Is anybody out there GOOD at being mad?
It takes a lot to provoke me all the way to anger but once I'm 'mad as hell and ain't gonna take it any more' I never ever ever feel the better for saying it is so.
For one thing, I can't express anger verbally without crying like an idiot. I hate to cry because my eyes feel like they're filled with sand for a minimum 36 hours afterward and - besides that - I can't cry delicately. I see actresses crying who still manage to look attractive but that is so not me! My face gets all blotchy and my eyelids swell, I drool sometimes, my nose always runs... it's a mess.
I CAN, however, write a scathing note guaranteed to shame the person I'm mad at! I can say exactly what I mean when I write a tongue lashing. I suppose that's better than nothing but still it seems like the coward's way out.
Grown up humans ought to be able to face the person that angered them and hash out whatever is the bone of contention, shouldn't they? But then that whole crying scenario comes into play and I look like a pathetic child anyway so what difference does it make in the long run??
By now you've guessed I've got an anger issue going on. It doesn't happen very often because I'm generally a Big Picture person and know without being told what motivates people to act the way they do. Seeing everything in broad context allows me to be generous of spirit and let people do stupid things without taking it personally.
Most of the time.
But occassionally just the right thing at just the right moment will set me off. It usually has to do with injustice and - of course - at this particular juncture of my life I'm all emotion anyway. The Perfect Storm, if you will.
I've said what I needed to say in black and white, the offending person has apologized (even if more defiant than contrite!), it should be done and over with. I've said it is. I want it to be.
Frankly, I could do without the added drama!
But I find I'm still feeling pissy. I know time heals all wounds (and wounds all heels!) but I just want to put it behind me and get on with accepting my new life with as much joy as I can muster minute by minute.
Maybe what I really need is to forgive MYSELF? Yes. I may have hit paydirt there. I'm not perfect, I'm not a saint, I'm just The Widow Judy trying to get along in the world.
So, for God's sake, Judy, GET ALONG and let's get on with it.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
The Wheel of Grief!
I went to a group meeting last night sponsored by Tidewell Hospice here in Sarasota. I didn't know what to expect because, well, I've never LOST a husband before this but I wanted to give it a try to basically see if there might be some insights to be had regarding the disconnect I feel between my brain and my heart.
The moderator and two other people who'd also lost a spouse were in attendance. The stories were sadly similar in that each of their loved ones suffered through a long period of hospice care before they passed on.
They listened sympathetically to my shocking tale of Tom's 'here-one-minute-gone-the-next' passing.
What I came away with is, it doesn't matter one bit whether you have two years to prepare or zero minutes losing the one you love is just plain hard!
Clearly, they were in as much pain six months after losing their spouse as I was at the tender date of four weeks. More, in fact, because they each still longed to have their love back and I, while hating to have to, know there IS no going back - the only viable path left open is moving forward.
The counselor sent me home with a packet of information intended to assist the griever in understanding the general process. The format of one particular page, however, totally made me lol!!
It was entitled, I'm paraphrasing, "The Wheel of Grief" and while its message was completely on target - time will see you through the stages and you'll eventually come around to finding a new life with your spouse's death integrated but no longer central to your being - all I could see as I looked at it was "The Wheel of Wow!"
My grandchildren all love Webkinz - they are small stuffed animals that come with a computer site dedicated to the care and feeding of these creatures. The site offers games to play which the kids' Webkinz and mine can do together despite the fact theirs are in Michigan and mine are in Florida. One thing we all get to do every day is spin "The Wheel of Wow!" It offers 85% - 90% fun items to be won but there's always a couple spaces you hope to avoid.
HELLO???! Isn't that what's happening with those of us facing the grief process every day?
Even on the hardest rawest days of grief aren't there always SOME good things offered to us? Friends and family come by or call giving hugs and kisses, they bring food, tell us they love us and that we are not alone.
Of course these things can't fill the gaping hole where our spouse used to be but they can and do help to ease the pain of that void. Getting a plate of brownies or a tuna casserole may not be snagging the Princess Poster Bed or the Pirate Treasure off "The Wheel of Wow" but it's a start.
The moderator and two other people who'd also lost a spouse were in attendance. The stories were sadly similar in that each of their loved ones suffered through a long period of hospice care before they passed on.
They listened sympathetically to my shocking tale of Tom's 'here-one-minute-gone-the-next' passing.
What I came away with is, it doesn't matter one bit whether you have two years to prepare or zero minutes losing the one you love is just plain hard!
Clearly, they were in as much pain six months after losing their spouse as I was at the tender date of four weeks. More, in fact, because they each still longed to have their love back and I, while hating to have to, know there IS no going back - the only viable path left open is moving forward.
The counselor sent me home with a packet of information intended to assist the griever in understanding the general process. The format of one particular page, however, totally made me lol!!
It was entitled, I'm paraphrasing, "The Wheel of Grief" and while its message was completely on target - time will see you through the stages and you'll eventually come around to finding a new life with your spouse's death integrated but no longer central to your being - all I could see as I looked at it was "The Wheel of Wow!"
My grandchildren all love Webkinz - they are small stuffed animals that come with a computer site dedicated to the care and feeding of these creatures. The site offers games to play which the kids' Webkinz and mine can do together despite the fact theirs are in Michigan and mine are in Florida. One thing we all get to do every day is spin "The Wheel of Wow!" It offers 85% - 90% fun items to be won but there's always a couple spaces you hope to avoid.
HELLO???! Isn't that what's happening with those of us facing the grief process every day?
Even on the hardest rawest days of grief aren't there always SOME good things offered to us? Friends and family come by or call giving hugs and kisses, they bring food, tell us they love us and that we are not alone.
Of course these things can't fill the gaping hole where our spouse used to be but they can and do help to ease the pain of that void. Getting a plate of brownies or a tuna casserole may not be snagging the Princess Poster Bed or the Pirate Treasure off "The Wheel of Wow" but it's a start.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
New Territory
Wednesday marks another milestone (I considered spelling that 'millstone'!) in the life of TWJ; for the first time ever I will be the chauffeur returning our company to Tampa International Airport.
It's a little more than an hour north of our home in Sarasota and, until now, either Suzy or Tom assumed the driving duties for pick up and delivery of guests.
There's something intimidating, for me anyway, about a major airport. I felt the same way about Detroit Metro and avoided driving duty to and from IT for a whole lot more than three and a half years!?
Part of it is being Directionally Challenged and the airport being, y'know, ALL ABOUT DIRECTIONS?? Part of it is negotiating the sheer size of it. Then there's the time pressure to be sure those coming or going are met or dropped in a timely fashion.
Wednesday's a drop-off as Bill heads back to Providence on his way to Blackstone, MA so that'll be a good way for me to get in the groove negotiating TPA.
Still, as many times as I've been in the passenger seat, it's entirely different being In Charge; I admit I'm nervous about it.
I'm dating myself I'm sure in saying there are many jobs in life that somebody ELSE ought to do and airport runs are one of those in The Big Book Of Judy!
But somebody else isn't here, is he, and so there must be stepping up.
There's no question it can be done and I can do it; I just don't wanna! I want things the way they were a month and a day ago.
Unfortunately, we don't always get what we want we get what is. And Wednesday is the day for me to swallow hard, suck it up and be a big girl.
So be it.
It's a little more than an hour north of our home in Sarasota and, until now, either Suzy or Tom assumed the driving duties for pick up and delivery of guests.
There's something intimidating, for me anyway, about a major airport. I felt the same way about Detroit Metro and avoided driving duty to and from IT for a whole lot more than three and a half years!?
Part of it is being Directionally Challenged and the airport being, y'know, ALL ABOUT DIRECTIONS?? Part of it is negotiating the sheer size of it. Then there's the time pressure to be sure those coming or going are met or dropped in a timely fashion.
Wednesday's a drop-off as Bill heads back to Providence on his way to Blackstone, MA so that'll be a good way for me to get in the groove negotiating TPA.
Still, as many times as I've been in the passenger seat, it's entirely different being In Charge; I admit I'm nervous about it.
I'm dating myself I'm sure in saying there are many jobs in life that somebody ELSE ought to do and airport runs are one of those in The Big Book Of Judy!
But somebody else isn't here, is he, and so there must be stepping up.
There's no question it can be done and I can do it; I just don't wanna! I want things the way they were a month and a day ago.
Unfortunately, we don't always get what we want we get what is. And Wednesday is the day for me to swallow hard, suck it up and be a big girl.
So be it.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Hopeless
My nephew Bill is visiting from MA for a few days mainly to buck me up and give me some support as The Widow Judy. He's a computer whiz and I had hoped, and he had agreed, that we could spend some time while he's here schooling me on 21st century tech stuff like cutting and pasting, photoshopping, putting my own pictures on Facebook and even sprucing up my blogspot entries picture-wise.
By two this afternoon he was ready to chew off his own hand if it meant he could escape trying to teach the unteachable!?
The sad part is, I really really want to know how to do all that stuff.
The mind is willing but the body is weak... so weak.
He tried to be patient; it was painful, really, seeing how hard he was trying not to cringe when I'd spastically click on things once, twice, once again, twice again trying to follow his directions but panicing. Or when it took me thirteen tries to turn one of those goofy Facebook 'learn more about me' quizzes blue so I could eventually delete the sender's answers and add my own?
The WORST was me trying to execute holding down the control key with my left finger and simultaneously moving the cursor up or down with my right and not, erroneously, at some time in the process, lifting my finger off the mouse thereby aborting the effort and having to start again. And again. And again.
You'd think ANYONE could double-click, right? It has taken me, literally, years to be able to do that under the best of circumstances and I still revert to utter incapacity when somebody's watching me 'perform' on the computer!?
I just have no skills (that's pronounced "skeels" in Detroit BTW)telling my body what I want it to do. For example, I can only ride a bike in a straight line. When I get to the point where I have to turn the handle bars right or left at a corner I have to actually STOP, get off the bike, walk it around the corner and then I can continue pedalling at least until the next corner stops me again.
That is so sad.
I am a dancer in my heart but when I tell my body, "Look, all you have to do is just move this way - that way - everybody's doing it...," I can hear my brain laughing out loud at the whole idea.
"NEVER GONNA HAPPEN, my friend," and my brain is right. Remember Eileen from "Seinfeld" dancing?? Double that and take it to the 6th power - that's me.
I eventually did create a folder with pictures in it AND I did finally get my own answers to that goofy quiz posted as a note on Facebook but - oy - the price we both paid to 'git 'er done'??? HUGH.
Tomorrow Bill's going to try and help me take some of those aforementioned pictures from the folder created today and add them to my blog entries. That ought to be good!? I'm already pitying him and we haven't even started yet.
Maybe we should just go to the beach instead and leave computer literacy to the Under 64 crowd?
By two this afternoon he was ready to chew off his own hand if it meant he could escape trying to teach the unteachable!?
The sad part is, I really really want to know how to do all that stuff.
The mind is willing but the body is weak... so weak.
He tried to be patient; it was painful, really, seeing how hard he was trying not to cringe when I'd spastically click on things once, twice, once again, twice again trying to follow his directions but panicing. Or when it took me thirteen tries to turn one of those goofy Facebook 'learn more about me' quizzes blue so I could eventually delete the sender's answers and add my own?
The WORST was me trying to execute holding down the control key with my left finger and simultaneously moving the cursor up or down with my right and not, erroneously, at some time in the process, lifting my finger off the mouse thereby aborting the effort and having to start again. And again. And again.
You'd think ANYONE could double-click, right? It has taken me, literally, years to be able to do that under the best of circumstances and I still revert to utter incapacity when somebody's watching me 'perform' on the computer!?
I just have no skills (that's pronounced "skeels" in Detroit BTW)telling my body what I want it to do. For example, I can only ride a bike in a straight line. When I get to the point where I have to turn the handle bars right or left at a corner I have to actually STOP, get off the bike, walk it around the corner and then I can continue pedalling at least until the next corner stops me again.
That is so sad.
I am a dancer in my heart but when I tell my body, "Look, all you have to do is just move this way - that way - everybody's doing it...," I can hear my brain laughing out loud at the whole idea.
