When Things Get Back to Normal Read online

  APRIL 15 – Tuesday

  I know two recent widows – one grass and one sod. Both of them count day endings. “Another day in,” they sigh gratefully, if somewhat soulfully. “Another day in for what?” I want to ask. One day’s ending is another day’s beginning. If I were waiting for a short term something-or-other, I could count down the days, but not when I’m dealing with a distant and undefinable future.

  APRIL 19 – Saturday

  Another dream. I woke up this morning and looked at the clock. It was 8:10. I mumbled, “Oh God! It’s Saturday again.” Depressed, I willed myself back to sleep. I dreamed that I dreamed you were dead, and when I awoke from my dream I was so delighted I had only been dreaming that I wrapped my arms around you and mumbled, “I had the most terrible dream.” But it wasn’t you. A stranger was in my bed. The scene changed immediately, and you and I and Ben were climbing the outside of a church steeple. Ben sprinted ahead, and just as I screamed, “Be careful!” he tumbled from the scaffolding and landed in a pond below. Again the scene changed, and I’m down by the pond watching the still body of Ben – clad only in red bathing trunks – floating face up in the water. I reach down and scoop him up in my arms and sit on the shore and begin crooning, “Come back Paddy Riley to Ballyjamesduff. Come back Paddy Riley to me.” My mother used to sing that song as she went about the house cleaning and dusting.

  APRIL 20 – Sunday

  A seasoned widow phoned today. She said she had read two books, looked at three television movies, washed her hair, made buttermilk biscuits, and when she looked at the time it was only four p.m. She wondered how she was going to put in the evening. Thank God for my work, my friends and my writing. And speaking of work, I managed to get the assignments corrected, the tests marked and the grades in on time. Now if I only could shake this tiredness, or whatever it is that is sapping my energy. One minute I’m convinced a hot bath is what is needed to rejuvenate me, the next it is a piece of pie, and when that isn’t the answer I’m certain a walk is exactly what I need – if only I had the energy to go for one.

  APRIL 23 – Wednesday

  When I came out of the bank today, I saw you walking up the street, leaning into the wind. My foolish heart leapt until I chastized it for being so silly.

  I still search crowds for you, and from time to time, I catch fleeting glances of the back of your head, the set of your shoulders, the crook of your smile.

  APRIL 26 – Saturday

  I saw a crocus peeping out of the ground today.

  My first instinct was to go back in the house and get you to come out and see it, just so I could prove to you they really do grow best beside the chimney. The ones you planted by the back porch are still dormant.

  MAY 1 – Thursday

  But the merriest month in all the year. . . . Met an acquaintance downtown today. It was my first encounter with her since your death. She offered her condolences and went on to say that she always considered us a study in opposites – big-small, dark-fair – then added that dreaded cliché: life goes on.

  I wanted to shout at her, Maybe it does for you. But not for me. Instead I replied, “So they tell me.” She continued on her way, glad she wasn’t me.

  MAY 3 – Saturday

  Steve came home, and we went to pick out your monument. No small task, as it turned out. I was always under the impression that a monument is a monument is a monument. But au contraire.

  There are Rolls Royce monuments and Volkswagen monuments and various and sundry models in between. We were given a price list that filled two pages and a catalogue of glossy pictures from which to make our selection. Size: big, medium or small. Double or single. Style: satin-faced or high sheen with polished or unpolished sides. Lettering: large or small. Steven said double size and double names – yours and mine. And both put on now!

  I said, “Whoa, there! My name isn’t going on any marble slab while I’m above the ground.” He acquiesced very reluctantly, stating that he had scouted the cemetery and other wives had their names engraved in waiting. He didn’t come right out and say so, but I knew he felt his father deserved no less loyalty from his wife than for her to make a prior commitment to sharing his marble slab. We quickly moved on to the next decision, the motif or design that could be placed at the top of the stone – and this would be thrown in for free.

