Transitions

 

Transitions are hard for me.  I can recall envying Peter Pan because he didn’t have to “grow up”.  I even still remember the lyrics to “I Won’t Grow up”, a song from a Peter Pan musical on TV by Mary Martin (who played Peter Pan).  I would sing it and stomp around the house pretending to be Peter Pan. Junior high was especially difficult with my mother expecting me to go to school dances.  I’d cry that I didn’t want to go, but she would just drive me there and sit with me in the car until I could get my courage up. Most of the time I stood in the girl’s restroom trying to avoid dancing with anyone.  I liked to dance, but none of the boys could dance very well and that embarrassed me.

Coming out of the rest room one night, Steve String, pounced on me to be in a dance contest . There was nothing worse than dancing with the tallest, lankiest boy in the class in a dance contest.  I became more and more frustrated and agitated that we weren’t eliminated. We were doing a simple box step, not a waltz or cha-cha.  We just looked so silly together because I was one of the smallest girls and he was so tall and skinny he had the nickname “String Bean”.  We were finally eliminated in third place.  I RAN from the dance floor to the rest room so embarrassed that we had been spotlighted when we clearly looked weird together.

The next transition was from teen-ager to adult which was also difficult.  Most of that transition happened while I was in Germany when I started dating a 26 year old man.  While I professed to love him, I couldn’t stop flirting with and socializing with some of my students who were basically my age between 19 and 21.  I went with a class  to Venice, Italy on a school trip.  We had a great time having spaghetti eating contests as well as seeing the sights.  Most of my sight-seeing was done with Dieter whom I was attracted to.  I kept pumping my emotional brakes and made it through the week without crossing any boundaries.  But I did write about it in my journal.  I told my 26 year old boyfriend about it when I got back. He just smiled in his beautifully mature way, giving me a hug, telling me he understood.

After I returned from Germany and was a full-time teacher, I dated a man who was a bit on the wild side.  He was a Viet Nam vet who hadn’t attended college, drove a motor cycle, had long hair and a short beard.  We got along great until he took me to a party that reeked of marijuana and I saw drugs being used.  I didn’t panic until I saw several of my students across the room.  I had unintentionally crossed over that border..  I left immediately and told him we couldn’t go out if he was going to take me to parties like that. We stopped dating shortly after that.  I fully transitioned at 25 when I started dating Dave.

I have now reached another transition from a middle aged married woman to being an elderly widow.  I wonder about old boyfriends and have come to the realization they might be dead.  I sleep alone in my bed and wonder if I’ll ever wake up to a man beside me smiling. Will I ever go dancing on a moon-light cruise again? Will I ever be able to stay up until 9 PM again? What’s it like traveling solo these days? One of my friends vows she’ll never marry again.  She says in her sweet Mississippi accent,” I won’t be any man’s nurse or purse”. I laughed but a little part of me also cried.

I have a high school reunion coming up.  I wonder if I’m going to be one of those pathetic widows who grabs another widow to dance the cha-cha.  Or, will I grab Steve String (the Bean) to dance and hope he’s moved on from the box step.

"I Want to Go Home"

 For several years, Dave struggled physically and often expressed to me his need for a “new body”. But if a health or legal professional asked him if he was depressed or wanted to go on hospice, he would deny it and even insisted he wanted to be

resuscitated and put on a feeding tube. This was all contrary to his wishes 20 years ago.  It has just dawned on me that he was trying to protect me.  He didn’t want me to know how much he was suffering.

Despite his failing body, he still had a powerful need to protect me, to comfort me. After I had to put him in a nursing home, I visited several times a day often just to change the channels on his television. To an observer, he needed me, but in fact I needed him, too.  He provided me with comfort but he also provided me a reason to get out of bed each day.  Caregiving can be addictive.  I didn’t really want to do anything but attend to his needs. I had gradually put my life on hold to care for him.

After he was in the nursing home,I could see he was getting good care, but he was getting weaker.  He could hardly talk or eat—he didn’t have the energy to be very social. I finally decided the time was right to get my knee replaced.  I talked to him about my needing to go to the hospital and the months of healing I would need. 

So, on December 8th I went to the hospital, had surgery, spent a night in there while they monitored my blood pressure.  They released me the next day and we stopped at the nursing home before I even came home.  Rachel wheeled me in to see Dave to assure him that I was OK and to tell him that Rebecca and Rachel would be staying with me for a few weeks until I could manage on my own.

Daily for almost two weeks, our daughters put me in a wheel chair to visit Dave.  With Christmas approaching and Rebecca with a new job, I told them to stay home on Dec. 21. As I was settling in, I heard a knock on the door—-our grandsons Davis and Roman were there. Rachel had messaged Davis and Roman to come visit me and take me over to see Grandpa.

As they wheeled me in, I pretended to be driving a race car as we entered the “living room” of Dave’s nursing home, hoping to see him smile.  His neighbor Alice laughed at our antics, but Dave just looked up at me and said very seriously, “I want to go home.”  I didn’t know what he meant and was pretty impressed he could say a whole sentence. Roman pushed his wheel chair and Davis pushed mine back to his room.  Just when we were going to talk with him, a nurse came to the room to get him ready for dinner.  That was the signal that we needed to leave since they needed to check his vitals and clean him up.

So, we came back to my apartment and the boys left.  Later that night, after I was in bed, I heard the land line phone ring.  I knew I could never get out of bed and get to the phone on time so I let it ring and went back to sleep.  Next I heard Rebecca’s voice, “Mom, Dad has died.”  All I could think was, “That’s impossible—-I just saw him this afternoon.”  She helped me get dressed and we went over to his nursing home to say our good-byes.

I later pondered, “Why did he die NOW when I was recovering from surgery”  I think in retrospect, he saw that I was being cared for by daughters and grandchildren and he could let go. He’d been ready to let go for several years, but had been holding on to make sure I would be all right after he passed.

A Theme from a Summer Place

Photo by Laura Fuhrman on Unsplash

“A Theme from a Summer Place”

Playing on Alexa

Makes me remember

That gawky 14 year old girl

Slow dancing with a pillow:

Her future ahead of her,

Dreaming of the day when 

She would dance with her “love”.

I laugh: my “loves”  

Wouldn’t dance with me.

I wanted dips and twirls 

and they only gave me stiff legged two-steps.

They gave me so much, 

but not dancing. . .

Halfway through the song, 

I see him

Sitting in the corner of the sofa.

Why not dance with my best partner?

Like a commercial with a young dreamy-eyed 14-year-old

Fading into a world-weary widow, 

Seeking joy in the unknown tomorrow---

Dipping and twirling, 

We dance away: my pillow and me to 

“A Theme from a Summer Place”.