I still count the
weeks. Ten to be exact. I still walk to the far side of the bed. My side. I still
use My bathroom sink. His coffee mugs sit unused. My shopping cart is half
full. Half of me is missing. I’ve reached the point of accepting the reality
thrust upon me so unexpectedly. Now I’m trying to focus on living this new
version of myself. The widow. The party of one.
I’m six days away from
what would have been our 44th anniversary. Instead it’s another gut
wrenching post-Kahuna milestone to conquer. Daughter and Niece will join me for
a Girls Night - a dinner dance at a favorite winery. Everybody is trying so
hard to insulate me from the pain. It’s their pain too. So we shall eat, drink
and dance. But I miss him…
I miss his hugs. He gave the best hugs. Quick goodbye hugs as
he left for work. Celebratory hugs of happiness. Passionate hugs of lovers. Casual
come-from-behind hugs in the kitchen as I made dinner. Long, arms-encircling-me,
“I’m here to make sure nothing bad happens to you,” embraces. He was nine inches
taller, allowing my head to rest in the middle of his chest, his heart softly
beating a calm, reassuring rhythm. We hugged often, in private and public. I
never wanted them to end.
 |
| Safe in his arms- and taller with heels! |
In my post-Kahuna life, hugs are frequent - delivered on an
almost daily basis from my extraordinary village. (Hug) “I wish I could do
more,” is a sentiment shared often. (Hug) “I can’t imagine what you’re going
through.” (Hug) “You are so strong, I don’t know what I would do if this
happened to me.” (Hug) “You’ll get through this.” I welcome each and every comforting embrace,
and feel immensely fortunate to have the support of my wonderful “framily”. But
no one can replace Kahuna hugs. I miss his hugs.
I miss our dancing. As baby boomers, our choreography was
influenced by our parents and older siblings. Glenn Miller’s Big Band meets
American Bandstand. If a song had a beat and you could swing dance to it, we
were out there. My hand in his, my other arm on his shoulder, we would set out
on a swing dance-fest, complete with our signature spins and turns. It wasn’t
perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but it was our “routine” – and we
got lost in each other in those precious moments.
I have danced twice since That Day. The songs that beckoned me
to grab Daughter, then Niece, to the dance floor were from the George and Paula
playlist. I felt compelled to channel my inner Kahuna, and led my new dance
partners in a few familiar swing spins. I’m sure they felt slightly awkward as
I took their hands and proceeded to “step, step, rock step, turn and spin” them
to the music. We smiled, then I cried – another ugly cry – missing my
life/dance partner in that moment. I miss dancing.
I miss…our conversations – both spoken
and silent. Our ESP-like intuition of each other’s thoughts at any given
moment. His room filling presence. His “sweet-talk” to Charlie the Golden, complete
with Charlie’s replies. His sensitivity (“Quick, change the channel!”) to
commercials featuring abandoned or abused animals. His misspellings in
crosswords I’d have to fix. His ADD-induced messiness. I miss everything.
But I miss his hugs the most.
I was already pretty far gone, when he became my Kahuna by osmosis. Battered and almost broken..in he stepped. Straightened out some latent other attorney mistakes. And allowed me to be a part of his family. We talked dogs. Miss Lucy, and the goldens who came before. We talked Alison. And how he respected her..not just loved her...and Scott, Dodger stadium engagements. And. He. Talked. The. Lovely. Lovely. Paula Marie. The light of his life. How she made everything alright, in his big life, it was LLPM. He talked of Maui, and Winerys. Of Boobaloosa. BBQ's. New York winter time. When this diagnosis was handed down. And then. That day. All of us. Every single one of us, died a little too. On that day. Etched. But none of us, try as we might. May ever know..just what the Lovely One has had to endure. But here she is. Guiding us, showing us how. Telling us. Things we need to know. Because at some point. Well. You know. Grief. It just sits there with you. Once the Lovely talked about how it visits. And sometimes seems to stay. In these still new days of firsts. I always thought at some point..maybe, yes far away, but at some point. The reality of the now life, becomes part of you. But it doesn't. And it is ok. To serve love is to live life...even if for a little while, you are living it seemingly alone. In the newness. And the tomorrows. The best Lovely One, I ever knew. Is still serving love, with every breath she takes.
ReplyDeleteBeautifully said.
DeletePatti, your gift of writing - and your love for the Kahuna - is so special to me. Thank you, my friend. LPM
DeletePaula, your writing about life without George is amazing. Of course its hard to hear when a friend is struggling when they one thing they truly need is the one thing no one can give them. I think you have a gift for articulating what I’m sure a lot of people who have experienced deep grief cannot do in words.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful Amanda, Thank you for expressing your thoughts. My writing is my therapy. Expressing my feelings somehow helps me process them. I love you - so did George <3 XO
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