Un-couching The Potato

After I hit the "Submit" button, I felt as proud as if I had just earned a degree. My accomplishment certainly can’t compare to matriculating, but for me, promising -- via a paid-for ticket -- to go out to an evening event, was nearly as daunting.

It all started with a demand from one of my longtime friends. "Now that Tommy is gone,” she said, “you've got to get off your couch and go out in the evenings." She is a persuasive woman, someone who easily wins any debate.

She pressed on, "I remember you used to love going to plays."

"I have to go to bed at eight so I can get up at four and start my work,” I said. I assumed she’d applaud my entrepreneurial spirit, but instead she countered:

"That's nuts."  I have heard that diagnosis from many others.

I once could use my husband as an excuse for staying in. There was a time when he and I were frequent theatre-goers, and there were many evenings when we joined friends for dinner. But as his brain degeneration worsened, and his aphasia left him unable to speak one word, we discarded those pastimes.

"It just wasn't fun anymore," I told her. She’s a very empathetic person, so I thought this tack might get her to go easy on me. "Tommy couldn't join in on conversations at a restaurant,” I continued, “and at the theatre, I'd worry if he went to the men's room on his own. He refused to let me stand outside the door, but I was afraid he wouldn't be able to find his way back to our seats."

My poignant story did slow her down, but it was temporary. "So, now?" she asked.

"I love T.V.," I admitted. "For me, a perfect evening is bringing a dinner tray to the couch and watching one of the shows I taped the night before." I felt my heart lighten as I conjured the scene. Bliss for me; evidently a horror story for my friend, who was wrinkling her nose as if my laptop meal had gone sour.

"That's awful," she said.

I ignored her disdain and for a moment, continued my meditation. Except for the dinner tray, that was how my husband and I spent our evenings. We stretched out on couches that faced each other. But instead of chatting across the coffee table, our focus was on a procedural drama, such as the entire "Law and Order" franchise that was playing out on the screen.

Amazingly, for two people so different from each other, we enjoyed the very same television shows and routine. There were no disputes coming from our dual couches; it was simply a scroll through "My Recordings" to decide on the one we'd watch for the evening.

"That's why our marriage has lasted as long as it has," I often told friends. We were nearing our 15-year anniversary, which I considered a record for the second-time around and for such a mismatched pair. I'd further explain: "Tommy's Gentile; I'm Jewish. He has no kids; I've got two and grandchildren. I have a master's degree; Tommy never went to college. He lived on a budget; I was married to a doctor. But, we both love staying home and watching the same television programs."

In fact, our passion for our couch potato lifestyle was so strong that we came to begrudge invitations for evenings out. "We're hosting Passover dinner," another very longtime friend had said, "but I know you don't want to come." Sweetly, the invitations continued despite her anticipating my response.

But now, with Tommy gone, without my head wrapped around his caregiving, my nights on the couch are starting to fray. I'm getting lonely. I admit that evenings out to theatre, to dinner, to the event I just ordered tickets for, are becoming more appealing.

I'm even managing my dislike for nighttime driving by using taxicabs. And, I'm adjusting to getting gussied up as the sky darkens. To prevent head- and eye-droops as the evening wears on, I take catnaps. Slowly, one event at a time, one limb at a time, I’m peeling this small and stubborn body off the couch.  

The Sign

The sign is actually quite simple, just the realtor’s name, his company, and contact information. It stands to the right of the stairs that lead up to the front porch. Because it's a windy day, the sign sways, but the post that anchors it, remains steady.

The sign must’ve been planted when I was elsewhere in the house because this is my first sighting. From my window view, I see that the message is printed on both sides. Good idea, I think, that way passersby coming from either direction, can learn that our house is up for sale.

I say "our” house because I can't yet bring myself to omit my husband from its ownership. And perhaps that's one reason I hesitated in allowing the sign to be erected in the first place.

"Can we put it on the market without a sign?" I had asked my realtor.

"If that's what you want, that's fine," he said.

"I'm just not ready."

"No problem."

I'm not sure why I balked. After all, my neighbors have followed my life and Tommy's illness with steady concern and support, and are all aware of my decision. "We hate to see you go," they had said, "but we understand."

