Like Mother, Like Daughter. Or Not.

I’m cooking the ground beef, pressing it flat, turning it over, and stirring until it darkens. The meat is an ingredient in a recipe for Italian-style Sloppy Joes that I clipped from the newspaper. 

As I watch the meat brown, I think of my mother, who with her famous Chili Mac, performed a similar coloration during my childhood. As she enters my brain, I imagine her smiling at the sight of her daughter cooking. This is an unfamiliar activity for me. Simple table-top grilling, microwaving, ordering- or carrying-out was my usual pattern.

But something changed after my husband died. Without the care and worry that absorbed me, I now have extra hours in the day. And since my menu is no longer focused on vegetarian dishes he preferred, I have a taste for home-cooked meals with meat or chicken. 

I’m not a creative cook who tosses in a pinch of this or handful of that, but instead a recipe follower who uses sauce-stained finger tips to trace each ingredient and step. I haven’t opted for fancy cookware, save for the cast iron pot a daughter insisted I add. But for tonight’s dish, I’m using my weathered frying pan. 

My mother, back in her kitchen in the three-room apartment we lived in above our store, used an electric frying pan for her cuisine -- as aged and well-worn as my current cordless. I can still see her, attired in a Swirl apron, wearing the wedge slippers she changed into from her preferred high heels.

As I thought about Mom and the commonality of our cooking, another notion plopped in my head: we both bear the title, Widow. In her case, she was very young, just 45 years old when she got the label, while I am nearly three decades older.

My father died in 1958, at 48 years old. A three-pack-a-day unfiltered Camel smoker, overweight, and with diabetes, his demise from a heart attack was not a shock; instead a fear that darkened my childhood.

My husband died November 2, 2012, at age 77 from throat cancer. “Was he a smoker?” doctors asked. I knew Tommy was a heavy smoker before we met, perhaps similar to Dad’s overindulgence. But I understood he had quit cold turkey at about 50. 

As I continued the recipe, stirring the browned meat into the already softened onions, then adding red wine, canned tomatoes, tomato paste, oregano, red pepper flakes, and salt, I remembered Mom’s words after she became a widow: “I never want to be a burden to my kids.” 

This pledge pushed her to try and learn how to drive. She enlisted her brother, my Uncle Hy, to pick her up on Saturdays for lessons on quiet streets. But after just a few outings, she returned to the apartment she and I shared, tears in her blue eyes. “I give up,” I remember her saying as she sunk into the couch.

Poor mom believed it was too late for her to take the wheel, so she accepted the proposal of a man 20 years her senior who could put her in the passenger seat. (This turned out to be a lousy marriage, requiring her to clip coupons. Her husband declined with Alzheimer’s, but outlived my mom -- who died at 67 -- for many years.) 

This is where Mother and I part ways. I was fortunate to enjoy a happy second marriage, free of contention or serious belt tightening. Tommy was only three years my senior, and I was the one who insisted he learn how to drive. While he also suffered from a deteriorating brain disease, he left this earth with me still strolling on it.

Secondly, unlike my mother, I’d never consider myself a burden to my kids. A sometimes embarrassment, a frequent meddler, an expert at passive-aggressive behavior, but a burden? Never.

Not only can I operate a vehicle (even manual if need be), but I manage my own business, can program a DVR, set up Apple devices, and build a blog like the one you’re viewing. 

While Mom would likely be proud of these accomplishments, in my heart of hearts I know it’s the recent cooking that brings a smile to her ethereal face. In our years together, I never asked her to teach me how to cook, or do the handicrafts she was skilled at, like knitting, needlepoint, and crocheting. I wonder now, was that hurtful to her?

Odd that cooking has become a new hobby, drawing my mother back into my consciousness. Perhaps her spirit sees a window of opportunity? She’s successfully led me to the stove, could a ball of yarn be next?

The Handyman

“We’ll have to scrape off the old paint,” the handyman says. “Won’t look good if we just put another layer on top of the old.”

He looks up at me, likely wishing there was a man of the house who would better understand his diagnosis. Doubt if he appreciates this woman who seems to be counting dollars as he talks.

Yes, I'm counting costs, but my faraway look is also linked to memories on this porch. I see me sitting on the top stair, my golden retriever, Buddy, tucked tight next to me. I see Tommy rounding the corner on his Schwinn. The dog barks in joy; I smile with relief that my impaired husband has made it home safely.

Once the handyman has finished inspecting the front porch, I'll lead him to the back deck, which will need new staining. Nothing to strip here, just another layer to bring the wood back to a healthy shine. Again, images will interfere with his chatter. The glass-topped table is now stored in the basement along with the wrapped umbrella. Four chairs with rattan arms peeling off and rain-stained seat cushions are the table's companions.

When Tommy was healthy, we'd host pre-Labor day parties year after year. Some 60 friends and neighbors would claim spots at the outdoor table, or at the green bench in the yard, or scatter themselves in the kitchen. "No, no more parties," I told guests who were wondering at the absence of e-mail invitations this year. They didn't ask for explanations, already privy to Tommy's aphasia that made him unable to join in on conversations and enjoy social situations.

The basement floor is the last area that needs the handyman's review and estimate. The space still holds a treadmill, but the workman's bench my husband used in the early days of our 12 years here, is cleared of all tools. Two golf bags have already been donated to Goodwill, and I will gift the scores of balls Tommy couldn't resist buying.

Against all advice typically doled out to recent widows-- such as don’t make a major move for a year following a husband’s death – I have already decided to sell our house. There are
rational reasons: a three-bedroom home is too large for just me. There is no longer a dog, so the fenced-in backyard and proximity to the park, are not necessities. There is no gardener husband, so the vegetable plots that were only tended by him will lie fallow. The upkeep is more than my limited budget can handle.

While some may think my reasoning is limp, and I am rushing into things, in truth, this decision has been simmering for several years. “When Tommy can’t take care of the house any longer,” I’d tell loved ones who worried over the burden. “Then, we’ll consider a move to an apartment.”

At times, I’d pose the idea to my husband: “Wouldn’t it be lovely to be in a high rise overlooking the lake with someone else handling upkeep?”

“Feet first,” Tommy would reply, confirming his desire to never move from this house.

So, without his vote, I’m eyeing one-bedroom rentals in downtown Chicago, with maintenance included in the rent. My new home should have a doorman, a balcony, a washer and drier in the unit, be near public transportation so I can turn in my costly leased car, and be walking distance to attractions. A health club in the building and an outdoor pool would be lovely, too.

While the handyman does his part in prepping the house for a Spring sale. I will go through closets, shelves and files and decide what must be transported to a very downsized apartment. I will continue donating Tommy’s clothing and sporting equipment to Goodwill. On Wednesday mornings, before the trash trucks arrive, I’ll dump clutter and old files into the bins at the curb.

When the realtor brings prospective buyers to my house, I will leave the premises. While I'd be happy to see a young family as the new owners, with children occupying the bedrooms, with a dog who frolics in the yard, with a handyman husband who'll fill the workbench with new tools, I'd rather not be in earshot.

Moving forward, independent, that's where my thoughts must travel now: New year, new chapter, with Tommy’s spirit as my dear roommate. I’m sure he’ll adjust.

The Opposite of Caregiving

The Peace Lily (Spathiphyllum) features dark green foliage and a large white flower. They are strictly indoor plants that take medium light, bloom year-round and are very forgiving. That is, until the unlucky houseplant met me.

Sarah,” I led off in my email, “will you take Tommy’s plants?” My neighbor had admired them on a previous visit. I watched, guilt shadowing my face, as she lifted a watering can from its dusty shelf and approached the Peace Lily.

Tenderly, as I had seen my husband do, she watered the plant along with all of the others he had cared for over the years. The drooping leaves appeared to heave a sigh of relief, soon brightening and popping up as the water I had thoughtlessly denied them quenched their thirst. 

My gift to my neighbor of the half dozen houseplants was part of my effort to divest of anything that required my care and attention. I had spent a good part of my second marriage taking care of my husband -- willingly and faithfully -- and now, with his passing, I wanted to be free of responsibility.

It’s not only houseplants I’m rejecting, but also pets. “No, no dogs,” I’d reply to those who suggested a furry companion to assuage my typical widow loneliness.  “A cat?” they’d pose. “Much easier to care for. No walking in the winter. Just a litter box.”

I’d turn down that idea, too. “Expensive,” I’d respond. "Can't afford it." We had spent a fortune over the years in vet bills for Sasha, who died at 9 and Buddy at 14. While we loved our Golden Retrievers like children, the financial cost is, in truth, one factor, but also the responsibility, and more importantly, the pain of their eventual loss.

And, there'd be the memories a new pet would bring. “Like clockwork,” a neighbor reminded me. “You, Tommy, and Buddy, walking around the park at six in the morning. Then, there'd be Tommy shouting at Buddy, ‘no, no,no’ as the dog headed for a mud puddle. And before Tommy could change Buddy’s direction, there’d be your dog plopping like a hippo.”

