I Don’t Know How To Do This

Four years ago, I wrote a post that began with the words “I don’t know how to do this.” My husband and I had just split up, and I was agonizing over my new reality of being a single mom. I was mourning the loss of a marriage that we had both hoped would last forever, and I was terrified.

As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about. My ex, whom I’ve often referred to here as The Big Guy, never truly allowed me to struggle as a single mom.  He was always a great dad; I don’t think I ever realized that until weren’t together any more. As strange as it may seem, we became better co-parents when we stopped being spouses.

We also became better friends. Over the past four years, we’ve had more conversations and shared more “inside jokes” than we ever did during our eighteen years under the same roof.

Today, I have to repeat myself, because Heaven has gained an angel in Carhartts and faded flannel.

I don’t know how  to do this.

Last week, we lost The Big Guy to complications of the flu. The Flu! How can anything so ridiculous possibly be real? He used to drive a race car, for God’s sake. He was a volunteer firefighter for more than a decade. This was a man who used to take chances and risks that would make my blood run cold, but would just laugh at me when I told him to be careful.

I don’t know how to do this.

My children have had to grow up over the past two weeks in a way that no parent wants to witness. Because The Big Guy and I were no longer together, responsibilities and decisions fell upon the shoulders of his oldest child, our twenty year-old daughter. I’ve said for years that she is more of an adult than I am, and she has stepped up and proved me right by displaying a level of maturity that makes me ache for her.

The nineteen year-old has also grown in so many ways. He is mourning,  of course,  but he is doing so with his father’s trademark sense of humor. My quiet, sarcastic little boy has become a warm and nurturing man who looks out for all of us and always finds a way to make us smile with some funny memory of his dad.

And our baby. Rooster turned ten just a few days after losing his father. He has cried so much that I’ve worried he might get sick. But each time, he finishes crying and then moves on to laughter or a quick  game of basketball while sharing stories about his daddy. He’s hurting, but  he’s adapting.

They are grieving, but they are grieving as a unit. The three of them are so close that I know, deep down, that I have nothing to fear for them. They’re going to be okay because they have each other. Well, each other and their father’s strength,  humor, and courage.

But I don’t know how to do this

I’m not talking about being a single mom. I can figure that part out, especially since the older two are here to help me. If I’m going to be completely honest, I know my daughter will probably continue to run the show with more maturity than I will ever have. Things are going to be rocky for a while, and there will be a tremendous learning curve, but we’ll get through.

No, I don’t know how I’m going to move on without The Big Guy. He was my ex; we hadn’t been a couple for more than four years. But he was my friend. We still talked almost every day. We had inside jokes and a shared history that spanned more than twenty years. We created three people together– three amazing, beautiful, incredible people who made us both so much better than either one of  us ever were on our own.

He had a girlfriend who never left his side during those final days in the hospital. His family referred to her as “the love of his life,” and I believe they were right. He was so very happy with her, happy in a way he never was with me, that I couldn’t hold that against her. During the time they were together, she was good to our kids and always treated me with respect, so I truly, genuinely like her.

Crazy, huh?

My heart is breaking for her. So few people in life actually find real love, but I believe she and The Big Guy truly did. As much as I am hurting right now,  I know her pain is even deeper.

And I am hurting. I’ve lost my friend. I’ve lost the father of my children. I’ve lost a person who was a significant part of my life for more than half my time here on Earth.

I’ve lost my Big Guy.  My crooked-toothed, flannel-wearing, warm-hearted Big Guy. And somehow, incredibly, life is going to have to go on as though the world hasn’t just lost a truly good  human being.

I just don’t know how to do this.

Rampart, we have a problem

I have learned some valuable life lessons over the past few weeks, and since I have been unable to post anything here during that time, it seems like a good time to share what I’ve learned.

1. The flu sucks.  It’s not just a tummy bug or a bit of a chest cold; it’s a nasty, down-and-out, flat-on-my-back, I’d-almost-rather-be-dead kind of thing.  I could never understand how people die during influenza outbreaks.  Now, I understand.  Other than the months I spent recuperating from a broken neck, I can honestly say that I have never been knocked out by anything for so long.

2. Folks, get your flu shots.  Period.

3. Netflix and illness are not a productive combination for me.  I have spent the past three weeks soaking up everything from Sherlock to Coupling to Dr. Who (sue me, I have a thing for Stephen Moffat) to Emergency.  I couldn’t sit up and breathe long enough to do anything else anyway.

4. I could get used to being a couch potato.

5. Mommy takes care of everyone else when they are sick, but loved ones have absolutely no sympathy or patience when Mommy is the sick one.  Okay, that’s not a new life lesson.  I learned it the day after giving birth to my first child, when my mother-in-law told me to let the Big Guy nap because he’d been through so much.

Apparently, having his hand squeezed by me for sixteen hours was more traumatic than my pushing out a two foot tall, ten-pound human being while learning the definition of the term “dry birth”.

And “epesiotomy”.

Not that I’m still bitter about that.

6.  I love Randolph Mantooth.  Yes, it’s true.   IMG_20130412_121053

As a kid watching Emergency with my family, I adored Roy DeSoto.  Everyone else crushed on Johnny Gage, but not me.  No, I loved Roy’s steadfast calm, his sparkling blue eyes, his bashful little smile.  I giggled over his wry sense of humor and his quiet charm.  In fact, my husband is more Roy than Johnny.

But now . . . okay, I’ll say it:  Randolph Mantooth has just aged better than Kevin Tighe.   They may be nearing seventy, but I don’t care.  If Randolph Mantooth ever comes to Michigan looking for a middle-aged, overweight, crooked-spined mother of three, I will be ready for him.

7. I really need a better hobby.  One that doesn’t involve fantasies about Randolph Mantooth.