Who Is Driving Me Home

I had heard snatches of a song about “driving you home” a couple of times while shopping and had been wanting to hear the entire song. I finally did hear the entire song, while dining out alone.  The line I remember best, and probably the title of the song, is “Who’s gonna drive you home tonight.”

For the past year and a half, no one has been driving me home. Without Greg there is no one to drive me home. No one to drive me to the movies. No one to drive me to a nice restaurant. No one to drive me to a concert. No one to drive me down back roads in the wee hours of the morning.

No one to drive me through life.

I’m driving myself these days. To the places mentioned above. Then I drive myself home, where I sit in the truck and wonder why I even have a good vehicle, for I have no one with whom I can share the open road and busy city streets, and glorious scenery along the way.

Friends sometimes travel with me, but it’s not the same as having Greg accompanying me, for they return to their homes, leaving me missing Greg and our travels through life.

No one is driving me home tonight.

Dining Alone

Greg and I were together for forty-two years. In those years, probably ninety-five percent of our meals were eaten in restaurants or as take-out meals. Our work schedules weren’t conducive to meal preparation at home. Add in our propensity to decide at the last minute what we’d like for supper, and meal planning became an impossibility. So, we were familiar with what restaurants in several towns served our favorite foods, available at a moment’s notice.

Most of the time we were together at meal time. Since Greg’s death I have eaten out by myself several times, in different towns and in different types of restaurants. When I mention this to other widows, most of them say they either can’t face eating out alone, or it took a few years before they were comfortable eating out alone.

I was mulling this over recently and remembered that even before Greg’s death, I dined out alone several times a month. Sometimes Greg was in another town on business or golfing. Other times he’d be finished with his work for the day and go home before I was ready for an evening meal.

(Don’t misinterpret that previous statement. Greg worked hard and worked long hours. My part of the business was time-consuming. A job it might take me a week to get ready to print, Greg could print in a couple of hours – just the nature of the beast.)

So, I often dined out alone. At McDonald’s. At Betty’s OK Country Cooking. At Tray’s Garden. At Taco Bell. At Wendy’s. Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. I never thought anything about it; it was just the way a particular day happened to go.

Yes, I would prefer dining out with Greg sitting at the table with me. We might discuss the events of the day or what we’d like to do on the weekend. If we had had a hard day of tiring and tedious work we might sit quietly, lost in our thoughts but still together, letting the stress of the day dissipate and our moods lighten.

I do spur of the moment dining out, lock the door at work and by the time I get the truck started I am wanting to eat supper in a restaurant instead of at home. Yes, it is sad to eat alone, without Greg’s presence, but I do dine out alone.

Grief Trumps Everything

I am a winter person. Cool temperatures suit me much better than the heat of summer. Snow coming down lifts my mood like very few other things do.

When I was a child, snow on the ground meant that I spent the entire day outside, sledding or just walking through snow-covered fields. One moonlit night, Momma made the neighbor boy go home at eleven-thirty because she was ready to go to bed; we had been sledding since seven that morning.

My darling Greg and I liked to drive around when it was snowing, especially when it was one of those snowfalls without wind, and large fluffy flakes looked like feathers gently floating down. We had many pleasant drives on snowy days, a couple of harrowing drives, and a magical drive one winter night when the snow was sparkling in the headlights and each flake seemed to bounce a few times before settling to the ground.

This week, however, even though the snowfall has been pretty and the pasture is beautiful, with snow clinging to tree trunks and branches, I cannot enjoy my time of year for Greg is not here to share it with. I miss our drives, his appreciation of the beauty God sent, and the pleasure we had enjoying a beautiful day and each other’s presence.

I went to Greg’s grave Friday afternoon, looked out over the snow-covered bottom and talked to Greg for a few minutes, then walked to the branch and followed a deer trail back to the house. While I appreciated the quiet and beauty of the snowy scenery, my heart was heavy with grief and I could not bring myself to stay outside on that wonderful winter afternoon as I used to do.

Looking at the snow blanketing the front yard, I have a sadness in my heart that I doubt will ever lift. Grief is tied to so many things, some to be expected, like holidays; other things, like the show, are unexpected and hit me with more strength than I ever thought possible.

Grief trumps everything.

I Need A Bar

I need a bar. Not a sports bar. Not a yuppie bar. Not a trendy bar with modern themed decor. I need a bar.

You know – a BAR. A place where the smoke of countless cigarettes lingers in the air. A place where a Wurlitzer jukebox loaded with heartbreak resides in a corner alcove. A place where the lights are dim and no one knows your name – or cares.

I need a bar.

It has taken many miles of solitary driving and many  hours of Travis Tritt’s songs for me to realize why I, a non-drinker, need a bar.

A bar was not a place that Greg and I went to more than a few dozen times in our forty-two years together. Each time we went to a bar it was connected to work or concerts, never just a spur of the moment “Let’s go to a bar” night.

Everything I see and do reminds me of Greg, especially driving – even in the new truck that Greg was never in – and Travis’ music. Greg and I frequently rode around for hours at a time on back roads, major highways, and some places that it seemed the roads were only in Greg’s imagination, there was so little trace of a track. We listened to music, most of the time Travis Tritt, and Greg sang along, entertaining me and making our lengthy drives seem much shorter.

I have tried driving for hours and listening to Travis Tritt’s music to alleviate some of the grief I have from losing Greg to cancer in 2019. While it has helped, I knew I needed something else. A week or so ago I realized what it was that I, a non-drinker, needed – a bar.

Someplace to sit in a dark corner, sip on a Coke, listen to music, and ignore the world. Something that was not an integral part of our life together. Something and some place that is not a constant reminder of what we had – and were – together. Somewhere neutral, unassuming, aged and steady, caring not if I stay an hour or until closing time. Somewhere I can find new thoughts unconnected to my past.

I need a bar.

Grief Has No Schedule

Nor options. Nor settings. Nor rhyme or reason.

The most innocuous of things can cause a few tears today. The same thing, two days later, may bring a smile. Two weeks from now that same item or event can bring on grief with the impact of a runaway freight train, plunging you into depths of grief that you did not know existed.

Yesterday morning it was the lines of a song. Over the weekend it was taking down Christmas decorations. Two months ago, a cedar tree in a neighbor’s fencerow. The long, long heartbroken summer and fall – everything. 

Only one place have I seen the ways of dealing with grief stated truthfully – no one can help you through this. You have to do it alone. No one can remove the pain, the unsettledness, the wants. Nor can drugs or counseling – they are at best flimsy patches on a wound that only death will heal completely.

My friend’s grief from the loss of her husband isn’t my grief. She has a different set of emotional reactions than I do. Her family dynamics are different than mine. Yes, we can discuss the loss of our husbands and how we miss them, but in the final analysis, she cannot alleviate my grief, nor can I alleviate hers. All we can do is discuss it, knowing each of us has a different reaction to our loss and a different way of mourning. We may be able brighten a dark day for each other, but the grief is still there, biding its time, watching for a moment to arise like a creature from the depths of Hades and wrap our spirit in pain we think will not end.

Today, I’m grieving but without tears and pain. I can think of Greg and all we did without dissolving into tears. Tomorrow, who knows? It may be a replay of today or I may feel on top of the world. Or one of those rough days from summer will stroll in and take possession of my emotions. 

Grief’s schedule does not coincide with my schedule. The grief will never go away, I will just deal with it differently as time passes. All I can do is endure until I have dealt with grief in my own way and in my own time. I will survive.

Muscle Memories

Muscle memory. Most people don’t realize it exists even though it is utilized in the accomplishment of our everyday tasks. Brushing our teeth, tying our shoes, driving to work. Muscle memory comes into play in any endeavor – typing, martial arts, riding a bicycle, playing a musical instrument. We acknowledge it is there, using terms such as “got the hang of it” or “learned the feel of it.”

I know I have muscle memory. There have been times when I was teaching someone how to do my job that I could not tell them how I did a certain function on the computer. I would have to tell them to get up and watch my hands as I did the function.

I had never considered how much muscle memory was tied to being married to someone for two-thirds of your life. Until this morning.

I had a long weekend of crying, mourning Greg, missing his presence. It took me three days to take down Christmas decorations at work and I had up about a tenth of what I normally have. In the process of grieving, I thought about a lot of different things, one of which was a conversation I had with a life-long friend a couple of weeks ago.

Her husband died four years ago. While she isn’t dating, she does communicate regularly with a high school classmate. She told me that I needed to find a man. No idea why she thinks that but I told her that I didn’t need a man in my life, that I’d had Greg for forty-two years and was still grieving over him.

This morning, in the midst of another bout of tears, I started thinking about the possibility of another man in my life. That’s when muscle memory came into play. I cannot imagine touching a man besides Greg, for when I think about touching another man, my hands and body recall the feel of Greg. The warmth of his skin. The strength in his muscles. The comfort of his arms around me. The beat of his heart against my back as I lay snuggled against him. The softness and curl of his hair wrapped around my fingers. The tenderness of his kiss.

Will my muscles ever forget the feel of Greg?

Men In My Life

Since Greg's death on 14 August 2019, it would appear that I no longer have a man in my life. I don't date. I don't meet anyone for lunch. I don't have anyone over to watch movies.

But that doesn't mean that I don't have a man in my life, because I do. Two, actually. Two men whose love for me was greater than I deserved. Two men whom I love heart and soul. Two men whom I will grieve for until my last breath.

These two men are Greg and Daddy.

Yes, both of them are in their graves, beyond my reach. Both of them left my life far too soon. Both of them gave me strength and courage through their love for me.

Neither of them can ever be replaced. It would be futile to try.

These two men and I will continue to be bound together by love that knows no end. By love that strengthens me and gives me the courage to continue in life without them.

How could I ever hope for more?