Nearly 13 years ago, when we first bought the house, these neighbors came to our door bearing a flowering plant and a plate of cookies. "Welcome," they said, and then handed me a flyer for a block party that was scheduled later that month.

One by one, I met nearly everyone on our street. I’ve been witness to pregnant bellies and adoptions that brought forth children whom I’ve watched sprout taller every year. And, I’ve seen puppies grow from wild frolickers to snoozers on front lawns.

The block parties continue as annual events, and each year spread further up and down the closed-off street as new young families discover us. "We've blossomed into a small-town square, straight out of Norman Rockwell," is how I described our last party.

Perhaps Tommy’s and my entry into the neighborhood all those years ago was made easier because of our own Golden Retriever, for this is a dog-addicted neighborhood. There’s a park at the end of our block that attracts early risers who meet daily to release their pets to delirious chasing of tennis balls, and one another.

After our dog died in June at the age of 14, I'd still return to the park at the morning light and imagine Buddy in the mix. He was just 1-1/2 years old when we chose him from a shelter. For a few weeks after he was gone, I'd return to the park with my jacket pockets still filled with treats, a tennis ball, and a plastic bag. I'd sit on a bench and chat with friends while watching the dogs play. Eventually, though, I deposited a half dozen balls on one neighbor's porch, and boxes of treats on another's.

As I think of it, perhaps I didn't want to put up the for-sale sign because I thought it would break Tommy's heart, even if he might be too remote to notice. "Feet first," he'd say whenever anyone would ask if we'd ever leave.

Lately though, I believe my husband would approve of my decision to sell and move to a rental apartment. He knows I'm useless with a hammer, am terrified of a power mower, and need more than a stepladder to change a lightbulb. These were his tasks, and I’m certain he’d rather I keep my hands off them.

Because of the way he cared for me during our 16 years together (2 as sweethearts, and 14 as wedded), I don't think Tommy's keen on me living here alone, despite the safety of our neighborhood. In fact, as I do the nightly security check: lock windows and doors, turn on outside lights, and draw the drapes, I can sense him in my shadow, double-checking my work.

I realize that in the morning, when I do the reverse of the nighttime check, when I open the drapes, turn off the porch lights, and unlock the front door to retrieve the newspapers, the first thing I'll spot is the sign. Perhaps I should brace myself for the expected pang.

But it could be, that after a night’s sleep, I’ll see it in a different light -- not as a prompt of old memories, but as guidepost to my new chapter.
 

Without A Trace

"It might be best if you stash some of the family pictures," the realtor says. "People coming through want a clean landscape; no traces of the current owner."

I realize he's trying to be gentle for he's aware of the circumstances that led to my putting my house on the market.  I'm not offended by his suggestion. We’re a team with the same goal: sell my three-bedroom house, which has become too large and too lonely without my husband. If successful, then move me into a rental apartment that will better suit my budget and solo life.

"I guess I could de-clutter," I say. My gaze travels around the rooms on the first floor. The dining room table holds a framed photograph of Tommy on his Schwinn. I love that picture because it's testimony to his amazing spirit. Despite my husband's challenges, he'd hop on his bike every afternoon, while I'd stand watch at the window and pace until he returned.

I hit pause on my reverie and promised the realtor, "I'll handle it before the showing."

"Take your time," he says, and puts a hand on my shoulder that tells me he sympathizes.

When he leaves, I move to our upright, its top decorated with photos of two different Golden Retrievers, beloved pets who gave us 9 and 14 years of sweet companionship. Where to hide these temporarily? The piano bench! I open the lid and place the three pictures on the Rogers and Hart Songbook.

The second floor is the real challenge, for it's not only Tommy and the dogs hogging every surface and shelf, but daughters, grandchildren, and my brother and his family. All smiling back at me with memories of our younger, innocent, hopeful selves.

I slow my task because each photo must be studied. Their backstories flash in front of me, like the crawl at the bottom of a TV screen. Instead of sports scores or weather advisories, the line that enters my vision reminds me: This one must've been taken 16 years ago because my oldest grandson is just a baby here. My daughters and their partners, Tommy and I, and Sasha, the first of our dogs, are sprawled across our queen-sized bed.

Everyone in the scene gleams. The joy of a new grandchild and the feeling of family togetherness are palpable. Now that I think of it, I believe some of Tommy's happiness in that photo was due to this new family he has won. With no children of his own, my second husband relished his sudden role as stepfather to my vibrant daughters.

