Relapse

Even though I've been feeling real well ever since I got back from visiting both families last month, an old feeling has been creeping into my psyche—relapse. I'm attributing it to the entire month of August, which was Dennis's least favorite month of the year. The biggest pitfall of the month was just this past Thursday, which was the two-year anniversary of when we received his diagnosis of ALS. In my own mind, I've always referred to it as his "death sentence"—because that's what it was (even though I never mentioned that to Dennis, he probably would have agreed with me). Anyone who receives this diagnosis is in the same boat, and Noah is not the captain. Not that it's going to do us any good, but this past week also saw researchers at Northwestern University announce that they feel they've discovered what actually causes ALS, which is a huge leap forward in researching and understanding of this disease.

Why a relapse now? Who knows; I certainly don't. Friday night I was trying to decide what to have for dinner, but before I could start, I had to unload the dishwasher. I still don't remember what my mind frame was at the time or what thoughts crept into my mind, but in the middle of putting away the dishes, I just totally lost it and had the biggest crying spell I've had in recent memory—not just a crying spell, more like a wailing spell. I guess this is just more of the grieving process—you never know what's going to hit you when you least expect it. And of course the feelings of relapse will continue this week, what with our 31st anniversary approaching. How the hell can I "celebrate" our 31st anniversary without him being here? I know that eventually I will be able to have pleasant thoughts about our anniversary, but this first one without him is really hitting me hard. I am so thankful that I have wonderful friends—Tom, Donna & Nancy, Joshua—who will be with me that evening. I'll need their shoulders because I anticipate more wailing on my part. They should all wear vinyl clothing so the tears will roll off instead of sinking in. Who wants to sit around a restaurant with wet shoulders? Just thinking about this Thursday reduces me to tears. Maybe I'll get lucky; all this "pre-crying" might make it easier to get through the night without wailing away too much. It actually did work previously—I didn't "lose it" as much as I thought I would when I went back for the family visit. I had tears, but not as many as I'd imagined beforehand. Only time will tell. But in the meantime, you'd still be smart to buy stock in Kleenex.

Death sentence

Today, August 25, represents the two-year anniversary when we received Dennis's ALS diagnosis. Needless to say, when you get that particular diagnosis, that's exactly what it is: a death sentence. I knew it immediately when the doctor said "ALS" and asked us if we knew what it was. I did but Dennis didn't. When he mentioned "Lou Gehrig's disease" Dennis acknowledged that he had heard of the disease, but still didn't realize what had just been handed to us. This is one of those "pit days" that I have alluded to in previous posts. I know I'll get through it, but it still sits heavily on my mind. Two years ago, it was a Tuesday, so after receiving the diagnosis, we had to go to our regular Tuesday night pool match. Talk about a lack of concentration—pool didn't seem all that important any longer, not that it was ever "important" to begin with—just an activity we both enjoyed and something we could do together.

Not much else to say. I just had to get it out because I'm going to be dealing with it all day long. Things like this creep into my mind no matter what I do to discourage them from their intrusion. Shit...

One is the loneliest number

If you've been reading this blog, you may have realized that my formative teenage years were fashioned in the volatile 1960s. Be that as it may, even I am having trouble believing that my life is turning into a song lyric by Three Dog Night! (Insert primal scream here.) But unfortunately, it's so true. Life in my own home gnaws at the emptyness contained within their walls. I have plenty of friends, and they're very helpful most of the time. But I can't expect them to babysit me each day as I continue to struggle with the loss of companionship brought on by Dennis's death. It's most persistent in the morning when I'm getting ready to leave for work, and each evening when I return. Nothing but an empty shell in which I reside. And as I've stated before, Friday nights are the worst, because he died on a Friday night. But it's also an everyday thing. I've never really felt lonely before, even when I was living by myself prior to meeting Dennis. But now that more than 30 years have transpired, and those 30 plus years contained ready-made companionship in the form of Dennis, I just can't shake the lonely factor.

Neither of us were ever party animals, going out each and every night, circulating among our friends. We were always each other's company. And I don't feel that going out all the time is the answer. I'm certainly not ready for another relationship; I don't particularly like the idea of a roommate either. And don't even consider telling me I should get a pet. I have no use whatsoever for cats or dogs; the neighborhood cats have already turned my yard into their personal bathroom. I'm constantly finding dirt piles in the yard, and if I dig around in them, I'm sure you can guess what I find. And it's not hidden treasures.

