The Widower’s Rant: A Day in the Life

In my last Rant, I sounded an optimistic tone about new mountains to climb and a clearing view of how I will try to tackle the future. My impatience notwithstanding. As I end the 21st week (still counting), all in all, I had a very nice week. Looking back over my daily notes, it’s another period of general happiness. Some highlights:

• Live music - Igor and the Red Elvises with Curtis

• Waterfall hike with C/R, watched F1, and had Sunday supper at our son’s house. Life does not get better than this.

• Jazz concert at Sand Harbor overlooking the lake

• Rode the Flume singletrack twice. Had my first (hilarious) fall.

• Wonderful phone calls and text chats with friends. So lucky.

• Walked Mr. Ronin a couple of times.

• After returning from the second Flume ride, it was so nice out that I rode down to the beach with my chair on my back, had a quick swim in the lake, and savored a victory beer on the sand. How amazing is this?!?

• Some junior electrician cosplay installing a few more smart switches.

Sure, during the week there were a few wistful moments and feeling meh, but they were minutes or hours, not days. In the big picture, it’s truly a wonderful life. I’m so lucky.

Over dinner, sitting at the counter (my dining room table is back at the Artist being made into a more functional table), I pondered what I was feeling at the moment. I suddenly felt so alone, my thoughts echoing in my skull while Tom Petty sings "You Don’t Know How It Feels" in the background. I looked around at my lovely home surrounded by towering pine trees near the lake in the most beautiful corner of the world. I took stock of my blessings and privilege. Still, I felt sad. Alone. I wondered if this is what my life is today, tomorrow, and for how long? Alone in my house with my thoughts rattling around my head. I have never been so in my head. I don’t like it much. It’s an odd place where you run into dusty memories and piles of discarded scenario plans. There are no doors to knock on, only dark corners you don’t want to peer around. So you look for unicorns and rainbows and ignore the shadows.

Suddenly, I said to myself aloud, “Suck it up, Buttercup. How fucking lucky are you!?!” I believe in Moonstruck, Cher slapped Nicolas Cage and exclaimed, “Snap out of it!” Same idea, less slapping.

I cleaned the dishes and went for my evening walk around the neighborhood. To see the lake, get my heart rate up, listen to a podcast. Exercise is so helpful; my mood improves. But I was still inside my head, and the muse dragged me to the keyboard where I now sit. She also made me bring a glass of Pinot Noir. I have a conflicted relationship with the muse. I’ve never had one before. She keeps me from watching mindless TV. She puts me in front of the screen I already have too much time in front of. She keeps from doing other, more pressing tasks at times. But I can’t help it. She is a new motive force I can’t resist.

I went to the annual Village Ski Loft Labor Day Sale this morning. Their 50th one. Exactly one year ago, Beth and I went. It was so much fun, and I remember it like yesterday. The optimism and energy of the coming ski season, quantified in the racks and racks of skis, boards, clothes, and accessories. Beth bought new snow boots, gloves, and base layers, eagerly anticipating our first ski season after finally owning a home in Tahoe. Neither of us contemplated the possibility that we would not be skiing together for seasons more. We lived that day with the confidence we had in the fall before each ski season for the previous four decades. Our life path was set. We’ll be skiing together soon. We’d be skiing together for decades more. We were as sure of it as sunrise over the lake. Coming back from the sale this morning, a few treasures in tow, I’m once again coldly confronted with the whiplash and unexpected unraveling of carefully crafted plans. She only wore the snow boots once. They sit in my half-empty closet. I can't move them. But I digress.

As I walked around our neighborhood, first up the steep hill, then parallel to the lake, I thought about this Friday night and the many Friday nights to come. Even if I knew dozens of people here, planning to go out and be social is not typical for me. Sure, if there was an invitation somewhere, I might go. In the before times, we’d more likely invite someone over. It feels strange to contemplate inviting a couple over to enjoy an odd-numbered place setting. Perhaps I will. Tonight, though, my table is back in the studio being rebuilt. There’s a big empty spot in the dining room where it should be.

Beth and I were homebodies at heart. We’d cocoon in our cozy Home. Maybe watch a series. Maybe do completely independent stuff. But we relished in the mutual comfort that comes from the confidence that the other human in your house loves and cares for you equally as you do for them. It is the best feeling in the world. Logically, I know my family and friends love and care for me. I’d say my dogs love me, but I’m pretty sure they’d love anyone who fed them two squares a day and gave them a sunspot to nap in. In exchange for giving them treats, scratches, and walks, I get absolute, unconditional, affection. The dogs enjoy the treats too.

With appropriate deference and respect to my family, friends, and anyone else who lives alone by choice, I applaud you. You’ve learned to be happy and content in your Home without another human in the building. I am happy and content, too. But I can’t shake the feeling that something is amiss. Back inside my head, I go. Hello darkness, my old friend. See any unicorns lately? Are they fluffy?

And that’s where I am right now. Feeling a bit alone in my lovely home by the lake in the most beautiful corner of the world. Not unhappy, and not really sad either. Just wondering how long, or what it will take for this to feel comfortable. Or at least, usual. I would have thought 21 weeks was enough. I don’t know how I’ll manage 21 months or 21 years. Hopefully, more, so long as they are good years. I’m taking great care of myself, so they’d better be good or I’m missing the second helping and the third glass too often.

Eleven years ago, Beth and I went to Africa for my best friend’s surprise 50th birthday. It’s a real accomplishment to pull off a surprise party when everyone needs to fly in, but his spouse is perhaps one of the most amazing humans on the planet, and we are lucky to have her as the closest of our friends. Both are more family than friends. The family we choose. In addition to the unforgettable safaris and other adventures, another particularly unique experience reminds me of the human capacity to adapt. Their Home was a series of secure perimeters. Big iron gates protected the front door, the 2nd floor, and their bedroom. Each night, the clanging of the doors signaled a clear message that we were not sleeping in our houses in the suburbs of America. The first few nights were jarring. Ka-Chunk. Ka-Chunk. Ka-Chunk. As I went to bed, I thought of being locked up inside this house. Who was outside that wanted to be inside? But, as the week wore on, I barely heard the doors close anymore. The evening triplet salute made me drowsy like Pavlov's dog. Even the rides inside the armored SUV became routine. I acclimated to this new normal.

I’m genuinely okay. I’m not curled up in the corner of a dark room in the fetal position, sobbing about my loss. Our loss. I’m living an arguably kick-ass life and finding new trails to conquer daily. Although it does not feel “normal” yet, it feels good. Life goes on. I go forward.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald