Dark Comedy

While there has been a whirlwind of activity going on in our lives, in order to respect the wishes of others and to probably protect an audience who might actually say to themselves, "Her life is way too crazy to be true, I'm gonna go watch a reality show to get some semblance of normalcy," I will refrain from telling you the things that have happened here this week with various family members, friends and pets.

I will say that when things happen in my life, they happen big. I landed that big job many years ago without a college degree, because I walked in there and sold them on the idea that I was the best woman for the job, that I could do more than some book smart graduate who didn't know the difference between the intercom system and the hold button, or the difference between assets and liabilities (of which I have both), and that I could save them a lot of money without forsaking my salary (and, I do have two years' worth of college, by the way). 

And speaking of doing it big, I was hit by a car when I was five weeks pregnant and then hit by some maniac on a bicycle at rush hour when I was almost six months pregnant. My unborn son survived, but my obstetrician almost didn't when, during the throes of my extremely hard labor, he came and stood by my bed, smiled and said, "Gotten hit by any cars, bikes, trains or otherwise lately?"

I got the flu when I returned from Alaska this year and, while I am one who rarely gets sick, when I do, well, again, I do it up big, with fluids needed, two weeks in bed and planning the songs I want played at my funeral. 

So, the last few weeks have been especially rough, but tolerable. Until last night when, within an hour, I had planned someone else's funeral, decided on his burial site, planned a second marriage, house renovations and a relocation to another country.

You see, while I was speaking to my husband on the phone, he informed me that he was also on the road and asked me if I'd like him to meet me somewhere where we could have dinner and talk things over, i.e., whether to go to NY, whether to change my identity, or whether to color my hair again.  Since I was already sitting in the parking lot of the grocery store up the road from my house, I said, "No, that's all right.  I'll just run into the store, get something to make for dinner and I'll see you in a little bit."

Two hours later, my husband wasn't home when, based on my calculations, he should have been home an hour and a half ago.  By this time, I was pacing and going back and forth to the window.  He didn't answer his cell phone, and I was certain he had said he was on his way home.  Another 30 minutes passed and I was in my bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed wondering when the police officers would get to my house to give me the news.  I thought of getting in my car and driving back the way I know Druck comes home from work, but he just recently told me he had changed his route because of construction.

And within the next 30 minutes, this is what went through my half-crazed mind (what I can remember of it anyway):

"Well, isn't this nice.  Icing on the cake.  48 years old and a widow."

"He wasn't feeling well.  He's had a cold.  Maybe he had a heart attack.  Oh, dear God."

"I don't even know where to bury him.  Michigan or New York?  Michigan.  Definitely Michigan because our neighbors are here, we've made good friends here in the last 13 years, his work is here, colleagues.  Our cat is buried here.  But, wait.  I won't stay in Michigan after he's gone.  I'll go back to NY.  New York?  Michigan?  Maybe New York.  I don't know!"

"Oh, crap.  Isn't this nice.  Here we are on the verge of putting in new carpeting and renovating the kitchen and he's gone.  I don't know how to pull up that tile or rip out cabinets.  I'll have to hire someone.  What if Dad says he's coming out here to comfort me?  I don't want him seeing the house like this ... what would he think?  The tile is already partially up.  Maybe I can get someone over here to start working on this before I call Dad and tell him the news."

"Druck told me that if anything happens to him, I have to promise to leave and go to my favorite place - Southern France.  Well, great.  I didn't expect this.  I have had no time to plan.  Look at this place. No one will buy this house like this now.  It's half torn up.  Where are my French dictionaries?  I knew I should have taken that refresher course."

"Who is going to want me at 48 years old? I can't spend the rest of my life alone!  I've been with someone for 27 years. What will I do?  Do those on-line services really work?  How many losers will I have to wade through before I find Mr. Right?  Oh, that is going to be so tiring.  And who would want me?  You can only pretend to be "with it" for so long.  I am so upset."

And so it went until I went to check my cell phone again and saw that a call did come in from my husband's cell phone number.  There was a voicemail.  From the EMTs?  From the hospital?  Oh dear God.  I called the voicemail and only heard loud breathing.  Panic set in again.  "He's sitting on the side of the road or in a ditch and he can't talk." 

With that, I grabbed my purse, my keys and decided to go looking for him myself.  As I headed out the door, I called the number again.  He answered, breathless.

"WHERE.....ARE.....YOU," I stammered, my heart pounding so hard I could only think of that monster that had burst out of the astronaut's chest in the very first Alien movie. 

"On my way home.  I just finished playing soccer."

"You WHAT?????"

I will refrain from relaying the remainder of that conversation.  Suffice it to say, it wasn't pretty.  After we hung up and I was completely spent from worry and anger and all of the five million words I said to him, packed into a 30 second span which would have taken a normal person 2 hours to say, I went and laid down on my bed.  Two minutes later, my daughter came to the door and asked me if I knew where the portable phone was.

"No," I said weakly, still staring at the ceiling and apparently not giving her the attention she expected by jumping off the bed to help her find the phone.

"Gawd.  Why do you act like you hate me?"

"I don't hate you," I called quietly.  "I hate your father right now."

Copyright 2008 liamsgrandma