  “The mister,” the stone mason said, his voice suitably subdued. “Did he like fishing? I’m good at carving fishing rods.” Steven jumped in eagerly. “Hockey?” He fairly shouted the word. “Can you carve a hockey stick or a pair of skates?” “Whoa again,” said I. “It was hockey that put your father in the ground, and I have no intention of making a monument to its victory.” Although again he grumbled his disagreement, we finally settled for the joined hands motif and your name only, with a space waiting for mine.

  MAY 5 – Monday

  My concentration is fluctuating around the zero mark. I thought by now I would be back to normal.

  Certainly the rest of the world expects me to be. But I’m definitely not. I walked across Regent Street this evening without as much as a backward glance at the five o’clock traffic. I actually forgot to look. Someone up there must be protecting me. Yesterday I put on my makeup and then came downstairs and made a cup of coffee. Ten minutes later, I was back in the bathroom washing my face, completely forgetting I had just done that job.

  Someone asked me today, “What stage are you at?” She said this as though I woke up one morning and knew beyond a reasonable doubt that my emotions had left sorrow behind and had now moved into guilt or anger or whatever. Actually, some days I feel anger, sorrow, guilt, acceptance all within the course of a few moments. Other days I’m strong into self-pity. How I feel depends on what has gone on in my day. Sometimes I feel I haven’t made any progress since November, and I’m convinced I’ll never even find the tunnel, much less the light at the end of it.

  MAY 8 – Thursday

  Spring has temporarily turned into summer. I ran away today. This is the first time I actually, physically ran away since New Year’s Eve. The sun was shining through the open windows of my office, and in the halls I could hear people commenting on the glorious weather and saying that things were really shaping up for a beautiful weekend. I don’t want a beautiful weekend. A beautiful weekend for what? To be alone? I hurriedly stuffed my briefcase with unfinished work and ran for home as thought the furies were chasing me.

  I decided to sit on the back patio, but when I opened the storage doors to get a lawn chair and saw how you had packed away last summer’s furniture in anticipation of this summer, I closed the door quickly.

  After a spurt of crying, I got into my jogging suit and spent the afternoon walking out my sadness.

  People keep telling me I’m strong. I’m so sick of hearing, “But Jean, you’re strong.” They say this as though hard knocks don’t give me pain. I want to shout at them, “I’m not strong. I’m weak. I’m fragile. I’m a pathetic creature. I hurt all over.” Maybe I should rent a billboard and have it say, “Jean is not strong. She is a hundred-and-ten-pound weakling.” Actually, if I don’t soon give up the comfort food, I may still be a weakling, but I certainly won’t be a hundred-and-ten-pounds.

  MAY 12 – Monday

  I’m dreaming regularly now – benign dreams. November 22 never happened. For the most part, the subject of the dreams is us when the children were small. Do these dreams mean my unconscious is still refusing to accept your death? Do they mean my mind has come out of its stupor and shock? Do they mean anything at all?

  It is so difficult to have to spend day after day on the campus. I see you in all the old familiar places. Mostly I see you heading for the faculty club. I see you rushing(always rushing, your coat open, even in winter, and tie blowing over your shoulder) to join me for lunch.

  I think I made significant progress this week. I finally was able to enter the faculty club. I have tried to do this on several occasions but always faltered at the bottom of the steps. My frie
nd S. accompanied me and helped with the re-entry.

  MAY 15 – Thursday

  More progress! I returned to driving today after a ten-year lapse. You always said I would rue the day I sat back and left the driving to you, but it had seemed so much easier to scrape the ice from one car instead of two, especially when we were both going the same route. After a while I lost my nerve.

  My friend A. came with me on my maiden voyage. We went around and around the block. I felt positively exhilarated when I returned to the house. Nerve-racked, but exhilarated.

  And still more progress! I can now wait until dark before rechecking the locks and doors and windows, and I don’t have to put the upstairs hall light on until after dark.

