The Widower’s Rant: What If?

Add this to the list of things I never considered before. What if I get sick and can’t easily care for myself? What if I get hurt? Since I’m relatively young and in seemingly good health (clearly not taking that for granted), given my proclivities for mountain biking, skiing, and climbing on ladders to change light bulbs, odds are I could get hurt. I’d be very disappointed to injure something and mess up my ski season. That’s why I have toned down my overall speed rush. Note, I didn’t stay stopped.

Fortunately, Beth did not need much caregiving from me. I mostly drove with her to/from appointments (which she could have done, but this was our journey together). But she knew I was there. She had very strong opinions on the level of care she wanted from her husband if things went south. When we say “went south,” do people who live in the Southern Hemisphere or down the street from you feel slighted? Anyway, the independent streak was very strong in my girl. And I’ve been likewise lucky not to need care from Beth. But we’ve all had the time when we’ve been sick in bed, and our partner brought us a cool beverage to hydrate or warm soup to nourish us. They went grocery shopping to make sure you had your favorite Popsicle flavor. And you knew that if you needed something, you had somebody who cared for you close by to ask.

What am I going to do?

Even something so simple as to have a routine medical procedure where you are sedated requires someone to take you to/from the facility. You can’t call an Uber or Taxi because they won’t release you to someone you don’t know. It makes me pause to consider what caused the need for this rule. When Beth was going through Chemo, I had a routine procedure that required light sedation. Since I didn’t know if she’d be strong enough to drive to/from, I asked our neighbor. He was delighted to help. Still, it felt awkward to ask, to rely on someone else. Beth and I took care of one another. That’s what partners do.

Looking back at our trips to UCSF and then going to the local Chemo facility once a week for two months, as I sat in the most depressing room on the planet feeling useless and helpless, I’m grateful we had those hours together. I didn’t possibly imagine that those few hours would be a significant percentage of the time we had left together. Maybe that’s why Beth’s independent streak readily acquiesced and accepted having me along for the ride. She knew. She knew that the odds she might drop dead during treatment were significant. And she never said anything. Just a side comment: “You know Don, I could drop dead in the backyard, and that would be okay.” My brain wouldn’t process that this was a clear and present danger. I regarded it as likely as anyone dropping dead in the backyard. Remote. Never. Not now. Please, not now.

If I’m injured doing something stupid at Tahoe, I know I can rely on Curtis to help me get settled through the crisis portion. I know Lauren would do anything, but there’s only so much that is reasonable for your 30-something (remember that TV show?) kids to do when their own lives should take priority. Realistically, neither could be on call to go grocery shopping to get my favorite Popsicle flavor. As a kid, I really liked 50/50 bars - a Creamsicle. The combination of orange outside (made without actual fruit) and vanilla ice cream inside (made without real vanilla) is perhaps my favorite comfort food flavor memory. Or sushi. During our evening walk routine over the past few years, I’d stop into the corner store and buy Paletas (Mexican popsicles). I especially like tamarind and mamey. And a lottery ticket if it was going to be life-changing for a lot of people. My mom liked to play Pachinko in Japan and, later in life, a few trips to put nickels in a slot machine. Lottery tickets are my guilty gambling pleasure. The hour or so I take for scenario planning, step by step, how I’d set up a series of LLCs, establish a charitable trust, form a board of our closest friends, and have board meetings in nice parts of the world, is high dollar per minute pleasure for me, and cheaper than a cup of coffee. But I digress.

I’m planning more travel over the coming months to visit friends, see new places, and have new experiences. I’ve honed my travel skills over millions of miles and will happily and confidently pack a bag, jump on a plane, and go anywhere. That spurred me to look at travel and medical evacuation insurance. Because if I get injured or sick overseas, or even on the other side of the country, I’ll want to come home. But where is home? Home was wherever Beth was. That’s Home. Now, I feel a bit like a visitor in the houses I occupy. They’ve lost that warm, secure feeling of having your loved one in the same place.

Beth and I had strong homing instincts. We didn’t need to be out, we loved being in our little Home overlooking the Alexander Valley. Covid reinforced just how happy we were in our Home. I had a lovely week in the Geyserville house with our doggies and seeing friends. I’m having a blast up in the Tahoe house. But are they Home without Beth? I’ve commented that one of the things I like about being up at Tahoe is the house does not have much memory overhead. It’s relatively empty of the accumulations of a beautiful life together. I have empty drawers and cabinets. Minimal furniture. Just a few photos on the walls. Marie Kondo was on to something with having less stuff to clutter your life. George Carlin riffed on the need for a house and closets for your stuff. Don’t get me wrong, I like my stuff. But I’m getting by on a whole lot less stuff. Maybe the old stuff comes with too much memory baggage. Every time I enter our garage, I see Beth’s bicycle, Amelia. She named her bicycle after the intrepid explorer Amelia Earhart. Who got badly lost. Beth got lost walking out the front door. North. South. East. West? Just words. She said that our house was like an aircraft carrier. It was always in a new place when she drove back. That’s why a hearty “Welcome Home” was so important to tell Beth. Another miracle, she found the aircraft carrier and snagged the third wire. I didn’t dwell on the part where Amelia vanished and perished, but as it turns out, it was the right name. Beth has vanished. But her bicycle has not. And I can’t bring myself to imagine our garage without Amelia in it. Because I don’t need to imagine my daily reality that Beth isn’t in our dwellings. Vanished and perished.

