Lonesome Dove

Well, it happened.  I finally had a dream about Wade.  I'm not sure I have dreamed at all since he died, and reading other widow(er) blogs about their dreams made me sad that I couldn't even connect with him on that level.  But this dream was not a pleasant one at all.

My recollection is that the dream was very short.  Wade was in the driver seat of some vehicle that I didn't recognize.  I was standing at the window on the passenger side.  There was some conversation, but I don't recall  about what.  He said something that startled me and then all of a sudden I began to feel ill.  Then violent shaking, falling, and vomiting.  And I remember Wade saying "Oh Shit!" and leaving the vehicle to come to me.  The dream was over before he reached me.

And that was it.

I often wonder if daily experiences we have greatly influence our dreams.  I like to believe that is true.  So looking back on that day, I remember watching the newest episode of Big Love.  The wife of the clan's prophet had died and she had placed him in a walk-in freezer.  When her daughter Nicki came over, the wife was hysterical...so hysterical that she herself dropped dead.

And looking back on the events at the hospital when Wade died, I remember clearly struggling to stand and having to stop and put my head down between my knees so I didn't pass out as they lead me to "the room" where they told me he had died.  And the day before he died, I was not feeling well.  I honestly felt I was having a heart attack, but was convinced that if I took an aspirin and rested, I would be better.  Twenty four hours later it was Wade who had the heart attack.

I think I said "Oh Shit" a few times myself that day.  Among other things.

Have you ever asked someone where they would like to spend eternity? You know, it's one of those difficult questions to ask and part of those important discussions everyone should have with family and close friends. It's important; really important. And sometimes the topic surfaces during casual conversation.

About a week before Wade died, we were sitting around discussing with my sister (who lives with us) what she wanted us to do for her when she passed away. It was a somewhat lighthearted discussion which stemmed from her telling of an ailment she had been ignoring. We were kidding around (sort of) and asked her the question. Which led us all to discuss our own thoughts on the subject.

Wade was very much a simple man. Not in a bad way by any stretch, just that he wasn't much for fanfare or wanting unnecessary effort or expense on things. When we got married, neither of us could fathom why anyone would go to such great expense on a wedding when that money could be spent on more practical and useful things, like a down payment on a home, or an upgraded car. For us both, it wasn't the event that mattered as much as it was the ceremony and public pronouncement of our love for each other. We created our own hand-made invitations, the dress code was casual/country, the vows were exchanged at our home followed by the reception at our home, and we catered the meal (well, we ordered the BBQ). And it was an almost perfect day. Almost, because my sister (my maid of honor) and her two children were in a horrible car accident on the way to the wedding requiring the girls to be Care-Flighted to the Children's Hospital over 50 miles away. Our wedding night was spent traveling between two different hospitals checking on our loved ones.

When my mother died five years ago, she had said she wanted to have her body donated to science and had all of the paperwork in place. She clearly knew what she wanted and had shared that with me. However, that was not how it played out, and not from anything I did or did not do to honor her wishes. The circumstances of her death prevented that from happening. And she has sat on my bookshelf in one of two matched (pricey) urns she had purchased herself. I am seriously contemplating giving her to a local artist who creates paintings from ashes. He says every person generates their own color. I'm curious what color she is.

So when the discussion of what to do came up just days before Wade's passing, I knew what he wanted. And I was OK with it. And it was easier to make decisions at the time, because we had just talked about it. Well, it's never easy, but the decisions had to be made, and his wishes were still so clear in my mind. And yet, I am having trouble following through. I am tortured by what he wanted, what his faith dictates and what his mother desires. And the overriding voice I hear is his, telling me above all else to take care of his mother. So he sits on the mantle waiting; waiting for me to make a decision.

His brother was here the other day and said it was a little unnerving to see the wooden box still poised over the fireplace. Not creepy, but rather an obvious in-your-face reminder. I wonder now if his mother and sister had the same feeling when they were here for Thanksgiving? I didn't ask and they didn't comment.

His mother and I visited a cemetery near her, and it was all I could do to not cry. Well, I did cry, but I wanted to scream. Looking out at all of the plots reminded me so much of what he didn't like. He loved space and wasn't much for the close proximity of traditional neighborhoods. And here we were, looking at the after-life equivalent of what he detested. So I brought him home with me until we can find something more suitable.

I am coming to terms with the religious aspect (Catholic) of disposition of his cremains. "The only constant is change itself" is how I am choosing to interpret the church's position, with further justification around the fact he underwent an autopsy and there was bone and tissue donations, of which the church does approve. Conflict and the church....go figure.

He would not be pleased that so much energy and angst exists on this decision. For now I am being selfish, keeping him all to myself.

Tonight I went through the drawer. His drawer. The top dresser drawer where the stuff goes. You know, the stuff. Like jewelry and birthday cards and prayer cards and, well, stuff. There was a cloth bag with a draw string that looked curious. Oh yeah, forgot about that.....the rosary he held at the memorial service. How could I forget about that? A souvenir Mickey Mouse watch from Disney World that his brother gave him last year. A Swiss Army knife. Another one of those truck stop treasures (as I called them). More on that later. And of course, a stack of business cards. The usual stuff that he would accumulate throughout his travels and purchases. But there was this one card that I can't figure out. So I set it aside to deal with later, and now it is later. How peculiar. I wonder what it means?

The card is from a funeral home in Mexico, MO. We lived near St. Louis a few years back, but we have lived in Houston, TX for seven years. Normally I wouldn't think much of the card, except it has the home phone number hand written on the front of the card and the name is Connie.