Without a piano bench to use as storage, I find a carton to hold the second floor's larger collection. I lift a photo from a book shelf. It displays my husband and me and my brother and sister-law. We are at some party that I can't recall, but it must've been special because the men are in sport jackets and the women in fancy clothing. "Is anything wrong with Tommy?" is the line that this photo generates. "He seems to be repeating things."

"It's not Alzheimer's," I tell my brother. "He forgot to take his thyroid meds for several weeks and he's a bit muddled." Wishful thinking, I realize now. Not Alzheimer's, but the first evidence of a brain degeneration as miserable as the better-known illness.

There are wedding photos everywhere. Tommy and I posed as newlyweds; smiles nearly as bright as the Las Vegas lights in the hotel we've picked for our venue. Here's a crowd photo of my daughters, their partners, my grandson now a toddler, my brother and sister-in-law, and friends who could fly in for our January 13, 1998 wedding. I gather all of these testaments to our happy union, then open a dresser drawer to tuck them in.

On the nightstand next to our bed, I not only have another framed photo of my husband, but also his watch, wallet, and wedding band. I've set them here as a makeshift alter -- my last stop for a goodnight chat before heading under the covers. One-by-one, I place  each totem in a drawer. But once strangers traverse my clean landscape, I'll  retrieve and return his beloved possessions to their rightful spot.

When I am finished de-cluttering, and my home no longer bares traces of my old life, I head out the door. The realtor is due soon with a prospect. I hope they have children, a dog, and, please, a camera.
 

Growing Stronger

"Please don't load them too heavy," I said to the Trader Joe cashier as he unfolded and stretched out a few brown grocery bags. "I have to carry them into the house myself."

Kevin turned to me, first with a questioning look and then one of recognition. He had learned through the store's grapevine that my husband died in November.

"No problem," he said, then pulled out several more bags to spread my purchases among the collection building on the counter.

Like all of the other members of the TJ staff, Kevin had witnessed the ritual that Tommy and I performed every Sunday morning at 8 a.m. until my husband's hospitalization. It started like this: After we parked our car in the lot that was still not filled at that early hour, Tommy would head for the shopping cart corral and extract two. He'd hand me mine first, and then we'd meet up inside at the floral display,

"Your assignment if you wish to accept it," I'd joke, "is soy milk, bananas, strawberries, and orange juice."

With that directive, Tommy would push his cart towards the bakery goods.

Sticky pecan buns were not on the list of needs I had recorded on the reporter's notebook I keep on a kitchen counter. Neither was apple pie. But my husband regularly added one or the other pastry to his cart. These were his freebies and I think he enjoyed this bit of independence from his wife's rigid list.

Tommy would then depart, picking up the items I had requested. After a few minutes, he’d return to find me and get his next assignment.

"Good," I'd say as I scanned his cart and checked off milk, ban, straw, O.J. from my list. Then I’d instruct him, "pickles, marinated mushrooms, stuffed green olives, apple sauce."

Tommy and I would repeat this back-and-forth until we finished my list. With his mission completed, he’d head off, leaving me with his cart and bounty. Solo, I'd push mine and drag his behind me, like a mother with one cooperative and one unruly child.

I’d head to a checkout counter manned by a familiar face. If it was a regular like Kevin, I wouldn't have to give this spiel: "Consider these two carts as one. Pretend there is no bar between them. One order. One bill."

I'd feel it helpful to add a back story: "We used to shop with one cart," I'd say. "But, then I'd find myself with my arms overloaded as I'd catch up with my husband. This is easier."

"Got it," the neophyte would claim, but then total up the first cart, slap his forehead, and say, “Oh, sorry, force of habit." So you can see why Kevin and his like were so appreciated.

As purchases from the twin carts were being bagged, I'd start to seek a visual. Tommy had a habit, once he relinquished his cart, to wander the aisles. Another bit of independence, I'm sure.

If I was in a bratty mood, I'd wheel out the condensed and paid-for cart to the Honda -- my version of revenge for his disappearance. "Send him out when he shows up," I'd tell Kevin. "Will do," he'd say. I never knew if Kevin had picked up on Tommy's condition, or if he figured he was just another impatient spouse who had better things to do than wait for grocery bags to be filled.

