The Car is Gone....

So, my parents came and picked up my car this morning, which now becomes their car. Mark and I bought this car from my Grandpa a little over two years ago when he (Mark) switched companies and didn't have a company car anymore. It is a 1997 Buick Park Avenue, and is the most comfortable car to drive. Long and big, it was sometimes a challenge for me to park (I do have parking issues), but it was sooo comfortable. I did like that car.

But practicality came to the forefront. With Mark gone, I do not need two cars. Parking both cars in the garage was a challenge for me. (Remember, I do have parking issues.) My insurance would go down without two cars. And because the Highlander is newer, I decided that I would need to sell the Buick. Thankfully, it is staying in the family, going to my parents.

With all of the paperwork, etc., I've had to handle since Mark passed, I thought this would be one of the easiest to deal with, since it is just a car. But it wasn't simple. It was hard. Having two cars, it was easier to pretend Mark was just on a business trip. See? His car is in the driveway, he isn't really gone. But when my parents drove away this morning, my pretense went with them.

I am now a one-car family. On my own.

He Should Be Here

This is not really a good day. Mark should be here. He should have seen his girl play her violin last night. He should have made bacon to go along with the hash browns and eggs this morning. He should have congratulated his boy on winning the 200m race at his track meet. He should be here.

Every time I make coffee, I am reminded that he is not here. You see, I have one of those pots that keeps the water hot so it doesn't take as long to brew a pot of coffee. Since I am not making a pot of coffee everyday (I reheat what is left on the in between days), some of the water evaporates inside the heater, and the results are a less-than-full pot. He should be here.

I am tired of feeling apathetic about life. I am not okay. I may say I am, but I am not. I am tired of dealing with stressful situations on my own, without his counterbalance. I am tired of feeling like he could walk in any second. I am just plain tired. He should be here.

So many sentences with "I," no sentences with "we." He should be here.

If I could hole up in my house and never see anyone, I would. But the children would suffer, and they were his world. I can't let them, or Mark, down. His library needs to be cleaned and straightened, but I can't bring myself to go in the room. Right after he passed, I was gung-ho about moving forward, going through items. Now, I avoid certain areas like the plague. He should be here.

Please don't feel sorry for me - I am feeling enough of that for myself. Don't worry about me - soon enough, I will pick myself up, and get on with the rest of my day. My days aren't spent in this mood, this is just the way I am feeling in this moment. I will be okay, it might just take a while. I just need to remember the title of this blog, and not focus on the big picture right now.

I am just feeling....

He should be here.

Garage Sales

Today I went to a subdivision garage sale and found some good deals: a Garrison Keillor book for the Prince, a cross-stitch booklet for the Queen Mother, and a few much needed serving dishes to add the serving dish graveyard that is my cupboards. It was a fun interlude, and I came away with some hints for those who hold such garage sales. It might help you to pry more dollar bills from my tight-fisted hands:





10) Pricing a rusty, paint-peeling tea strainer for $1 and calling it an antique will not bring in many customers.

9) If you have only enough items for one table, and a person can still see the table underneath, that is probably not cause to label your sale a "big sale."

8) The oversize purple plate, made in China, with two huge chinks out of it, is probably not going to sell for $4.

7) Selling a ziploc baggy filled with hotel soaps for $2 is just cheesy and tacky.

6) A ziploc baggy of hotel shampoos? See number 7.

5) Not letting a customer look through the baggy full of baseball cards to see which ones are in there because "they're my son-in-law's cards, and if you touch them you will scratch them" is possibly not the best sales tactic to use to sell that baggy for $25.

4) The day you are going to have a garage sale in your driveway is not a good day to have your yard chemically treated.

3) When customers are perusing your items, chances are that is not the best time to complain loudly about previous customers to your neighbors.

2) Selling your used eye shadows for $1 is not sanitary and might cause customers to leave without looking at other items.

And the top piece of advice I could give, learned from my experience this morning:

1) If selling children's items, you will not increase your customer traffic by yelling, "Next time I'm gonna get a stripper pole and a beer wagon!" That is tacky, very very very tacky.

Happy garage saling!

Helping Out

One of the hardest things for me to handle since Mark has been gone is to accept help. Friends and family cared about him too, and while I've understood it helps them to do something to help his family, I've never been one to accept help graciously or easily. Which is definitely not one of my best characteristics. However, friends and family have ignored me and helped out anyway.

How do I thank the ladies who sat in the waiting room of the ICU, not knowing whether I'd have time to speak with them, just being there in case I needed something? The people who took the time to bring food to my house so my mom didn't have to cook for 15 or more people each night? The ladies who brought snacks to the hospital so I wouldn't have to leave the hospital room for food? Who brought me a toothbrush/toothpaste combo? The church family who prayed without ceasing, and who still pray for us today? Those who brought me fountain Diet Cokes? Who still check on me from time to time to see if I need any help? Who came to Mark's memorial even though they didn't know him well, but wanted to support my family? The moms who gave my children sweet memorials to honor their dad? It is humbling to have so many who reached out to my family, and ignored what I said. They knew I needed help, even though I was reluctant to ask for assistance.

These people don't expect thank-yous, don't expect compliments, but gave out of their hearts. I asked my parents, how do I say thank you? How can I express how much they have meant to me? All I can do is pay it forward.

So, in honor of those who have cared for my family, thank you from the bottom of my heart. A cliched term, but a very honest feeling in my case. And know that my life, and the children's lives, have been touched by your caring, and we plan to pay it forward wherever, and whenever, we can.

A typical cliche....New Beginnings

So having been a widow now for two months, I am beginning to think about what I am going to do for the rest of my life. When Mark and I spoke about our future, we never figured in him dying of a stroke and making me a widow at 42 years of age. We spoke of him working until the day he passed, sure, but we thought we had at least another 30 years before that happened. We joked about it, saying he wouldn't know what to do with himself if he didn't work, that he was like my dad, always wanting to be working, failing at vacation and relaxation. We joked that I did enough relaxing for the two of us.

Well, the joke turned out to be not much of a joke. Mark worked right up until he went in to the hospital. When I arrived at the emergency room, the first thing he asked was if I had called his office. The second thing he asked was if I could gather up his work credentials and put them in my purse, giving me instructions on what I should do with them when I arrived home. Then he called his office himself. Always working.

The next day, after picking up his car from the doctor's office (he was taken to the hospital in an ambulance, much to his embarrasment), I walked down the hall to his room, and saw the sight that I will remember always, for which I will be eternally grateful: Mark, leaving his room with his IV stand in one hand, noticing me as I walked down the hall, and a big smile coming on his face. That smile did wonders for me - it reassured me he was okay, he didn't mind that I wasn't able to stay the night before (the children needed me, and he always put them first), he was so happy to see me, and that he loved me. I wish I had a picture of this, but I hope it always remains in my mind's eye.

I spoke to Mark the morning of his stroke on the phone, telling him that I was coming up as soon as the children got on the bus. It was the Prince's 16th birthday, and he was able to speak to our boy to wish him a happy birthday. Mark reminded me to bring his tennis shoes and clean socks, as we were hoping to bring him home that day. I remember stopping at the gas station to get gas and some breakfast to eat on the ride up. Little did I know this was a good thing, as I wouldn't have much of an appetite for the next two weeks. Upon arrival at the hospital, he wasn't in the room, and the nurse told me he had been taken down for a TEE and a heart shock, to see if they could get his heart out of atrial fibrilation.

When the doctor came rushing in to the room, I was on my phone. I don't know who I was talking to, but I got off quickly, thinking the doctor was going to tell me the procedure was successful, and Mark would be back up in a couple of hours at the most. He rushed me out of the room, telling me Mark had a stroke. At first, I was confused, not fully understanding what was going on, thinking that okay, he is in a hospital, they can fix this. In the ICU, they kept asking me if I needed to sit down, but I didn't want to sit down. I wanted to be next to my husband. They told me they were giving him tPA to halt the stroke.

But the tPA didn't work. After four days and an emergency surgery, I had to make a decision. For the rest of my life, even though I know I did for him what I needed to do, I will feel guilty for telling them to remove life support. But Mark wasn't Mark anymore. He wouldn't be able to read, do puzzles, watch his movies, talk politics. He wouldn't be able to talk, take care of himself, feed himself, even think. He might not be able to breathe on his own, wouldn't be able to walk, much less jog - and Mark ran more than a dozen Marine Corps Marathons. He might on some level recognize me as a familiar face, but he wouldn't KNOW me.

And nine days after he went to the doctor for what we thought might be pneumonia, I had to say goodbye to my best friend, my confidante, and the one person in this world who knew everything there is to know about me, and loved me anyway.

Everyone should have had the opportunity to love, and be loved by, a Mark. He wasn't a little blessing. He was, and always will be to me, a huge, ginormous blessing.