Aimless wandering

The living room

Every morning I wake up and go downstairs to feed the cat then go back upstairs to clean her box. I shower, brush my teeth, put on sunscreen and the tiny bit of makeup I wear, and make the bed. That’s my baseline. That much I have to do.

Then I find myself wandering around the house. I start out in the office because it has windows in the wall and in the ceiling. The light hits that room in the morning so after my shower I flop into my beanbag chair and read or listen to podcasts. For hours. Somewhere in that time I have breakfast/lunch, check my email, possibly return some texts.

Maybe because from time to time I need to get up and walk around, maybe because I’m following the sun, I move from room to room. Once the light in the office starts to move away from me I drag my beanbag into the bedroom and park myself in a sunny spot in the corner where the windows meet. It’s not as bright as the office, but there are tall windows and mirrored closet doors that reflect the light. More reading, more podcasts, maybe write a blog post, maybe even go to the grocery store. It’s barely possible - but unlikely - that I go for a walk.

At around 5 I go downstairs for wine and I stretch out in the living room. It’s not as bright there, but the windows overlook the sunny lawn and people might be out to throw a frisbee, play fetch with a dog, set up a mini batting practice with a kid, maybe someone kicks a soccer ball around.

Finally, when the room gets really dim I move into what the architects called the “rumpus” room. I sit in the hated recliner and read or watch television. Missy Cat wakes up and comes downstairs to sit on my lap, eventually moving onto the footrest to groom herself. Maybe I talk to a friend or a daughter on the phone, maybe I email or text.

In fairness, not a lot of this is so different from before Randy got sick - we were never go-getters and we both worked. But we were together - maybe in the same room, maybe not. But even when we were apart we talked. One of us would call out, “Hey! Did you see that Tina Turner died?” And the other one would say, “Really? How old was she?” If the person was a musician I might have to listen to Randy tell the story of how he saw that person/band in concert. Even though I already know. Or, “Hey! Did you know that Henry Kissinger is still alive? Jeeze, he’s 100 years old.” Or I might tell Randy that I heard on a podcast that 40% of women think their husbands should do more work around the house. (There’s a good chance that I made that up, but I say it anyway.) If Randy was in the hospital we would talk on the phone or text until he felt like going to sleep - sometimes I would watch a movie and text him my commentary as I watched.

At 9 my phone alarm goes off and I’m supposed to go upstairs and exercise, but I never do. But eventually I do go upstairs and do the baseline things that have to be done - I wash my face, brush my teeth, and clean the cat box. And then I go to bed and Missy Cat settles in and maybe I sleep and maybe I don’t.

I read this back and I think Oh my god, this sounds pathetic. Or maybe it just sounds sad because I’m sad. Or maybe I’m just gathering my strength to go on with my life. One piece of progress - if I want to call it that - I am no longer surprised to remember that Randy is dead. He really is never coming back, I really do live alone. I really am a widow.