This is a piece I wrote from a writing prompt on retirement. My gal pals (Debbie and Lori) and I get together once a week and write about whatever comes to mind, starting with prompts that Debbie gives us. It's always fun to read what we come up with. Sometimes, we write memoir pieces; other times we go off into fantasy land and write fiction. I'm thankful that I have made so many wonderful friends on the island, especially my writing group gals!
Retirement Revisited
We were about to enjoy the last years of our lives, visiting parts of the U.S. that we had never seen before, eating at local pubs and diners where the town folk eat, and taking photos for our memory albums. That’s all Bill wanted to do after he retired. Travel and dine out.
 |
Bill at Museum |
 |
| Clowning Around Taking photos |
It wasn’t all I wanted to do, but I enjoy these things too. I could still craft, read, write, walk in the park, and do the things I enjoy when we were home. So, for me, life was going to be good. We had enough money to live comfortably and enjoy our retirement. Just a simple life with simple plans.
 |
| Visiting a Bird Sanctuary |
But that simple plan failed. Instead of traveling and dining in the U.S., Bill is now dining in a memory care unit in Houston, Texas. Instead of making new memories, Bill is desperately trying to remember whether he has Army Reserve drills this weekend or flying the police helicopter out of Dover, Delaware. Is he fixing computers in Tulsa, Oklahoma, or taking photos in Virginia Beach? Some days, he’s trying to remember how to get to work. Other days, he thinks he remembers that he owns this memory care unit. Where did that come from? I have no idea. He had been a man of many talents, but he had never owned his own business.
And me? I sit here in Galveston in between visits to Bill, lonely, confused, and angry. There is no one here for me when I wake up in the morning. There is no one here for me to compliment the meals I make. There is no one here to call an ambulance for me if I have a heart attack.
For a while, I continue this pity party. “Oh, woe is me. Who’s going to take care of me?” Then I think about my single kids and friends. How do they do it? All their lives, they’ve been single, but I don’t hear them complaining about the things I complain about. Instead, they’ve learned to adjust their lives to being single.
I mentally slap myself in the face and force myself to reevaluate. “Move on with your life,” I tell myself. “You have a husband in memory care, but you still have hours, if not days, of every week left for you. Take them. No one else can take them for you. Staying home and sulking won’t make your husband any better. It won’t help him to have the retirement he deserves. Nothing will. That’s a given. But you, home alone, crying, bitter, and yearning for a life not possible, helps no one. Not Bill. Not you. Not your family and friends trying to help you move on.
“The guilt won’t go away; that’s true. But it also can’t be solved. It’s not your fault. It’s not his fault. It’s not anyone’s fault. It’s just the way it is. Accept that fact that you feel guilty, but also accept the fact that you can’t change the circumstances no matter how hard you try. And then, get on with the rest of your life. Enjoy the time you have for yourself. Do the things you’ve wanted to do. Experience life as you’ve never done before. No, it's not the retirement you had hoped for, but it can be a retirement worth living, for both you and for Bill.
“As you embark on new adventures and experience a life that refreshes the soul, your visits to Bill will become a pleasure instead of a thing to be dreaded each week. When you smile, he can smile. When you’re refreshed, you’ll have the ability to shower him with the few pleasures he can still have, whether it’s a home-baked cookie, a “contraband” coke, a visit with his dog, or even a short ride through Freddy’s drive in for a Peanut Butter Concrete. It may not seem much to you, but for him, It’s a special treat for a special day.
“Now, that’s a retirement you can be proud of.”
No comments:
Post a Comment