Let's Talk.....

...about my husband. Seriously. I do want to talk about him.

I went to a BBQ over Labor Day Weekend and my cousin, who is the sweetest person ever, was talking to me about any and everything but Bobby. At one point in the conversation, it was natural for me to mention him. I don’t remember what we were talking about...but his name came up. My cousin said, “I knew that, but I didn’t know if you wanted me to mention him. I didn’t want to remind you.”

“Remind me? I think about him 24-7,” I said.

She hugged me.

Last week, I met a new supervisor at work, who I know for a fact knew my husband through work (for new readers, we worked at the same place, only in different departments). We exchanged formalities and went on our way. I saw her again the next day in the hall, and we again exchanged formalities. No mention of Bobby whatsoever.

I felt like I’d been punched. It was like he did not exist. I wasn’t looking for a dissertation, but a simple, “I knew Bob. I’m sorry for your loss." Even something simpler like, "I knew Bob. He was a great person to work with." I would have even settled for, "I knew Bob. He drove me crazy."

I love when people remember my husband to me, and I feel badly when they don’t. They don’t even have to say his name. Now that school has started, and summer is over, I re-enrolled my son into a music program that he had enjoyed last year, and when we walked into the first session, the director of the program saw me and he asked, “How are you?”

I responded with the customary, “Fine.”

He said, “No, really.” Then he hugged me.

Even though he didn’t mention Bobby, I knew he was thinking of him. I like when people remember him. I want to hear his name. I want people to know that it’s OK, even more than OK, to mention him. It actually makes me feel warm that he is not forgotten.

Hoarders - Widow Style

I don’t watch a lot of television, especially reality shows, so I’m not really up-to-date on what is out there. I recently learned, though, that there is a reality show called Hoarders, about people whose homes are covered wall to wall with junk that they can’t seem to let go of.

Well, lucky for me, I’m not going to be on that show. However, I am having trouble throwing things out. Bobby’s things. Not mine, not my kids’, only his.

The other day I was looking for my shoes that I had kicked under the bed the day before. Upon retrieving them, I also came across Bobby’s old sneakers. Not the pair he was currently using when he died, but the pair that came before. I thought he had thrown these away ages ago. (Shows you how much I look under my bed). So I went to throw them away, and got halfway to the garbage can, turned around, and put them right back under the bed where they were. I then looked up and said, “Why didn’t you throw these out when you got the new ones? Now I can’t!” I know he is laughing at me.

I’ve also spent the last few months slowly cleaning out my house, which had been somewhat neglected during my husband’s illness. I keep finding papers that he wrote on: notes, phone numbers, grocery lists and other assorted things. Every time I try to throw one out, I can’t do it. It got to the point where there were so many, that in the name of organization, I created a file in my filing cabinet where I can put all these pieces of paper.

Then there is his clothing. I cannot part with any of it. Luckily, I have two sons who would like his ties, dress socks and T-shirts. My older son even took some of my husbands “nice” shirts because according to my son they are “cool”. I’ve been wearing his bathrobes and T-shirts, too. But his suits, dress shirts and pants are still hanging in the closet, exactly where he left them. I have no intention to get rid of them right now. It’s just something I cannot do.

His deoderant is still under the sink in the bathroom. His toothbrush still hangs with the rest of ours. His wallet, with everything in it, is still in his top dresser drawer, along with his keys and his cellphone.

When he first passed away, I couldn’t even throw out the little cards that the doctors wrote his appointment times on. However, I was able to finally throw them away, because I reasoned with myself that one, he didn’t write on them, and two, he wasn’t going to be able to make those appointments anyway.

There is no rush for me to dispose of his things. They are not in my way, and if they make me feel just a teeny tiny bit better, then they are certainly worth holding onto. So while the hoarding that they show on TV is unhealthy and depressing, this hoarding – widow style – is OK in my book.