© 2023 Rachel Gareau
What are the chances of a lesbian popping up in the middle of a family, who for generations didn’t have any? At least, not any known lesbian. There may have been some who, out of tradition, married men and were miserable. Some who had children, “normal children.”
Then, down the line, another one appeared. There all of a sudden, was a family. A family who understood each other. A family who cared, respected and appreciated each other. A family that is separate from that other universe.
This blog is my journey through losing my wife, my chosen family, and how I am working to re-enter life. It is dedicated to my wife and to all of those who have passed before us.
My wife and I were preparing to migrate, north for the summer. We migrated at the same time every year. Cinco de Mayo. Our anniversary date. Not our phony official anniversary date, our real date. Our date of commitment. We didn’t have wives back then, we had “partners,” “friends.” We made our commitment to each other and honored it. It didn’t matter to us that nobody else knew it was our love date.
The week before migration, my wife fell and broke her hip. She had severe dementia and just knew she was in pain. She had surgery, just to alleviate the pain. The “authorities” decided she had to have rehab, where they didn’t appropriately treat the pain. Their goal was simply to make her walk again. She couldn’t do it, and I finally got her released where I could take care of her and take care of the pain.
Our migration boxes had been lined up like caterpillars along the wall, ready to go into the trailer that had already been reserved. The boxes were unpacked and the migration was canceled.
In spite of everything, she couldn’t recover. She did everything asked of her. She tried to walk, eat and use the facilities. She was always appreciative of anything anyone did for her. She thanked us and laughed with us, her caretakers and me.
She passed away peacefully before her 90th birthday. I was at her bedside and told her it was OK for her to go. She had done everything she could, it was time.
I took care of the necessary arrangements. I repacked the boxes and migrated. To an empty house and empty life.
Fortunately there were many projects to occupy me, which carried me through the summer.
Then came the horror of migrating back, to our home in which she died. Our home, where there wasn’t much to do. I had no projects. I had no purpose.
I am a project person. I decided an important project would be to write about my friends who were my age. We all grew up after WWII, during the Depression. We all know about work. We all know responsibility. We are all trying to manage this time in our lives.
I started writing “Crisis in Loneliness” and immediately went off course. It could be nothing but an article concerning lesbians. It told my life. It told the lives of many my age. It demanded action.
I couldn’t solve the problem of “loneliness” but I could share my journey, the journey I was just beginning. I hoped it would resonate with others, like me, who are going through loss and our struggles.
I was fortunate to assemble a master blog team. Together, we are reaching out, not only to assist me in my journey to re-enter life, but in the hope we can provide comfort for those who are experiencing the same, or similar, journey.
I ask you to join me. I care what you are experiencing. I hope our togetherness will assist both of us, all of us.
Sincerely,
Lynn Brooke
© 2023 Our New Chances.