Roller Coaster

The blues finally caught up with me last week.   I started feeling achy and flu-ish Thursday,  and figured I’d picked up a bug somewhere in my travels.  I bombarded my body with Vitamin C and slept as much as I could.  On Friday night, I went out to see JoCo and the kids.

When Joey let me in, Zeus was right behind him, excited to see me.  He’s always excited to see people, but he really loves his Nana.   Zeus is their quirky pit bull—a huge horse of a dog.  He’s only a little older than Sarita, and he adopted her as his baby from the moment we brought her home from the hospital.    Sarita saw me and smiled a big smile and said “Hhhiiiiii!” and waved.   It was nice to feel so warmly welcomed.

After we visited awhile, we decided to go out for dinner.   After throwing around a few options, Joey suggested Sonny’s.   Sonny’s is probably my favorite restaurant on Earth.  I’ve been to some very fancy, highly-rated places, but I’ll take Sonny’s over them any day.  Whenever it was my turn to pick, I chose Sonny’s 90% of the time.  It drove Bunny crazy, but he was a fine one to talk—his favorites were Bob Evans and Steak-n-Shake.

 If you’re never been to Sonny’s, it’s a Bar-B-Que restaurant chain.  The service and food are usually good, though you might have to tolerate screaming children, because it’s a family place.  I love their ribs, and they’re the ribs by which I judge all others.  If I say someone’s ribs (like my cousin Vicki’s husband, Chris’s) are better than Sonny’s, that’s high praise, indeed.   In addition to good food, Sonny’s has a variety of four sauces on every table, ranging from mild to tangy. 

As part of our ritual when we’d go there, Bunny and I would sit down, order, the have the Parade of the Sauces.  Whoever was sitting closest to the sauce bottles would line them up, down the middle of the table, with the ketchup bottle and salt and pepper bringing up the rear.  It was silly, but a prime example of the silly little games we played--the kind of silly little games that I miss now.

So after we’d placed our orders Friday night, I turned to Corey, who was closest to the sauces, and said, “Parade of the Sauces!”  She gave me a blank look and said, “Huh?”  I briefly explained what I was talking about, tears slipping down my cheeks.  If anyone noticed, no one said anything, but since the mood went to the subdued side, I think at least JoCo did.  I hadn’t thought of it before, but this was the first time since Bunny’s passing that I’d been to Sonny’s.   Now I couldn’t remember the last time I’d said “Parade of the Sauces” and someone else knew what I was talking about.

Bunny’s mother died about five years ago.  I remember how well he held up, until about four months after she died.  He went into a tailspin of depression that alarmed me enough to actually take him to the doctor.  Shortly afterward, I read that the four month mark is when grief intensifies.  I don’t remember why, exactly, but I do remember that four months was the timeframe.   It seems I’m right on track for the roller coaster that my emotions have become.

It seems that the more back to “normal” my life becomes, the more I’m exposed to these unexpected emotional triggers.  In the last few months of his life, Bunny was pretty much housebound, so we rarely went out on dinner dates.  Even as briefly as a year ago, our lives were fairly normal.  I know that, because the photos on his Facebook timeline show us going to dinner, or spending Spring Break with Trinity and Stephen.   But as time wore on and the cancer progressed, our lives became less and less normal. 

Honestly, we were blessed to have a very happy marriage.  We only had one truly rough spot, when he was so wrapped up in self-pity that he lashed out passive-aggressively at me.  It didn’t last for long, because I made it clear that I wouldn’t stand for it.  When I step onto these emotional landmines now, it’s memories of the good times that we had, even as he was growing more ill. 

Caring for a terminally ill spouse is kind of like having a baby.  You know what’s coming, but you don’t know when.  You prepare as best you can, but until you go through it, you can’t really appreciate what it feels like.  Then the most painful part comes and goes, and you eventually forget the bad times and misery and pain that came before.   That’s how it is for me now.  The bad days have faded like cheap newspaper, but all the good memories—and there are many, many good memories—bob to the surface of my mind unexpectedly.

The roller coaster of emotions is supposed to smooth out over time, and I’m sure it will.  But I've never been a patient person, and even though I’ve always loved roller coasters, I’ll be happy when this ride is over. 

The Not-So-Young and Restless

When I decided to start a blog, one principle guided me: it had to be an honest, real account of my journey.  No scripted moments in the Wideaux’ Peek!  So now, I’ve come to a point that I’ve debated sharing, then decided to just go with it. 

Have you ever noticed that when you want something, everyone else seems to have it?  Like when you’re trying to get pregnant, you can’t go anywhere without seeing massive baby bumps.  For the past couple of days, I’ve been pretty blue.  I miss Bunny, but I really miss the affection you can’t (or shouldn’t) get from a blood relative.   It seems everywhere I look, I see couples holding hands, or kissing or hugging or talking, heads together over dinner or coffee.  Then I thought how nice it would be to Skype my mother; she’d be full of wise-cracks and platitudes.  Of course, you know how that turned out.  For those of you who came in late, my mom died 27 days after my husband.