I wouldn't pull that shtick very often as I didn't want to cause Tommy one bit of anxiety. As for him, he never seemed perturbed by my leave taking. He'd soon catch up with me at the opened trunk and watch a bit as I'd struggle with the first shopping bag. Then he'd grin and nudge me aside to complete the loading.

On the day I was doing my solitary shopping - not a Sunday because it was still too painful to visit the store on our day - Kevin hoisted one of the filled bags in the air, then handed it to me. "What do you think?" he asked.

I lifted it up, testing its weight to decide if I'd be able to first transfer from cart to trunk, then trunk up the back stairs to the kitchen,

"I think I can manage," I said.

At home, the extra bags and the absence of a muscled helper, required several trips from car to kitchen. "Cardio," I told myself. "Building biceps. Growing stronger."

Then, I imagined Tommy in his celestial abode, grinning. Not from my struggle, though, but from pride. "Knew you could do it," he’d say, as he raised his hands to give me two thumbs up.

Odd Number

There were five of us seated around the table -- circular, so much better than rectangle where an empty chair would’ve been haunting. Four dear friends, who didn't want me alone on my aborted 15-year wedding anniversary, treated me to dinner at a favorite neighborhood restaurant. It was the same spot Tommy and I, and this very same group, celebrated at each year.

 "So sweet," my daughters had said when they heard of our friends’ kind gesture. "Should we pick up the check like we've done before?"

“No,” I said. “Not this time.”

I remembered our grateful surprise at anniversary dinners the previous years. "Your meals are covered," the waiter said as he cleared the table. "Your daughters paid for it."

"Another round of drinks!" my friends joked. My husband and I, a stepfather to my generous girls, grasped hands and smiled. Misty eyes for both of us.

What was Tommy thinking? I wondered back then. Did he consider how much our lives had changed since our marriage all those years ago? I know that's where my thoughts flew. He had a bit of a vocabulary at dinner 2011, but occasionally, one of our friends turned to me with a blank look, hoping I could interpret my husband’s patchwork language.

By the time the six of us celebrated January 13, 2012, Tommy’s greedy aphasia had stolen all speech. My heart sank as he sat quietly while the rest of us debated our usual topics.

This year, 2013, I was the odd number at the table. I’ve only been a widow for just over two months, so the feeling of "third wheel" hasn't yet entered my brain. But, I remember how it nagged after my divorce from my first husband.

Initially, when he left our 30-year marriage that was often unhappy, I felt like a kid let out of school. I ate pizza on the couch, filled the house with overnight guests who often stayed for months, and hosted dinners that squeezed our dining room.

But after four years of this freedom, loneliness crept in. I missed being married. I wanted to be part of a couple again. I hated being the gal left at the wedding or bar mitzvah guarding the purses while couples danced.

I put an ad in the Chicago Reader (the pre-online matchmaking option), attended a few singles events, told my friends I wanted to be fixed up, and went on a series of dates that either ended the same evening or continued for several months.

And while none of these swains turned out to be “the one,” I did enjoy primping for an evening out and feeling like half a pair.

In the end, Tommy and I met through neither of the methods listed above, instead as the song suggests, “on the street where we lived.”  After our first date -- I had asked him out -- we became a couple. We each found what we wanted in a partner, and within two years married.

Although his friends say he fell head over heels when he met me, I think Tommy was a more content single than I was. His first marriage wasn’t nearly as long as mine and there were no children, so there appeared to be nothing he longed for or missed.

Unless it was someone to cherish, because that’s what my husband did from first date to last breath. As I’ve been rifling through dresser drawers in preparation for an eventual sale of our home, I’ve found stacks of yellow-lined notes bundled in rubber bands. Each bearing a sentiment from a love-struck middle-aged man who paused every day to let me know he felt as if he had won the lottery.

As for me, I reveled in being cherished by someone I loved. But just as much, I was thrilled to be part of a couple again, to be a married woman. When Tommy introduced me to his long-time friends, and when we double-dated with mine, all feelings of “third wheel” dissolved.

This time around, I’m not sure how long it will take for that sense of being the odd number will hit. Truthfully, I’m hoping it stays away for quite awhile. I’d rather savor the specialness I felt in my second marriage, where two was the perfect number.