I know that some of my introspectiveness has to do with a couple of the emotional pits that are coming up in my life. August 25th will be the two-year anniversary of when we received his ALS diagnosis. And a week later, it will be what would have been our 31st anniversary on September 1st. Both those dates have been weighing heavily on my mind lately. The anniversary date in particular will be a very difficult day for me. I can easily cry with a snap of my fingers when thinking about it (like right now while I'm trying to type). I've already gotten the okay to take the day off from work and I'm going to try and make the best of it by being with friends—Tom, Donna & Nancy, their son Joshua and I will be gathering for dinner that night at our favorite restaurant, but it's still going to be traumatic for me. But they're there for me and I truly appreciate them for all the support they keep contributing.

And don't worry too much about this screed I'm currently having. This blog is still my outlet for venting and I always feel better once I've gotten these feelings down "on paper" so to speak. Onward, even if it's with me as my only companion.

The Early Years — Part 7

We received our first viable offer on the house in December of 1982, and it took until March of 1983 before we closed and were able to move. Once the process started, we began selling items from the house that we were not going to take with us. It was kind of difficult to have a yard sale because of Michigan's fabled winters, but we mostly sold items to friends. By the time the end of February rolled around, we were down to using a mattress as our living room seating in order to watch TV. We both had quit our jobs in February in anticipation of the move. The rate department threw us a going away party, with a great decorated cake that had the Golden Gate Bridge and good wishes written in the frosting.

By mid-March, all that was left in the house was the water bed, our clothes, linens, and kitchen items. It was a bare bones existence; we were getting anxious to get the closing out of the way so we could hit the road. Dennis was hoping to leave by the Ides of March (the 15th), but we missed by a day, leaving on the 16th after having one final lunch with our best friend, Tom Wade. We met him at the Back Stage Deli, one of our favorite restaurants along the Woodward Avenue corridor and within the perceived "gay area" of Detroit. It was a Broadway-themed restaurant, with posters from all the plays and musicals that had been on Broadway over the years. Tom followed us back to the house; we had a tearful goodbye and hit the road about 2pm on that Wednesday. We had sold our respective cars, but we were using a station wagon that one of Dennis's highway dispatch drivers had loaned us, because he had to get the car to his ex-wife in Los Angeles. Besides the small trailer we were pulling, the station wagon allowed us that extra space we needed to haul our possessions.

We made good progress the first day as we drove for 10+ hours. We stopped for the night in West Des Moines, Iowa, having driven more than 500 miles. Thursday morning we continued on along Interstate 80, which would take us directly into San Francisco. It seemed to take us forever to get through Nebraska, but as nightfall was approaching, we crossed the state line into Wyoming, where we hit our only bad weather during our drive and started getting our first glimpse of the Rocky Mountains. A snowstorm was hitting Cheyenne and it was coming down hard, so we decided to stop for the night and hope for the best in the morning. By the time we left the next morning, more than 12 inches of snow had fallen and a light snow was still falling, but we decided to hit the road anyhow. It took us over 2 hours to get to Laramie, which was only 50 miles down the road. But we no sooner saw the signs for Laramie when the storm ended, blue skies prevailed and we had smooth sailing the rest of the trip.

Crossing from Wyoming into Nevada, the first town you hit at the border is Wendover. Being Nevada, of course there were casinos in Wendover, so I convinced Dennis that we should stop for the night, have some fun and continue the trip the next day. I love to gamble and thought it would be fun, though Dennis could have cared less. My mindset prevailed—we stopped for the night. Driving through Nevada on Saturday, Dennis couldn't believe how bleak the landscape was, though it was no surprise to me as I had taken this same route back in May of 1978 when my friend Wes and I drove out to San Francisco. We spent the entire day driving through Nevada; I wanted to stop for the night in Reno, but Dennis had had enough gambling so we didn't stop for the night until we reached Truckee.

We got up early Sunday morning, just grabbing coffee for the road figuring we'd stop around Sacramento for breakfast and then finish the drive into San Francisco. We had been astonished at the amount of snow along the side of the freeway while coming down I-80 that morning. The winter of 1982-83 had been an El Nino winter, with more rain than usual, which meant more snow in the mountains. We arrived in San Francisco the morning of March 20th. While crossing the Bay Bridge, Dennis stated, "It feels like home already." Having been here before, I had been confident that he would like it—I'm glad I was correct. I managed to find Amy's apartment like I had been driving in San Francisco all my life. We parked the car and trailer at a gas station across the street and they agreed we could keep it there until Monday morning, when we'd take it to a U-haul lot until we acquired an apartment.