"NEVER GONNA HAPPEN, my friend," and my brain is right. Remember Eileen from "Seinfeld" dancing?? Double that and take it to the 6th power - that's me.
I eventually did create a folder with pictures in it AND I did finally get my own answers to that goofy quiz posted as a note on Facebook but - oy - the price we both paid to 'git 'er done'??? HUGH.
Tomorrow Bill's going to try and help me take some of those aforementioned pictures from the folder created today and add them to my blog entries. That ought to be good!? I'm already pitying him and we haven't even started yet.
Maybe we should just go to the beach instead and leave computer literacy to the Under 64 crowd?
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Hugh
When I wrote the last post I used the word "huge". I really paused over that spelling because for years now my sister Toot and I have had a once-private joke that has since spread to our whole family; I will share it with you now.
From this point forward in all my blog entries the would "huge" will be purposely misspelled "HUGH" just because it makes me laugh!
At least ten years ago I was driving in my neighborhood of Detroit, yes, Detroit. We lived in a lovely area called East English Village in a big tudor brick home built by exactly the same man and company who built the ones across Mack Avenue in Grosse Pointe Park many years ago. We loved our house, our neighbors, the city and we spit on those who denegrate Detroit with a broad stroke of an evil pen!
But I digress....
I was turning the corner at Cadieux and Chandler Park Drive and saw a homemade sign:
"HUGH SALE!!!" it said in bold print. I burst out laughing. I couldn't help but wonder how many Hughs could be rounded up in EEV to be sold on any given weekend!?
What can I say? It cracked me up.
Still does!! Yes, I'm easy - many have said it before and now that I'm back on the market myself, so to speak, many will probably say it again!???
But consider this a blanket warning. For me, the word 'huge' no longer exists; it'll
be 'hugh' and when you see it you'll know I'M laughing anyway!??
From this point forward in all my blog entries the would "huge" will be purposely misspelled "HUGH" just because it makes me laugh!
At least ten years ago I was driving in my neighborhood of Detroit, yes, Detroit. We lived in a lovely area called East English Village in a big tudor brick home built by exactly the same man and company who built the ones across Mack Avenue in Grosse Pointe Park many years ago. We loved our house, our neighbors, the city and we spit on those who denegrate Detroit with a broad stroke of an evil pen!
But I digress....
I was turning the corner at Cadieux and Chandler Park Drive and saw a homemade sign:
"HUGH SALE!!!" it said in bold print. I burst out laughing. I couldn't help but wonder how many Hughs could be rounded up in EEV to be sold on any given weekend!?
What can I say? It cracked me up.
Still does!! Yes, I'm easy - many have said it before and now that I'm back on the market myself, so to speak, many will probably say it again!???
But consider this a blanket warning. For me, the word 'huge' no longer exists; it'll
be 'hugh' and when you see it you'll know I'M laughing anyway!??
Something Else To Chew On
I went to the market this morning and realized when I reached the last aisle my cart was woefully empty. I actually stopped short before I turned the last corner and headed down to the ice creams and frozen veggies. My nephew Bill, age 50, is arriving tonight for a five-day stay in paradise with me; seven freaking humans, all adults, will be at dinner tomorrow night; three people LIVE full-time at my home yet the bottom of the cart wasn't even fully covered.
WHAT??
Something had to be missing - I must've forgotten significant numbers of things on my way to the end of the road at Publix.
Bill likes cheese - I have 5 different kinds. Dinner tomorrow is steak (check), corn on the cob (check), baked potatoes (at home), salad (check), biscuits (check), and dessert (check). I've got fancy bakery bread (that smells great and feels squishy - yahoo!), Black Forest ham and Country French turkey for sandwiches. I've got four kinds of India Pale Ale and enough appetizers and spreads at home to feed the whole subdivision. I've got an angel food cake mix and plan to experiment with cupcakes of that variety maybe Tuesday; I've got the confectionery sugar I need to make homemade frosting.
I've got it all. This'll get me through till Monday night for sure when we'll all go to Olive Garden, Bill will buy dinner Tuesday and he's leaving Wednesday.
Throw in a lunch or two at Siesta Beach or in the Village and that's the whole food agenda in a nutshell.
$109.00. Just doesn't seem completely baked!? Can losing one person from the human equation make that huge a difference shopping-wise?
Amazingly, I think the answer is, "Yes."
Since Tom died on January 24th I have been to the market twice and one of those two times was specifically to get what I needed for the open house last Sunday in Tom's honor.
I generally went marketing for SOMETHING every single day before 1/24/09. I never figured it our per se but I'm guessing I spent close to or better than $300.00 a week on groceries - that's not including our restaurant forays for lunch or dinner, you understand.
Looking at my pathetic cart this morning I can only wonder what the heck I was buying???
I knew Tom's being gone would change everything but... this? This is astounding.
WHAT??
Something had to be missing - I must've forgotten significant numbers of things on my way to the end of the road at Publix.
Bill likes cheese - I have 5 different kinds. Dinner tomorrow is steak (check), corn on the cob (check), baked potatoes (at home), salad (check), biscuits (check), and dessert (check). I've got fancy bakery bread (that smells great and feels squishy - yahoo!), Black Forest ham and Country French turkey for sandwiches. I've got four kinds of India Pale Ale and enough appetizers and spreads at home to feed the whole subdivision. I've got an angel food cake mix and plan to experiment with cupcakes of that variety maybe Tuesday; I've got the confectionery sugar I need to make homemade frosting.
I've got it all. This'll get me through till Monday night for sure when we'll all go to Olive Garden, Bill will buy dinner Tuesday and he's leaving Wednesday.
Throw in a lunch or two at Siesta Beach or in the Village and that's the whole food agenda in a nutshell.
$109.00. Just doesn't seem completely baked!? Can losing one person from the human equation make that huge a difference shopping-wise?
Amazingly, I think the answer is, "Yes."
Since Tom died on January 24th I have been to the market twice and one of those two times was specifically to get what I needed for the open house last Sunday in Tom's honor.
