I really hate the title of this blog post. I actually hate coming up with titles for any blog post. It makes me think of our quick-look culture and how you have to draw people in right from the start, otherwise they won't take the time to read something through to the end. I also hate the title because I'm insinuating that my pain is an "old" one, when it's actually alive and well every single day. Oh, well. I don't have time for fumbling with titles when it's the meat of the entry I want to get to.
While I'm on the subject of hate, I really hate the huge gaps I leave between blog posts. It may lead people to believe that I have little to say, which is completely inaccurate. I actually have plenty to say. I have scraps and pages of papers with notes I've jotted down at all hours of the day and night so I can write about them at a later date. Unfortunately, that later date is usually, well, waaaaaay later. Old procrastination and perfectionism habits die hard.
I should start by saying that I finally found a job. I just completed my seventh week at work -- an assisted living community about 20 minutes from my home. I'm working as their receptionist, and while some may say it's a huge step down for me -- from both a financial and prestige standpoint -- I know it's right where I'm supposed to be. In my short time there, I have grown to know and love the residents who live in the complex, and I know they look to me for support and a caring ear. That is what I've been aching for -- to be loved and needed again. Of course, those needs are being met in a very different way than they were with Mike, but they are being met nonetheless. Several of them know my story, most don't, but that's fine. I am a friendly face that greets them every day, and seeing them struggle through the muck and mire of older age, it gives me even more reason to push forward. And at the end of the day, they don't make me feel like just a receptionist. They make me feel like part of their family, and they have welcomed me into their home.
That said, it doesn't mean triggers don't assail me left and right. The triggers come from situations that most people wouldn't understand. There was the day a couple months ago when I went to donate blood and I was denied because my hematocrit level was too low (hematocrit, or "crit," is your red blood cell count). I didn't much care that I couldn't donate that day, but it immediately brought me back to the hundreds of blood draws Mike endured, and how towards the end things like his crit level was a constant worry and source of panic. At work, I share a widower/widowhood bond with men and women who are old enough to be my grandparents. I enter information in their personal data sheets and time after time must check off "widowed" under the "marital status" column. How does a 38-year-old woman share such an awful loss with people so much older? There was even one day at work when I received a call from a hospital emergency room, and in the background I could hear the same exact machine noises I would hear day in and day out whenever Mike was in the hospital. It brought me right back to that awful place. Meanwhile, the two-year anniversary of Mike's passing is breathing down my neck. (By the way, typing that sentence almost made me sick.) The phone calls, e-mails and check-ins have long waned, and while I understand it as I understand the human condition, it doesn't make my need for them any less.
My 20th high-school reunion is in two months. I struggle with knowing if I should even go. After all, what do I have to show for my life? I am 38, single, childless and living in my mother's house. This is no pity party. It's my life. I remember going to my 10th reunion, alone, and wishing that was different, too. Mike and I were dating at the time, but since he was recovering from his first bone-marrow transplant, he couldn't attend. I was OK with that, and just looked forward to the next reunion when I could finally show him off, and probably share pictures of our kids and talk about our home and our life together. Instead, I feel like I have less than ever to show for my life.
I am reminded of a line from a song by The Script, which says, "I'm barely used to saying 'me' instead of 'us.'" Ain't it the truth.
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