Retracing footsteps . . .

Man, when do I quit this blog . . . first, before I get all side-tracked, I want to say that I was completely and utterly bowled over and at the same time completely and utterly grateful . . . simultaneously so sick to my stomach and so appreciative . . . thankful yet utterly horrified . . . completely elated and concurrently, completely freaked out by the sight of so many people at Bob's celebration service on Friday, especially given such sort notice. So in awe of the many who were able to attend . . . so very sad for those who couldn't, as well as for those whom I had forgotten to contact due to the frenzied fog in which I now live . . . the "thank you" cards will be a work in progress, so please forgive me for the delay and accept this heart-felt preliminary thank you, from every cell of my being, for being there with us, for us, in person and in spirit . . .

If I looked like the proverbial deer in the headlights during the impromptu receiving lines (yes, lines. Not once, but twice, that day . . . thanks, peeps . . .) it was because I thought I was getting off easy—no way on God's green earth was I going to get up and speak on Bob's behalf, but I had lined up the video presentation (well, technically, my bro-in-law, Brian, lined it up; I supplied all the pics/music for it), I burned hours of Bob's music (that didn't get played in the chaos of the day), I yanked endless, precious photos from my albums for the table displays, I ran around the house gathering things I felt were part of who Bob was, what he loved, what he stood for, what was important, near and dear to him (and forgot a million and one things, in the process). . . I had a ton of help in putting it all together, but all in all, I thought I had done my part and was prepared to sit back and quietly cry during the whole shebang . . .

Then Friday came—the day of Bob's service—and before I knew it, before I could do anything about it, I was swept away in a sea of people, well-wishers (??—is that the right phrase?), old friends, new friends, colleagues, neighbors, family, strangers even, expressing condolences, sharing BobStories, giving hugs and kisses, sharing tears when words failed . . . I seriously did not expect that, in a million and one years. . . I know there were many people who didn't dare brave the endless "receiving line," and thought I don't blame you, I'm sad that I didn't get a chance to at least say "hi" . . .

And now that I've had some time to reflect on the day, I've decided I'm quite sure Bob was hovering, chuckling in a corner of the room, "I told you I didn't want you to make a big deal of this—payback's a bitch, beeyotch . . . " and yes, he called me "beeyotch." A lot. You don't want to know what I called him . . . such precious terms of endearment we had for each other . . . miss that immensely, the laughing and teasing, among a million and one other things . . .

Along with the reflections, I realized (actually, I realized this long ago, but haven't written about it till now) that many of our blog followers, along with Bob's doctors, only knew a very sick Bob. I used to carry with me, to the hospital, a little photo album full of pictures of Bob and his nature photography, and would whip it out any chance I got, when things got really bad, when doctors were being especially assholian (yup, made-up word), or just didn't seem to give a shit, when I was desperate and at the end of my line, to let them know, to see, that my husband was not just a very sick patient, not just an experiment to them but that he was first and foremost a person, a husband, son, brother, uncle, friend, who had passions, interests, a precious life . . . have to admit, it was secretly satisfying, to see the Doctors-as-God squirm, fidget, awkwardly flip through the pages, as I forced them to see Bob, at least to a tiny degree, as a person . . .

I realize that many of you, our beloved blog followers, also don't know my breathtakingly, achingly handsome, wickedly funny, witty, sharp-tongued, infuriatingly intelligent, immeasurably sensitive husband of mine . . . you probably didn't know about his insanely sexy legs (or maybe you did . . . ;), his cutest little squeezable butt (again, maybe you did . . .) or his tender, loving, expressive hands . . . or the liquid chocolate eyes that could drill down deep into your soul . . . and even if you did know any or all of this, it was likely a long time ago that you knew of these things, may have seen him or had any sort of interaction with him . . . I am desperately trying to bring that Bob back to me, with pictures, music, memories, walks at Afton, sunsets from our deck . . . enjoy the photos below (if you click on Bob's picture, it should take you to my Picasa account, where I uploaded many pics of Bob, most of which were used in the video presentation at Bob's service last Friday. . .) Please let me know if you can't access the pictures. Picasa is a new thing to me, and I'm still learning . . .

Took Rocco to Lake Elmo Park on Sunday, renewed our county park permit, went for a long, meandering walk along the trails, got there early enough to avoid many other hikers on Mother's Day. . . today, went to Afton State Park, renewed our state park permit and went on another long run/hike with Rocco. . . so many reminders of Bob along these trails. . . I can pick out specific trees, stretches of prairies, overlooks on the river, old railroad underpasses, tiny spring wildflowers that Bob, the dogs and I have passed a million and one times . . . right now, delicate hepatica are covering the woodland floor . . . also saw flashes of wild oats, swamp buttercup and bloodroot (which were nearing the end of their blooming season) . . . some of the trails at both parks are still closed due to flooding, so tread carefully, should you retrace our paths . . .

Also spent the better part of yesterday and today doing incredibly "grown-up" things, calling insurance companies, mortgage co., credit card companies, bills in Bob's name . . . brought a huge load of equipment and supplies to the Goodwill—wheelchair, commode, walker, canes—they have a "loaner program" where people in need can borrow needed equipment; they also "farm out" medical supplies to relief programs who gratefully take any and all supplies, even those opened, as the third-world countries that are in need have less than nothing and are okay with an opened box of Band-Aids, unlike the rest of the "developed world," with our government-sanctioned, utterly excessive OSHA shit, which adds to the astounding waste and expense of our medical system . . .

In some ways, I feel like I'm slowly wiping Bob out of my life, with every phone call, every effort to do the "grown up" thing, but in a bigger way, I know he's so much more than a bank account, a name on a mortgage or car loan. . . maybe by clearing the clutter, with a walk in a park, I can finally find my way back to Bob. . .

xxoo