That first week, it continued to rain every day but it did not deter us from searching for our first apartment. We had the profit from the sale of the house in the form of a certified check, so the first thing I did Monday morning was to walk to the Castro neighborhood and we opened a checking account. There's an old saying: "money talks" but sometimes it screams, like when you find the apartment you want and tell the landlord you're willing to pay 6-months rent in advance (which is what we did), though he didn't actually make us pay six months in advance. But it did convince him that we were serious. We moved into 213 Ashbury Street on Friday the 25th; we were only four blocks from the famous intersection of Haight & Ashbury. We had officially become San Francisco residents!

The Early Years — Part 6

After returning from our two-week vacation in February 1982, we started planning our landscaping project for the house. Springtime in the Detroit area always meant going to Eastern Market in downtown the Sunday after Mother's Day. Growers from around the metro area would bring their flats of flowers and set up their booths so that everyone could browse and make their decisions on what was going to be planted for the summer. We always concentrated on annuals, those wonderful flowers that would bloom their hearts out before the first frost of the fall would kill them. But what a show they put on.

Dennis tackled the strip that ran from the front sidewalk to the garage, a strip of about 75 feet in length and about 8 feet wide. The biggest problem with this area was that it would get overrun with morning glories, which would overtake anything growing there. Dennis dug the entire area up and by hand, went through each shovelful of dirt looking for morning glory roots. Even the smallest root would take hold and grow, so the chore was as daunting as you could get. But what a spectacular job he did. He turned the entire area into a Japanese-style garden, with a river of white stones running through it. The "river" border was made of tree branches from a large cherry tree that had died in the front yard. He used the larger trunk pieces to create an area where we planted rhododendrons by the garage, with a "waterfall" of white rock starting the river.

While he was working along the driveway, I tackled the yard on the other side of the house. A chain link fence separated our yard from the neighbor's and I dug out a sculptured strip from the front by the sidewalk all the way back to the fence at the back of the property. I should mention that our lot was approximately 75 feet wide and about 100 feet in depth—a large yard that took about an hour and a half to mow. Instead of digging just a straight line, I sculpted the area with long "S" curves throughout the entire area. Once done, I planted the front with 100 gladiolus, created "rose hill" which contained about a dozen rose bushes, then used other perennials like phlox and annuals to fill up the entire area with flowers. I used mini-marigolds as the border flowers. By mid-summer, the yard was bursting with color. We had two raised beds along the sides of the front porch; in front of each bed, I dug out triangles from the sidewalk to the end of each bed and filled them with more annuals: marigolds, petunias, zinnias, and geraniums.

While attending the Ann Arbor Arts Fair in August, I asked Dennis if he'd like to move to San Francisco. With no hesitation, he agreed that would be a great idea. We contacted a real estate agent and started the proceedings. The house was looking great, what with all the new landscaping, so it seemed like the perfect time to put it up for sale. After all, it was one of the reasons why I bought the house: to later sell it and finance a move to San Francisco. The ironic part was that when we finally got a viable offer, it was in November and all the flowers were either dead (the annuals) or going into their dormant state (the perennials). Funny how things turn out sometimes.

Flashback Fridays

Even after more than seven months of grieving, Fridays are still very difficult for me to get through. Without fail, as 7:45pm approaches, I start having flashbacks of Dennis's passing. Last Christmas Eve was a Friday and each and every Friday since then, I relive that fateful night. I don't break down completely (like I used to do) but I still get teary and my thoughts linger on those last moments of his life. I still picture him in his recliner, staring into space, waiting for me to approach him, holding his hand, telling him I love him and then watching his body relax as his spirit went on its way. I don't know if I will ever have those images leave my psyche. I suppose it's possible that I don't want them to leave. Even though I've been feeling a lot better mentally since my return from Michigan, when I had the opportunity to grieve with family members, I can't shake these "Friday night blues."

What should I do? That is the question—I currently don't have the answer. I still can't have even five minutes pass without thinking about him. I guess that's pretty normal; after all, we were together for a bit more than 30 years. I have 30 years of memories swirling around in my head. Those memories are what maintains me from going completely crazy. But it's still very difficult remembering them all, when I'm still stuck in that last week of his life. I loved him so much—still do. The passing of time will most likely take care of this "problem" but in the meantime...what next?