person. 

It is the kind of person I try to be. 

What a shining example of Love. Buela, an angel among us. 

On Marriage

When I laid down on my quarantine cot last night and contemplated what words to use to describe Beloved Husband's any my thirty-first anniversary, I was a bit at a loss. Sometimes, when there are too many possible words, the simplest route is to choose the small ones -- a description of the ordinary, of just the facts. When one is so very close to a situation, it is easier to write about the trees rather than about the whole forest. Sometimes even picking an individual tree as a starting point is nearly impossible. 

Occasionally, a theme can provide structure: for example, Pandemic marriage. As I sit here in the early hours of daylight today, after a night of COVID-induced sleepless ruminations, let's take a deeper dive, shall we?

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The Pandemic has been a crucible for so many marriages. So many complicating factors: close-quarters lockdowns for extended periods of time, job and money uncertainty, illness, caretaking, worry about extended family members, political polarization, and more. Some of these factors did not have as significant an impact for us, because this is a seasoned marriage that has already survived years of complexity, including the birth, growth, and near-launching of multiple offspring; career changes; moves; financial ups and downs; illness and death of elderly extended family members; good times, bad times, and all the times in between. We are fortunate, too, in that work has continued essentially uninterrupted throughout the Pandemic, and has provided an outlet for productivity and consistent income. Nevertheless, there have still been some challenges in the Pandemic. 

In the Pandemic, how does a person individually go about his or her life as fully as possible, while minimizing the impact of one's own activity on the spouse? How much socializing, travel, even in-person-work-meetings, is an acceptable level of risk? Acceptable to whom? What if "acceptability" varies among spouses? And when the Pandemic virus inevitably comes home to roost, what happens then? What caretaking must be given, what taking-over-of-the-ill-spouse's-activities should be done? Who shepherds the plague-stricken Offspring through the health care system? Who ensures the smooth running of the household in the face of illness, and is it different from in times of health?

And so we see marriage through a particular lens: contemplating how one's actions may impact another person's life, and contemplating how supporting that person may impact one's own life. Marriage is to think not only of oneself, but of another.  Obligations and promises: for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. Choices made, every day, to uphold those vows. This is why it is often referred to as "building a life together": brick after brick of daily mundane decisions, paths so intertwined as to render it difficult on occasion to pinpoint the boundaries of each individual's wants and needs within the intersections. 

The biggest challenge: to remain an individual within the partnership. To be a whole person, not just a spouse. To tend to those obligations and promises of marriage, without being defined by them or consumed by them. 

Through marriage, we each learn not only about the other, but also about our individual selves. What do I want? What do I need? What will bring me greatest fulfillment? And how do I find those things, as I move through life in co-orbit with my spouse?

Day by day, step by step, on we go. Through the Pandemic, and beyond. 

"A long marriage is two people trying to dance a duet and two solos at the same time." - Anne Taylor Fleming

In Sickness and in Health

Married, 31 years today.

It was a quiet anniversary celebration: work as usual, a take-out dinner eaten at a social distance to try to ensure Beloved Husband does not become re-infected with COVID, an exchange of thoughtful gifts and cards, and finally, him falling asleep in his comfy chair while was in my study, putting black electrical tape over the printer power button so I don't have to keep unplugging it when I retire to my quarantine lair for the evening. 

This is marriage for over half one's lifetime, in the heart of late Pandemic. The time has all gone by in the blink of an eye, as we have grown into middle age, both separately and together. I look forward to seeing what the future still holds. 

Happy anniversary, Beloved. 

Open Road

Beloved Husband is spending his birthday today, off-roading in the southwestern wilds.

There are even petroglyphs. Neat!

I hope you enjoy, Beloved. Happy birthday.

Belated

Had a tasty, belated anniversary dinner. So colorful. Takeout, because Plague. 

It was nice to have a meal together. 

Thirty

 Herself speaks.

Tuesday was the 30th anniversary of Beloved Husband's and my wedding. Thirty years. That's a long time to be married. I feel as though we deserve a medal or something.

He had to leave on a business trip midday that day. He spent the previous evening packing/preparing, and went to work for a few hours that morning, before leaving just after lunchtime. I am not sure when he will be back -- perhaps this evening, perhaps tomorrow. With a little luck, we'll be able to have a celebratory meal in honor of our anniversary this coming weekend. 

In some kind of "the Universe is Testing Me" situation, the following things also happened Tuesday: one of the wheels of the garage door fell off of its tracks; and the landscapers (who have been ever-so-slowly and honestly, rather sloppily, repairing the sprinkler system) managed to blow a fuse/trip a circuit, so that none of the outside outlets work, nor do the outlets in the garage -- including the one hosting the garage fridge. And meanwhile, I had worked with one of the Offspring to coordinate car maintenance for them this week, with the assumption that they could use my car if needed, and I could in turn use Beloved Husband's truck; but due to the nature of the business trip, he needed to take the truck. 

Oy.

I tried for about 45 minute to reposition the garage door wheel back on the track, but without success. Fortunately, I was able to close the door, and I can just park outside until it is resolved. An annoyance, but not terrible. I tried off an on for about an hour and a half over the past two days to resolve the circuit breaker issue, but no amount of my manipulating the circuits or the GFIs I could find solved the problem. Again, an annoyance, but not life-threatening. (The main difficulty with these two problems was the limbo-ing around the things in the garage to get to where I needed to stand to tackle the issues. That was capital-F Frustrating.) And the Offspring and I coordinated our schedules to share my car. 

The hardest part of all was perhaps not giving in to the temptation to be annoyed that Beloved Husband had to be away, and thus was unavailable, to help with the issues. What good would it do, to be angry? None. Feelings with nowhere to go are unhelpful.

One thing that I have learned after thirty years of marriage, is this:

The current social mindset that one marries a person who is one's Everything, is absolutely terrible. 

It's romantic, in a way, to want to portray one's spouse as friend, lover, co-parent, all one ever needs. But that is a tremendous burden to place on another person. And realistically, it is a burden that cannot be carried. There will be times when a spouse will be busy, out of town, or otherwise not physically or emotionally available. Sometimes there isn't bandwidth to come to the aid of another person, or even to listen empathetically. This is especially true for certain types of professions, such as the one that Beloved Husband and I have. 

It's up to each person to build their own support structure to provide assistance, a listening ear, a meal, if their spouse cannot do so. It's necessary.

This might be the ultimate issue: I need to work on my own village. The number of people I can comfortably call in times of need, can be counted on one hand with fingers left over; and the number of people who are in physical proximity to me and could conceivably turn up to render aid are nearly nil. 

So much easier said than done. 

Really, I would like not to have to reach out to anyone else, ever. That's a bit of a lonely existence, though. Plus, I like to help other people; surely there are individuals like me, would would be happy to help me on occasion? One would hope. I don't know. 

This all sounds very much like a "me" problem. 

I'll work on it.

After I fix the garage door, and the circuits.