I generally went marketing for SOMETHING every single day before 1/24/09. I never figured it our per se but I'm guessing I spent close to or better than $300.00 a week on groceries - that's not including our restaurant forays for lunch or dinner, you understand.
Looking at my pathetic cart this morning I can only wonder what the heck I was buying???
I knew Tom's being gone would change everything but... this? This is astounding.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
On The OTHER Hand...
I've realized my plan of moving various rings from one hand to another and - at this point anyway - it looks pretty weird to me.
The whole theory of having my wedding ring on my right hand and elevating the pearl ring all my girls AND Tom gave me together one birthday find a home on my left ring finger totally makes sense. All the rings look great - I had a jeweler clean them and repair anything that needed repair and size them to fit their new digits but it's all still very strange and awkward.
And sad.
It's just not right....
It's silly and fruitless to rail against the universe; what is - IS - and cannot be denied and yet I desperately want to do just that. I want this whole "Tom Is Dead" thing to be simply a cruel joke that's gone on long enough and needs to be done. He needs to walk through the door and call me his Ho-nee and give me a big hug and a long kiss; he needs to make grapefruit juice with our own grapefruits so the house is filled with their scent; he needs to keep pestering me when I'm naked in the tub even though that annoys me to no end; he needs to be mad at the Red Wings even when they're winning because they're not winning by ENOUGH; he needs to be sitting on the sofa at 5:00PM Monday through Friday clapping when Suzy when homes from work; he needs to be buying tickets to all the pre-season games he and Dick and Dave and Wes were going to road trip to this spring; he needs to turn Morning Joe on at exactly 6:00AM every day and then rub my back while we talk about the day's agenda; and he needs to tell me in his own voice what a big girl I've been handling this horrible cosmic joke with aplomb; and, and, and, and, and... that's not going to happen.
He's not going to be here for whatever happens next to me or the girls or the grandchildren or any of our relatives or friends and that's the truth, hard as it is to swallow.
For the first time in my life I can't brainstorm a dozen ways to Make This Right. I can't negotiate any outcome other than what is; all I can do is hold and roll. On the one hand that can and must be enough. On the other... well... there IS no Other Hand.
The whole theory of having my wedding ring on my right hand and elevating the pearl ring all my girls AND Tom gave me together one birthday find a home on my left ring finger totally makes sense. All the rings look great - I had a jeweler clean them and repair anything that needed repair and size them to fit their new digits but it's all still very strange and awkward.
And sad.
It's just not right....
It's silly and fruitless to rail against the universe; what is - IS - and cannot be denied and yet I desperately want to do just that. I want this whole "Tom Is Dead" thing to be simply a cruel joke that's gone on long enough and needs to be done. He needs to walk through the door and call me his Ho-nee and give me a big hug and a long kiss; he needs to make grapefruit juice with our own grapefruits so the house is filled with their scent; he needs to keep pestering me when I'm naked in the tub even though that annoys me to no end; he needs to be mad at the Red Wings even when they're winning because they're not winning by ENOUGH; he needs to be sitting on the sofa at 5:00PM Monday through Friday clapping when Suzy when homes from work; he needs to be buying tickets to all the pre-season games he and Dick and Dave and Wes were going to road trip to this spring; he needs to turn Morning Joe on at exactly 6:00AM every day and then rub my back while we talk about the day's agenda; and he needs to tell me in his own voice what a big girl I've been handling this horrible cosmic joke with aplomb; and, and, and, and, and... that's not going to happen.
He's not going to be here for whatever happens next to me or the girls or the grandchildren or any of our relatives or friends and that's the truth, hard as it is to swallow.
For the first time in my life I can't brainstorm a dozen ways to Make This Right. I can't negotiate any outcome other than what is; all I can do is hold and roll. On the one hand that can and must be enough. On the other... well... there IS no Other Hand.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
"To Change or Not To Change?" That Is The Question.
Here's a newsflash: I am not a Tuschak. I was only a Tuschak by marriage and now, according to the ceremony verbiage itself, what with death having parted me and Tom, I am no longer "married" and therefore no longer a Tuschak.
A change is in the making.
I would like to be called by my maiden name: Davidge. Judy Davidge, that's who I am. The Tuschak can stay awhile on checks and my driver's license and social security deposits - those kinds of official documents - but eventually I'll make it legal and reclaim my family name.
I can't imagine doing anything else.
When we got married on September 4, 1965, women hadn't yet grasped the concept that they could BE married and still maintain their own identity. That seems ridiculous now but it was true then. It never entered my college-educated head that a choice even existed!?
I know I questioned it my heart. It didn't 'make sense' that at noon on a particular day I should have to forsake all that I had been and still was just because I got married!
I flashed back to the day of my sister's wedding; I remember being 12 or 13 and aghast that she was suddenly a Berry. Just like that, snap, her Davidgehood was erased and she was born fullblown as a whole other entity?
I thought not, then, and I think not that now.
And yet... I had to sign in at the Senior Center where I went to play bridge yesterday and I had every intention of writing "Judy Davidge" but when I put down the pen I had written "Judy Tuschak"!? It gave me pause. Why would I have done that
when my conscious intent was otherwise?
Did I secretly WANT to be a Tuschak? The answer to that question is, "No, I don't."
I want to be who I am and have always been, a Davidge of the First Order!
More than anything I think I wrote what I did because my brain and heart are still in 'disconnect', not accepting that Tom is gone and, ergo, that my marriage is over.
Taking back my maiden name is not a repudiation of my life as Tom's wife, Judy Tuschak; it's an affirmation that, like Popeye, "I yam what I yam!"
Over the years I've seen many friends and relatives face the death of a relationship - divorce - or the actual death of their spouse and make a different choice than I am making now. That is their decision, this is mine.
And while I'm at it this is as good a time as any to tell people that my wedding ring is now on my right hand not my left. My marriage is over and that painful fact has to be accepted. My head still screams, "Let it not be true!" but true it is.
On my ring finger, left hand, I'm wearing the three pearl ring Tom and my girls gave me for my birthday when I turned 50. It's a Family Ring and while my marriage is a thing of the past, family lives on so, to me, it seems apt.
Like it or lump it, The Widow Judy is moving forward.
