The Widow Maker

I feel as though I am ready to move forward.

Joe is being responsible about attending the thrice-weekly cardiac rehab work-out sessions. The medicines are becoming automatic. The food is more than manageable -- it is actually kind of fun to be learning to cook all over again. And he's resigned from the Church Council, the huge stress-bringer.

But I'm not myself. I get panicky when I can't find something. And yesterday at Sherry's I dropped and broke another dish full of food. My concentration is lacking; I'm trying to read a book at night but honestly can't tell you much about it. I make an inordinate amount of lists of work and home tasks. I do an awful lot of frogstitching when I sew.

I try to remind myself of Guenveur's counsel: One Little Move At A Time. It is sound advice.

When Joe was in hospital, a couple of people from the ER team came up to see how he was doing. One of them told him, "What you had is what we call 'the widow-maker,'" reminding him how fortunate he/we had been.

Joe had what Tim Russert had.

And that is what I think of when I wake during the night and reach out to touch him. That is what I think when I find him napping at a peculiar time. That is what I think when he is too quiet. The widow-maker.