Waiting for widowhood to come is a grueling task. VST and I often talked about our wishes should the unthinkable happen. It would usually be banter about who would check out first, and why. ending up with both of us being certain we would be the lucky one to go. Never did we see our Easter surprise approaching. Yet, we watched it approach for at least two years, unrecognized as the killer it was. When the diagnosis came, we were told we had two months. In reality, we endured Hospice services for 7 day, and VST was gone, the worst of the cancerous nightmare, nine weeks, from start to finish.
VST was my guy climbing the hill to come home to me every night. For the last 13 years, we lived in the mountains, trying to get as far away from civilization as possible. While working, each of us chose a one hour commute to and from work. As a teacher, I was always home first. Dinner on the stove, my internal clock would alert me to the fact that he was on his way home, no matter what I was doing. Then the phone would ring, confirming it.
Each day, he would wind his way home, coming “the back way”. After dealing with management stressors of Child Protective Services, his safe place was back on the hill with me. He would call as soon as he left work, the strain in his voice palpable through my phone. He was never allowed to discuss details, so we would talk of DYI projects, or the latest play we were involved with. The twists and turns would lead him back and forth, as he unwound like a spring, until his voice would be gone, because the reception was too poor. Ten minutes later, he would walk through the door. I lived for the car on the hill, taking turn after turn as he came home to me. My life was the richest when he was there. Once home, he shed his suit and tie, and became VST. Sporting shorts and tees with his bronze tan showing through, he could forget about the horrors of the day and just be.
Through the years, we became involved with a theater group offering melodramas to the mountain community. That involved night time drives up the hill to become people we weren’t. He always made friends so easily, and soon became the hero of the theater with his booming voice and handsome looks. He easily made every damsel swoon, on stage. In real life, I was lucky enough to be his leading lady.
When we moved to VC, the hill became a mountain. Mt. Davidson. Geigher Grade, a Nevada State Highway, was the mountain road we used to go to Reno. Many people avoid VC because of it, due to many possible hazards. Boulders, some the size of small horses, fall so often, the road crews groom it daily. Blinding snow in the winter often closes this route. Mustangs saunter across it in the winter, standing on the road in the middle of blind curves to lick the salt. Geigher Grade is not for the faint of heart.
Once we moved to VC, I stopped driving for six years. I can’t give you a reason why, except that VST was a wonderful driver and he loved it. I was a wonderful driver who hated it. So, he drove and I was wingman. This worked, until it didn’t. When cancer came knocking, I suddenly became the designated driver after never having driven in the snow. How I avoided this, I know not. But, avoid it I had.
VST had a doctor’s appointment in Reno, and by then, was too weak and sick to drive. So, just like that, I was now the driver. There was an added tension in the car, as snow was still falling in March. Not enough to close GG, but enough to create ice. Enough to engage the 4 wheel drive, which will help you navigate through snow, but not do much to mitigate a skid on ice. I didn’t mention that in many places, the plunge from GG, should you skid off, was 500 feet or more. Straight down. Unsurvivable. Eleven miles of switchbacks, and the most heavily used route to VC.
As we left for the doctor, VST in his patient way, had to explain, through pain and confusion, how to engage the 4WD, and when to slow down. He watched for ice and horses until he fell asleep, half way down the mountain. My first drive in snow was a total success, even earning a compliment from him, although he did mention I went over the yellow line twice, smiling at his critique.
Today, I remember that boy on the hill hurrying home from work to my arms for 32 years. You could set dinner on the table steaming and he would appear with a “Hey Darlin, it smells great in here. Let’s eat.” The house has stopped smelling great at 6 pm, because cooking for one just isn’t the same. Dinner time might be at 3pm or 8 pm now, because it isn’t planned around another, just me.
I am sure at some point, I will be again waiting for a special person, but, there are no hills where I live now. Just flat straight roads. There is little snow here, and the sense of danger is much less. I am slowly becoming the person that makes friends easily. My driving is safe and sound, and, even though I still don’t always love it, I am finding my way.
So, where in the heavens, can that boy be? I am sure he is driving up hills, laughing all the way. Making friends, and find new parts to play. Save the best part for me, VST. I will happily be your leading lady when I arrive someday.