A change is in the making.
I would like to be called by my maiden name: Davidge. Judy Davidge, that's who I am. The Tuschak can stay awhile on checks and my driver's license and social security deposits - those kinds of official documents - but eventually I'll make it legal and reclaim my family name.
I can't imagine doing anything else.
When we got married on September 4, 1965, women hadn't yet grasped the concept that they could BE married and still maintain their own identity. That seems ridiculous now but it was true then. It never entered my college-educated head that a choice even existed!?
I know I questioned it my heart. It didn't 'make sense' that at noon on a particular day I should have to forsake all that I had been and still was just because I got married!
I flashed back to the day of my sister's wedding; I remember being 12 or 13 and aghast that she was suddenly a Berry. Just like that, snap, her Davidgehood was erased and she was born fullblown as a whole other entity?
I thought not, then, and I think not that now.
And yet... I had to sign in at the Senior Center where I went to play bridge yesterday and I had every intention of writing "Judy Davidge" but when I put down the pen I had written "Judy Tuschak"!? It gave me pause. Why would I have done that
when my conscious intent was otherwise?
Did I secretly WANT to be a Tuschak? The answer to that question is, "No, I don't."
I want to be who I am and have always been, a Davidge of the First Order!
More than anything I think I wrote what I did because my brain and heart are still in 'disconnect', not accepting that Tom is gone and, ergo, that my marriage is over.
Taking back my maiden name is not a repudiation of my life as Tom's wife, Judy Tuschak; it's an affirmation that, like Popeye, "I yam what I yam!"
Over the years I've seen many friends and relatives face the death of a relationship - divorce - or the actual death of their spouse and make a different choice than I am making now. That is their decision, this is mine.
And while I'm at it this is as good a time as any to tell people that my wedding ring is now on my right hand not my left. My marriage is over and that painful fact has to be accepted. My head still screams, "Let it not be true!" but true it is.
On my ring finger, left hand, I'm wearing the three pearl ring Tom and my girls gave me for my birthday when I turned 50. It's a Family Ring and while my marriage is a thing of the past, family lives on so, to me, it seems apt.
Like it or lump it, The Widow Judy is moving forward.
Senior Center Bridge
OMG.
Remember how I said now that Tom's dead I have to put myself 'out there' and try to find some new pals? Let me just say... I don't think they're at the Senior Center in Sarasota, Florida.
It's a beautiful facility right on the curve as 41, also known as the Tamiami Trail, winds around the outskirts of downtown and brings you to one of the prettiest views Sarasota offers, the waterfront park - a lovely vista to be sure.
Then I went inside.
I was greeted by possibly The Oldest Living Human I have ever seen; all cuted up, she was in bright whites and perky yellows, make-up perfection on her Appalacian apple doll face. She showed me where to sign in and couldn't have been nicer personally walking me to the seating area where party bridge players generally congregated Tuesday at 1:00 before they headed off to play in a room on the upper level.
One, two, three ladies in their mid-to-late 70's came in, sat down at my table, chatted me up - mainly about which 'regulars' would not be there today due to death, disease, or having out of town guests!? A couple men came just as we were egressing to the bridge room and actually did a verbal "Mutt and Jeff" routine which you would have had to be as old as my older sister to have even recognized as humor but I laughed because I at least had an inkling it was a 'routine'.
Red flags were already waving in my head and my heart telling me to "Get out! Get out while there's still time!" but I was determined and sat down smiling as if 'I meant to do that' a la Pee Wee Herman.
Our fourth came in and I kid you not she was 88. (Everyone who's 88 LEADS with that information in case you didn't know!)She was deaf as a post AND announced she couldn't shuffle OR draw in the tricks because she was having shoulder replacement surgery next Friday.
Ye gods.
I must digress just a bit and tell you that when I play bridge with my regular Wednesday Night People I have a three rubber maximum on how long I'll play. After three rubbers my brain starts to shut down and I can't operate at full capacity any more because by that time all I can really think about is wanting to be home in a nice hot tub reading the latest Jack Reacher novel.
We girls played - ready - NINE RUBBERS of bridge!! We were, quite literally, the last table of four living humans still left in the room. At least two rubbers prior I started getting punchy and by the middle of rubber nine I was begging them to please, please, please let me go.
They thought I was very funny, that my protestations and drole rejoinders begging for mercy were humorous. All three of these women, you understand, were VERY sharp and two of them at least were probably more talented than I at actually playing bridge. They were pleasant, allowed chatting, forgave mistakes, didn't dwell on errors... all good things. But were they candidates for The Widow Judy's Brand new Clubhouse?
I'm afraid not.
Remember how I said now that Tom's dead I have to put myself 'out there' and try to find some new pals? Let me just say... I don't think they're at the Senior Center in Sarasota, Florida.
It's a beautiful facility right on the curve as 41, also known as the Tamiami Trail, winds around the outskirts of downtown and brings you to one of the prettiest views Sarasota offers, the waterfront park - a lovely vista to be sure.
Then I went inside.
I was greeted by possibly The Oldest Living Human I have ever seen; all cuted up, she was in bright whites and perky yellows, make-up perfection on her Appalacian apple doll face. She showed me where to sign in and couldn't have been nicer personally walking me to the seating area where party bridge players generally congregated Tuesday at 1:00 before they headed off to play in a room on the upper level.
One, two, three ladies in their mid-to-late 70's came in, sat down at my table, chatted me up - mainly about which 'regulars' would not be there today due to death, disease, or having out of town guests!? A couple men came just as we were egressing to the bridge room and actually did a verbal "Mutt and Jeff" routine which you would have had to be as old as my older sister to have even recognized as humor but I laughed because I at least had an inkling it was a 'routine'.
Red flags were already waving in my head and my heart telling me to "Get out! Get out while there's still time!" but I was determined and sat down smiling as if 'I meant to do that' a la Pee Wee Herman.
Our fourth came in and I kid you not she was 88. (Everyone who's 88 LEADS with that information in case you didn't know!)She was deaf as a post AND announced she couldn't shuffle OR draw in the tricks because she was having shoulder replacement surgery next Friday.
Ye gods.
