Last week, as I lifted a heavy laundry basket to carry it to the garage, I thought about how Tom would have carried it for me. I never asked, but if he knew laundry was on my schedule, he’d just do it.
I miss that.
And so much else.
Every year that passes unearths a new stratum in the layers of missing Tom.
I miss his physical presence, his way of thinking, his sense of humor, his creativity, his cooking, his very Tom-ness. There is scarcely a minute of any day when he is not either front and center in my thoughts or lurking in the background.
But six years later, I’m also feeling the loss of having a life mate, a helpmate, a partner, and a supporter in ways that might not occur to anyone who isn’t part of this crappy club.
For example:
Someone to run the household with. The work of maintaining a household—especially one constructed for two people—is endless. Every light bulb that must be changed, every toilet that must be scrubbed, every trash can that must be hauled, every lawn that must be mowed, every quart of milk that must be picked up, every dog that must be walked—is my responsibility. My life feels like an endless chore. I hire help when I can and must, but my income doesn’t go far for that kind of thing. Twice the work, half the budget. I’ve had to lower my standards because a girl can do only so much.
Someone to go out to casual dinners with. Tom and I ate out about once a week, on nights we didn’t feel like cooking. But while I don’t hate eating out alone, it usually doesn’t seem worth the money, and dining out with friends takes a lot more effort than a “let’s eat out tonight” meal with Tom. I’ve tried very few of the many new restaurants in my neighborhood and can’t remember the last time I went to our favorite spot. I did, however, enjoy a rare impromptu dinner out with a neighbor recently. Note to self: Do that more often.
Someone to gossip with. I do still gossip with friends, but my friends and I don’t all know the same people or see things the same way. I always knew what Tom would want to hear about, and he often had something interesting or hilarious to say about the dish of the day. Especially fun was driving home together after a social event and running the numbers on it—who said what, wore what, did what. Even six years later, when I hear something particularly juicy, my first thought is Wait till I tell Tom!
Someone to cling to at social events. I’m not great in groups. I can be shy, I’m bad at chitchat, and my facial recognition skills are sketchy, so I often don’t recognize people I’ve met before, which is embarrassing. Tom was better at all that—he knew everyone, and everyone knew him—so when I was feeling insecure, which was often, I would stick close to him and ride his personality. Now, out there on my own, I’m more awkward than ever, just a faux pas waiting to happen. My outgoing, bubbly friend Ashley told me about a friend of hers who, when she’s feeling shy and weird, advises herself to “channel your inner Ashley.” I’m not sure I have an inner Ashley, but I may give it a try.
Someone to listen to my insignificant gripes. Traffic was bad. Work was annoying. Someone tailgated me. I had computer problems. Sometimes you just need to vent about the small stuff. I wouldn’t inflict such trivial gripes on friends, but I could spew them at Tom. Once, when I was traveling frequently for work, Tom said that he was always glad when I came home because “you have to listen to me.” At the time this annoyed me, but now I totally get it. These days I just do a lot of muttering.
Someone to shop for. Men’s departments make me sad. I loved buying clothes for Tom. (Although he did eventually point out that I kept buying him clothes in the same wine color. What can I say? It looked good on him.) For a long time after my brother, who had schizophrenia, died, I would pick out a present for him every year and donate it to the National Alliance on Mental Illness holiday gift drive. I stopped doing that at some point, but it’s time to revive the tradition and find an appropriate nonprofit for a Tom gift as well. Not as good as seeing him wear it, but better than nothing.
Someone to talk me off the ledge. When a friend was unkind, when I inadvertently offended someone, when I had a professional failure, when I embarrassed myself and wanted to crawl under a rock, Tom could always put it in perspective, blow it off for me, or simply reassure me that I was valuable despite my very human flaws. I could tell him things I wouldn’t tell anyone else and trust him to be on my side—whether or not I deserved it. His support was unconditional. Now I have to talk myself down, and I’m not nearly as good at it.
Personal Perspectives Essential Reads
Someone to remember for me. I have an infamously poor memory. I like to say that I’ve had an interesting life; it’s a pity I can’t remember it. Tom and I were together for decades, so much of my life happened with him. When I couldn’t remember something, Tom often could. With his death, I lost many of the stories of my life. On my mind recently: that time when a butcher in England said something that so tickled us, we said it to each other for years after. I wish I could remember what it was. If I ever do, I’ll write it down, as I have many of our inside jokes that I will forget otherwise.
Someone to spoon. Even more than sex, I miss having a warm, solid body to wrap myself around. Physical contact is a basic human need, and skin hunger is real. It used to be that whenever I couldn’t get to sleep, either I would spoon Tom or he would spoon me, and I would drift right off. I sure do miss that. Hugging my 75 lb. dog helps a little, but it’s just not the same.
Nothing is.
