7-14-06
Hi My Love –
I love you!
Had a rough evening, am having a roughish morning.
Ran some errands after work, as I told you before: getting stuff for the picnic, picking up laundry. Stopped
off at home, had Jimmy check the phone connections — and, by god, I now have my phone back! Then
started off for Framingham.
Over the Tobin the car slipped out of gear twice. More problems on Storrow. Figured it might be low on
transmission fluid but decided to play it safe and go home. Indeed, I was down a pint….But was blue and
distracted all evening.
Woke up back sore and heartsore. To my huge surprise, it’s seeing Tom that’s upsetting me. He, you and I
go way back, and I haven’t had to deal with such a person since shortly after you died. It’s making me hurt
all over again, get weepy, the whole nine yards. And that, I think, was the underlying reason I turned back
last night.
Other, related matters:
Christy invited me to a farewell supper on Sunday, Aug. 13. Good food, open bar at a place in Cambridge.
I accepted, but felt wrong about it. Andy C. will be there, maybe, but otherwise I’ll be among strangers,
young strangers. And they’ll be celebrating Christy and Thomas’ union, which I cannot do. And there’s
always the danger of Christy coercing (while inebriated) men into performing tricks for her amusement,
something she loves to do and which I detest. So today I begged off, thanked her for having a kind soul
(I know it was out of pity that I was invited) and will try to say nothing more.
And I wonder — am beginning to believe — that while I may have been young at heart fairly recently,
I may be old at heart now.
7-15-06
Good Morning Beloved –
The picnic is, happily, behind me. I thought of you, missed you, wept for you (and me) and was grateful to
limp home. I’d have given a lot to have said, “Gotta go — Donna awaits!” Couldn’t. Cried.
I pick up Tom at 4 in Copley. He’s got a Van Dyke beard, unkempt. A bit thicker in the bod. Hair all grey.
scar on the knee horrendous. But he’s running now, very slowly, but running. Had good PT and put in the
work. Kids OK. Usha had suicidal/self-mutilating behaviors, did a stint in-patient, is in therapy now and
seems to be improving. Bhumika will be going to cosmetology school as part of her senior high school
year curriculum. Binita wants to start at the local community college later this year. Anna has a new job.
Same old same old. Tom seemed less anxious about the future, perhaps because the end’s in sight as far
as the kids’ basic education is concerned. They’re breaking even because they rent. If they’d bought the
place they live in, they’d be paying for mortgage twice what they pay in rent. But he’s resigned to being in
California for the decade, perhaps longer.
They’re down to eight cats. No rabbit.
Am home briefly from Janet, who suffers in the heat a bit like you did, and momentarily am going into town
to pick up Tom. Message when I got in: Lisa was in an accident, says she’s OK, got slammed as she left a
parking lot. Car probably totalled, and Lisa cited for some kind of illegal manouver leaving the lot. New
beau being helpful. Left a message for her, will try again later. Bad time for that to happen (as if there’s
ever a good time!). Talk to you later, my beloved.
7-16-06
Good Morning My Love –
God, I miss you so much! Am just back from dropping Tom off at Back Bay, where he’ll take the commuter
train to his sister’s. Very nice visit, but you should know, since you were a presence through much of it.
Let’s start with a thank you. Years ago you got a bed in a bag we didn’t need with money we could’ve
spent on something else. Last night that bed inflated as designed, quickly and easily, and gave Tom a good
night’s sleep. And it deflated easily and is now tucked back in the utility closet. Donna was right, thank
you Donna! So still, you take care of me. God bless Donna Boyce, the love of my life.
And of course, no matter what Tom and I talked about, you were there. He did a lot of stuff on the laptop,
good stuff I hope. He loved your system, liked Avant Browser, complimented your choices. And I was
thinking, she’d sure be sceptical of what he’s doing, probably wouldn’t let him anywhere near the system,
and would look askance at what he did. I’ll try to summarize what he did, as soon as I figure it out.
And when we talked about writing you were there too. And the past. Everything. After I dropped him off I
needed to talk to you so damn much and of course couldn’t, and cried very hard as I drove through the
Back Bay. Crying now.
Tom and “everybody” thinks I’m doing OK, did OK, considering. I told him I’d been anticipating your death
even before the MRI and death sentence, knew I’d have to make major changes and quickly, knew in general
terms what I’d have to do, and how. Then I refused to think it out much further so I could focus on you and
not make myself miserable. But I was as ready as I could be on Sept. 20. That kept me busy — and I
stayed busy — which was, in retrospect, an enormous help. And I’d been mentally preparing to live alone
long before. Finally I was keeping house by myself and spending more time inside my own head, sharing as
much as I thought you could (or should have to) handle and keeping the rest to myself. So I trained for this
stage, I guess you could say.
But, baby, you cannot be replaced. I could prepare/train forever but nothing could fill the huge gaps in my
time, thought and particularly emotions. Only you. And since you can no longer fill them, all I can do is try
to avoid dwelling on them. And sometimes, such as lately, I can’t.
I’m grateful, in retrospect, that I wasn’t like Linda: stunned, saying, “What am I gonna do?” I knew what I
had to do.
7-17-06
My love, I am going to be old without you. I’m entering into this stage feeling almost like a kid going out
on his own. I leave a life behind and start another one, and have no idea how I’ll occupy my time, nor
what my emotional life will be like. I need interaction, but on what level? Will I need intimacy? My feelings
when I sense I’m giving Janet emotional support tell me I still need to be needed. But do I need it enough to
enter into a new intimate relationships, or will “friendships” be enough?
