Single Parenting

In the midwestern plains winter was behind schedule. Looking up at the day through the kitchen window it could just as easily have been April as December. The sky was bright blue. The sun left a streak across the counter exactly where a cat would have lain, had I one. Looking down, the brown remains of greenery revealed the otherwise clantestine season. The forecast for Philadelphia was perfect. I could sport my fur-trimmed brown leather swing coat and pretend all week long I was an adult without a cumbersome life stuffed into my back pocket, one that would be chomping at the bit upon my return. A momentary respite, embraced because I enjoyed it, and because I had no choice.

The kids were at school and my suitcase was packed. They were eager for their last day before winter break festivities — not much in the junior high unless you count the hyperactive antics of young teens ready for a two week hiatus. I was missing the culturally diverse and politically correct not red and green party at my daughter’s school for the first time ever. I hated the idea that they were leaving for Cabo in the morning with their dad and their other family, the one I wasn’t part of, but traveling alone was one of the perks of divorce that I never expected. I grew accustomed to but never comfortable with my children’s other life, therefore I always traveled when they did. Rambling around in our home without them on my heels for a day or two was novel, for a week, it was morbid. I always knew I would return a week later refreshed and rejuvenated and even ready to hear tales of a magnificent week, sun and sand, steps and halves, all innocently told while sporting their midwinter tans.

So I buried my fear of flying and though took off for only familiar destinations, had startling and unique experiences. I realized early on how much I enjoyed being with my family, without the burden of an unhappy husband and restless children. I reconnected with old friends who knew me only as me.

Last minute clean up before I headed to the airport was a ritual. What if something happened? I didn’t want the house to be messy — but I also had a date for the following week. Oppositional optimism and pessimism at play kept my mind busy, which was always a good thing.

I stepped on the black pedal of the trash compactor, throwing away the last little bits of trash that today are indiscernible. I was working at a clip, the dogs knew I was leaving. They always do. They watched me with their eyes, perhaps knowing how much attention they’d get from the dog-sitter, perhaps wondering only if I was going to drop one of the collected tidbits on the floor in my haste. As the trash compactor drawer popped open, I had a random fleeting thought.

“Well, at least if anything happens, [he] has life insurance. We’ll be fine. We’ll. Be. Fine.”

I mouthed it wide and whispered it softly. “We’ll be fine.”

I shook my head from side to side like a toddler saying no to a spoonful of horrendous cough syrup. I spoke out loud. “Cut that out.”

“Oh my God,” I said to myself, “That’s awful”. I actully hit my cheek as if to knock some sense into myself. I was not a proponent for malicious content in divorce. I shook my head again as if doing so would release the thought out of no where to back from whence it came. Like the sneaked cookie that has no calories, it was gone and forgotten, and didn’t matter until later.

The vacation officially began when I got into the car because I hired a driver. I pampered myself when I was alone, to experience unrivaled independence I’d earned and also to reward myself for not jumping off a bridge in hopes of landing in someone’s else’s life.

Only hours later I enjoyed dinner with father, brother and 86 year old grandfather. I visited a lifelong friend but decided to forego debauchery with a surreptitious East Coast lover in lieu of room service and pay per view. There was time for that and all I wanted was to curl up and revel in the comfort of hotel linens and being alone and wait for my week’s vacation that would begin again with the rise of the morning sun.

So it was through half sleep, with the tv still on, when 15 hours after leaving my home that was 600 miles away, that my cell phone, with one line of charge left, rang and startled me instantaneously into a brand new existence.

My 40 year old ex-husband died suddenly of a heart attack while packing for vacation.

My world ceased to revolve for a millisecond that lasted the length of my entire adult life. I was indescribably altered, never to return to who I was even the moment before or at any time in either my first life or my second. There was much to do. Plans to make. A plane to catch. My children needed me.

And all I could think of was the trash compactor.