I walked Elsa, and I did some cleaning in the library in anticipation of Ace coming over to scan more of Mike's books into Collectorz.com. Ace was still scanning the bar codes on the more recently published books. There are 64 more shelves for him to do that essential work. He turns the books without bar codes on their spines for me to enter into the program at my leisure. I had hoped he could tell me what is going on with my version of the program. I can't find the whole collection list on my computer.
I showered and did MELT. I finally started using the roller stick, the Tiger Tail, which Mike bought for me. One of the best presents he ever gave me. I was planning to use it but never did. Now I have it set next to my MELT balls, so when I use them, I use the stick right afterward. My trick of using my shower as a reminder to do MELT and the Tiger Tail is working so far. It will become routine in no time. Hopefully, I keep taking showers.
I called Judy to see what the plans were for church. I hitch a ride with her and her sister, Paulette, to the Holy Rosary church for the 10 am mass on Sundays. Judy has been feeling worse as the chemotherapy treatments progress. She passed on church again today because she was so tired. Paulette picked me up.
I was hit by a wave of sadness when I got to church. Did Mike have to die? Could we have done something differently? Is he okay with being dead? Does he have regrets? If I knew he was happy, I'd be okay.
Sitting in front of me in church was the sister of the woman I had met the week before, who told me that her sister had just lost her husband. Another recent widow. After church, she spoke with me. She and her husband had had continuing problems with his first wife. They were not as lucky as Mike and I were. She was in deep despair about the loss of her life partner. She was always on the verge of tears. Wow! Her grieving process was very different from mine. I suggested she think of this phase of her life as an adventure as I am working on doing. That brought tears to her eyes. They didn't look like happy tears. I'm not sure why I was the way I was, and she was the way she was. I know I loved Mike and loved being his life partner. It was an adventure, one I shared with him. I think part of it is that I have been prepared for this moment for 45 years. Being someone who lost a parent as a child can do that to you. Then I had my mother's model of how to deal with it. She was incredible.
When my father died, leaving her with two children, she took over the reins and made a life for us. She was 52, had been a stay-at-home mom and housewife who was pretty much under the thumb of her German husband who had never worked a day in this country. She was looking for a job within a month of my father's death. She was bad crazy in some ways and good crazy in others. She was a piece of work. While she was difficult, I adored her.
It is generally believed that Mike wouldn't be doing as well as I am if I had gone first. I think that is true. He refused to consider the possibility of death, period end of sentence. Generally, I worried ahead of time about things and handled the actual event calmly. He dismissed the possibility of anything going wrong and didn't do as well when something did happen.
On the other hand, his optimism determined choices we made as a couple that I would never have made. We each made our contribution in our own way. There are many small ways I allowed him to have his own way much of the time. They were in areas that were important to him and less important to me. My level of annoyance was relatively minor, like with his overstuffing the freezer, his library, his polo shirt drawer, the cabinet with the food containers, the rack with the frying pans, etc., etc. I don't do well with people who are controlling people, and they don't do well with me. They see me as controlling. As my niece said, what I control are my boundaries. With Mike, I always felt comfortable. I sometimes wondered if he sacrificed his comfort for mine. I'd asked him outright if he felt controlled. As it wound up, neither one of us felt overwhelmed or controlled by the other.
When I got home, Elsa was waiting at the door for me. Mike always came in the front door, and I always use the side door. Elsa used to plant herself with a good view of the driveway and the front door, so she was ready to greet Mike when he came home. When he entered the house, Elsa was always his first concern. He picked her up, sat down, and rubbed her belly. Then the fun began. He threw balls for her to chase or catch. These are two activities this girl can do just about endlessly. If she thinks she has a sucker on the line, forget it.
I drank my miso soup, wrote some of the blog, and did some ironing. I'd pull an item out of the basket, spray it with water, iron it, and then leave on the board to dry completely. Two objectives: I do a little ironing at a time and don't push myself to get it all done at once, and I give the item time to dry completely. If I put it away prematurely, I look forward to finding mold on it the next time I pull it out of the closet. Then I turn the iron off. When I turn the iron on again, I go over the drying item one more time and start on the next item, which is then left to dry. If the item is big enough, like a sheet, I may do only one section at a time. Besides not forcing myself to do something I rather not do, it forces me to get me up every now and then to do some movement, so I'm not sitting nonstop.
I changed into sit-around clothes and sat down to write. Then it was time for my afternoon nap. Elsa kept barking. There was no one there. I got sick of getting up to check. I called my friend Carol in Ohio. She has been suffering from an allergic reaction, I believe, to medications she took for another medical problem. She is covered from head to toe in hives. OMG! Fortunately, one of her daughters lives nearby, and her family is very supportive. I'm so glad she's not all on her own. After the call, I read some of the NY Sunday Times and fell asleep.
I called Govinda at the Ashram to work out the financial details from my stay. I had reserved the room at the Ashram for the whole month of March. If Mike had been on the road to recovery, I would probably have had to stay there that long if not longer. Govinda's eyes grew wide when I told him I was going home at the beginning of March instead of the end. He keeps the Ashram running on the money he earns from these rooms. He said people make reservations for their vacations weeks in advance. He had blocked out all of March for me, and it was unavailable for other guests. I proposed that I cover the time I didn't stay. He would charge me for the 4 days I stayed, he would try to rent the room as much as he could, and I would cover the time the room was vacant as a donation. Since my time there for Mike is tax-deductible, I would need a receipt for the time I stayed, a refund for the times he could rent the space to someone else, and receipt for charity donation for times he couldn't fill the room. The last was possible because the Ashram is considered a religious organization and, therefore, a charity. This seemed more than a reasonable proposal to me. Besides the room, I had free meals and free access to a washer and a dryer, great supportive company, and when I had guests, Dorothy, my sister for 2 nights, and Yvette for five days, it was without any additional charges for room or board. This was the least I could do for them.
