Loss and Hearing Voices
My favorite time of the year is this very moment. Jonquils are in bloom, early crocus as well. It’s the time when every living thing embraces and celebrates new life. Officially spring is another month away, but here in the Ozarks of Arkansas, it always arrives now. My husband’s birthday is February 26, and flowers were always in bloom everywhere to celebrate that event, even if a late snow had fallen their golden blossoms peeped through. This year we have had no snow and that is fine with me. Occasionally the air glittered with crystals, but as they touched the ground they melted.
I talk to myself a lot lately, tell me and my cat, who often stares at me in wonderment, that I’m talking to her. Often she answers, but it’s a strange relationship, since we speak different languages. I read something about the communications between cat and human, and in thinking about it, saw she was normal. It’s probably me that is slightly off kilter. For I tell her why I do certain things, explain my aches and pains when I don’t want to complain to friends and family, assure her that even when I’m grumpy I love her.
It’s been four months since I lost my husband, ten months since he went into long term care. A difficult adjustment, but not impossible. After all, I have a cat to talk to, and she talks back. He would not want me to crawl in the grave with him. Actually, he is still here in the house with me. How bizarre is that? Maybe I’ll take him to the lake where he liked to fish, but since that’s against the law, I’ll find someplace else soon, but not yet.
It’s odd that the passage of time means little. I’ve blogged sparsely lately. Have written fiction as if there were no tomorrow. Sometimes I feel there isn’t. I’ve always said that I would write until one day I would be found, my fingers curved over the keyboard, my last breath drawn. Probably a frightening thing to writers is leaving that one last book unfinished. But in a way, that’s a good thing. It means we were hard at it till the end.
Writing has kept me sane for many years. Or, at least I hope my existence is sane. When we hear voices and talk back to our characters, argue, dissuade, point out reasons for what we’re doing to them, then perhaps that isn’t as sane as we’d like to believe. Perhaps writers are just a wee bit on the edge of being – well, if nothing else, weird.
Tomorrow I go in for a medical procedure. That’s what they call it to make us having one feel at ease. They will poke a tube in to my heart, take an echo, then put in a stint and pull the tube out. This is the second of these I’ve had. In a couple of months, I’m told I will have to have a clip, which means they are going to staple a torn heart valve back in place. A three day recovery that used to mean open heart surgery, but no longer.
Hope everyone enjoys spring as much as I do.