The thought of leaving our home – this little blue shotgun house with the white picket fence – generates pain so visceral that my very nerves ache. My heart hurts. My toes want to curl up and hide. This was our plan for so many years. The grapefruits are beginning to ripen, as are the lemons. This will be our first year for grapefruits. Robert and I have always made preserved (salted) lemons to use in cooking and as salad dressing. Insects got the lime blossoms this year, so we only harvested one lime. The okra is about done for – I will pull up those 7′ tall plants soon. We need rain. It is coming.
So what will keep me here? I have friends here, and a daughter and her family. I walk around the city. Nothing is the same. This house is not the same without Robert. This was our dream our entire marriage, to retire in our favorite city and live out our days eating muffalettas in Jackson Square and walking our dog on the streets of New Orleans. Meandering through the French Quarter and through the cemeteries. Trying out new restaurants and watching the boats navigate the Mississippi. Feeling the warm breezes in Audubon Park. Listening to good music and enjoying friends.
Robert loved the heat and humidity. Riding his bike and returning home soaked with sweat was his idea of a good time. But even the heat causes tears these days.
I have decisions to make. Should I leave, should I stay, should I try to make my roots deeper without the one that planned to be here beside me planting his own roots deep? Where is the joy in doing this alone? There is sweetness, surely, in the memories we made during the brief two and a half years we had here. I have a ton of memories (21 year’s worth) to go through and sort. Clothing, books, papers, artifacts from our travels. That chore alone will take me many months. Nothing will be done hurriedly.
I will harvest the lemons and preserve them in salt. Sometime in October or November, I will taste those first grapefruits by myself and relish the sweet labor that went into planting that tree years ago.
But tasting them without Robert will not be the same. Nothing will ever be the same again
A couple of months ago, my husband R. was diagnosed with Metastatic Carcinoma of Unknown Primary. At first we are numb. Walking around staring at each other, trying not to get teary-eyed, but doing it anyway. Now, a few weeks down the road on this new journey, we’ve moved into another phase. Not acceptance. It’s something else for me. R. has an “attitude of gratitude”, and I’m into some other twilight zone of feeling I have not quite owned up to. I’m dealing with this new circumstance as I deal with most others.
I’m making things, keeping my hands moving. Yes, I’m escaping in a sense. Sometimes escape and denial is necessary to get you through. I’m making tiny houses. What is a house but a place where a soul resides. Little doorways. When I’m stitching, I do not have to think so much about the fact that my husband will gradually disappear from this life. But all these thoughts jump back into my stitches. I pray for him to not have pain. I try not to think about how lonely I will be in the future in this house.
I try not to think a whole lot about what I’m doing and my mind can wander off down the endless avenues of my brain. Every stitch a prayer. Going down one way I think of the beauty of the fall season here in New Orleans, which is the cooler temps. Then my thoughts take off another way and wonder about that hurricane that is forming and heading our way.
But with each stitch, each pull of this deep purple thread tightening that little doorway, I am thinking of what these cancer cells are doing to my husband day by day. And that I can do nothing to stop them, nothing to stitch those cancer cells up in a little box and burn them – and my scissors cannot cut off their threads of multiplication. It’s going to be a long journey. Over time, about twenty minutes into my little house, my brain settles into the rhythm of my stitching, and I am once again in a meditation zone. I’m not in charge. And every stitch is a prayer.
Posted in cancer, creativity, depression, healing, life-writing, memoir, Uncategorized
Tagged cancer, creativity, family, gratitude, hand-stitching, New Orleans, sewing
My friend Susan Cushman posted that she has had a visit from her old friend “Acedia”. I had to do a little research on the word Acedia. I was familiar with the word, but not its exact meaning. I though it might be some sort of skin rash. (My attempt at humor) But not so. Acedia … “describes a state of listlessness or torpor [inactivity], of not caring or not being concerned with one’s position or condition in the world. It can lead to a state of being unable to perform one’s duties in life. Its spiritual overtones make it related to but distinct from depression. Acedia was originally noted as a problem among monks and other ascetics who maintained a solitary life.” (Wikipedia).
Such an interesting state of being. I suppose we all have a visit from that state of being from time to time. And it’s not always a bad thing. in the West, we tend to think that we need to constantly be on the move, we are human doings instead of human beings. But perhaps Acedia is God’s way of slowing us down, of forcing us to meditate on the moment. This has given me some sermon material – this Sunday the Gospel is about the Kyphotic woman, and her healing. She had become a spiritual “pretzel”. I’m thinking that’s what aceticism can do to one – bend us in ways we don’t think we can go, but we do. Susan had lots more to say on this matter. Check out her other blog posts above.