Widowhood Memories: Blurred and Sharp

The other evening I came home and opened the door to an empty house. Had it always been this way, I wondered. Silent, still, except for the cats rubbing against my legs. Had I imagined those years when I came home to the sound of computer keys clicking, the aroma of one of Ralph's cooking sprees? Had I fallen asleep every night with a warm body next to mine--not a furry one as I do now--but a hunan one? All the laughter, arguments, hugs and hand-holding--had they really happened or were they only dreams? Sometimes the memories seem blurred. I turn on the answering machine to hear Ralph's voice again. I look through photographs to see younger versions of Ralph and me, surrounded by our children, or arms around each other on vacation when another tourist offered to snap our picture. There we are in our parkas on our voyage to Antarctica, there in Paris with the Seine flowing behind us, or here at home, hugging each other on our thirtieth anniversary. I fear that these memories will blur and fade. I promise myself I won't let them go.

Sometimes the memories are clear and sharp. The evening I socked him in front of his mother (yes, I admit it)for losing a key. The night we woke up at 2:00, couldn't go back to sleep and drove to IHOP for a pancake treat. Thanksgiving Day, 1998, hurrying to the hospital to witness the birth of our treasured granddaughter. A walk on the beach in Cozumel, watching the Brady Bunch with our kids and comparing the Brady family to our own blended family, giggling over an oxymoron or a pun. We disagreed vehemently and continuously over politics. Ralph's "did you remember to vote?" really meant "did you vote the way I did?" Usually not, but that didn't stop him from asking.

Although we'd married in our thirties-- both of us divorced from our first spouses--we were certain we'd celebrate our 40th anniversary, maybe even our 50th. It was not to be. Still, I hold fast to memories...and the tears.

Remembering Ralph: March 1, 1940--October 16, 2005

On a bright October day in 2004 Ralph was diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia. He fought a valiant battle against the disease but lost. His journey ended on another sunny autumn day, October 16, 2005.

On this fifth anniversary of Ralph’s death, here are some things I remember:

He was an optimist. When the doctor told him bluntly, “You have a 95% chance of being dead in five years," he saad, “Well, somebody has to be in that other 5%. Why not me?”

He loved computers and never went anywhere without his laptop. I often felt we were a menage a trois—Ralph, the laptop, and me.

He saw himself as a problem solver and named his computer business Solution Providers.

In the hospital, he set up an office in the corner of his room and kept working through the chemo.

He was a math whiz but a poor speller. On our first date, on Valentine's weekend, he brought me a card with my name misspelled: T-h-e-m-a. He did learn to spell my name correctly, but he often called Gayle, our office manager, to check on spellings of words in his business proposals.

He adored our granddaughter Gabriella. The last thing he did before starting his hospitalization was to carve a pumpkin for her for Halloween. The last time he left his hospital room before he died a year later was to have a final visit with her. Because children were not allowed on the bone marrow transplant floor, his doctor arranged for a special wheelchair to take him down to the lobby so he could say goodbye to Gabriella.

Although he often said, “They’re just cats,” he loved his pets, especially Hal, the beautiful, striped cat he found in a drawer in our garage.

His favorite pet as a kid was a crow named Blackie, who stole clothespins off the neighbors' lines.



He was a great cook, often inventing recipes (unlike me, who always follows them to the letter.) On Thanksgiving he always cooked the turkey, and each year we were required to say, “Ralph, this is the best turkey you’ve ever made.”

He liked hot food, the hotter the better, and along with the turkey and regular dressing, he always made jalapeno dressing, too.

He was interested in politics, followed every campaign and even on his first full day in isolation in the hospital, which was also the day of the 2004 Presidential election, he badgered me about going to the polls.

He loved to tease, especially his sister Karen. One year at a computer show, he had a picture taken, then had it cut into a jigsaw puzzle and sent the pieces to Karen as a birthday gift.

He liked raising plants and made me promise I would not cut down the Monster, his enormous split-leaf philodendron that gobbled up more than half the space on our patio. I haven’t.

He could repair anything, from computers to cars, which is why I never learned to fix things around the house.

His favorite radio shows were “Car Talk” and “Prairie Home Companion,” his favorite TV show “Monk.” I have never been able to listen to or watch any of them since he died.

He encouraged and supported me in everything I undertook.



He was a good friend, a good husband, a good man, and I miss him. He was the wind beneath my wings.