I reviewed Monday's blog again. I called Ace because he hadn't shown up yet. He explained that he had a hectic morning and wouldn't be making it. Oh, well. The clean library gives me pleasure.
I washed the hallway floor and vacuumed the kitchen. I am going to have to rewash the kitchen floor. Guests make things dirty. The vacuum cleaner will sit in the middle of the living room until I get it done. Boy, Mike didn't like my doing that at all at all. Something was out of place. No, no, no. However, he finally made his peace with my piecemeal way of working. He figured if I'm actually going to do the work, he had no grounds for complaining about my leaving cleaning tools out to remind me to do it.
I called Judy and told her about my dream I had about Art Farmer, the jazz musician. The following story is a long-overdue tribute to the man's character. I am forever grateful both for what he did for me and what he didn't do to me. When I was 16 I went to a jazz bar with a camp friend of mine. When I went up to the bar to get a non-alcoholic drink, this man approached me and commented on how well I related to the music, how enthusiastic I was. If anyone thinks I'm enthusiastic now, you should have seen me at 16. He asked me out. As I mentioned above, I wasn't comfortable with people I didn't know well, mainly men but really anyone. This man was Art Farmer, the famous jazz trumpeter. (For those who want more information on him:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Art Farmer.)
The following year there was a Jazz Festival on Randall's Island off NYC in the confluence of three rivers off Manhattan. I was working in NYC that summer and decided to go. This was in 1957, a different era. After work, I caught the train up to Harlem, planning to have dinner there so I would be sure to catch the bus on time. When I got out, I saw a policemen, white naturally, and asked him where I could eat. He said, not to worry he would take care of me. He took me to a dinner that was run by and patronized by white people, mostly men. He spoke to the proprietor behind the counter. It was clear that the policeman thought I needed protection. I must say the men at the counter looked at me as if I was a tasty morsel. When I was finished eating, I went to catch the bus. There were no incidents worth noting. I just didn't look around for who was looking at me.
The concert was great. After the show, I went backstage to find Art. I told him, "You won a fan with a compliment." How's that for a line? What could I have been thinking? I was 16, and he was a 39-year-old jazz musician. Fortunately, his character was impeccable.
He took my address and telephone number. He sent me postcards and called me from the road. He never, and I do mean never made a move on me. I would have been vulnerable. I am forever grateful that he had more character than I had brains. I had relatives and fathers of children I babysat for that made more moves on me, yes, when I was 16. I have no idea what he saw in me other than I was lively and related to his music in a way that he enjoyed.
This 'relationship' continued until the summer I was seventeen when I was about to go off to college. I traveled in from the suburbs one morning to meet him for breakfast in a coffee shop near Herald Square near Macy's is in Manhattan. Here were the two of us eating breakfast together in 1957 in Manhattan. Art was black as coal and 13 years my senior. I am a juicy white 17-year-old. You can imagine the stares we got. I had gone to an inter-racial camp when I was a child so was protected from some degree of prejudice. Also I was not the victim of those condemning looks. I thought it was funny.
After our meal, I told him that I couldn't see him again because I was off to bigger and better things. I was off to Cortland State Teachers College, and after all, while I didn't say it outright, I clearly implied, what was he? Had he gone to college? He has a significant wiki entry, and PBS did a whole hour on him in the Great Performances Series. I think when can say with safety, it was adolescent hubris on my part. As an adult, I considered writing to him to thank him for what he did for me and what he didn't do to me. I never got the courage. I figured he wouldn't even remember me. Little did I know. The last time I tried to figure out how to contact him, he was in a hospital dying of Korsakov Syndrome, a form of antegrade amnesia caused by excessive alcohol consumption turning the brain into cottage cheese. Too bad.
Since Ace didn't come to help me work on my problem with the CollectorZ. Com program, I texted John Coughlin who initiated this whole procedure and bought the program. God bless the man. I walked with Elsa. Whenever I walk, I always focus on one or two changes in my movement pattern. I don't believe you can heal your body if you just do bodywork or just do yoga. If you don't make an effort to change your daily habits, real changes are impossible if problems are caused by long term habits.
I came home and made some notes for the day. Howard's Day Off was playing on NPR. Love that program. Howard is so enthusiastic. Today he played jazz musicians who use classical elements in their work. Didn't Gershwin develop that idea? Back to working on the blog.
John called to help me figure out how to figure out the problem I am having with the Collectorz.com app. No joy. I will have to call tech support for the app to see if they can figure it out. I've been feeling like I'm helping John by entering the books into Collectorz.com, but it's really the other way around. That makes me feel sad and alone. Others are helpful, but they're not as invested as I would like to believe. Not that they should be, whatever their investments in Mike, me, and helping me, it's all more than I expected in the first place.
I tried to get on Netflix while I ate my dinner. I still couldn't get it working. While I entered more books into the program, I picked up a book on Beethoven and found the fly cover tucked into the bookmarking, where Mike stopped reading. It made me sad for all he didn't get to do that he wanted to. I so profoundly hope he is at least at peace and out of pain if not downright, either happy or in bliss. I'm not that worried about myself.
I walked Elsa, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and went to bed. Goodnight, Elsa. Goodnight, Mike.