  But if I go ahead two steps, I go back one. My body aches for your physical presence. How I wish I could climb into bed and find your waiting arms.

  MAY 16 – Friday

  Got the contract for my book today. I wish I felt like celebrating.

  I fixed a strap on a purse this evening. Not much of an accomplishment, I suppose. But I finally realized you weren’t going to return to fix it, and it wouldn’t grow shorter of its own accord. I got out my tool kit – a fork, a butcher knife, a pair of scissors and your pliers that I found on the patio a couple of days ago, rust-covered from their hiatus in the snow.

  People ask whether I find joy in these little accomplishments. I do feel some sense of gaining control, but I’d feel a lot more joy if I could turn the job over to you.

  MAY 17 – Saturday

  My housemate moved out this morning. She would have liked to stay longer, and I would have liked to have her stay, but I steeled myself and kept to our original agreement. Actually, we both knew we had to be on our own – each for different reasons. I could hear the still-ness in the house after she left. I sat on the stairs and allowed myself to cry for a little while, then I took a bath and went for a long walk.

  MAY 19 – Victoria Day Weekend

  Now I know why it is called a long weekend. It was interminable. Last night, alone in the house, I think I reached what the poets call the dark night of the soul. My loss seemed deeper, my future bleaker and my present almost intolerable. I asked myself over and over, “How do I keep going forward? How do I keep walking onwards with the pain of this festering wound?”

  I was furious with you all over again. Why did you have to play hockey when I was so adamant that you were too old for such strenuous exercise?

  And I was furious with your teammates who had encouraged you to keep playing. I hated them for saying I was henpecking you when I tried to talk you into quitting. I wanted to go to their homes and haul them out of their secure beds and shout at them, “Look at what you’ve done to me! Look at what you’ve done to him!”

  And, my God! How I envied their wives. They were home curled up safely beside their husbands. They weren’t wandering through an empty house clinging to sanity.

  MAY 21 – Wednesday

  I hosted a small luncheon today. The weekend was so terrible – so filled with despair and hate – that I knew I had to take drastic action to try and turn my life around.

  On Tuesday I called a few friends for a patio luncheon. Once I made that first call I couldn’t back out, even though I wanted to do just that. It was a lovely afternoon. I only had four guests – all women whose marriages are broken.

  Maybe next time I’ll stretch my guest list to include women whose lives are intact. Presently, it hurts too much to be around them.

  After I cleaned up the luncheon dishes, and while I was on an energy roll, I telephoned a diet centre and signed up for a program of sensible eating. I’m practically living on dairy products. My non-dairy meals usually consist of something from the fast food section of the grocery store: boil a bag, remove and heat, whip and chill or thaw and serve. Perhaps my irritability and my tiredness will go away if I can get back to sensible eating.

  Graduation

  A very sad day. It is six months to the day since your death. I couldn’t walk in the academic procession, but I did torture myself by getting out our doctoral hoods and pressing them. For what reason, pray tell? Am I into self-flagellation or what?

  I was asked by a group of married friends to go with them to the alumni dance. I refused. It would be layering pain upon pain. Besides, I didn’t want to go to a dance and wait upon the generosity of other wives and upon the accommodation of other husbands. I’d get more pleasure out of going to aerobics classes, and you know how I hate structured exercise classes.

  My extreme sadness has put me in a mellow mood. I want to thank you for who I am. Without you, I never would have gone to university, written a novel or learned to play cribbage. I also want to thank you for fostering my self-confidence. And I forgive you for dying – at least I do at this moment. Tomorrow I may be back to, How could you do such a dastardly deed to me?

  Before the night is over I might even drum up enough magnanimity to thank God for loaning you to me. It was such a quality loan. But I know my mellow mood won’t extend to forgiving myself for not insisting that we take time to sit on the porch on lazy weekends instead of repairing or renovating the house. And for not using the percale sheets instead of keeping them for company. And for not telling you more often and more fervently how much I loved you. Like Richard II, I want to call back yesterday and bid time return.