Now my mind is beginning to rev up with the "what does it mean" questions and many possible answers. Here it is almost 3:30 in the morning and I will probably not get any sleep. Great.

I looked up the funeral home on Google and found this:

In 1967 Connie Pickering purchased a half-interest in the funeral home from Earl Precht. Connie, his wife Barbara, and their son David, moved into the apartment above the funeral home, and Connie took over the management of the funeral home.

OK, so I can rule out one of the questions/answers in my head. But a half dozen others are knocking around my mind and driving me crazy.

I have to explain a few things in order to put this all in perspective. My husband and I became avid fans of sailing many years ago. That was after we had been avid campers. And avid motor boaters. But there was something about sailing that touched both of our souls. We chartered a monohull out of Tortola BVI a few years back for two weeks and that pretty much sealed the deal for us. We have dreamed of living on a boat, doing some coastal sailing for a few years and then making a passage, possibly to Europe. Our house had been on the market when he died, with our plans to move to his family homestead to help with his mother and brother and in general be closer to family.

One evening, about a week before he died, he was surfing the net and found a beautiful boat for sale in the Caribbean that was perfect for us. The price was right, the deal sounded right, and the timing was right. He called his mother and asked if she would be upset if we bought the boat instead of moving home. She knew how much he wanted to do the sailboat; this was not a surprise to her. Her response to him was "do whatever makes you happy." And she genuinely meant it. She and her husband had only been retired two years when he passed away from an aortic aneurysm while they were fulfilling their dream of full time RVing. She told anyone who would listen that if there was something you wanted to do, then do it because you never know what will happen.

Then he died. A week after this conversation with his mother, he was gone. Ten days after having cataract surgery in one eye he was dead. Three days before he was to have the cataract removed from the other eye, he would never see again. I am so thankful that he had those days to see clearly. He would marvel at the clarity of his sight and the vibrant colors. He was in awe and I was thrilled for him. And I enjoyed taking care of him and having him home for those last weeks all to myself. But he died dammit!

About a month after he died, I decided to tackle cleaning and organizing the garage. He was a real man's man.....a mechanic, parts hoarder (working or not), a do-er, and a collector of tools. OK, I'll admit it, power tools were our thing. We both would get excited about buying a new tool and for my last birthday he bought me a plunge router that I have been hinting at for some time. But I digress.

Our garage was a mess. It had old, dilapidated kitchen cabinets along one wall that were only useful for stuffing things into, never to be found again. So I went to removing them, putting in something more useful and hauling two pick up truck loads of scrap metal to the recycle center. And weeding through buckets of bolts, nuts, screws, things of the I-have-no-idea-what-they-are variety, wire, wood, and coffee cans of stuff. As I was sorting through things, I happened upon a box that was taped closed and from a storage place that I later recognized as being in Missouri. It obviously had been stored in the garage since our move to Texas. As I opened it, the first thing I found was a couple of paper envelopes from the local drug store containing photographs....pictures from our chartered sail trip to the BVI. And then there was this one picture of him sitting at our kitchen table in Missouri just looking into the camera. Not smiling, but just looking serious, studious, matter-of-fact. It was eerie seeing that photo. Anyway, the next thing under the photos was his life insurance policy. I started crying. Below that were 40 or 50 magazines from his subscriptions to various sailing magazines. And then his sailing manual. Now I'm really crying. A little more digging and I came across a book by Dave Ramsey (Financial Peace).....that's a whole other story.....and then the repair manual for his pickup truck. More magazines.....and then the kicker. At the bottom of the box, in the corner were some CDs by Manheim Steamroller. Christmas CDs. His favorite. By now I have totally lost it, I am bawling. I'm sure if the neighbors had wandered over, they would have wondered why I'm sitting in the garage crying like a baby.

The significance of the Christmas music has to do with our desire over the past seven or eight years of wanting to basically run away during Christmas and go sailing, rather than participate in the commercialization of the holiday. He would tell his mom and kids to save their money and instead of buying gifts, let's take a trip. But we never did. And now, here was this box.....this box of treasures. His stuff. The stuff that was important to him. And I'm still crying; crying at finding this treasure; crying because I am seeing this as a sign...the sign from him I have been so desperately look for and not finding. And the music on the radio suddenly changes to the theme song for Rush Limbaugh. Someone he knows I despised listening to, but he enjoyed, and he loved to torment me with whenever the opportunity presented itself. The timing was incredible. All I could do was laugh at that point.

And now I have found this business card. This card for a business over 100 miles from where we lived. With the home phone number of the funeral director written on it. What does it mean? We went camping and boating near Mexico one time. Well sort of near Mexico; I know we passed through there. But I can't remember needing the services of a funeral home during that trip. Who is this person?

I keep thinking back to the time we lived in Missouri and he got sick, so sick that I called 911. He was dizzy and vomiting and all I could think was I will never be able to get him up the stairs and into the car and drive 30 miles to the hospital if there was something terribly wrong with him. Him, the man who never got sick. But he was very sick. Something with his heart, but they could never determine exactly what was wrong. He spent four days in the hospital having all kinds of tests done and in the end it was determined that he had an episode of an irregular heartbeat but there was nothing to fix, treat, or be worried about. I wonder if I should contact them and let them know they were wrong. There was most definitely something wrong with his heart. It just quit working. One minute he was here and the next he was gone.

And I can't stop staring at this damn business card.