So, back to my current situation.  I love hugs and kisses and hand-holding and all that mushy stuff—I always have.   The Irish and French blood in me seem to dominate: I am fiery and fierce and passionate.  In the words of Janet Jackson’s song I Miss You Much, “I’m not the kind of girl who likes to be alone.”   So, to find the supplier of this much-needed affection, I turned to the place I always do to look for things: the Internet.  For those of you who think it’s too soon, I can only say this: my sitting home alone isn’t going to bring Bunny back.  He fully expected that I’d be looking for companionship, and is probably a bit surprised that I waited as long as I did.

Before I get to the good stuff, let me be clear: I don’t need a man in order to survive.  I’ve been on my own before, and I’m dealing with all the day-to-day things—bills, chores, house upkeep—without much difficulty.  I’m comfortable with who I am and don’t need another person to validate me.   As much self-esteem as I have, though, I can’t hug and kiss myself.  

I’m probably the least patient person on earth, but I’m at least I’m decisive.  No debating for days on end here—once I decide to do something, I do it.  A few weeks ago, I signed up to three dating web sites: eHarmony, Plenty of Fish and Our Time.  Hey, a girl’s gotta cover her bases!   I filled out the profiles on each (which are basically the same) and uploaded the best pictures of myself that I could find.   So far, the results have been…underwhelming.

Granted, I’m no Angelina Jolie, but I’m not Quasimodo, either.   I could stand to lose a few pounds, but I’m trying.  Plus, I haven’t gone back to smoking, despite the fairly overwhelming stressors in my life.  I kept my profiles positive and said the only things I was looking for in my match were intelligence, a good sense of humor, and a kind heart.   Not too much to ask.   Each of the sites purports to match people based on shared interests or qualities, but you can further narrow the search with preferences.  I set my preferences:  age between 45-65, location within 25 miles, any race, any religion, any education level.  

I’m pretty open-minded, but the age limitation was a comfort-zone kind of thing.  I’m comfortable dating a little younger, and a lot older.  Bunny was the youngest guy I’d ever dated, and he was still 10 days older than I was.  The oldest I’d ever dated—Dexter, a detective that those of you from back in the day in the AP probably remember—was 16 years older than I was.  I was a newly-divorced single mom at the time, and my mother was opposed to my dating someone that much older.  My step-father, though, took the approach that life is too short to be concerned about age differences, and his opinion on the subject got Mama to back off.  As for the geographical restriction, I just don’t have the kind of time or energy for a long-distance relationship.

Plenty of guys look at my profiles—I know, because each of the sites lets me know who’s checked me out.  I’ve sent some messages to a few of my “matches” when I felt like we had a lot in common.   I’ve gotten a few messages from my “matches,” but more from guys who could not have been even remotely matched to me.  

eHarmony was the first site I signed up to.  After a fairly exhaustive questionnaire, I was confident that the matches I’d get would be promising.  So far, not so much.  Of the three, eHarmony seems to have the best-dressed, most attractive demographic.  It has a guided communication option, which most people seem determined to use.   The farthest I’ve gotten is Step 2 (there are at least 4).  I’ve tried cutting to the chase and going outside the guided communication to send e-mails directly, but haven’t had any luck with that route.  eHarmony doesn’t seem to take my preferences into consideration—it sends me a lot of matches from the Vero Beach area, which is nowhere NEAR where I live.  Maybe I should move to the east coast.  Nah!

My cousin Vicki suggested Our Time, the idea of which kind of rankled on me at first, because it advertises to the over 50 set.  However, reality-checking told me that—duh—I was about to be 50, so I bit the bullet and signed up there.   Surprisingly enough, there are lots of people on Our Time who are way under 50.  And even more who are not.  Our Time, in addition to skewing older, seems to attract surprisingly picky men.  One Joe Pesci look-alike,  who describes himself as good looking and 5’8” is “looking for an attractive, slim, or toned in shape brunette or blond non-smoker social drinker” and ends by specifying that potential matches be “YOUNG LOOKING” and “NO PHOTO NO RESPONSE---- DON'T WASTE OUR TIME.”  Newsflash, Pisano—I can lose weight and get plastic surgery, but nothing you can do will make you taller.

I did get a nice note from a guy who clearly fell outside my preferences, hailing from Dallas (Texas, not Georgia) and being a very young 73.  I don’t know how Daddy would feel about my dating a guy older than he is, but the geographic distance, alone, makes this guy undesirable.   I’ve also noticed a lot of guys on Our Time have their e-mail addresses spelled out in their profiles, like lizlanier at rocketmail dot com.  These are guys who are putting their contact information out without having to pay for a membership.  You could look at this maneuver several ways: either they’re: 1) thrifty/crafty; 2) cheap; or 3) poor.  Any way you look at it, they’re not committed enough to invest in the process.  Since a lot of them are retirees, maybe they’re living on fixed incomes. 

Finally, there’s Plenty of Fish, which now calls itself POF.  This site seems to have a mix of the eHarmony and Our Time crowd.  Some of the guys here do the membership-dodging trick, too.  Of the three, this site has been the most fruitful.  I’ve gotten lots of messages from guys I’d never have considered (although I do prefer men with teeth and good grammar), including one very young admirer (32) with whom I’ve chatted online a few times.  He’s black, which doesn’t bother me, but so very young!  I’m no Demi Moore, and look how that whole thing turned out for her, anyway.  He’s only two years older than Joey, and that’s the sticking point for me.  

