Every thought, every move, every moment . . . it is all
about him. I find ways to incorporate
him into everything I do. I still write
to him daily. I visit his friends. I create art about him. I talk to him, mostly in my head, but sometimes
aloud, as I did this past weekend on my otherwise lonely drive home from his
college town in Ohio . I had a whole conversation with a person who
is not alive. And he made me laugh so
hard that my tears were temporarily stopped.
It is exhausting, though.
This grief. This energy. This anger at the injustice of it all. This love I maintain in this seemingly one-sided
relationship. I find myself so very
tired. Add in the energy I lose during
the week at my job and I am one very overwhelmed person. I find myself with little time, patience, or
stamina to talk to my friends or family.
I usually answer when the phone rings, because that seems like it will
take less energy than having to listen to a message and call them back. But I know I am not myself on the phone. I feel badly about that.
I am reading.
Lots. I am learning. Lots.
I am still doing grief counseling and therapy. I will start attending a support group this
week for partner loss. I am trying to
correspond with people who write me or email me instead of calling (honestly,
that is easier than talking in a lot of ways), but . . . like everything else,
I am so busy that my responses are quite delayed. There are a lot of moments when I feel like I
am in over my head, having bitten off far more than I can chew in trying to
work and maintain the house and care for the dogs and maintain social
relationships and on top of all that normal day-to-day stuff (which I struggled
to do even before cancer took Ron from me) I am grieving so hard.
Have I mentioned I am exhausted?
I want to blog more, but simply have not had the time. Tonight, I told myself I am allowed. I am allowed to just write a disjointed blog
post and not reread it into the wee hours.
I am allowed to occasionally throw some shit up here. Because I need to. I need to say his name. I need to talk about him. I need to share memories. I need to sometimes put it all out
there.
The first night I was alone in the house after Ron died, I
used his toothbrush. I cannot explain
this behavior, which sounds a bit disgusting to the hygienic side of me. I used his toothbrush and I have not stopped
using it. Four and a half months later
and I am still using it. I don’t think
it is time to switch yet. The bristles
are still holding strong. Yet I have
become acutely aware that I will have to move on to another one at some
point. And I don’t want to. The way I keep searching for him in
everything, this is just one more thing.
Another way to have him be a part of my daily rituals.
Tonight, I threw away some of his condiments in the
fridge. I would never have used
them. Ever. Ranch dressing. Chocolate and strawberry ice cream
toppings. I kept them because they were
his. I am reading Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking and I
realize that keeping them is magical thinking.
At first, I told myself I was keeping them in case a house guest came
over and wanted them for some really random reason (note: this would require me
to keep food on hand for said houseguest, unless they just wanted to eat
condiments straight out of the bottle). What
I was really doing was keeping them because . . . well, what if Ron came back
and wanted them? What if he walked
through the door and was like, “Heather, where is my hot cocoa? Where is my ranch? Where is my shrimp cocktail sauce? Where is my frappuccino mix?” I slowly allow myself to get rid of these
things, on trash night, but only after the labels have expired. Because even if he did come in, I wouldn’t
want him to eat expired stuff. So this
makes sense, right?
Sometimes I use his deodorant. Old Spice.
Sometimes I spray the dogs’ collars or the couch cushions or even just
the air with the terrible Polo Sport he used to keep in his car and used to mask
cigarette odor when he would first drive down here. Even though it was and is terrible, I loved
it because it was his. The smell mingled
with all the others and became associated with him. Now, I bury my head in the sweaters and
shirts he had the longest, or inside the brim of a cap, searching for a
lingering trace of his body smell. I
have so much fear that I will forget what he smelled like. Not the cigarettes or cologne or deodorant or
detergent . . . just him. His skin. His hair.
Smell is a very hard thing to preserve.
Everything in our household eventually blends together and starts to
smell the same. Mine and his together
make a new smell. Losing his original scent,
the scent that could only be made by his body, feels like losing a part of him.
For the first four months after he was gone, I smoked. Not all the time and not very much and not
even regular cigarettes, but pretty much every day. Cloves.
It started because he left a pack in the car and I felt a need to finish
them off. Ron would have wanted it. We used to share one on the drives into the
hospital. He would want me to smoke that
pack in his honor. And then I bought
another pack. And another. Because why not? I could smoke every day of my life and still
not have smoked all the cigarettes Ron wanted to be able to smoke. But, when the weather became colder and I was
smoking with the windows almost all the way up on the way to work, I realized I
need to give this habit up or face owning a smoker’s car. It has been two weeks now and I am missing it
so much. Not because I was addicted or
anything like that. Just because I liked
to do it. (Holy crap! Rereading that, I realize it was the same
line of logic he used to give me about why he wouldn’t quit. “I’m not addicted. I just like it.”) It was a way to be connected to Ron. I sometimes felt like I was channeling him
when I would be smoking and driving and listening to music from his iPod. I think I have given it up . . . but maybe
not.