I must digress just a bit and tell you that when I play bridge with my regular Wednesday Night People I have a three rubber maximum on how long I'll play. After three rubbers my brain starts to shut down and I can't operate at full capacity any more because by that time all I can really think about is wanting to be home in a nice hot tub reading the latest Jack Reacher novel.
We girls played - ready - NINE RUBBERS of bridge!! We were, quite literally, the last table of four living humans still left in the room. At least two rubbers prior I started getting punchy and by the middle of rubber nine I was begging them to please, please, please let me go.
They thought I was very funny, that my protestations and drole rejoinders begging for mercy were humorous. All three of these women, you understand, were VERY sharp and two of them at least were probably more talented than I at actually playing bridge. They were pleasant, allowed chatting, forgave mistakes, didn't dwell on errors... all good things. But were they candidates for The Widow Judy's Brand new Clubhouse?
I'm afraid not.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
My Exotic Valentine
Would you believe that my very first dream including Tom post ipso facto was e"X"otic?
Well, it was.
How funny. Why 'funny' you ask? I will tell you in as delicate terms as I am able.
We had a houseful of people: our daughter Amy was there and was teaching again; our three grandsons plus my nephews Zachary and Daniel also figured prominently as did a neighbor boy of unknown origin but who was bigger and taller than our own Daniel who, himself at 12, could pass for 14 or 15 size-wise.
Tom and I had been separated awhile (now there's an understatement!) and finally managed to be alone in our bedroom. We were both exhausted but he reached over for me and made it clear he was ready to play.
There was fumbling and bumbling over buttons and other vagaries of lingerie but we had managed to progress to the getting serious part when we both realized our door was open with six young boys AND a daughter only a stone's throw away.
I, being the one still somewhat if not Amishly covered, got up to close the door and then all hell broke loose. Amy's underwear - which I noted in my dream was significantly more Victoria's Secret and less Joe Boxer than it once had been - had erroneously been placed folded neatly in my doorjamb and she, seeing me moving it to outside my space, took the opportunity to come in and chat with me about her plans for school after the weekend funfest was over and she returned to Real Life.
Suddenly all six boys tumbled in the room providing comic relief from the fact that Tom and all his manliness barely had time to execute appropriate coverage in the midst of the unexpected room-stuff!
The boys had decided to have a wrestling competition the next day involving everyone of their acquaintance!? I gave them the time out signal and explained that, while that was a great idea, it required forethought and planning because you needed match-ups by weight and that would take some time to figure out so, "Back to bed!" I ordered while simultaneously pointing them out of the room and shuffling Amy toward the door too.
Tom, from under the sheet, held up a glass of water and asked for ice, "Quickly!" if I would... his way of saying , "Come on, come on, come on!" just like the romantic devil he always was.
And then I woke up. Bummer. I missed the best part!?
Or did I...?
All in all I'd say my Valentine's Day started pretty auspiciously especially given our new perameters of time and space.
Well, it was.
How funny. Why 'funny' you ask? I will tell you in as delicate terms as I am able.
We had a houseful of people: our daughter Amy was there and was teaching again; our three grandsons plus my nephews Zachary and Daniel also figured prominently as did a neighbor boy of unknown origin but who was bigger and taller than our own Daniel who, himself at 12, could pass for 14 or 15 size-wise.
Tom and I had been separated awhile (now there's an understatement!) and finally managed to be alone in our bedroom. We were both exhausted but he reached over for me and made it clear he was ready to play.
There was fumbling and bumbling over buttons and other vagaries of lingerie but we had managed to progress to the getting serious part when we both realized our door was open with six young boys AND a daughter only a stone's throw away.
I, being the one still somewhat if not Amishly covered, got up to close the door and then all hell broke loose. Amy's underwear - which I noted in my dream was significantly more Victoria's Secret and less Joe Boxer than it once had been - had erroneously been placed folded neatly in my doorjamb and she, seeing me moving it to outside my space, took the opportunity to come in and chat with me about her plans for school after the weekend funfest was over and she returned to Real Life.
Suddenly all six boys tumbled in the room providing comic relief from the fact that Tom and all his manliness barely had time to execute appropriate coverage in the midst of the unexpected room-stuff!
The boys had decided to have a wrestling competition the next day involving everyone of their acquaintance!? I gave them the time out signal and explained that, while that was a great idea, it required forethought and planning because you needed match-ups by weight and that would take some time to figure out so, "Back to bed!" I ordered while simultaneously pointing them out of the room and shuffling Amy toward the door too.
Tom, from under the sheet, held up a glass of water and asked for ice, "Quickly!" if I would... his way of saying , "Come on, come on, come on!" just like the romantic devil he always was.
And then I woke up. Bummer. I missed the best part!?
Or did I...?
All in all I'd say my Valentine's Day started pretty auspiciously especially given our new perameters of time and space.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Final Farewell
Have you ever tried to plan a party when you weren't sure how many guests were actually coming? That is today's dilemma at the house of Jude K.
Sunday will be the third and last official farewell to my dead husband, Tom. (I have to keep saying that, "dead", because part of my brain and all of my heart still doesn't really believe it could be true.)
Since we retired to Sarasota three and a half years ago there are six distinct categories of acquaintances any or all of whom might choose to take the opportunity of stopping by our house on Sunday from 2-5 sharing their regret at our loss:
1.) bridge players,
2.) tennis players,
3.) softball team members,
4.) relatives,
5.) other retired Lakeview High School teachers now living in Florida, and
6.) neighbors.
Perhaps I ought to have requested an RSVP?
In retrospect, that might've been a little brighter than what I actually did - just issuing blanket invitations to the above groups.
Now I'm in a situation in which somewhere between 20 and 200 people could show up at my door on Sunday and I have no real guidepost as to which it will be.
My father who art in heaven always counselled, "Expect the best but prepare for the worst." Which would be worse, having 20 mourners share food and drink enough for 200 or having 200 mourners share food and drink enough for 20?
Put in those terms the answer is simple - go with the 200, right?
I better stop writing and clean out the freezer in the garage. I'm going to need it to store appetizers.