I’ll meet him for coffee as soon as I get a moment, and see if I can overcome my age objections.  JoCo, meanwhile, have been throwing Lisa Lampanelli-esc barbs my way, but I think it’s funny.  I told 32 that, if things went anywhere between us, it would be like How Stella Got Her Groove Back.  I hope he’s not so young that he didn’t understand the reference.  

Driven to Distraction

My love affair with driving began early: my grandfather taught me to drive his tractor when I was eight.  Now that I have my own nine year old granddaughter, I question the wisdom of his decision, but I suppose that’s one advantage of rural living: wide open fields make for a fairly safe learning environment.  It wasn’t a state of the art tractor, anyway—he’d probably had it since my dad was young, and it topped out at 15 mph.

Up in “The Country,” as our New Orleans cousins called it, there were two brands of vehicles: Ford and Chevy.   Our cousins would come up on weekends or special occasions driving such exotic brands as Pontiacs and Toyotas.  My cousin Rene’ had a Corvette and cousin Nelson had a yellow Porshe that I was absolutely crazy about.  I learned early on that city folks had much cooler rides.

The first car I learned to drive was my dad’s AMC Gremlin.  Daddy lived near LSU at the time, and we went to the stadium parking lot on a Saturday for the lesson.  It was a stick shift, and we went round and round the parking lot as I learned the art of the manual transmission.  Back then, kids in Louisiana could get their driver’s licenses at 15, and a week prior to my test, he came up to The Country to teach me to parallel park.  As it turned out, parallel parking wasn’t part of the test, but Daddy was an exacting teacher—even today, I can parallel park just like the folks from up North.

We didn’t have nearly as many cousins on my mother’s side of the family, but our cousin Bryan had several exotic cars of his own, including a convertible.  Bryan was a true bon vivant, and lived just outside Atlanta in a rambling, antebellum home. He was about 10 years older than my mother, and way more easy-going. He loved a good time, and came to Louisiana several times to sample the good times there.    Once, he had my uncle drive him over (Bryan couldn’t actually drive his cars because he was legally blind) in the convertible.  Oh, were we an excited bunch of country mice! 

I had just gotten my license a few months prior, but Bryan fearlessly handed me the keys so that I could chauffer him around town.  My sisters and neighbor, Lisa, piled into the back and we were off.  We drove all over Mansura, being sure to wave at everyone we saw.  Bryan was a history buff, so we had to stop at every historical marker so that he could jump out and stand next to the signs and read what had happened on those spots.  When we were going at any rate of speed, the wind would whip our heads so strongly that we couldn’t carry a conversation until we slowed.  I think it took a full week for me to get all the tangles and knots out of my hair.

After high school, I married an Air Force guy stationed in Germany.  The first car we had was a BMW, the second a Mercedes.  That’s not as impressive as it sounds: in Germany, even the taxis were Mercedes.   Driving the German-engineered cars gave me a taste for performance cars, though, and I enjoyed having cars that we couldn’t have afforded in the U.S.

My preference in cars was set by then: I liked them small and fast.  As a newly-divorced mom back in Mansura, the first car I bought all on my very own (with my mother co-signing and threatening me with death if I missed a payment) was a red Mercury Capri.   I named her Baby.  My family has the odd habit, which I trace back to my maternal grandmother, of naming vehicles.   Baby was followed by Jett, a black Ford Escort with manual transmission.

We moved to Atlanta and Jett was stolen within six months.  If you’ve ever had a car stolen, you know that it’s a pretty traumatic experience, especially if it’s later found totally stripped.  Such a violation!  After that experience, I decided to pick the least-stolen car available to replace my fast little ride: a maroon Toyota Corolla wagon.  I had sworn off Ford by that time, because both my prior cars had had mysterious radiator problems.  She wasn’t too pretty to look at, but PDW (Precious Deaux Wagon) could maintain a good speed (did I mention I like to go fast?) and was quite serviceable to shuttle Joey and his friends around. 

PDW never needed anything done to her, other than routine maintenance.  She got me through college and law school, and had over 150,000 miles on her before I decided to trade her in.  I got a red Honda Civic, the name of which escapes me at the moment.  That’s the car I drove down to Florida when we moved.  That little car saw a lot of miles before I finally traded her in.

At that point, I was making a good salary.  I could have gone up in class of cars, but the frugal side of me prevailed.  As I had explained to my son when he was younger, there’s a big difference between wanting and needing, and I didn’t need an expensive car.   I found a fun economy car, a Mazda 3.  It was 2004, the Mazda 3’s first production year.  It only had four cylinders, but had all the pick-up of six.  Zoom-zoom indeed.  Her name was Mikki.  She was a dark blue color that people sometimes called purple.

When it became too difficult for Bunny to climb in and out of his truck (about two years ago),  I convinced him to take Mikki and sell his truck (Nicky Nissan) to Joey.  He was happy with this solution, as he (like everyone else who drove her) loved Mikki.  Poor Mikki eventually met her demise just before Christmas last year: Joey was driving her back to our house (he’d been shuttling Bunny back and forth to doctors’ appointments) when some idiot made a left turn directly into Mikki. 

