Enough already. This isolation stuff is a nest for insanity. Two years ago, VST’s ankles became swollen for the first time in his 64 years. Really swollen. Giant in size, we first believed it was from a poor diet of fast food while looking for houses in Pahrump, Nevada. It was three days of Egg McMuffins and Bacon Western Cheeseburgers. Chips. Fries. Sodium overload. Such a weekend changed the course of our lives forever because the illness wasn’t caused by fast-food salt, but cancer. Little did we know. All was quickly revealed.
Just a year before that, we were enjoying one of the best hobbies in the world. RVing. If you know, you know. If you don’t, you might want to investigate. Having a completely stocked home on wheels, we rolled around the country to places we’d only read about in school. We went to the very meadows and hills where VST’s dad, Jack, ran as a boy. Missouri, with its down home ways, could have become our new home. I felt Jack’s spirit with us that entire trip.
Six weeks in an RV with a husband isn’t for the faint of heart, yet, VST and I found a rhythm that worked for us. Not all hearts and flowers, our daily goals were translated into unfamiliar names of towns hundreds of miles away. Meals were planned to the last sesame seed. Naps measured in 30 minute increments. Music set to Willie’s Roadhouse on Sirius XM while rolling at 55 to get to the Next Exit.
Two solitary years later, there’ve been no long road trips. Somewhere in Wyoming, at a lonely truck stop, I left a wisp of my soul. For a State Park outside Rapid City, South Dakota, my heart yearns. Mount Rushmore. Wall Drug. Ely, Minnesota. Lake Superior. All of them long for me to return as much as I dream of them. Once you drive through the peaks and valleys of our great country, you never look at her the same. I long for the mid-west.
Two years ago, VST was dying of cancer while the world was dying of Covid. The first I heard of this was a news story about a little place in Washington state where 90 people suddenly became ill and died. Such a mystery and horror, I paid little attention to the details. It would be the last news I watched for weeks.
April 9th, 2020, I again turned on the news, just one day a widow. The number of dead had grown to 20,000. Quarantining was in place. Go no where. Allow no one into the home. Close your doors and shutter your windows. Shelter in place. Be afraid. Very afraid. And so began my journey through widowhood.
Two years have passed. Because of my strange introduction to the world of Covid, I didn’t depend on the media to instruct me on my every move. Chilled to my bones by the horrors of VST’s cancer, there could be no worse illness. Viruses are a forever thing. There still is no cure for viruses. No eradication. The same is true for cancer. No cure. Certainly, there’s no cure for death. That’s a given.
For the last two years, I’ve done my best to keep living as normally as possible. I’ve eaten at restaurants as often as possible. Stayed in hotels on numerous occasions. Visited spas. Shopped. Carried on in a world that has gone mad. Thankfully, VST and I picked a new home in the perfect place. Spaced away from quiet neighbors, there’s room to breathe. Fresh air. Brilliant, disinfecting sunlight. No air pollution (unless California is on fire). Cleansing winds. A desert paradise.
Through all of this madness, I’ve had two colds in the last two years. Just plain colds. Sniffling. Sneezing. Running nose. Headache. Nothing more. Covid-Negative.
Now, it’s time for me to come out of isolation. Personally, I can’t cower another day. Two years of grief and loneliness is far too much time for navel inspection. 2022 is a time to return to normal, facing whatever that holds.
Healing. So much healing is needed in our world. Forgiveness. Tolerance. Love. Everyone just needs to take a deep breath and learn how to play together again. Drive a little slower. Wave a little more. Wear a smile instead of a mask, at least when you are driving, alone in your car. Plan a spring picnic. Get outside and resume one small part of a normal life. Living in fear is no life at all.
In all this craziness, something wonderful has happened here at Winterpast. A familiar name has returned to my life. Ace is back. Sometimes, isolation is necessary reflection on the course of life. With time and conversation, our friendship was stronger than our differences and we proceed with caution. Although one hundred miles still separate our lives, some friendships are just too precious to lose.
Now is the time for healing. Phone calls to old friends bring back forgotten memories. Walks together under the bright blue sky invigorate the spirit. Trips to the grocery store are more fun when the meals planned are for two. Flowers from a friend make me smile. Church is a room full of love. All those things help us heal together, because healing is always better with friends.
Have a wonderful day.
More tomorrow.