Sunday will be the third and last official farewell to my dead husband, Tom. (I have to keep saying that, "dead", because part of my brain and all of my heart still doesn't really believe it could be true.)
Since we retired to Sarasota three and a half years ago there are six distinct categories of acquaintances any or all of whom might choose to take the opportunity of stopping by our house on Sunday from 2-5 sharing their regret at our loss:
1.) bridge players,
2.) tennis players,
3.) softball team members,
4.) relatives,
5.) other retired Lakeview High School teachers now living in Florida, and
6.) neighbors.
Perhaps I ought to have requested an RSVP?
In retrospect, that might've been a little brighter than what I actually did - just issuing blanket invitations to the above groups.
Now I'm in a situation in which somewhere between 20 and 200 people could show up at my door on Sunday and I have no real guidepost as to which it will be.
My father who art in heaven always counselled, "Expect the best but prepare for the worst." Which would be worse, having 20 mourners share food and drink enough for 200 or having 200 mourners share food and drink enough for 20?
Put in those terms the answer is simple - go with the 200, right?
I better stop writing and clean out the freezer in the garage. I'm going to need it to store appetizers.
Lucky at Cards
Last night playing bridge with friends I discovered a positive to having lost my darling husband and best friend to a massive heart attack just three weeks ago. (Could it really be only three weeks??? It feels like a freakin' lifetime.)
I was lucky at cards!! Hand after hand my partner and I were CLICKIN', baby! I stopped counting how many times I was able to open for my team. Our opponents won one hand in three and a half rubbers of bridge!? For the uninitiated, that would be like having a full wheel in Trivial Pursuit while everyone else playing had one piece of pie. Or Bingoing when everyone around you had the free space and B-11 only??
I started playing bridge when I was 20. My girlfriend-teachers at West Junior High in Lansing, MI, taught me the ins and outs and I loved to play. BUT (and there's always that BIG BUT!?) I never got any decent cards. I got really really good at defensive bridge but the face cards and I were virtual strangers.
When we moved from East Lansing (MSU - class of '65. Go, Spartans!) to Detroit and my friends had a little going-away bridge party/luncheon for me my gift was two decks of 52 cards, all 10's through aces!! It was, they believed and I agreed, the only way I would ever be lucky enough to get them???
My British grandmother, Katy Walters Davidge, was a superstitious woman and she drilled me in my youth that an itchy sole meant you'd be walking on strange land, a hat on a bed meant bad luck, crossed silverware at the table meant a big argument was in the offing, drop a spoon and a child was coming - drop a fork and it was a woman - a knife meant a man at the door, and, finally, "Unlucky at cards, lucky in love."
That was me! No one was ever luckier in love than Jude K. Through my whole life, from Hippo Moshier to John Nagle, from Niles Tonner to John Rybock to Tom Tuschak each and every man in my life was loving, caring, smart, funny, talented and treated me like a princess.
I was blessed.
But I paid dearly for it in losing cards over many, many years....
Clearly, being alone has a perk: no longer lucky in love I have suddenly become lucky at cards. This is a good thing.
A GOOD THING, yes... but a lousy tradeoff.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Happening
Remember the 60's and 70's when a large group of cool people congregated together it was called a "happening"? That was Tom's funeral.
He had actually asked to be cremated but with his death being of such a shocking and sudden nature my daughters suggested we bring him back to our home state, Michigan, and give those who loved him the chance to see and accept that he was, indeed, dead. I agreed to that scenario and what an experience!
He looked great - but then - why shouldn't he? Until the moment his heart exploded he was the healthiest person I knew!
I wrote the obit myself with a little help from my daughter Beckie and our cousin Donna. It was a huge hit. Do you think there might be a market for ghost obit-writers? Now that my monthly income has been slashed by the Social Security Office I'm looking for options....
We chose a funeral home in Grosse Pointe with quick access to the Big Boy and at least two bars.
I was afraid my grandchildren, who range in age from 10-4, might be fearful of this new too too quiet Grampa but no worras. They poked and prodded him, tousled his hair, held his cold hands and drew pictures which they happily placed in the casket for him to take along to heaven.
Brooke's was especially poignant; she's 4 and drew, as she expressed it, "Grampa-in-a-box." She made him look good too!!?
From the moment the doors opened we were flooded with family, friends, former students, once-and-future teachers from Lakeview High School where he spent his career as teacher and administrator. Shock, surprise and sorrow were etched in every face but the overwhelming feeling was joy at having known him, having had him in all our lives. Laughter filled the room and hugs were abundant. Stories flowed like champagne at a wedding. Our daughters graduated from LHS themselves so naturally their own high school friends were there but so too were kids from every other crowd in every other year all crediting Tom with having made the high school a better place by showing them he cared.
We didn't have a funeral per se (although we were charged for it!??) but instead a family friend, Dennis Hafeli, presided at a lovefest where those present came forward and shared stories about Tom. There were tears, sure, but there were hoots of laughter too and isn't that what we'd all like in the end, to know we had moved those we love to truly feel our presence in their lives?
He was the closest thing to a rock star one high school in St. Clair Shores, Michigan, ever knew.
He was the best son, husband, father, grandfather, brother, uncle, cousin, nephew, in-law, of his generation.
He was a "friend to all", just as Cynthia's lovely cake stated in blue frosting.
Blue... that was exactly the right color.
He had actually asked to be cremated but with his death being of such a shocking and sudden nature my daughters suggested we bring him back to our home state, Michigan, and give those who loved him the chance to see and accept that he was, indeed, dead. I agreed to that scenario and what an experience!
He looked great - but then - why shouldn't he? Until the moment his heart exploded he was the healthiest person I knew!
I wrote the obit myself with a little help from my daughter Beckie and our cousin Donna. It was a huge hit. Do you think there might be a market for ghost obit-writers? Now that my monthly income has been slashed by the Social Security Office I'm looking for options....
We chose a funeral home in Grosse Pointe with quick access to the Big Boy and at least two bars.
I was afraid my grandchildren, who range in age from 10-4, might be fearful of this new too too quiet Grampa but no worras. They poked and prodded him, tousled his hair, held his cold hands and drew pictures which they happily placed in the casket for him to take along to heaven.
