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When my experience defies conventional thought, I write a book…
These days, as a surviving spouse I seldom feel sad when remembering Sam.
These days, as a surviving spouse I seldom feel sad when remembering Sam. I no longer stress over how fleeting the memories are, as they’ve pretty much all returned. I remember our vacations, the dishes he cooked, the happy times with our greyhound Sid, visits with family, friends and co-workers, the trials and tribulations of remodeling the Long Beach house, and so much more.
I don’t merely tell myself Sam was a part of my life that wasn’t meant to extend into our old age; I actually believe it. God has a plan, and the more I accept the notion the more sense it all makes.
An unexpected phenomenon has arisen, which is the seeming transference of Sam’s sense of humor to me. When a conversational lead-in presents itself in everyday dialogue, I vocalize the pun Sam would have said. If I may be so bold, my delivery ain’t half bad.
In To Sam, With Love I mentioned having heard each of Sam’s one-liners at least a hundred times. So, readers could be forgiven for assuming the repetition alone could very well explain my newfound “talent.” But then I think back to the almost 22 years of marriage to Sam, and I can’t recall a single time I was tempted to try out one of his jokes. I suppose he might have beat me to the punch each instance it could have happened. But that wouldn’t explain why it never manifested itself in Sam’s absence – at work, or out shopping, or anywhere else.
I love keeping Sam’s ace sense of humor alive. And even though my own comedic prowess emerged a while ago, after laying dormant for decades, Sam’s contribution can only serve to hone my “skill.” What a blessing!
As strange as it sounds, and its strangeness almost keeps me from saying it, grieving for Sam has been a blessing of its own, as To Sam, With Love clearly suggests. I have to admit to having been stuck in a no-growth period of retirement “stasis” before Sam died. After he passed, everything opened up and started moving again. It doesn’t strike me as good or bad, it’s just the way it happened.
I’m still a survivor. I’m still grieving. The grief still feels inspired. Life isn’t happy every minute, but it’s seldom been better.
In other words, everything I wrote in To Sam, With Love is still true. That in itself is a blessing.
