At the risk of sounding like a wannabe social media influencer, I wanna talk about my new juicer. I’ve thrown out the box, an uncharacteristic sloughing off where I’m usually way more conservative, so all I can tell you is that the juicer base, emblazoned with Ninja sits on my counter, poised to pulverize the fresh fruits and vegetables which now clutter my kitchen counter and fridge.
This morning, home from the gym, I mashed a blackening banana, one kiwi, a spear of pineapple and some orange juice into a thick, sweet, pap of a drink.
An apt metaphor for the treacly aftermath of my husband’s passing. One part blackening remorse, one huge hairy globule of gratitude ripe for the peeling, three parts fear of forgetting and a dash of anxiety about the future all swirled together by a jolt of the crushing blades of fate. Not as sweetas my morning shake, but tasty nevertheless.
In the days following his death, time has been flaccid, activities random. Chris and I spent the weekend on outings with his dog, Cupid. We walked blocks and blocks together repeating to each other “this is so weird.” Our favorite new conversation was “Do you wanna do it? Do it.” There are currently no obligations to attend to, other than the logistics of contacting people, closing accounts, shifting furniture, shifting expectations.
We rented metro bikes and rode to Little Tokyo to have sushi at Oomasa. Then we walked home, me cursing the fact that I’d left my fitbit at home charging.
We stopped at a boutique on Broadway that’s art drew us from across the street, flaunting traffic. Gentle Monster sells high end arty sunglasses. I found myself imagining if I would buy a pair and shake things up. Chris danced in the window with one of the art installations.
I returned to the gym on Sunday and Monday, grateful for the inclusion in the workout routine of friends, who embraced me and in whose sweaty breathless company I was able to remember how to move my body, to feel the life force again in my own skin. The third day, I rose again from the bed… having worn Jimmie’s pajamas to bed the night before, and the pain of muscles reawakening in my mind echoed the pain Jimmie had been feeling before we went back to the hospital for the last time.
The outpouring of love and support has been unexpectedly moving, the threads cast from friends and associates of all three of us weaving together in a hammock of gentle surrender.
Having time to putter and reposition is a bonus. I remember when my Mom passed away, I undertook a complete repainting of the downstairs at my house. I was crazed with grief and it felt like I was cleaning away the sorrow. I think that is, to a certain extent, to be expected. With the help of the maintenance staff here at my condo, I’ve restored the guest bedroom from hospice suite to hospitality suite again and it feels good to put things in order.
One day at a time.
One foot in front of the other.
Open mind, open heart.
This too shall pass.
I think I’ll throw all the cliches in the blender and see what happens next.