A Sad Space

Isn't it amazing what can make you sad? A few weeks ago I wrote about shirts bringing tears to my eyes. This past week it was a parking garage. Not just "a" garage, but "the" garage where I parked every day when Ralph was at M.D. Anderson Cancer Center. My gastroenterologist moved his office to the cancer center a few years ago, and I was there for my annual checkup and to get the expected news that yes, this is my colonscopy year, but, yuck, let's not focus on that.

As soon as I start up the ramp into that dim, gloomy place, I am overcome with dread. I must have spent hours in there, driving around looking for parking spots, then trying to maneuver into them without scraping the paint off the car in the next space. I know that I spent almost $2000 on parking that year because I added up the receipts after Ralph died.

I lost my car there twice, the last time just two days before Ralph died. The nice man from parking services who drove me around trying to find it, said politely, "Think someone maybe repossessed your car?" Oh, gosh, I thought, I wasn't a debtor, just a woman who was about to lose the person she loved most. We finally found the car and I headed out for an appointment with our attorney and promptly got lost on the way.

Loss of one kind or another permeated that year. I lost my mother--she made it past her hundredth birthday and died a couple of months later. I lost my wallet several times, I lost a file folder from my office, I lost my keys. Most of those items I found after panicky searches but all of those memories seem connected to the garage.

I parked there during Hurricane Rita, the non-event that sent thousands of people fleeing from the city and getting stuck on highways with no air conditioning,
no gas, high tempers. I spent the weekend at the hospital and kept an eye on the garage from Ralph's window. Fortunately, the storm made a turn and Houston escaped its wrath.

I often left the hospital at night, trudging through the dark garage. Someone asked me if I was afraid and I replied that fear had never crossed my mind. I was too focused on Ralph's illness to worry about running into a mugger or some other unsavory character. Besides, I think people who park at cancer hospitals have other things on their minds than accosting someone in the parking garage.

There is another garage that links to M.D. Anderson. It's Garage 4, which is newer, airier, and has larger parking spaces and a sky bridge that connects to the hospital. You may wonder why I choose to park in Garage 2 instead since I hate it so much and see it as a symbol of Ralph's last year. I think I'm compelled to face the demons of Garage 2, to try to exorcise the ghosts that haunt me there, and maybe this doesn't make sense but I guess I also park there to prove to myself I can.

Memories of a Marriage

Saturday was my wedding anniversary. It would have been our 39th. Even though this was a second marriage for both of us, we were sure we'd make it to our 50th.

December 19 isn't as hard for me as Ralph's birthday or the anniversary of his death. Saturday I went to a movie with two friends. We had lunch first at a little coffee shop in our neighborhood and there I ran into a business friend of Ralph's that I haven't seen in years. On any other day I wouldn't have thought much about it, but on our wedding anniversary it seemed special, as if I'd gotten a message from Ralph.

In the evening I picked up the picture of us taken a few months before he got sick, and then it hit me all over again that he is gone.

So I did two things. First, I used my cell to call our phone number. I still keep his voice on the answering machine (safer to have a man answer) and I call whenever I'm lonely and listen to him.

Second, I spent time remembering special times we had together. We met at a party, and he called the next day and asked me out. He was the first since my divorce and I started to say no, but then I decided he'd be good to practice on. Surprise! He was the real thing, not a practice guy. Two years later we were married.

I remembered once when we both woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't get back to sleep. We decided to go out for a very early breakfast and the only place we could find open was IHOP. That became our middle-of-the-night place from then on.

I remembered us going to a chili cookoff one day. I didn't want to go but Ralph said, "Come on. You'll get a book out of it." Sure enough, I came up with The Great Chili Caper for Harlequin Temptation. To help with my research Ralph joined the Chili Society and came home reeking of chili pepper and cigarette smoke after each meeting. We even went to the International Chili Cookoff in Terlingua, TX.

I remembered our collection of oxymorons, Ralph's special turkey dressing recipe, his penchant for feeding stray cats, his geeky habit of keeping pens and pencils in his shirt pocket, our bluebonnet trips every spring, and on and on. We had a good life together. I'm only sorry it wasn't longer.

Snow!

On Friday, December 4, Houston had snow. Real snow. All day. White flakes drifting down, piling up on roofs, in gardens, on fences.

In the past 100 years it has snowed only 35 times in this part of Texas, and never this early in the year. We made the national news.

The next morning when I went out to pick up the paper, snow still glittered in the sunshine, the remnant of a memorable day.

Five years ago, the last winter before Ralph died, we had snow on December 24 and 25 At midnight Ralph and I ran outside in the chilly air and stared at the beauty around us. A white Christmas. Probably Houston's one and only. It's a lovely memory, and I wish he could have shared this snowy day with me.