I laughed as I recalled that repeated scene. No, no more dogs. No more images of my husband racing to catch up with our Golden. No more reminders of my glee as I watched Tommy fetch Buddy from his makeshift pond. “I’ll hose him off in the basement,” he’d say, more amused than angry.

“A roommate, that’s what you need,” suggested my daughters. “You’ve got two spare bedrooms in your big house, you’ve admitted to loneliness in the afternoons, get a roommate for company and extra cash.”

It was true the two spaces I had reserved for my out-of-town daughters and their families have gone mostly unused, expect for brief visits twice a year. I thought about their idea. Thought about the money that could help me pay bills. Thought about the young student, actor, or even an airline pilot who would welcome our proximity to O’Hare. I even started composing an ad for that last possibility.

But then, I got depressed. I had images of me lowering the volume on my TV so I wouldn’t disturb my housemates. My 4 a.m. MSNBC show that accompanies my early rising might have to be curtailed out of concern for the stranger needing his or her sleep down the hall.

I saw myself opening doors to find clothing tossed on the floor, unmade beds, which paying renters would have every right to leave. I imagined me morphing into Mother, waving away their objections and insisting they eat a little something before their class, performance, or flight.

“Go, leave the laundry,” I heard myself saying. “You’ll be late. I’ll take care of it.”

Then, despite my best intentions, I couldn’t doubt the vision of me lying awake, listening for a late-night key in the door, just as I once did with my flesh-and-blood.

“No, no borders,” I told them.

“But your loneliness,” my daughters reminded me.

“There’s nothing wrong with being temporarily lonely,” I said. “Right now, I really don’t want to talk to anyone. I want to sit on the couch and eat my meals while watching TV.”

Of course, I know a time will come when lack of responsibility moves from respite to emptiness, when I will long for a beating heart nearby. Until then, I will talk to myself and my departed husband. For a smidgen of care taking, I’ll tend to the mixed bouquet on my kitchen table. Trim stems, change water, add crystal. I think I can handle that.

The Takeover

The first thing I tackled were the hundreds of black plastic take-home containers and their sibling clear plastic lids that were jumbled on kitchen cupboard shelves. How had we accumulated so many? Why were they in such a hodgepodge? And more importantly, how did I let this mess get out-of-hand? I was the cook; Tommy, cleanup and storage; but that was no excuse for this mortifying clutter.

With my husband gone over a month, I felt ready to start clearing out many of the piles that had sneaked up over time. The mountains of containers, that threatened an avalanche whenever I opened the cabinet door, was just one example of my indifference.

“My fault,” I admitted. I was conversing with Tommy because I felt guilty about the expunging about to take place. “I neglected too many things,” I said, not expecting a response. “I didn’t pay attention to what was sprouting in corners, on shelfs, in drawers.”

This cleansing, and more that was to occur that day, was part of an effort to take back my house. Without realizing it, I had ceded it to my husband. Not just the exterior, where he had tended a garden, painted the front porch and stairs, and stained the back deck, but it appeared I had turned over the interior space, as well.

After the cupboard was tidy, I started on the coat closet. I planned to donate Tommy’s wardrobe to Goodwill, believing the absence would ease my journey. But, I paused at the first hanger. “Not your high school jacket,” I said. “We’ll keep that.”

Dark green wool with grey leather sleeves, “Steinmetz H.S.” bannered on the back, “53” on one sleeve, and “Tom” on the front, the jacket was not an original; it was retro. But exactly like the one my young student would have worn in his senior year.

“And not the Fedora,” I said, as I stood on a step stool to reach the top closet shelf for the dozens of baseball caps and hats he had collected.  “Yeah, you were a hunk when you wore your black leather jacket and topped it with that Fedora.” I pictured him, arms akimbo, giving a shake to show off.

After filling one large bag with items that I could part with, I moved to the second floor. In my takeover plan, I was not only de-cluttering, but also trading places. I coveted Tommy’s bathroom, which was within our master bedroom and had a shower stall, unlike the tub with shower head in my bathroom that had me clinging to grab bars for dear life.

Now in Tommy’s former bathroom, I pressed open the three mirrored doors that shielded his medicine cabinet. I tossed out hardened tubes of sunblock, congealed shaving cream, fossilized hair tonic, and prescription medications.

With a soapy rag, I whisked each shelf clean. I studied the mirror to be sure no apparition glowered back. Clear, so I made trip after trip from my former bathroom to my New Master Bath. Cosmetics, q-tips, cotton pads, women’s deodorant, all were lined up on the two lower shelves I could reach without a step stool.