As I drop weight, more slowly now than at first, I need a
belt with every pair of pants I own (and I am too cheap to run out and buy new
pants when I will likely just gain it back at some point). Naturally, I started using one of his
belts. I am so grateful to his siblings
for talking me into keeping a few that day when I was giving away everything
for no apparent reason. I usually wear
this cotton belt of his. On days when
the air is damp, I can sometimes smell Petticoat Junction (AKA “The Coat” in
Ron speak) wafting from the belt.
Petticoat is the truck stop restaurant where Ron was working
part time when we started dating. The
Coat did not last long into our relationship, because he could only work there
on nights and weekends since he was also working full time doing IT support
during the regular work week. Nights and
weekends was when we could talk to and/or see each other. When we both wanted to spend more time
together than he wanted to spend earning a pay check at a beloved Alma
greasy spoon, Ron simply stopped showing up there. It was not the most graceful exit, but I seem
to recall that he felt it would be the least confrontational . . . or something
like that. Based on experiences we had
with other Coat employees and his employers over the last year or so, I believe
he was forgiven.
The belt smelling like The Coat triggered a strong memory
for me in July when I first started wearing it.
Generally, when he had to work there on a Friday, I would drive up to Alma
after getting out of my work and spend time with my folks until he had a chance
to get out of his. He liked to change out
of the jeans and black t-shirt he always wore and get showered so that I would
not smell Line Cook Ron.
One particular Friday, I could not stand to wait. We were texting each other during my drive up. I was speeding, hurtling toward him as fast
as I could. I was feeling extra
spontaneous and impulsive. I told him I
was taking exit 127 off U.S. 127 and, if he allowed it, would turn directly east
and stop at The Coat to say a quick hello.
Ron was mildly nervous, not wanting me to see him all greasy and smelly
and sweaty. But, he admitted he could
take a quick break and would like to see me, too.
I pulled around the back, as he instructed. It was misting outside. The lot was nothing but mud with semi-trucks
and trailers parked all over. Ron came
out the backdoor of the restaurant and strode across the lot toward my Subaru. Black t-shirt. Stained jeans. Apron. Moss green baseball cap with a white skull on
it. Black work shoes. That face.
That perfect, round, ruddy-cheeked, glistening, hard-working face. Those eyes, searching me out with love and mischief
and newly-dating butterflies-in-the-tummy anxiety behind them. He tossed a cigarette aside as he made his way
over, blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth before he reached me. I was out of the car and running to him. We wrapped each other in the biggest bear hug
and were kissing each other, just these funny smacks on the lips, over and
over.
I asked if I could let the dogs run around. Ron said he didn’t see why not, if I trusted
them enough. He was still learning that
they are pretty good dogs who come back when they are called. They scrambled through mud puddles, around
the trucks, sniffing the brush at the edge of the lot. Ron and I held each other and watched them,
still stealing kisses (longer ones now) and hugs from one another, taking time
to sneak glances and long stares at each other’s eyes. I was (still am) so so so in love with this
boy. There was the tangible smell of
Coat grease and cigarettes and sweat coming off him, visible as steam because
it was so cold and rainy out. My stomach
was doing flip flops. My insides were
completely warm and tingly mush. My
heart was racing. My head felt
elated. I could have floated away. Ron Clark.
Completely unexpected in my life at that time. Completely attractive, even when covered in truck
stop grease. Completely the love of my
life. I admit that I wanted him so bad -
right there, right then. I didn’t think
I would be able to wait for him to get out of work. I wanted to tell him to run away with me so
we could just be together after a long work week of being apart.
But, we said our goodbyes.
Slowly parted ways. I piled my
muddy dogs back in my new car, cringing when I saw how messy they were making
it and even more so when I thought about how mad my dad would be when I arrived
at my parents’ home with them looking that way.
The feeling I had for Ron was so intense. Even though we only had to wait a few more hours
to see each other, Ron kept texting throughout the night. In love.
So now I wear his belt most days . . . and some days I can smell
the love. It lives there, in the belt. It is older now and faded, but right
alongside the smell of the fry grease, there is Ron and there is that moment .
. . hugging in a parking lot of mud and trucks . . . not aware of how precious
little time we would have . . . just frozen and captivated by having found each
other . . .
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