Hello Grandma

This morning I went to let the maniac dog outside and found a dead bird on my back stoop. You know how much I like birds. My windows are in serious need of cleaning so I have no idea how they can get confused enough to bash into them.

I felt a little prickle on the back of my neck. And not just because I will have to gather the courage to dispose of it. My superstitious grandmother thought a dead bird (or a wild bird that flies in your house) represents death.

About 30 minutes later, my mother called to inform me that her sister's husband had just lost his brother to an apparent heart attack.

I don't consider myself superstitious but hmmmm.

Deja Vu

It's been just over one week since we returned from Hangdog's funeral in Mississippi. Our pantry was low on essentials and I had many errands to run yesterday. I was also overdue for a manicure.

Every stop I made -- from the nail salon to the dry cleaners -- involved the same question, "How is your father-in-law?" It started giving me a headache to repeatedly explain his death.

It also warmed my heart that so many of these people seem to genuinely care. In the 2 1/2 years that the oldies lived with us, they certainly left an impression with a lot of people.

Different Kinds of Loss

Loss hurts. Like most things in life, there are different degrees of pain.

Some examples:

You have a basket with loose socks -- the mates are lost.
You lost an important phone number or document.
You lost a bet.
You lost a job, a client or a significant business deal.
You lost the ability to do something that you had taken for granted.
You lost a spouse through death or divorce.
You lost a friend through death or disagreement.
You lost a parent or two, or in-laws.
You lost a child.

I can't fathom that last one but I know far too many people who have survived it. They are my heroes.

There were times in the last few years that I was certain I had lost my mind.

Come On April

For various reasons, January, February and March are my least favorite months. The holidays are over and the cold grayness is not pleasant. Gloomy weather affects my mood plus, the husband goes stir crazy. He barks (at no one in particular) when it snows. He looks at his golf clubs with an adoration that is usually reserved (in normal people) for lovers and children. This is why we tend to travel as often as possible during the winter months.

This year I crossed the mental line from dislike to hate. The Belle died in January; Hangdog died in March.

I love April, although we get our fair share of rain and continued gray skies. April brings budding trees and early blooms. April brings my annual trek to a writer's conference in Manhattan.

Moods seems to improve in April. I know mine does.

Here's a dirty little secret. April brings the official beginning of the golf season. Lots of women I know groan and complain about the time their husbands spend playing golf (and/or cards.) There are no young children in this household and now there are no oldies so I am the polar opposite. During golf season, the husband is up with the sun and out the door. In the mean and nasty months, Saturday and Sunday mornings get on my nerves. He doesn't know what to do with himself. I suggest laundry or other household chores. He ignores me. He tries to practice new pieces on the piano ... over and over and over. He hovers, "What are you doing?" If he ventures into a project, I am summoned to give an opinion, fetch a hammer, etc.

Is this what retirement is like? If so, I'll pass. The Belle was extremely gracious to her husband but I also witnessed the many times that she wanted to be left alone. I still haven't decided if he was clueless or determined.

I prefer to have my own daily activities. Then during dinner or curling up at the end of the day, we get to have the interesting conversation, "How was your day?"

Going Through Their Stuff

No one wants to die but I'm pretty sure we're going to face it. I don't mean to be flip but the people who are left behind get the tough part.

Even though we spent tons of time going through the oldies' belongings when we sold the house in Mississippi, it just put a dent in it.

I have an irrational fear of someone going through my paperwork and notes. There's only one person I trust with it; maybe because I know she won't judge me. When my friend Patsy bacame ill, she developed an obsession with getting all things in order. As usual, she wanted to spare her husband any further frustration in the midst of grief.

So, we're in constant pursuit of paperwork and documents. It feels intrusive but it's necessary.

The dungeon is back in order but the 90 pounds of paperwork is not.

They Come in Threes

My grandmother was very superstitious. (Bird in the house -- someone is going to die, don't walk under a ladder, etc.)

She was a big believer that death came in threes. It could be three Hollywood celebrities or three people you know.

I am not superstitious. But, within the last 3 (THREE) weeks, our dear friend and neighbor lost his mom, our dear friend lost his dad and we lost the Belle.

Is she tapping me on the shoulder or throwing a boulder?

No More Tears

I'm not talking about baby shampoo; I'm talking about me.

You would think the human body could only hold so many tears. In my case, that is not true. I've got the super duper tear-producing machinery. I cannot seem to dry up.

The mother-in-law is being moved to Hospice today. Her vitals are screwy and her toxicity levels are escalating at an alarming rate. She may have hours; she may have days. The doctors recommend (and we agree) that we have reached the point of no return. We're not trying to get her back. She just needs to be comfortable.

Hangdog only knows a portion of this. He knows she's in the hospital. He knows she is not doing well. Tomorrow morning, we will pick him up at the Home and drive him to the Hospice for their final visit. (Well, their final one here.) Our friend and family doctor is going with us because frankly, we're terrified he may stroke out.

One of the brothers is probably on his way here. He only lives about four hours away. I don't know if he's bringing his wife or five children. We've spent countless hours on the phone and it's just a little past noon.

So, I'm changing sheets, washing towels and crying.

I keep going in the dungeon and then forgetting why I'm in there. Then it came to me. I must figure out what she would want to be buried in. I sat on the floor and cried. Then, as I always do, I called my parents. "What outfit did you think she looked the prettiest in?"

The husband is holding up. His tear ducts are working quite well also. But, he's better when he's busy and there is lots to do.

Do you know the laws and regulations that accompany shipping a body? Neither do I. But, I'm learning. Especially difficult if you have to cross several state lines. Their family plot is in southern Mississippi and there is not an airport. So we've sort of moved into planes, trains and automobile territory. (I'm reminded of that scene in National Lampoon's Vacation, where they strapped Aunt Edna on top of the car.) So I laugh for a minute and then I sob and hiccup like a baby with colic.

I'm tempted to go buy some of that baby shampoo that promises "No More Tears." Instead, I will probably crawl on the dog pillow.