Boundless

Hey there-

I want to tell you a story.

One day, some time after Bob died and before I met Mike, I was walking through the hallway of the assisted living where I worked, pushing the wheelchair of one of our participants of the day center to her beauty shop appointment. There was a spry elderly lady in a blue cardigan sweater opening the door to her apartment. I noticed she had a hyphenated name above her door.


I asked her about this because it is unusual for someone of that generation to have a hyphenated name.


"I had two husbands and I loved them both," was her answer, a broad open smile on her face.


I started crying right there in the middle of the hallway with my hands gripping the wheelchair for balance.


I knew that was what I wanted my story to be.


When people ask me how I can love Mike and still love Bob I always think of that woman and her broad smile. It is not a competition, the heart's limits are boundless.


Thanks for checking in-



Irene

Einstein

Hey there-

Albert Einstein was one of Bob's heroes.

We have an enormous poster of the man hanging in our basement. His grey wiry hair, bushy mustache, and intense eyes staring out at us.

"Imagination is more important than knowledge" is the quote at the bottom of the poster. Bob hung the poster in his bicycle workshop for inspiration. After my "Momentum" piece Mike found another quote from Einstein.

"Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving."

Coincidence? I think not.

Thanks for checking in-

Irene

Bobbing and Dipping

“My husband has lymphoma!” I wanted to shout from the rooftops, I was so elated. It was the least of all the evils; it was the option I had hoped for.

Bob had just told me the news as we walked back home from dropping Henry off at day care. The early spring air felt cool and moist and smelled like earth freshly turned.

“Wait, when did you find out? How long have you known?” I inquired, suddenly suspicious.

“Yesterday,” he stated.

“You knew this yesterday!?” I couldn’t believe it.

For Bob, lymphoma had not been the news he was hoping for. It wasn’t good news for him. Trying to make sense of the information himself, he had been trying to spare me the bad news. Bob had still entertained benign as an option. It had still been an option for him until the tests came back definitive.

Now there was no more speculation, no more possibilities. He stood stranded on the street facing me. He was reluctant to admit the truth. He wasn’t ready to redefine himself. He wanted to reject the label.

“I have lymphoma,” He slowly repeated the statement, looking me straight in the eyes I could hear our breathing echo in my ears.

We stood there on the sidewalk with the word “lymphoma” bobbing and dipping around us. It eventually settled down beside us. I saw him pick it up and step into the word. He pulled it up around him and zipped it up like a snow suit.

My husband had cancer.