THE LAST LAUGH’S ON ME
A Widow Bit – July 13, 2008
By Mary Koch

            These feelings were all too familiar: Guilt, which feeds anxiety, which reinforces the guilt. It made no sense. I was toiling away at a worthwhile – if repugnant – chore, cleaning decades’ worth of detritus from the deepest recesses of the basement. I should have felt triumphant!

            I am remodeling the basement. The guilt and anxiety with which I started the project were remnants from the 14 years of John’s paralysis after his stroke. During those years, the early ones especially, I was reluctant to give away John’s “stuff” – from his well-tailored business suits to ski equipment – because it was tantamount to showing bad faith. It was giving up hope, as if I were saying “You’re never going to get out of that wheelchair and wear a business suit again,” or “You’re never going to hit the slopes again.”

            Truth was, John never much liked wearing a suit, and as the years passed, it became obvious that if we ever were to ski again, we’d have to buy updated equipment anyway. Bit by bit, I’d stare down my guilt and give stuff away – but at least as much stuff remained. Especially in John’s old basement shop.

            The shop was dominated by an immense and battered work bench, and the floor covered with the ugliest linoleum ever manufactured. Peg boards accommodated a myriad hand tools and jar lids were hammered onto the bottom of a long shelf, each with a glass jar holding every kind of nail, screw and what’s-it known to humankind. The shop had spidery recesses, where tool boxes, power tools, old camping gear and remnants of 80 years’ worth of home repair and improvements were stored. “We might need that someday.”

            It was John’s domain. To eliminate it was to say, “John’s never coming back again.” Well, no, he’s not. Even so, the question plaguing me was, “Would John like what I’m doing?”  There are two answers: (a) Yes, he probably would, and (b) it doesn’t matter. You’re here; he’s not.       

            To arrive at those answers I first had to get mad. On the initial day of cleaning out, it was just guilt, anxiety and melancholy memories. By the second day, there was a little buzz of irritation as I hauled load after load upstairs to the patio (God only knows where it’ll go from there). By the third day of vacuuming mouse droppings, reaching into dark, scary places and sorting, lifting, carrying, I was livid. My whole being yelled, “John E. Andrist! How DARE you leave me with this mess!”

            That felt so good.

            When the contractor arrived I told him how cleaning the basement turned into a healing part of the grief process. He chuckled, and I said, “Yeah. John’s probably laughing too.”

            Later I noticed the contractor was hauling some of the stuff on the patio back down to the basement. “We can use these,” he said. “No sense buying new.” I can distinctly hear John’s voice joining with the cosmic belly laugh.