When Bunny got Mikki, that’s when I got my second Mazda 3, Sylvia.  When I was trying to decide what to get, I toyed with the idea of an Audi TT—my dream car.  I’d loved the TT since I’d first laid eyes on it.  Bunny even gave me a toy one for Christmas one year, until I got the real thing.   It would be silver, just like the model he’d given me.   Once I started the actual narrowing down process, though, I once again yielded to my frugal side.  That much for a car?  Holy cow!  I could buy TWO Mazda 3s for that price!  I didn’t need a luxury car—Mazda got me everywhere I wanted to go.

Then last year, my Aunt Kathy got a black Mustang: Nazgul (it’s a Lord of the Rings name).   She was fresh from divorcing Uncle David, and was on her own for the first time in more than 30 years.  I was excited hearing about her adventures with Nazgul, and happy that Aunt Kathy was blossoming in her new life.  During my mother’s wake, I had gone out for some air and walked down the sidewalk when I saw it: Nazgul, in all its glory; sleek, sporty, luxurious.  I looked it over all the way around.  “You know this thing SMOKES the road,” Margeaux whispered.  I had driven Mustangs as rentals, so I knew what they could do: go very, very fast.  And I do like to go very, very fast.

A few weeks ago, Corey took on the task of making the arrangements for Bunny’s memorial service.  Even though he died in January, Bunny wanted his memorial on what would have been his 50^th birthday, April 20^th.  It will be a Star Trek-themed event with Catholic influence, also at his request.  Someone asked me if those were my ideas.  HA!  Not in a million years!  It’s pure Bunny, who always celebrated his birthday like it was a national holiday.  His 40^th birthday celebration lasted an entire week.

My own birthday is 10 days after his.   I’ve never been one to have huge Bunny-type celebrations, but I decided that this year I would get myself a really nice present.  Taking a page from Aunt Kathy’s book, I decided what it would be: an Audi TT.  If I was going to be 50, I was going to be 50 in style.  Naturally, I did my research to make sure it was still a good car, and it is.  The fact that one reviewer called it a “Cougar Car” didn’t deter me.

There are only two Audi dealerships in the area, and one night a few weeks ago I went to the closest one.  There was only one TT on the lot (they’re a limited production model).  I didn’t want to test it at night, so I returned the next day and, with a nervous salesperson riding shotgun, took it for a spin.  I felt like Speed Racer!  There were two drawbacks: no back seat at all, and a humongous blind spot.  The first didn’t bother me as much as the second: I’m a very fast driver, but I’m also a very safe one.  My dream car had now become much less desirable.

I turned my attention to the Audi A5: still sporty, but without the Cougar stigma.   The salesperson, Chris, showed me the various styles, and mentioned a convertible on the lot.  I told him I really wasn’t interested in convertibles, because they were so noisy and bad for the hair.  He assured me that convertibles had improved quite a bit over the years, and we took out the A5 convertible.  I didn’t feel so Speed Racerish driving it, but wow!  It had get-up and go to spare, and was as comfortable as a velvet glove.  

At first, I wasn’t wild about the color—at dusk, it looked very dark.  It would take two months to order one in a lighter color.  I don't have that kind of patience!   I went back in the daylight on Friday, and was happy to see that, with the sun shining bright, it looked more blue-gray than charcoal.  That’s when I knew that Audrey would be coming home with me.  Nelson called me yesterday to tease me a bit, then said, with all seriousness, “You’re going to need a radar detector.”  Yes I am!     

Step by Step

I cleared a big hurdle tonight: it was my first night out in a big group setting.   I’d been out in a small group in my home town when my mom died (detailed in I Know Why the Irish Drink), and I’d been out with one or more attorneys when we were at loose ends out of town, but this was the first large group setting--with a mix of friends, colleagues and law students.  For some reason, just the thought of going to a cocktail party filled me with anxiety.   Not my usual pre-cocktail party mindset, for sure.

The worst part about the lead-up was that I didn’t know why I was so anxious.  These were all people I liked, and I’d always had a good time at past events.  I tried to explain it to a friend who called this afternoon but just couldn’t articulate my feelings.  Maybe it’s because I didn’t want to answer any questions, or because I knew I wouldn’t have someone to come home to who’d be full of questions about who I’d seen.   I didn’t know why, but I was a bundle of nerves.

I psyched myself up all day: I’d find a reason not to go, and Margeaux (my alter-ego) would convince me that I NEEDED to go, or it would get easier to blow off the next event and the one after that, and soon I’d be a recluse.  Guilty confession: I tried to go to an event with another group last night, but chickened out.  Margeaux pointed out that I’d missed spending time with a fun group of women and hearing a great speaker (Tampa’s female Chief of Police).  So Margeaux and I squabbled all day, and as I almost changed my mind for the umpteenth time, I finally pushed myself out the door.

Maybe I didn’t want to get The Look again.  The first time it happened was about eight months ago.  I was having dinner with a group of fellow nurse attorneys, and one of them asked how Bunny was doing.  I told them he was Stage IV (the worst you can get).  They all expressed sympathy, but one of them gave me a look that was as clear as if it had been written on her forehead: pity.  Her eyes said “Oh you poor thing, I feel so sorry for you—I pity you.” 

She meant well, of course, but it made me furious.  I didn’t want anyone’s pity!  So many people have been through so much worse in their lives than I have that I’m absolutely blessed in comparison.  Pity is for people who’ve suffered the unendurable, the Job-like trials.  Even though I’ve felt a bit like Job from time to time over the last few years, it’s a feeling that quickly passed.

