My wife left this morning...

Friday, June 25, 2010

My wife left this morning...

...or was it yesterday?

I don't remember.

(Apologies to Albert Camus.)

She flew off to Florida on a pre-bereavement trip... my cousin Steve's wife Barb who was diagnosed in 2002 with an expectation of three years, has finally decided that hospice might be appropriate.

Barb is one tough tootsie!

(And what do doctors know anyway?)

Barb, an oncology Nurse, and Jeanne the Nurse-Practitioner, warmed to one another immediately at the first Clifton-Griffing-Speir family reunion over New Year's 2002-2003.

They've been thick as giddy High School girls loose in a shopping mall ever since.

So with Steve off fishing the Bering Strait as he does each June, and Barb uncertain how much longer her revolting-looking concoction of blended wheat grass, spinach and other herbs and vitamins is going to keep her go­ing, she and Jeanne decided a gals-only long weekend was in order.

I have no idea what they're doing... sitting in a darkened lounge swilling frozen margaritas and stuffing $5 bills into the gold lamé jock-strap of a muscular sub-Saharan dancer, or lounging, feet-up, hair-down with a bottle of wine on the Griffing's screened lanai, swapping tales of prior marriages and grandchildren.

I genuinely don't know... as I noted, it's "gals-only" and you can drop a secret into either one of them and never hear it hit bottom.

Me? It's been awhile since I've had to "bach" it, but I'm making out jus' fine.

One who isn't is Rosco... the puppy she never had when she was a little girl.

He is inconsolable, his nostrils pressed against the screen in the fond hope that she'll be pull­ing in the yard at any moment.

Puppy-boy Rosco in Jeanne's computer chair

And when he needs to take a break from his perimeter watch, he curls up in her com­puter chair and tries to pretend that it's Jeanne's lap.

I pet him on the head, chuckle him beneath his chin, and tell him it's all right... but by Sunday evening we'll probably both be peering out the window.

Comments

1. Dog Lover said...

Poor Rosco
Take him out for a long walk. It will do both of you some good.

2. Carrie said...

Bring him by the Bideawee dog park - some new friends and play to distract.

He just joined there a month ago, and loves it... I'll have to see if I can find Jeanne's ID tag. Good suggestion.
Dean

3. Jeanne Speir said...

Awww. Speir, that's an unfair, cruel picture of a sad puppy!! Next thing I know you'll be sending ransom notes for kidnapped teddy bears.

Ohhhhh, poor Rosco! Mommie will be home soon.

Now that he's registered, you can take him to the dog park at Bide-a-wee, and let him run it out. Just beware when the alpha yellow labs get cranky, and rumor has it, the simultaneous appearance of three huskies, a/k/a "the pack." The nice people and their dogs warned me....

Awww, c'mon, Bide-a-wee wouldn't allow "a pack" or overly aggressive dogs into their dog park, would they? I mean, I have my own issues with that organization, but really!
Dean

4. Barb Griffing said...

What a cute note! We are having fun but not too much. Naps and early bed time last night and apppetizers for dinner. We are lazy in that department and a friend just invited us over for steaks tonight so no cooking, yea????

Love you and we will be good.

"We will be good?" [worry worry worry]
Dean

5. Dune Mind said...

I feel for you and yours, Dean. I send wishes of great peace and comfort to Barb and the Clifton connection. Jeanne, you are an awesome pillar of loving strength. And Rosco, we promise you that Mommy will be home soon.

6. Carrie said...

Afraid the huskies are a real phenomenon -- some dogs can hold their own with the pack, we choose to leave when they show (since that is the only time my dog hides under my chair).

7. Jeanne Speir said...

pps: A noticing that the title of this blog entry hearkens to recently alluded to Newsday headlines.

If you Really wanted to tantalize OtBB's readers, you should've muttered some of your standard dark imprecations and dramatically said, "MORE at 11."

Yes, dear.
Dean

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