New home, new habits

Written last night

Dear Ones,

Except for packing boxes, I haven’t exercised since Clark died two months ago. Before, I had this routine — Monday and Friday, classes at the Y; Wednesday, Zumba at the other Y; and on Tuesday and Thursday Zing and I would hike for at least an hour through the sandy hills of Phipps Park.  When people told me all that exercise was good for my health, I would often point to my head and laugh, “Yes, mental health!”  I would also snub my nose and deride exercise machines. “Looks like a torture chamber!” I would sniff. “Not for me!” In our dreams, Clark and I envisioned  Zing and me nosing for miles around midtown Sacramento, returning with juicy tidbits of street life to share with Clark. (Never, never was Clark a walker! He just liked it that I explored on foot.) 

Well, today was a turnaround. No gorgeous woods, no rambling the streets,  no dancing the mambo — Instead, I began the day with repetitions of 30 each to strengthen my thighs (previously disdained as boring — not my thighs — the reps) and in the afternoon I tried out the stationary bike at my condo’s exercise room. I went at 2 p.m., when I figured (rightly) that I’d be alone.  I didn’t care to have anyone see me fumble over how to operate the bike. And the reps — moves recommended by the knee clinic —  I maneuvered in the hotel room, and I can tell you privately that I did not always get to 30 without stopping. 

I want to strengthen my legs to get rid of the knee pain, and this is supposed to do it. Besides that, wow! it might clear my head as well. When I can walk better Zing and I will go exploring. The clinic said it might take four to six weeks.

Today also brought two mildly serendipitous meetings. I crossed paths with Anita, the mail deliverer, as she was sorting envelopes at the condo. She is just the kind of person Clark would love: she’s from Indiana, down by where it meets Kentucky, and fell in love with California while she was in the Air Force here. She’s been delivering mail in midtown Sacramento for about 25 years, so she's an expert on zip code 45814. I’m sure she and Clark could talk forever.

I also stopped at my new home on the twelfth floor, just to claim tenuous ownership again, and as I got off the elevator I saw a man bending over something on the floor outside my door. It was Bill, the contractor, getting ready to leave. He seemed delighted to see me. “I was going to call you over the weekend,” he said, “but it’s better if you see for yourself.” He re-opened the door, and we examined the wood floors, which he is installing meticulously. One minute later and Bill would have been on the down elevator. 

(I love having perfectionists do such work, but … it's taking so long! I can’t wait to move in.)

My friend Joy has been considering what makes “normal.” She said she’s not normal and neither am I, and that’s a good thing. I agree.  Joy wonders if “assimilated” might be closer to what I mean when I say normal.  Yes. I am painfully cutting new grooves and habits into my life. Assimilating.

Love,

K

Approaching normal

Dear ones, 
written last night:

I’m closer to normal today. I got the mailbox keys! (My worry was stupid; the only thing needed was my driver’s license. ) With my key I could get my mail. While there, I checked out progress in my new home; the wood floor is nearly laid.  I went to the orthopedic clinic. (They told me not to run but to swim.)

The cloud around me is shifting. Part of me, most of me, doesn’t want to come back, would choose to live in a haze rather than in the real world without Clark. Everything I’m doing now is something I’d rather be doing with him. But I have no choice.  

My physical pain — the knee — and the everyday horror of moving, along with the recent fog of jet lag, all masked the pain of loss. Loss remains. I have time for it now. But Clark would never, ever want me — or you! — to be blanketed in sadness. He would say, “You have a new address, Kathleen. So do I.” Let’s think of the afterlife (which Clark, the philosophy student, considered a mystery that could very well be heavenly) as happiness. Clark is happy, and he absolutely wants us to be also. I know it’s true, and so do you. Sadness doesn’t overwhelm me.

And the best thing that happened today was having tacos at Patrick and Steph’s. 

Being normal makes me tired. Good night!

Be Prepared to Stop

I’m here. I’m here for good, legs stretched on the window seat at the Sheraton Sacramento, looking east at the dusky pink and blue sky. It’s either 11 p.m. or 8 p.m., depending on which part of my brain you ask.  

Patrick and Steph (and their dog Gully, who waited in the car), met me at the airport at 11 p.m. yesterday — less than 24 hours ago. When we got outside, the night air was so cool! They dropped me off at the Sheraton; I checked in; zoomed up 25 floors and flopped into bed. Slept until 3 a.m., which is also 6 — the time I always got up in Florida. I turned over and slept again, until 7, California time. 

Later, Patrick drove me to my new home.  There, everyone was easy, from the woman at the front desk to Bill and Bobby, the contractor and his son. My place looks —  or should I say feels — great. Smooth walls, floors ready for wood. From the balcony Bobby raved about what we could see: the Capitol, the yellow bridge, the new arena. “There aren’t too many sights in Sacramento,” he laughed, “but you can see them all from here.” I like that.

In the car, Patrick coached me, “Take it easy, Mom. Quiet your voice. Lower your intensity. People are more relaxed and friendly here.” How great to be advised by my son to relax and enjoy life!

Of course, my antennae are up, and today I noticed details that will soon escape me: water in the hotel bathroom does not gush into the sink; the faucet emits a light spray. Toilets need to be severely flushed. Buses have signs urging “Don’t forget to recycle your oil filter.” There are more bicycles, more beards, more arms with tattoos shoulder to wrist. Pedestrians don’t jaywalk; they wait for the Walk sign. Some bicyclists seem reckless, cutting corners from the sidewalk to the street right in front of cars. “Ordinary” dinner wine is extraordinary. 

At my new home there’s more to be done: details, details, and a conundrum: I need a new mailbox key. The last owners did not leave one. Mary the realtor had a new key made at the Post Office. To get that key, I have to go to the Post Office and prove I own this place. That would be the closing statement. Just before I left Tallahassee I UPS’d the closing statement and other papers to myself at my new address; so the proof I own this place is in the mailbox that I cannot open until I show proof I own this place. Tomorrow the solution will reveal itself.

An hour ago, as I was eating dinner at the hotel restaurant, in a comfy booth with a window onto J Street, a city workman sauntered onto the street directly outside my window and erected a sign. It said, “Be Prepared to Stop.” I think it was for me. 

Ready to go!

My last day in Tallahassee… I read the news and finished a book (The Nest/ a New York family drama), didn’t leave the hotel, hoping stillness would keep my knee from stiffening up.  I did hop across Gaines Street for coffee this morning (so much better than the hotel’s!) and in the evening for a salad to go from Gaines Street Pies.

There were frustrations: trying to access the bank online, which I did without problem yesterday, yet today I was blocked. Grrrr! Same with Social Security. Stab, Stab! Try, try! Reject, reject! Obviously, I should stop, and eventually I did. At least I know my questions.  I’ll ask them tomorrow.

The woman who cleans my hotel room told me about her 17-year-old daughter, who is mentally ill, who set fire to their house, who loves to draw, who cannot look her in the eye, who sucks all the attention away from her 9-year-old brother.  My problems shrivel before hers. 

And tomorrow: Sacramento, my new home! Trouble has beset me, yes, but I smile in anticipation. Yay!

 Empty house

Hello, normal ones!

Hello, normal ones!

Today was nothing but numbers. My brain is fried, but after many hours (yes, number nerds, it takes me a long time!) I’m beginning to grasp the pensions and the mortgage, the usernames and the passwords, a little better. I have to look at the stuff over and over before I get friendly with these crucial numbers.

I also enjoyed a  lovely goodbye coffee and a lunch with friends. Just now another friend called to say goodbye. “Let’s not think of it as goodbye, but that our worlds are getting bigger!”

I’m going to bed like a baby — early, after a bath, and with crackers and cocoa (well, wine!).

What I feel is not loneliness

Last night I couldn’t sleep (I know — hardly ever happens!), so I took a bath at 4 a.m. It worked.

Zing touched down in Sacramento late last night and is in good hands. Just got notice from Steph that the vet there finds Zing healthy. Thanks, Patrick and Steph!

I hate the word grief. 

The bright zinnias are still alive on my hotel table. 

I had to be gruff to the 2 men cleaning out the garage and shed. They wanted to dump everything by the edge of the drive for garbage pickup. I said No, in the same tone I use with Zing. No, plus treats (tips) worked. All is cleaned out. I never saw the house without furniture before today. It’s got character. I don’t know if I’ll go back.

I ate lunch at Hopkins Eatery, studying literature that came with my new Wells Fargo checking account. But the banker forgot our appointment. I ate dinner waiting for a city of Tallahassee phone to answer so I could cancel utilities. Never happened. In between, I returned all the black boxes to Comcast. Met with realtor. Laughed with Gretchen.

I decided to take it slow, realize things take time, not leave details unfinished here, head to Sacramento Monday. I’d have to stay in a hotel there anyway. And I keep limping a bit. I don’t like it. Going slower here will heal the knee.  

What I feel is not loneliness.

Can dogs fly?

All day I’ve been trying to get Zing in the air. It might not happen. There are restrictions — size of dog, temperature of tarmac in each city touched. If you get the size of the carrying case wrong you will be rejected. You must freeze the water he will drink. Screws must be metal, not plastic, but metal covered with plastic is OK. Everything is listed on the websites, but there is too much to absorb. Surprisingly, every person I talked to on the phone was relaxed and helpful. But no answers yet. Zing and I will be at the Tallahassee Airport Monday morning, and they might take him to Sacramento. But they might not. If he does land, Patrick and Steph will pick him up at 11 p.m. and take him home, and then Tuesday check him in to a dog boarding home until I come.

Needless to say, I haven’t made my own reservations yet. (I began today by making reservations for myself, with Zing under the seat as a carry-on, but it turns out he’s too big to fit under a seat.) We might end up driving across the country. Or Patrick might drive Zing to Sacramento. Really, if Zing hadn’t been by my side this time of crisis without Clark, I'd be tempted to leave him in Tallahassee with my student who loves him and begged for him. But Zing is now mine, completely. We’ll see on Monday what that entails. 

BTW, Amtrak takes dogs, but only recently (late 2015),  and with many area and time restrictions. Zing need not apply. And no dogs on buses. Yet. 

Zing hasn’t been eating much at the hotel. Same food, different place. Tonight I’m too tired for a dinner search, so I heated some spinach and cracked two eggs into it. With crackers and wine it was fine!

After a day or two you get the workaround that is Residence Inn.