I got The Look a few times at my mother’s wakes, either directly or vicariously through my sister, Julie.  As I mentioned in a previous post, people often mistake Julie for me and vice versa.  Several times during those two days, someone would approach me and offer condolences on my mother’s passing.

“Are you the one who lives in Africa?” they’d ask.

“No, that’s my sister, Julie.  She lives in South Africa,” I’d reply.  Julie was continually irked that people left the “South” part out.

“Oh.  Poor, thing, she just lost her husband.”  They’d say it somberly, and give me The Look.

“Nnnnoooo…that was me,” I’d say, somewhat amused when their expressions changed from pity to horror and they made hasty retreats.

So, steeling myself against The Look, I made my way into the bar where we were meeting.  I got lots of hugs and expressions of concern, but not The dreaded Look.  I had a good time, and I escaped without even coming close to breaking down.  Margeaux was right—I needed to get out.  Now, the next time I go into a group setting, I’ll know that I can do it, and that the world won’t end, and it will get easier to go out each subsequent time.  Then one day—hopefully soon—I won’t stress at all about getting out.  

The Business of Dying

In my free time during the past month—which has been in short supply lately--I’ve slowly been winding up Bunny’s financial affairs.  For years, I asked him to write down all his accounts and access numbers, but he never got around to it.  Once it became clear that his outcome wasn’t going to be good, I urged him to make the list and to visit a friend of mine to draw up a will.  He put off doing that, too.   He always used to tease me about being superstitious, but I think he believed that actually sitting down and writing a will would hasten his death.

At any rate, his final spiral was so sudden that there was no time to properly get his affairs in order.  On his last night on Earth, he scribbled notes with passwords and account names.  It took me awhile to figure out some of them—another thing we had in common is poor penmanship.   Since he wasn’t working, Bunny took care of all the bills and left me free to devote myself to less mundane pursuits.  Fortunately, he paid most of them electronically from our joint account, so they were easy to track.   In retrospect, it was a mistake to leave all the finances up to him, because I had a steep learning curve once he was gone.   Lesson: if your partner does all the family accounting, at least touch base on the issue from time to time.

When I finally had the presence of mind to start the task, I thought of putting together a list of all the things I needed to get done.  Then I figured that wheel had already been invented, and went on a Google search for it.  Sure enough, there are several helpful checklists available with just a mouse click.  One thing I learned was that I would need several copies of the Death Certificate.  It takes about two weeks to get the Certificate, and you can’t get very much done until you have it in hand.   The crematorium would order them and give them to me when I went to pick up Bunny’s cremains.

Over the years, we’d had some of our beloved pets cremated, and the urns were about the size of a regular-sized box of Pop Tarts.  I knew Bunny’s cremains would be more substantial, but was surprised when I went to pick them up and the manager put a cinder block-sized box in my hands.  It weighed about as much as a cinder block, too.

“Wow!  That’s a lot bigger than a cat!” I blurted out.  Fortunately, he had a sense of humor, and laughed along with me.

We sat down and he explained about the differences in the two types of death certificates: one has the cause of death, and one doesn’t.  As the appointment came to an end, I asked whether he needed to see my ID.  Ever the lawyer, I was nearly appalled that he hadn’t demanded to see it when I first came in.  Lord knows, the pharmacies have no problem demanding ID for decongestants.  No, he believed I was who I said I was.

“What if I was someone else coming in to hijack the ashes?”

“Like who?” My security-consciousness amused him.

“Um, a disgruntled family member.  A mistress, perhaps.”  I could play this game all day long: my pessimistic side can conjure up every worst-case scenario for any occasion.  He didn’t want to encourage me, though.    Bunny’s ashes and I were soon on our way.

I’ve faxed, copied or mailed the Death Certificate many times since then.  On Thursday, I took it to a credit union where Bunny had a small account.  I explained to the teller that my husband had died and I wanted to close out his account.  She sent me to the manager’s office.  The manager was a pleasant, pretty young woman with a slightly lilting, island accent.  I learned that she was born and raised in Antigua. I told her what I needed and she took the Death Certificate I offered.  Her eyes widened when she saw Bunny’s name.

“Oh my gosh!  He said he wasn’t leaving until the summer!” She looked genuinely distressed.

“That’s what we thought. It was very unexpected.”

“Did his son make it down here?” She was on the verge of tears.

“Yes, he and his family moved down in early December, so they had the whole month together.”  Relief seemed to wash over her.

“Oh, good!  So he had his son and granddaughters with him for Christmas!”  Just then, the assistant manager passed her door, and she called him in to tell him of Bunny’s passing.

“Oh, no!  Did his son get down here in time?” To his relief, I assured him that he had.

I wasn’t surprised that these strangers knew minute details about Bunny’s life.  Ever since we dated, he loved to chat up people like they were friends whose only interest was what was going on in his life.  Once he was diagnosed with cancer, no one was spared the details, and once it was clear that he was on a short lease, he would bust out the news without provocation.  For example, one day we were looking at potential houses to buy as investments.  As we walked through one and the real estate agent was explaining the features of the house, Bunny surprised her with his news.