Brooke's was especially poignant; she's 4 and drew, as she expressed it, "Grampa-in-a-box." She made him look good too!!?
From the moment the doors opened we were flooded with family, friends, former students, once-and-future teachers from Lakeview High School where he spent his career as teacher and administrator. Shock, surprise and sorrow were etched in every face but the overwhelming feeling was joy at having known him, having had him in all our lives. Laughter filled the room and hugs were abundant. Stories flowed like champagne at a wedding. Our daughters graduated from LHS themselves so naturally their own high school friends were there but so too were kids from every other crowd in every other year all crediting Tom with having made the high school a better place by showing them he cared.
We didn't have a funeral per se (although we were charged for it!??) but instead a family friend, Dennis Hafeli, presided at a lovefest where those present came forward and shared stories about Tom. There were tears, sure, but there were hoots of laughter too and isn't that what we'd all like in the end, to know we had moved those we love to truly feel our presence in their lives?
He was the closest thing to a rock star one high school in St. Clair Shores, Michigan, ever knew.
He was the best son, husband, father, grandfather, brother, uncle, cousin, nephew, in-law, of his generation.
He was a "friend to all", just as Cynthia's lovely cake stated in blue frosting.
Blue... that was exactly the right color.
Monday, February 2, 2009
The Widow Judy
This is the first in a rest-of-my-lifetime series: "Tales of The Widow Judy".
On January 24th 2009 my best friend and soulmate Tom died without even a whimper twelve yards from where I sat playing Scrabble on Facebook. He was the healthiest person I knew, the healthiest 65-year-old ANYONE knew, and he was gone in the blink of an eye.
I had a vague inkling getting showered and coiffed was taking longer than usual for him as I started walking back to our bedroom maybe 35-40 minutes after I'd left him putting one foot in the tub. "What's taking you so long to get beautiful today?" I asked.
What an innocent question.
What a horrendous discovery.
He lay having fallen back on the bed from a seated position, arms outstretched, eyes closed, already turning blue. "Oh, my God! TOM! TOM!! I think he's dead," I said aloud, my hysteria rising, then I screamed for my daughter Suzy who was at the other end of our ranch-style house. Hearing the utter agony in my voice she ran in and leapt onto the bed straddling Tom and beginning CPR.
I couldn't help but think he looked so pretty, all freshly scrubbed and wearing (every mother's dream) CLEAN UNDERWEAR!! How could that thought have found it's way to my consciousness as I dialed 911 and the unthinkable words left my lips, "Please help me. I think my husband's dead!!" But it did.
I was hysterical, screaming into the phone, relaying the operator's direction to Suzy through decibels I don't believe I've ever reached before, dragging Tom, with Suzy, from the bed to the floor and pleading with him, wailing all the while to, "Come back!! TOM, come BACK!" again and again.
Suzy pleaded too as she worked on him but while his color would pinken just a bit with each effort at mouth-to-mouth the bluish hue would not be denied.
Eight minutes passed and the paramedics arrived. They took one look at him, checked him for electrical activity and, finding none, declared him dead at the scene.
Impossible. Unthinkable. My brain was screaming, "NO! NO! This cannot be." And yet it was.
In Florida when you're 65 you're a KID. He played tennis or softball six mornings a week. He walked. He swam. He exercised in the pool to rock-n-roll music. He wasn't plagued with any of the complaints I or any of our friends bemoaned so loudly and so often.
He planned to live to 100.
This scenario, him dying before me, was one we'd never discussed, never even entertained in our wildest dreams. Yet... here it was unfolding before me as EMS techs, a police officer, the mortuary workers all made it clear, my protestations to the contrary, my dearest darling, my heart of hearts, my beloved goofball was well and truly dead.
Period.
Paragraph.
And the world became a different place.
On January 24th 2009 my best friend and soulmate Tom died without even a whimper twelve yards from where I sat playing Scrabble on Facebook. He was the healthiest person I knew, the healthiest 65-year-old ANYONE knew, and he was gone in the blink of an eye.
I had a vague inkling getting showered and coiffed was taking longer than usual for him as I started walking back to our bedroom maybe 35-40 minutes after I'd left him putting one foot in the tub. "What's taking you so long to get beautiful today?" I asked.
What an innocent question.
What a horrendous discovery.
He lay having fallen back on the bed from a seated position, arms outstretched, eyes closed, already turning blue. "Oh, my God! TOM! TOM!! I think he's dead," I said aloud, my hysteria rising, then I screamed for my daughter Suzy who was at the other end of our ranch-style house. Hearing the utter agony in my voice she ran in and leapt onto the bed straddling Tom and beginning CPR.
I couldn't help but think he looked so pretty, all freshly scrubbed and wearing (every mother's dream) CLEAN UNDERWEAR!! How could that thought have found it's way to my consciousness as I dialed 911 and the unthinkable words left my lips, "Please help me. I think my husband's dead!!" But it did.
I was hysterical, screaming into the phone, relaying the operator's direction to Suzy through decibels I don't believe I've ever reached before, dragging Tom, with Suzy, from the bed to the floor and pleading with him, wailing all the while to, "Come back!! TOM, come BACK!" again and again.
Suzy pleaded too as she worked on him but while his color would pinken just a bit with each effort at mouth-to-mouth the bluish hue would not be denied.
Eight minutes passed and the paramedics arrived. They took one look at him, checked him for electrical activity and, finding none, declared him dead at the scene.
Impossible. Unthinkable. My brain was screaming, "NO! NO! This cannot be." And yet it was.
In Florida when you're 65 you're a KID. He played tennis or softball six mornings a week. He walked. He swam. He exercised in the pool to rock-n-roll music. He wasn't plagued with any of the complaints I or any of our friends bemoaned so loudly and so often.
He planned to live to 100.
This scenario, him dying before me, was one we'd never discussed, never even entertained in our wildest dreams. Yet... here it was unfolding before me as EMS techs, a police officer, the mortuary workers all made it clear, my protestations to the contrary, my dearest darling, my heart of hearts, my beloved goofball was well and truly dead.
Period.
Paragraph.
And the world became a different place.
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