MY LOST YEAR

"What's Next?" by James Aschbacher

When a year begins with a hospital stint in January, and concludes with your email getting hacked in December, there's more good riddance than auld lang syne in watching it stagger to the finish line.

2019 was like that for me.

My five days at Dominican, and the aftermath, spread over the next two weeks (grab bars in the shower, walkers, rollators, PT, etc), petty much wiped out all my good intentions for the new year. After losing that first month, I feel like I was never able to catch up.

Each new season took me by surprise. Celebrations and holidays raced by, barely blips on my internal radar. By the time it finally stopped raining, it was summer. The next thing I knew, Halloween decorations were going up. Christmas? Hah! Despite the mailing list of 100 recipients that Art Boy and I honed over the years, I didn't send out one single card. If he had a grave, my sweetie would be spinning in it. This is not the way he would have done things!

Where did the time go? Where did I go? I still have no idea. This has been my lost year.

Since I haven't racked up anything in the way of accomplishments to point to over the last 12 months, I have to start looking at the old year from a new perspective. Let's not think of it as slacking. Let's say instead that I've been incubating. Temporarily diverted out of the mainstream of life, I've been in a holding pattern, taking take stock of where I am. And, what's more important, with the new year looming — what comes next?

It's like I've spent 2019 wrapped up in a chrysalis, waiting to see who or what will emerge on the other side.

What's incubating inside that chrysalis?

I just hope the transformation comes soon, so I can leave this year's model behind. It distresses me that I'm starting to fulfill every cliche about widows. On my own, I schlep around the house in baggy comfort clothes. My table manners are deteriorating, with nobody sitting across from me to notice. I sleep with my cat.

It's clear that somebody has to take over the reins of this life, and, sadly, there's no one to do it but me, a daunting prospect without my co-pilot. Did I say co-pilot? Oh, please. James was not only the driver, he built the coach, groomed the horses, and paved the road. I was just the passenger. The idea of moving up into the driver's seat now, by myself, is one I greet with a resounding  gulp.

So I have to hope that whoever is incubating inside this chrysalis is up to the task. I can't let another whole year slip through my grasp while I sit on the sidelines, fretting. The past is prologue, as Shakespeare says in The Tempest, and I'm looking forward to the next act. It's got to be an improvement over the last one!

Let's hope I can get a grip in 2020. No more excuses!



(Above right: Little Love Bugs, by James Aschbacher)