Believe it or not, I stay in training to live with a woman. I keep the toilet seat down. I say “please” and
“thank you” to inanimate objects. I continue to resist the urge to become a slob again. But it’s conversation
and negotiation, underpinned by regard, concern, respect and observation, that keep live-in (and most
other) relationships alive and healthy, and for that one cannot really prepare. And how I might go from
where I am now to any ongoing intimacy is almost incomprehensible to me. Baby, you trained me well how
to live with a woman. So did Jane. Not just with a woman, but with an intelligent, willful, talented, troubled,
challenging, needy, sensational woman. It seems almost sinful that such an education shaped by pain and
time and joy, should not be used again.
But it doesn’t work that way. It’s not like a job skill, smoothly transferred to a new position. It has to work
for me, inside; I have to get something, I suspect, more than just — as I do with Janet — a feeling of doing
something good. Remember, you healed me, by loving me so well and fully, and challenging me, as much
as I healed you. (Better, since I now continue on, healed, whereas you couldn’t be healed, at least
physically. I did what I could, baby, but I couldn’t do that.) I think that means I now need a full, complete
relationship that allows me to do what I’ve learned to do well, and that your love prepared me for.
I see another path, not as good, but perhaps more likely. I see myself older, smaller, sadder, alone, a
quirky codger who lives in very narrow parameters, limited by lack of money and basic personal
conservatism, who talks to himself and his dead beloved, reads, writes, plays poker, fades slowly, dies,
disappears. A pitiful, ridiculous figure. You remember that I always imagined myself as the kind of old
man who walks the streets muttering to himself, acting odd but not actually crazy, being abused by small
children and dogs.
So what will it be?
Choices I make will affect how it turns out. But I don’t know in what form those choices will present
themselves. You could say, go out, try everything, never turn down an invite, you never know. But, as you
are well aware of, I cringe at most social situations, almost always want to leave, almost always wish I
hadn’t come. I’ve told Lisa for years to give serendipity a chance, but am very reluctant to take my own
advice. Being cheap — and having to be cheap — doesn’t help.
I could volunteer for certain things that might put me in serendipity’s way. But I need to keep my time free
just now, until I have enough work to be really self-supporting.
7-19-06
Good Afternoon Beloved –
When I told Tony the T yesterday that I was growing a bit snappish, he reminded me that, a year ago when I
first went to him, I described my behavior as “snappishness” — a coincidence he couldn’t pass over. So we
talked about anger (“snappish” is to “anger” as “scuffle” is to “fight”) and he made the reasonable assump-
tion that I must be mad at you, on some level, for having left me.
But try as I might, I don’t seem to feel that way. You fought for every day and left me with the greatest
reluctance. If it was up to you, we’d still be together. I’m angry at God –oh yes! Angry at the medical
establishment a bit, individual doctors yes, myself….Hey, I’m always pissed at myself. But if anything, you
fought too hard to stay alive, extending our suffering, individually and collectively, longer than perhaps
was wise, as if you really had a choice. I recall much more relief than anger at your passing. Next time (two
weeks) I’ll ask how I can find that anger, if it’s actually there.
Perhaps I’m angry at you for the financial fix I’m in, though that was in my hands and I chose to spend the
way I spent. Your fault? A little, but it sure wasn’t your fault that I bought all those frogs after you died.
Perhaps I’m angry at being sad and lonesome so much. Maybe that’s the back door into my anger house.
But how can that be your fault? I stay away from people by preference; in fact, that’s always been my
preference, from before I even met you.
First time Tony and I haven’t been on the same page.
By the way, the US consulate in China is keeping Tony in limbo. They have to cough up the appropriate
paperwork for the little girl, and they haven’t, and Tony can’t even book his flight. “My Government, the
Fuck-Up.”
Expressed to Tony my prejudice toward Muslims. Suprised him a bit. Surprises me too.
Stayed home yesterday. Gloomy, didn’t want to deal with upper 90s heat, had just enough diarrhea to
provide me slender justification. Back at it today, though, which is 15 degrees cooler.
7-20-06
Good Evening My Love –
Ten months gone. Two days till your birthday. Love you still.
Worked hard today — stock orders and two skids of music — and for my reward, my poker site is off-line.
Sigh….
Lisa thinks I was angry because I couldn’t trust your thought processes toward the end. True: scared, very
scared, frantically, hysterically angry. Then the MRI. After that your thinking improved in a sense. It simpli-
fied, stopped worrying about the extraneous or trying to work ut things now beyond it. So you made sense
more.
Lisa also ascribed to me her jealousy of the underservedly lucky. We all have a bit of it, but Lisa expresses
her arrogance by this subtle “Why me?” (when underserving people prosper). It doesn’t matter in the context
of our day-to-day struggles, plus the story’s still being written. She’ll figure the last out first. (Had to say
that!) I say “arrogance” because Lisa assumes herself to be more deserving than someone else. Understand
it, share it to some extent, but disagree with it. Too much we don’t know about how things are inside
someone else, or how things turn out in the long run.
Anyway, how could I be angry at that wonderful smile that I can keep the rest of my life? Am I angry
because the literal smile is gone? Sad yes, oh my god sad, but I still can’t find the anger. To be angry I
would have to have forgotten how much you suffered, how part of me prayed it would end, albeit only
the right way.
I may be angry — as I’ve been much of my life, child and adult — that there’s really no one to be angry
at. Somebody must have done this to me, right? But no, there’s nobody. Nobody gave you MS or glia-
blastoma, and we all tried our best and couldn’t do a thing, ultimately, and that makes me angry, but I’ve
only got God left to be angry at, and I’ve already pled guilty to that one.
Yes, we all made mistakes, but none of them made you sick or made you die. Not even mine. So I’ll grant
that I’m angry, but there’s just no one I can chastise, and so it comes out in annoyance. Snappishness.
Potentially, irrational outbursts.
Sounds like I need a therapist.
I love you, Donna. No, I’m not angry at you. I just…wish you were here.
L.