Next, it was time to clear out rows and shelves of blue jeans, shorts, shoes, slacks, sweaters that were spread throughout two closets. Again, I hesitated. I could not give to Goodwill the sport coat and suit I insisted my betrothed buy for our Las Vegas wedding weekend in 1998. My frugal fiancee protested he’d never wear those fancy duds again, and he was partially right: The sport coat had perhaps a yearly airing, but the suit hung abandoned in the closet for the remainder of our marriage.

I would not toss out his painter’s outfit either: laborer-ripped long and short blue jeans, a red sweatshirt and orange T-shirt, and a crimson Harvard baseball cap -- all speckled with the blue of our porch. The set would remain here, just as he left it, all reminding me of Tommy’s tender maintenance of our home, before his cruel illness interfered.

The long row of T-shirts and sweat shirts my husband bought at resale shops slowed me down, too. I decided to keep them all and wear as sleepwear.

When I descended to the basement, I was confronted by several golf bags and clubs, dozens of boxes of Caldwell balls, paint brushes and opened buckets of blue paint. Instead of sorting them for donation, I turned and retreated upstairs. “Not today,” I said. “Not today.”

Ma's Home!

If I were clever, I would've recorded Tommy's voice declaring, "Ma's home!" and then jerry-rigged the machine to start as soon as the front door opened. If I had done that, my homecoming might have been easier. As it was, following a return flight from Boston, when I placed my carry-on in the front hall, I was greeted by silence.

Of course, in order to get my husband's happy welcoming, I'd have to go back to 2011 when he still had speech. But, lacking a crystal ball, how could I have predicted that by 2012, his aphasia would have robbed him of all words?  And, how would I have known that by Thanksgiving, not only his voice, but Tommy himself, would be gone?

The November trip to the East Coast this year, for the feast-filled celebration, was to be the first major holiday I had spent with either of my daughters in likely 14-1/2 years, the length of my marriage to Tommy.

Initially, my husband and I declined their invitations because travel on those special days were too expensive, and there were the crowds to deal with. My daughters accepted this as reasonable. And since a long-time group of friends, who gathered annually for Thanksgiving and Christmas, was part of the package that accompanied my second marriage, I could tell my kids, "Don't worry about us, we'll be with Tommy's gang."

But when the longing to see them erupted, I'd ask Tommy if he'd like to join me on a short trip. His response was always, "No, you go ahead and enjoy your family. I'll stay home and take care of the Pooker." ("Pooker" was our nickname for Buddy, our 14-year-old Golden Retriever who died in June of this year.)

With my husband's blessings, I'd do a four-day, non-holiday, trip to Boston or Los Angeles. I'd be sure to call him three times a day: upon arrival, first thing in the morning, and last thing in the evening. "Get your butt home," he'd tease. "I miss you, too," I'd say.

And, upon re-entry from those solo trips, I could hear a lusty, "Ma's home!" the minute my key turned in the latch.

When Tommy lost his ability to speak, I ended those visits. I feared for his safety on his own, and wasn't willing to diminish his independence by hiring a round-the-clock companion.

But, in May of this year, with my 10-year-old Boston granddaughter cast in a musical, I decided to try something different. I figured it would be easier to have him with me then worry about him left at home, "Come, too," I urged. Surprisingly, he agreed.

We hired a dog-sitter for Buddy, and off we went. Unfortunately, the four days proved to be challenging. My husband's brain degeneration -- the culprit in his aphasia -- had me watching his every move. With his reasoning kaput, I had to bar him from jaunts on his own. "Never again," I said when people asked how the travel experiment worked.

Thanksgiving 2012, just spent in Boston, was picture-card perfect. I relished walks along pastoral Jamaica Pond with my daughter, catching up on our lives. I stood back-to-back with my beautiful granddaughter, who had grown in height and maturity since I had last seen her. With lucky timing, I joined in on birthday celebrations for my daughter's partner. And, I was blessed to be a guest at the bountiful table hosted by more of my daughter's loving family.

Without an ailing husband at my side, or waiting for me at home, there was nothing to pull my thoughts and concern back to Chicago, I felt at peace; I relaxed. On the other hand, there were no arrival, first-thing-in-the-morning, and last-thing-in-the-evening phone calls to be made. No one awaited my voice.

When I landed back at O'Hare, rode the Blue Line to my stop, then walked the few blocks towards our house. I stopped at the foot of the stairs to extract keys from my backpack, then hoisted my carry-on to the porch. I took a breath and steeled myself.

If only I had thought to record, to set-up, to be greeted by Tommy's joyful "Ma's Home!" it might have eased my homecoming. But, then again...