Catching Up

In the months since I last posted on this blog my mother had a stroke and was unable to speak but has since recovered somewhat. She had her ninety-third birthday in April and is getting excellent, loving care from her round-the-clock caregivers and the staff at Ocean House. On my visit last weekend we sat on the roof/deck (she in her wheelchair) and took in the breathtaking view of sunny Santa Monica Bay with walkers, joggers, skaters and a few wetsuit-clad surfers  languidly waiting for waves. When I got home from the trip I sent Mother a pair of silver shoes which she wore yesterday to "Happy Hour," and got many compliments.

On what would have been my father's 97th birthday, April 3rd, (he passed away in 2010), my memoir Posing for My Father was published. I did not select this date, it just worked out that way.  The book tells of my life growing up in the home/studio of famous photographers.  Though not great at promotion I did schedule a reading at Beyond Baroque in Venice (during the mom-visit) with two of my California poet friends. We had a good turnout and I sold some books, even to total strangers!

On September 14th my husband of twenty-one years moved in with an older woman he met just about a month before. In the last six weeks I've gone through more emotions that I knew I had -- shock, anger, grief, relief, wonder, jealousy, sadness, hope, confusion, numbness, nausea, insomnia, hysteria, rage, forgiveness, disorientation – some emotions hang around for a few hours, others come and go in minutes.

I've done a lot of writing and talking to girlfriends.  The best part of going through a hard time is connecting with friends, both old and new.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, has a sad story.  By the time we're in our sixties we've all had heartache and loss.

Because he has a home office we've agreed that he will continue to come to work each day and then leave at night. Don't know how long this will go on. Some days I dread seeing his car pull into the driveway (I can see the street from my office window). Other days, perhaps I've had a good night's sleep and am feeling rested and happy, I'm glad to have his male presence in the house.

I have not told my mom or her caregivers about any of this. John put up a curtain rod for me this week and plans to cover the pool this weekend. I can usually say something about him when I call. I wore my wedding ring when I traveled but took it off when I got home. Still feels weird. Being a wife was so much a part of my identity.  On bad days I think, what if I slip in the tub or have a heart attack and no one finds me for days . . .

What I realize is that the John I miss is the Coarsegold John – he who cleared that beautiful land so we could build my dream home, and how he maintained it for the ten years we lived there. My favorite image of him is the view I had walking up the trail west of the driveway and seeing him barrel up the drive on his red tractor. I also love the memory of him in his white socks and underpants, in the garage with the door open to that magnificent view, working on his speakers.

But that John is no more. Now he has a life with someone I've never met, a widow, four-years older than us, who he says likes his snoring. Twenty-five years ago, when I was single I wrote a poem about my mother. Some of the lines echo in my mind now –

she likes having

the warm body in the bed

I choose a bed

big enough to thrash around in

and I do

What do I miss? Going out to eat on Saturday nights and having leftovers the next day, sitting on the deck with John listening to the birds, with the dog and cat nearby. 

Other than that, I don't miss the political lectures where I was not allowed to disagree. I don't miss the hateful glares and days on end when he would ignore me because I'd pissed him off.  I don't miss him saying, "I gotta find you a boyfriend," when I approached him for a hug.

For years I've grown used to sleeping alone, eating alone, showering and bathing alone, dancing alone, walking my dog alone, going to church alone, watching TV and listening to the radio alone, reading alone, writing  alone – including the poem for our yearly Christmas card.

On this cloudy Saturday morning I sit alone at my desk, with my dog and cat peacefully sleeping nearby. Today I'll work on the new Hill Country Poets anthology for our November 10th reading at the library, and tonight I get to take pictures at the Harvest Moon fundraiser for Riverside Nature Center. 

Perhaps I'll have a good dream tonight, like the one I had night-before-last, of swimming in a beautiful clear green swimming pool with a tiny green frog and a dark green turtle the size of my hand.