Death's Third Knock

Hubby's uncle died the first week of February. He lived in Conneticut.

I considered driving up with him and the in-laws, but between having some reports due for work and having a cold that had me carrying around tissues and drowning in my own secretions, I opted out. The thought of sitting in the back of a Buick, surrounded by boxes of tissues, with my nose running as if it was being paid to do so, my eyes all filmy and bloodshot, and not being able to snuggle down in a bed until we got to the hotel was not appealing and possibly life threatening to others.

Then there was the whole post traumatic stress from the Vermont trip 10 years ago. Let's just say that there are idiosyncracies that are better if you grow-up with them than marrying into them. I hate Cleveland, but it isn't Cleveland's fault, it's just where we ended up after spending 14 hours in the car. But I digress....

As events played out, I was glad I stayed home. First, for those of you living in a cave or in a foreign country who doesn't give a crap about weather in the U.S., we have gotten more than our normal share of snow and cold. Hubby and his parents were trying to thread the needle weatherwise. They wanted to get to Conneticut after the last snow storm and make it back before the next snowstorm. They were only 50% successful.

Because I could not go, I decided to knit a shawlette - Multnomah (II, as it is the second one I have started) - as a remembrance. I had hopes of getting it finished in time to send it with Hubby, but Stupid Cold made reading the pattern difficult so I had to unknit a swath. Let's just say that the only thing worse than knitting when you aren't feeling the greatest is th einevitable result of knitting when you aren't feeling the greatest -- unknitting and re-knitting.

Added to the physically feeling of crappiness was the mental aspect. Was Hubby surviving? Would he be the same?

So, I get a call Thursday evening from a tired, weak Hubby, decrying the day as the worst in human history. I had suspicioned that the roads through Pennsylvania would be an icemare. I had not thought that leaving Ohio would take on the tenor of Shackleton's Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition. At least it wasn't the Donner Party. To top it all off, diinner at Ruby Tuesday was the last blow to his ego. The waitress preferred to flirt and chat up the hot, young, beer drinking dudes than wait on a middle aged married dude and his parents.

My enjoyment of the Opening Ceremony of the Winter Olympics was interrupted by Hubby needing reassurance that I would love him in spite of insanity and prison. We talked about how the family was doing and how they would face the following day of the burial and memorial service.

Jim started out as a community organizer in Harlem during the 60's. He suffered two great personal tragedies without a lot of space between. I could see the effects in a sadness behind his eyes. He found another life in the banking community and with his second wife and children. He was so proud of his sons, both clever young men. He loved his wife, Claudia. They were both smart, funny, and modern. Jim's dry sense of humor complemented Claudia's outgoing laugh and manner. We saw them mainly at the biennial family reunions. The last one in July 2009, Jim looked a bit less than his normal self. He still had his sense of humor. He clearly enjoyed being with his brothers and telling family stories. He enjoyed seeing his nephews and his grand-nephew and niece. None of us knew that it would be the last time we would be together.

I am comforted by the fact that we didn't know. I am glad that we were able to be together without the pall of Jim's sickness, without the need to make everything memorable because of circumstance, without the need to make everything of super importance. I am comforted because we got to be family together one last time.