“I have less than a year to live!” he announced, in the same upbeat manner with which one announces a new puppy or baby in the family.  Needless to say, the recipients of this news were always a bit startled by it.

Cashiers were a favorite target of Bunny’s chat fests.  When Joey was little, Bunny would talk to a cashier for about five minutes, oblivious to the people waiting behind him.  If the subject of college arose, as it often did, Joey would proclaim “My dad has three degrees!”  I would just roll my eyes.

Bunny was also extremely nosy.  He eavesdropped on every conversation he possibly could, and would explain to me the dynamics at play between the couple arguing at the table next to ours, or the fellow theatergoers engrossed in conversation before a movie.  Whenever he claimed not to have heard something I said, I always pointed out that he had no problem hearing total strangers across a room.

He loved children, and if he saw someone with kids, he’d listen for their names.  Then, he’d either ask the parents a question about Timmy or Jessica or would actually engage Timmy or Jessica in conversation.   The parents would almost always abruptly answer or shuffle their kids away. 

“You’ve got to stop doing that!” I urged.                                                                    

“Why?  Kids love me, and they think I’m magic because I know their names.”

“Yeah, but it freaks their parents out.  They think you’re perving on their kids.”  The thought had never occurred to him.  He still continued to talk to kids, but didn’t call them by name.  Their parents seemed fine with that.

Bunny spent lots of time at the credit union, since it’s right down the road from our house.  Whenever he got chemo or blood transfusions, the nurses were his chat subjects.  The lady who cut what remained of his hair always brightened when he walked in.  I think his curiosity was why people remembered him so well—of all the customers they dealt with in a given day, he was probably one of the few who took the time to have any meaningful conversation with them, much less show interest in their lives.  

Glitter in the Air

I got home from Nashville this afternoon—my first overnight business trip since Bunny died.    My firm is working on a big construction case, and Brent (my partner in Oklahoma) and I were there for a deposition yesterday.  We actually arrived on Tuesday to start preparing. 

Brent is really nice and very straight-laced—a real, old-fashioned gentleman.  He’s about my age, and has three kids—two boys and a girl.  His eldest is in college and youngest is seven years old.  His wife, Janee, has homeschooled them all.  I met her back in December, and she’s pretty and just as sweet as she can be, and so tiny!  She’s about five feet tall, which surprised me, because Brent’s at least 6’2”. 

I had been to Nashville a few months before, and had told Brent about a karaoke pub crawl I’d gone on with another attorney in the case.  Brent was game for karaoke (he’d never done it before), but he’d pass on the alcohol, which was fine with me.   Since Tuesday was Mardi Gras, though, karaoke seemed to be off the Nashville menu.   We shopped the little souvenir places and boutiques along Broadway instead, picking up some Elvis-style sunglasses for Brent and trying on cowboy hats.  There are tons of hat and boot stores in Nashville.  

Last night, after a very, very long deposition, we decided to give it another shot.  We had dinner with one of the other attorneys at Morton’s Steak House (AWESOME steak!) and then walked down to 2^nd Street.  I knew from the previous night that Printer’s Alley was a bit too seedy for Brent.  Finally, we came upon the right place: Buck Wild Saloon.   Brent jumped right in, telling the waitress the Elvis song he wanted to sing.   When they called him up, he whipped out his Elvis glasses and took the stage.  He actually does a pretty good Elvis imitation—we’d visit Graceland together, so I’ve heard it—but still, I was impressed with his performance, especially for a first-timer.

A few songs later, they called up Veronica.   To Brent’s surprise, I jumped up and walked to the stage.  Bill wasn’t as surprised—he’d been on the first karaoke crawl when I’d been Jennifer.  Giving a pseudonym is part of my karaoke fun.   I sang Pink’s Bad Influence, and I later joked to Brent that I was a bad influence on him.

I liked Pink’s songs, and even had some on my iPod, but I didn’t get really into her until about five months ago.  Bunny had taped a performance of her Funhouse show; basically, it was a live performance of the album of the same name.  When he cued it up, I wasn’t overly excited, but it was going to be a lot better than the standard bigfoot/mummy/UFO/Civil War/men catching wildlife/men hunting treasure/men playing poker shows he usually watched.   We sat for the next hour or so, mesmerized by energetic Pink and her elaborate costumes and sets and acrobatics.  If you ever see it listed on your channel guide, I highly recommend it.

Bunny had very diverse, eclectic tastes in music.  Metallica was his favorite band, but he was nearly equally enamored with Celtic Women.  Johnny Cash, Dido, Leon Redbone, and Adele  also made their way into his iPod.  For awhile, he was in a folk music phase, and we went down to Sarasota for a concert.   He came up with odd concert choices—a Randy Newman event in Piedmont Park one year springs to mind—but he went along uncomplainingly to my Elton John concerts and events, so I went along to his.

I’ve loved Elton John all my life, and still do.  When we lived in Atlanta, our chances of running into him were much better, because he lived there, too.  One year, he had a closet sale at Neiman Marcus to benefit his AIDS foundation.  We both took off work and went down to Buckhead, taking positions right on the edge of the red carpet.    There were lots of other people there, too—I’d guess about 200 or so—and we all buzzed with excitement as the long, black limo came into view.  It stopped and Elton jumped out onto the red carpet, then strode directly up to me, like I’d pulled him there by sheer will.

