The wind bursts through the open window, whipping tangled blonde hair against our faces. South Carolina foothills roll along beside us. Armed with a grocery bag of white cotton garments, my best friend, Cindy, and I are en route to a tie-dye party. We ride enveloped in that cocoon of familiarity that surrounds close friends, belting out lyrics to cheesy '80s songs along the way.
I'm excited about the day ahead. We'll be working with a professional tie-dye artist to produce true Technicolor genius. No cheap, runny Rit dye for us.
Unexpectedly, Cindy turns down the radio and clobbers me with her opinion of my love life. She thinks I need to take dating more seriously. "You're no spring chicken, you know."
I'm stunned not by her honesty, but by the fact that Cindy has now joined The Team.
Since my husband's death four years ago, well-meaning friends and relatives have seemed eager to marry me off. Concern about my social life has transformed from simple curiosity to urgency as time has passed. My age seems to be the motivating factor. Everyone wants a happy ending for me, and soon. Though I'm flattered by their concern, I just want to enjoy a happy middle right now. I'm not ready for the ending.
Walking with Mike to the end of his road was a tough journey. Each morning for more than 1,000 days, we'd share a kiss and give thanks for one more day together. Then we'd steel ourselves for the challenges of Lou Gehrig's disease: lifting, bathing, dressing, repositioning to prevent pressure sores, choking and swallowing difficulties, and falls. Because ALS robs its victims of the ability to speak, I became hyper-aware of every facial tic that could signal Mike's needs, 24 hours a day. The stress was overwhelming for both of us.
By the time Mike died, I had become more intimate with him than anyone in my life. I'm wary of doing that again.
Those stormy days of caregiving have changed me. On dates, I see a debilitating stroke at the end of a steak knife, a diseased liver at the lip of a martini glass and a heart attack at the end of a short temper. I'm not judgmental of lifestyle choices because I have similar vices. My head is just throwing up a caution flag. I've made tremendous progress, but I still have healing to do.
More thankful
That's why I'm taking care to savor the happy middle of my life. I may not be a spring chicken, but I'm gradually becoming a "sprung" chicken. The jagged edges of grief don't cut so deeply anymore. With the stress of caregiving and loss behind me, each day I'm more thankful for the love I've experienced and less sorrowful about losing it. Though my loss will always be a part of me, it doesn't have to overshadow all. I want to use this phase of my life to create my own happiness rather than look to others as a source of it. Only then will I be free to accept new love into my heart without pushing out my lost love.
At the tie-dye party, we meticulously fold and twist the cotton fabric to prepare it for staining, securing the creases with rubber bands. Using squirt bottles, we apply dye onto broad swaths of folded fabric and shoot it deep inside the crevices. The pigment runs together, creating a colorful mess. With stained fingers, Cindy and I wrap the dripping cloth in plastic to let it steep for a day before washing and drying the clothes to set.
My tie-dye turned out beautiful. Swirls of deep blue and purple create the foundation of the pattern, and a vivid pop of lime green bursts forth intermittently throughout the design.
Intensified against a bruised background, joy feels incredibly bright.