The first day I was alone in our house, I was caught off guard when I realized that if I fell down, hit my head, and lost consciousness, nobody would know for a long time. Images of the old TV commercial “Help, I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up” ran through my mind. I clutched my phone tightly. Now, whenever I go up a ladder or down the stairs into the garage, I make sure I have my phone with me, just in case. I’m too young to have a medical alert button around my neck, but my miracle communication device in my pocket brings some comfort. In theory, my watch is supposed to call our kids if I have a hard fall, but I don’t trust it, and given backcountry cell reception, I can’t imagine the call will go out.

I found Beth unconscious on our couch 10 or 15 minutes after she collapsed. I’m beyond grateful I was the one in our house to find her. She had been shooing me out the door to go skiing, to live my life while hers was on hold. What if I had been away? That would have been far more traumatic for me to be away than to be the one who found and cared for her in her final moments. Otherwise, I’m not sure how I would have bounced back from that. Perish the thought.

Who is going to find me?

During the frequent business travel over my career, Beth and I operated on a “no news is good news” philosophy. She knew I was busy slaying the dragons and whatnot, and before email, it was not always easy to call. And when I did, it was usually at an inconvenient time for the mother of two young children. One infamous episode we called The Salesman’s perfect day. I flew into Tampa for a meeting. When I got into the airport, the rental car person said, “I’m so sorry, we don’t have the car you reserved. All we have left are convertible Mustangs.” After depositing the golf clubs and bag into the trunk, I lowered the top and never put it up. I arrived at the factory the next morning in clothes that were more appropriate for the round of golf I planned to sneak in with a buddy later in the day. To my dismay, the lobby marquee read, “Welcome to Tampa, Sam Parks.” Sam was the CEO and Chair of the parent company. I was a national sales manager for a minuscule division a hundred or so reporting layers down in the basement. Usually, I’d kill for face time with the CEO. But in my pink Lacoste shirt and plaid shorts, I didn’t think this was the impression I wanted to leave. He wasn’t due until the afternoon, so you bet the meeting was done on time, and I was out of there before noon. Then 27 holes of golf, a great dinner, and a little wine. Maybe a lot of wine. I had the best 24 hours a salesman could have. So I called Beth to gush about my day. As soon as she answered, I launched into the minute-by-minute of a great day, a few great golf shots, and a delicious steak. Beth finally got a word in edgewise and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m holding one child while the other barfs frozen raspberries on our bed, and I’m trying to keep the dog from eating it.” click. From that moment forward, every call began with, “How was your day today, honey?” Email was a lot better for us when I traveled—fewer interruptions of barfing.

My father lived alone for 19 years after my mom died. Yeah, that hits closer than I’m comfortable digging into right now. In the last decade of his life, I came to appreciate the morning weather report email from him. Being the self-centered child that I am (and I’ll point out for the defense, that he raised), the first time I got the weather report email I couldn’t figure out why he’d need to tell me my weather when I had myriad ways to know this. Ah, the slow learner realized it was the “good morning, I’m still alive” report. Sure enough, on the odd day I didn’t get one, I got worried.

When my dad was in the ICU and it became apparent that he would need a significant procedure, his sister and I tried to envision the aftercare. He was fiercely independent and wholly unable to ask anyone for help. He would gladly help anyone with anything, from trivial to significant. But he could not accept help from others. He drove himself from the doctor’s office to the ER against medical advice. There was no chance he would let anyone in his room to help care for him. Fortunately, he made this easy for all of us by dying the next morning. And given the realities of his living conditions that he hid so well from me, it would have killed him anyway when I found out. Took me an hour to find his car in the parking lot.

I’m not quite at the point of telling our kids each morning what my weather is. But, before I started my descent on the Flume single track trail this week, I texted our son. So somebody knew. And when I got back, I reported, “Still Alive!” Doing this made me feel so fragile. And so alone.

What happens next?

I am violently allergic to this feeling of fragility. For the last 40 years, my role has been the provider, the dad, the one who could fix anything, the one who took care of his family. I still have a lot of care to give, and I’m coming to grips with the idea of graciously letting others care for me. But it’s not easy. I know deep inside that there’s a community of friends that will gladly help should I need assistance, from trivial to significant. And there’s comfort in this. Maybe I’m a bit less fragile than I think.

I recognize that I’m not the first person to live alone. I just didn’t expect to at this age. I expected Beth would be there, making our house a Home. Asking if I’d like a cup of soup, or making sure I had my favorite Popsicle flavor.

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald