Friday, June 11, 2010

Tub Talk

I need to post a blog entry today if for no other reason than to get that horrible photo that I posted the other day off the front page.

I’m still in some kind of no man’s land, feeling both lazy and hating myself for it, and feeling semi-motivated to do something with myself. I can’t get outside myself. I’ve bricked myself behind a wall so I won’t keep thinking about how much I miss Clint, his wry humor, his incredible brain, and yes, I miss his amazing way of making love to me.

I miss sitting on the toilet lid and conversing with him while he soaked in his extra long tub. He would turn off the jets for a while and we would discuss plans or how we were doing on the N Y times crossword puzzle. I downloaded it every day and we each had copy. It was not uncommon for him to take his with him into the tub, then fall asleep and drown it. Sometimes he wanted a new copy but mostly he just said, “Fuck it, there will be another tomorrow.”

I would sit, legs crossed, and consume a beverage while we talked - coffee if he were soaking in the morning, vodka if he were soaking in the late afternoon. We would decide whether or not to go out for dinner and where we wanted to go. Should we replace the ice machine in the kitchen or just save the money? He never thought about money so he said to go buy one. We discussed which shrubs needed to be pruned and other inconsequential things. Those talks always made me want to smoke a cigarette. A flash back to Franny and Zoey?

Sometimes our conversations would take on a more serious tone and we would talk of family matters - my bipolar son and his unemployed alcoholic son. We never came to any mutual conclusions about what to do with them. It wasn’t his way to be confrontational, so I did the heavy lifting re my son, and I finally got him settled in a group home. Clint didn’t have the emotional makeup to push his son. In fact, he was something of an emotional coward.

In trying to figure out why those talks were so important to us, I comes to me that his infirmity, his inability to stand or walk made no difference in the tub. He took a bath just like everyone else in the bathing world. We could both pretend he was okay.

Whoever it was who said time heals all wounds was full of shit. I cannot imagine ever healing from this unthinkable loss. I can see myself one day being able to care for my wounds, protect them from being scratched open and gushing agony like they do now. But they are part of me, part of my emotional persona, even visible on my face though I try not to let it show.

I still want my husband back. My little house feels too big for me and two dogs.

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