1000 Things

 

Since my husband’s death almost nine months ago, my Facebook page and YouTube channel get inundated with posts about grief, videos about how to handle grief, how to cope with loss, how to not lose your shit when you’re hanging on by a thread. Some of them speak to me, some don’t. One video that spoke to me was by a man who had lost his spouse. He talked about getting through it by promising himself to do 1000 new things in the next year. That’s a hell of a lot, I thought. Almost three a day on average. Hell, some days I’m lucky to stumble out of bed, feed and clothe myself and stumble back to bed. THREE new things a DAY?

 In the video I watched, the 1000 new things didn’t have to be monumental, bucket list, life-changing things. You didn’t have to snowshoe across Antarctica or hang glide off the side of a cliff. It could be as simple as trying a pumpkin spice latte or wearing a brand of shoe you’ve never worn.

 I’ve kept it in the back of my mind, though. I haven’t made an effort to write down a list, or to write down each new thing I do. And at my age, if I don’t write it down, it’s gone 20 minutes later. I can be sitting on the throne thinking about something I need to do, and by the time I get to the living room it’s gone. Three days later I’ll remember, fuck, I meant to do THAT! But in the past couple of months, if I do something I’ve never done before, I make a little mental note that, hey, that’s a new thing. But, no, I have no running total. Sometimes making the mental note is enough to take my mind off the present, the sadness, the emptiness.

 In the past nine months, I’ve done myriad new things. Call about my husband’s life insurance. Check. Send out death certificates. Check. Tell someone I’m a widow. Fucking check.

 Moving to a new town didn’t count. I’ve done that a few times. Living with my 83-year-old father counted, I think. Yes, I’ve lived with him, for like 19 years back in the last century. No, I hadn’t done it as a 59-year-old grieving widow. Check.

 This summer I’ve done a number of things I could add to my list of 1000 new things, if I were actually keeping a list. But that would require organization, forethought, or at least a pencil and paper. I bought a house on my own, without a spouse. I bought a riding mower (never wanted a lawn large enough I’d need one). I drove a truck towing a trailer (I blame my dad for never teaching me all those years we hauled horses.) I had a surprise 60^th birthday party. I toured a bourbon distillery. I went to Churchill Downs and the Kentucky Derby Museum. I went catfishing in southern Indiana. My sister locked me in a bathroom. I had Southwest Airlines pay for my hotel room in Oakland, CA, because their lateness caused me to miss a flight. Check, check, check. 

 Today I added a few new things. I had an overnight guest for the first time in my new house. She and I graduated in the same high school class in 1982. We talked and went to dinner and looked at our high school annuals from 40+ years ago and talked some more. I said, “I can’t believe I can remember names and faces from 45 years ago but I can’t remember what I had for breakfast.”

 This morning we drove 90 minutes to the Oregon coast to see other alumni from our high school. Admittedly, I had to look at the annuals to jog my memory about what class they were in, how far ahead or behind us. Class of ’86. OK, babies in our eyes as seniors. Class of ’81, not as cool as ‘82, but OK.  I expected it’d be a couple hour visit, maybe grab lunch, then be on our way. Yeah, that’s not what happened.

Sidebar. I’ve struggled with feeling accepted as far back as I can remember. It started in elementary school and continued far into my adulthood.  I was never a member of the “in” crowd in high school. I wasn’t a cheerleader. I didn’t play sports. I wasn’t a part of the popular group. I was a shy, bashful, “A” student who spent my after-school time doing homework, practicing piano and riding my horse.  As my friend and I poured over the annuals last night, I was shocked at how many clubs I belonged to. Looking at it from my introverted self, all I could think was, “What was I thinking?’ I know what I was thinking. I was trying to fit in. It didn’t stop after high school. College was a nightmare. Small town girl who struggled with making friends, going from a high school of 200 to a college with a population of 14,000. That’s a story for another day. It’s no wonder I found comfort in a city the size of Tucson, Arizona where I didn’t have to fit in. I could just be.

 As an aging adult, now when I look back at being raised in a town with nothing but a post office, tiny store, church and a school where grades K-12 were on the same campus, I appreciate how that built a foundation of community, good or bad. I spent most of my adult life trying to escape the physical and emotional ties of my childhood. I found comfort in living in big cities where nobody knew me, nobody knew my business, and I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew in the grocery store. Yet the existence of Facebook drew me back to my roots. Suddenly almost half my Facebook friends were “kids” I grew up with. I found friendships where I’d had none, renewed relationships with people I thought I’d never see again, acquaintances from years past became people I leaned on for support, or better yet, could offer my support and comfort to them. I appreciated the foundation, the roots.

 But I digress. Admittedly I felt some stress going into today. Meeting up with people who shared my high school experience, but with whom I hadn’t been friends, and who might not even remember me. The feeling of “Oh hell, I won’t fit in” crept in. My goal was to get through the day without feeling like an idiot.

 As I usually do, I stayed relatively quiet during introductions and initial conversations. I observe, take in my surroundings, assess, fly under the radar. When I’m comfortable, I’ll inject myself into the conversation with reserve. As I get more comfortable. I’ll let my sense of humor loose, with restraint, because not everyone gets my sense of humor at first.

 After sitting around visiting, our hosts asked if we wanted to ride out to the dunes. They were outfitted with a Polaris or two and a few ATVs. Sure, why not, we said. We were in Winchester Bay. I’d never been. Check. I’d never ridden in a Polaris with a dude I barely knew. Check. It was freaking cool! I was busy taking in the sights and sounds, while also feeling like I should at least make conversation with the ’86 Adna grad driving the Polaris. Not my comfort zone making conversation, but I made an effort. He had Boxers dogs in the past. Oh cool. I could sit and talk Boxer dogs for hours. Small talk about the dunes, the scenery, the rain the night before. One holy shit moment where he might have exclaimed “Mother fucker!” as we climbed a steep dune and on the other side I said, “Did your butt pucker on that one?”

 We ended up spending almost three hours playing in the dunes, he let us drive his Polaris, we tailgated a picnic lunch, we took photos and talked and laughed. We had to take off because of driving time and commitments. We said goodbye and hugged and I felt a little less of an outsider than I did when I arrived.

 I needed this weekend. I’ve managed to keep myself busy with new-home-owner-projects, shuttling my dad to and from doctor’s appointments. But on the quiet days, a veil of sadness still covers me and I have to pull myself out from under it. Today was a reminder that there are experiences out there for me beyond the sadness, beyond the grief. It’s what my husband wanted for me and I hope I honor him by finding the joy life has to offer.  Check.