Petrified Orchard

This last week seems like it didn't happen at all. I can feel myself going into a state of spiritual paralysis, unable to really connect with anyone and having little desire to do so. Lists of things to get done orbit anxiety in my head and nothing actually occurs. The emotional element is fear and loathing of next Monday: a year alone, a year with death and its social aftermath.

Don't misunderstand: I am organizing myself and lining up services to take care of the last few things that need doing. I have lists of companies and individuals all written out, but I simply have not been able to move on them. When I think about getting folks over here, I worry about whether my back will be in shape when they show up, whether I'll have things ready for them, whether I'll break down and cry in the middle of a meeting.

I don't want to let go. I don't want to leave our home. The theme keeps coming up over and over again. I'm miserable by myself, and there's no one in my world just now who can even begin to fill the hole Steve left in my heart. Daily, the ache comes in my chest, not evoked by memory but erupting like emotional vomit, spewing for no particular reason. No stimulus sets it off; it's like Old Faithful but erupts on an irregular schedule.

Jessie takes foodie shots at Robin's.

Putting the house on the market is never turning back again. It's releasing this dismal spiritual hell I've been moving through this past year. Intellectually, selling the house and finding a place to call home seems a straightforward set of tasks and goals. Emotionally, I'm dealing with feelings of guilt over abandoning our home, shame at cashing out on what was the place we shared.

Cole slaw (right) and Blueberry Cornbread.

Jessie dropped by last Saturday and we went out to dinner at Robin's BBQ. Without realizing it, I had chosen the restaurant where Steve and I had our first date. Jessie and I even splurged and had one of their Messy Hot Fudge Sundaes. It was Steve's favorite dessert there. That dinner helped engage this whole anniversary thing in my head.

The Messy Hot Fudge Sundae.

Every day I think back a year and try to remember what was happening with Steve. A year ago today, he was actively hallucinating, having a lovely time with these others in his room. I could get him to focus on me if I touched him and asked him to look at me. He would acknowledge my presence, smiling to show me he was in there somewhere, and then he would move back to the others and jump back into the subverbal conversations he was having with them.

Steve tackled these solo!

Monday brings the end of the first cycle and the beginning of the next. At some point soon, I have to sign papers that will obligate me to moving ahead. Some days things are fine, others are murky and overshadowed by depression and grief. My work on the chamber directory is now as much therapy as actual work.

Patty has been very clinging since her stint in the garage in August. Not only does she sleep with me on the bed and sit next to me when I watch the boob tube, but she has also started hanging out on the desk while I'm working. We're working on her not standing in front of the monitor and staying off the mouse pad. I'd shoo her off the desk, but she retreats like she's just done something horribly wrong. I find with her, it's better to do some training because she takes to it.

Patty "holds hands" when I work the mouse.

We go out onto the patio several times in the evening, and she accompanies me. She is now trained to head for the door when I'm ready to go back in. I say, "OK," and she trots up to the door, since she goes in first. Every once in a while she'll have cornered a spider or (recently) a big juicy grasshopper, which was the biggest bug she'd ever seen. During the day, hummingbirds come to drink from the fountain, and Patty's learned she can watch to her heart's content, as long as she doesn't move.

Patty knows what "down in front" means.

Last night, I was watching a film on TV and realized I hadn't seen Patty in a while. I had another sinking feeling, wondering what could have happened to her. Then I recalled hearing a door shut upstairs (the windows are open and a breeze must have done it). I went over to the stairs and, sure enough, I heard her plaintiff yowls from behind the office door. When I opened it, she dashed out, and you could see on her face that she thought it was the garage all over again. (See entries "Come Back, Little Shithead," 8/4/14, and "The Prodigal Returns," 8/9/14.)

I must be very careful not to turn into a crazy cat guy.

Speaking of Kitties, my sister will most likely be coming down to visit this weekend. David can't make it because he's involved in a show called "Follies" that's an annual fundraiser. From previous posts, you will probably remember that he's on the board of directors this year, so popping out of town on a performance weekend isn't practical.

Kittie might not come if she's asked to work on Saturday. Oct. 15 is a tax deadline, and if they have overflow work, it may mean she doesn't show. I really hope this doesn't happen, as I'm not sure I want to be alone on this weekend leading up to remembering that night, that phone call, that flurry of activity to deal with Steve's death and subsequent cremation.

Also, there's the practical matter of having a second body in the house for a few days, so we can get the last stuff packed and down to the garage or tossed in the dumpster. Because I'm hoping that, after Monday, I will have the motivation and enthusiasm to get moving forward on the process.

And a part of me can't wait to see my house listed on Zillow.