Elton and I, who are about the same height (he may be a smidge taller), were literally standing toe-to-toe, face-to-face.   You may be thinking that, as we looked into each other’s eyes, I said something witty or admiring or grateful to the man whose music had seen me through many dark teenage days.  Alas, you’d be wrong.  For the first (and only) time in my life, I was struck speechless.  I believe I was slack-jawed, as well.  So Elton moved on, without my having uttered a word to him. 

Bunny had stood behind me the whole time, watching the scene unfold.  He thought it was hilarious!  As soon as I regained my senses, I chided him.

“Bunny!  Why didn’t you give me a nudge?  You saw I was frozen!”  Now he started hooting with laughter.

“Oh, yeah!  Just my luck, you’d have fallen over on top of him and broken his arms.  That would have really made an impression!”  If he could have rolled on the floor laughing, he would have been by that point, but the crowd was too thick.

Anyway, back to Pink.  We both loved her show, and I immediately downloaded the Funhouse album.  I still play it often, and know all the songs by heart.  She co-wrote all the songs, and the theme of the album is her separation from her husband and her feelings of grief/anger/frustration.  All the ballads on this album have special meaning for me.  In Bunny’s final hours, as he lie unconscious, Joey and I played songs for him.  Joey chose mostly country tear-jerkers about sons and fathers, while I tried to stay more upbeat with songs about love, by artists that Bunny liked.  Since Pink was on that list, and I had the whole album on my iPad, I played all of the ballads.  It was the last concert we’d watched together.  I had to search You Tube for Johnny Cash and some of his other favorites.

So on Wednesday night, Brent got up for his second Elvis song, and I picked Glitter in the Air for my mine.  If you’ve never heard it before, it’s a very sweet mid-tempo ballad.  Here’s a link to Pink (that makes me want to go all Seussian and rhyme some more—like “so take a drink and link to Pink”) performing it live (at the Grammy’s, so you’ll have to tolerate a small commercial beforehand, but it’s well worth the wait): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0GStp-Mzy_w. 

Then I (as Veronica) took the stage for my turn.  Whichever version the DJ chose was in the right key for me—I hit all the high notes without my voice breaking, and all the low ones without effort.  When I finished, I got some very enthusiastic applause.  That’s more impressive than you might think, because most of the karaoke singers in Nashville seem to be frustrated or soon-to-be frustrated professional singers looking to make it big.

On our way back to the airport this morning, we stopped at The Hermitage, Andrew Jackson’s home.  Andrew Jackson was a President who always intrigued me, probably because he was quirky and passionate and a fighter.   But his treatment of minorities was distressing, and tarnished my admiration for him.  One of the recurring themes of the tour was Jackson’s absolute devotion to his late wife, Rachel. 

Rachel had been married prior to marrying Jackson, but her divorce wasn’t official.  That situation was finally rectified, and the Jacksons married again.  However, when he ran for President, his political enemies launched a huge attack on Rachel’s character.  She died shortly before Jackson entered the White House, and he never forgave her attackers, nor stopped defending her honor.  He was widowed at 61, and died at 78 without ever remarrying.  The Hermitage is steeped in Jackson’s tributes to Rachel.

The tour was fascinating, and certainly educational, but the repeated references to Jackson and his wife left me saddened.   On my drive from the airport, I remembered the times I’d come back home to find Bunny waiting, almost child-like with enthusiasm, to see me and to find out what little trinkets I’d gotten for him on my trip.  This was the first time I’d come home to an empty house—no one impatiently waiting for my arrival.  I couldn’t help shedding a few tears.

Then, as I opened the front door, my kitties came excitedly to greet me.  Sierra was first, followed by Bono and Shiloh and Kieran.  Everyone wanted kisses and petting, and said hello in his or her own way.  I hadn’t come home to an empty house, after all: four furry little loved ones were eagerly waiting to welcome me.  

Signs

My sisters and I have such unique personalities that if we didn’t know better, we’d think we weren’t related at all.  Other people think Julie and I physically resemble each other quite a bit (even though we don’t think we look anything alike), to the point that we’re often mistaken for each other. 

But as different as Julie and I are, we shared a common interest with Bunny: the supernatural.  From childhood, Julie and I have had precognitive dreams—we’d dream about things that would later happen.  Sometimes, we intuitively knew about things that were about to occur.  We even, at times, could read each other’s thoughts.  Any time we reported these abilities to Mama, she would roll her eyes and snort “As if!” or some other derisive comment.

Bunny’s only psychic gift was precognitively thinking about songs that he would hear later in the day.  He readily acknowledged that it was a pretty useless ability, but he was quite proud of it.  Some obscure song from days or yore would come on the radio or television and he’d loudly proclaim that he was just thinking about that song a few hours before.

Many years ago, long before cancer came calling, Bunny and I decided on a code word—butterfly—that we would use to communicate with each other once one of us had passed on.  If the survivor heard that word from a medium or anyone else claiming to have a message from the departed, the code word would be the key to knowing if the message was genuine.  We happily kept to that word until about a year ago, when we found out that “butterfly” is the word that most people pick.  A medium who throws out the code word “butterfly” has a very good chance of getting it right.

Naturally, we had to come up with a new word, right then and there.  Before cancer, we would have done it eventually, but the fact that Bunny was so ill gave us a sense of urgency.  The one we picked is obscure, but not so obscure that either of us would forget it.  I’m not going to tell you what it is (that would kind of defeat the purpose of a secret code word), but you’re welcome to guess.   

Julie was visiting us when Bunny entered the hospital for the last time.  As we visited him in the ICU, and it was evident that he wasn’t coming home, we explained to Julie about our code word.  She wanted one, too, so I stepped out of the room so they could come up with something: theirs was actually a code phrase.  Of course, Bunny was thrilled to have someone else to contact from beyond.

He had a list of questions to find the answers to once he reached his final destination.  One was whether Bigfoot really exists.  Seriously.  He was fascinated with several different oddities, and Bigfoot topped the list.  Another was whether UFOs exist, although he was already sure they did.  He was so sure of it that, in the days before cell phones had cameras (or before people had cell phones, even), he kept a camera in his glove compartment in the event that he saw one while he was driving.

I don’t remember what his other questions were, but those were no-brainers, so it’s easy for me to recall them.  Although, I have to confess, I was a bit surprised that there weren’t more burning questions to which he sought answers.  Julie and I added our questions to the list so he could give us the answers from the beyond.  See?  That’s why you need code words!   Otherwise, you might find yourself walking around with erroneous messages from people who are just making things up.

Once Bunny died, Julie started getting bombarded with her code phrase as soon as she got back home.  It’s an unusual phrase, and certainly one you wouldn’t expect to see in everyday life.  Not more than once, anyway.  I haven’t heard my code word yet, but I haven’t been seeking out mediums, either.  I do believe that Bunny has let me know he’s around me, though.

The first sign I had was that the Wii was on. If my mother were still alive, she’d be rolling her eyes right now. I got the Wii several years ago, chiefly for exercise.  After I’d had it a few months, my dad told Bunny that Netflix made a disc you can put in the Wii and get movies online.  Thanks, Daddy.  Not!  After that, I had to fight for Wii time, and Bunny would never take his disc out when he was done.  He also left the Wii running 24/7, which aggravated me to no end.  My protests that it wasn’t good for anything to run all the time fell on deaf ears.

Sunday night, once I got back home, I settled down to watch whatever mindless show I could find.  I caught sight of it almost instantly—the Wii was on!  The tell-tale blue light was emitting from the disc slot.  I’m a freak about turning everything in the house off before I leave, which aggravated Bunny to no end.  Many’s the time he bitched and moaned that I was too paranoid, electricity’s been safe for years, and on and on.  More than once, I told him he could thank Daddy for raising us that way.

Aside from the fact that my freakishly paranoid obsession with electricity would have kept me from leaving the Wii on, even though Trinity had spent the night Saturday, we hadn’t used it.  We watched movies instead.  No one had gone near the now-running Wii.  Then the second sign came yesterday.

I was visiting my family physician, Dr. Williams, who’d also been Bunny’s primary care doctor.  It was time for my annual check-up.  Dr. Williams is one of those rare doctors who doesn’t rush in and out—she takes her time, listens to her patients, and actually cares about what’s going on in their lives.  She was the first non-family member to call me after Bunny died.  Before she left the exam room, I held her back a second.

“I just want you to know, John and I were married over 25 years,” I began, my voice breaking.  She put her hand on my arm, and I composed myself.

“In all that time, he hated going to doctors.  But he always loved coming to see you.”  I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.  She wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tight, and thanked me for telling her that.  Her own eyes were brimming with tears. I wasn’t exaggerating—Bunny loved Dr. Williams, because she’d listen to his various ailments or stories or whatever else he had on his mind, even before he got sick.

When she left the room, she left the door ajar so the tech would know she was finished.  As I waited for the tech, I could hear two people talking in the hall.

“What are you, a rabbit?” One asked the other.  I took that question as a sign from Bunny, because sometimes I called him Rabbit or my Rabbit.  Corey sometimes called him B. Rabbit.  The timing was too eerie to be coincidence.  Besides, how many times do you hear the word “rabbit” in a doctor’s office?  I couldn’t remember ever having heard it, and I’ve actually worked in doctors’ offices.  Bunny was happy that I’d told Dr. Williams how much he loved her.

I’m not surprised that Bunny has visited us.  What surprises me more is that Mama has visited me.  About a year ago, Mama told me about letters she’d read to Dear Abby about pennies from heaven—recently bereaved people finding pennies in odd places, and believing that their departed loved ones had left them there as a sign.  She reported that she had had the same experience with pennies from heaven. I was astonished that my mother--who’d been a doubter all her life--would believe such fairy tales.

I don’t like pennies—they take up too much room, so I try to rid myself of them whenever possible.  If I get pennies as change, I leave them on the counter for the next person who needs them.  Suddenly, I was finding them in the very least likely place they’d be: my house.  I’ve found five so far.  The first was smack-dab in the middle of the living room, in a spot where Mr. Dyson had traveled less than an hour before.  I thought it strange, but not overly so.  Until I found the second one.

“What the hell is with all these pennies?” I asked Margeaux.  Then I remembered the conversation I’d had with Mama about pennies from heaven.  I found the next one within an hour.  She would have scoffed at the idea of a code word, but she’d still found a way to reach out from beyond.  Now I don’t mind pennies so much.