  MAY 24 – Saturday

  I leave for the Learned Societies Conference in Winnipeg tomorrow. My trembling self is pretending to be one real cool lady.

  MAY 31 – Sunday

  The trip to the Learneds was an even worse mistake than the trip to Barbados or to Arizona. I came down with strep throat and then had an allergic reaction to the antibiotics I was given to clear it up. I ended up in the emergency room of the hospital – via ambulance. Earlier I wrote that I forgave you for dying. In the ambulance I forgave you for dying so suddenly. I was so ill. I could not wish even five minutes of that agony on you – even to permit me a final farewell. At the emergency centre, I was asked for my next of kin. What a jolt that was! “Your next of kin,” they kept insisting while I just stared at them mutely. “We must have your next of kin.” How could I tell them my next of kin is dead?

  How do you tell a group of white-coated humans who are assaulting your body with needles and tubes that your next of kin is dead?

  Still, sick or not, I did make it to Winnipeg alone.

  JUNE 2 – Monday

  To all intents and purposes, I’m getting on with my life. I have settled your estate, learned to drive, conditioned myself to staying alone in the house – at least for the time being. I have even highlighted my hair. All outward signs point to my being back to normal – whatever that might mean. The truth is though – the frightening truth is – I think I’m coming unravelled. The struggle to give my life the appearance of normalcy has taken its toll. I’m beginning to hate to go to sleep because I dream about you.

  But perhaps it isn’t the dreaming I hate; it’s the waking. I slept and dreamt that life was beauty. I woke and found that life was duty. I’m not certain, but I think Emily Dickinson wrote those words. They’ve been circling my brain all evening.

  I’m starting to have anxiety attacks. And I can’t sit still. I’m filled with nervous tension. I can’t content myself at the office. I can’t content myself at home. Sometimes the restlessness inside me is overwhelming. On Sundays I have to sit in the back of the church so that if need be I can make a quick getaway. If this continues, I don’t know how I’m going to cope with my classes in the fall. It’s been almost seven months! Why can’t I grab hold? Perhaps the house question being unsettled is driving me to this distraction.

  I wish I could get interested in my writing – or something. I ask myself over and over, What do I do with the rest of my life? I know with certainty that teaching isn’t enough. I dread the thought of an empty life. I can spot a bleak life a block away. One woman confessed she goes to three different church services just to get her through Sunday. F
rom goblins and ghosties and three legged beasties and from church hopping on Sundays, dear God protect me. Apologies, Robbie Burns.

  Father’s Day

  I visited your grave today and brought you a rose. From time to time I drop by to see you just so you won’t have to make excuses to your neighbours about lack of visits from your family. In my black moments, I’m certain that’s how I’ll end up: in a nursing home, making excuses for the relatives who never come to see me.

  JUNE 22 – Sunday

  Seven months today since you died. Remember the colleague I told you about who began dating three weeks after his wife’s death? I was talking to him today, and he was telling me that a few weeks after his wife died he asked a friend – a widower of six months – how long it took to get over the pain. The friend had no answer, just walked away. Months later my colleague asked him why he had acted so. Replied the friend, “How could I tell you I didn’t know? At that time all I knew was it took longer than six months, and you didn’t want to hear that.”

  I really think I’m coming unglued, and the frightening thing is that on the outside I still look as if I’m “taking it well.” I was asked to a cottage for the weekend, but my nerves are so red raw I can’t commit myself to being a house guest. I need the privacy to pace. Perhaps I should go to a doctor for a pill of some sort, but I believe I have to help myself out of this black pit. The weather the last few days has been fine, and last evening I went out to police the lawns and fix up the ravages of winter. I listlessly picked up a fallen branch here and there. After a few minutes I gave up all pretence of caring whether the lawn looked unkempt or not. I came in the house and drew a bath, hoping that the warm water would help keep the parts of me together.