A Familiar Ritual

I stood in my small kitchen, carefully arranging the baked bacon slices that I had prepared with care. The multigrain bread was toasted just enough to brown and lightly coated with a smooth white spread, then layered with fresh, crisp lettuce and tomatoes sliced lengthwise—my latest quiet challenge to the customary round slice.

As I assembled the sandwich, memories of long ago flooded my mind. We had both loved BLTs. Bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches were a favorite late night, last stop before heading home after a Friday night at the club – a ritual that many female BFFs enjoy.

The evening would be discussed and reviewed with questions and sometimes answers regarding the men encountered dissected and bemoaned. The entertainment that night and how many upside-down glasses left on the bar (drinks paid for but not consumed). All while giggling, waiting patiently for the super sandwich, an alternate to the cheeseburger that had become passe as a late-night cover to the alcoholic binge previously enjoyed. Fries and a Diet Pepsi closed the deal for both of us.

Remembering Her Style

The memories returned in colors, aromas, and a sense of place, with her beauty at their center. As we waited for our order her lovely hands nails polished a flaming red, colorfully remembered as she carefully reapplied the red lipstick to her perfect lips knowing it would smear again as we ate the beloved sandwich. This was the crowning point to the end of a work week ritual.

She was like that: always striving for perfection and expecting it of others. The fashionista of fashionistas, she wanted others to meet her standards and often spoke of how she would redress them.

At Her Bedside

I wondered what she would say about the pink bed robe and colorful headscarf she now wore as she lay in her hospital bed. Her words wandered without making sense as she spoke about our church and its members. She talked about the Las Vegas catering business she was about to launch—a five-year obligation that, she said, required careful thought about her return to the Bay Area.

When I told her caretaker that she wanted to go to the bathroom and needed his help, he circled a finger beside his head to signal that she was confused. He whispered that she could not walk and was wearing a diaper. “Just go on; it’s alright,” he said softly to her. I knew she would not do as he asked while I was there.

A Small Comfort

I left soon afterward, leaving the socks I had carefully chosen to keep her comfortable in bed and warm whenever she needed them on her journey toward transition. I wondered if she recognized me? Had she pretended-she was good at that? Or did she know that we were once close and had enjoyed late night BLTs together?

Loss and Regret

As I finished preparation of the memory now a breakfast sandwich and sat with a cup of tea, thoughts of the previous years of estrangement engulfed me in remembrance. How, when and where are questions without answers?

As with my encounter with the lemon tree, a BLT sandwich flooded my thoughts with memories of loss and regret. Regret for what might have been and the reality of what is.

In aging I’ve found that regret and loss are both emotionally difficult as well as being physically draining. Living in a world that was once relatively comfortable versus a new one of daily need and challenges for survival overwhelming one’s spirit as a roaring life-changing 40-foot wave of uncontrollable circumstances hurdles and crashes onto you the swimmer in helpless effort against Poseidon’s ruthless power.  You the swimmer stand helpless soaking wet in the sun as all of life’s carefully established protective rails melt into the seemingly starved soil and scorched earth of a planned life turns into something else. How does one ask for help of family and friends as the crickets of soundlessness loudly profess that you are alone?  The eye of the beholder watches as you stumble drunkenly from pillar to post attempting to survive the emptiness and heartbreak of loss and regret.

Being forced by the universe to live in another life that looks dimly like the former one; the loss of a mother, father, sibling, close friend, or perhaps even worse, a husband or wife of years built on love and respect leaves an empty hole in one’s heart that can be devastating.  And believe me, as one who has experienced it, financial loss may create results that are similar yet different in that loss here may mean an entirely new life of need toward stamina and survival. Although in financial loss the regret of past decisions and unintended error can deepen the guilt in regretted wishful dreams of a do-over. When the challenge to one’s status leads to regret and shame the eye of the beholder can wilt the heart and move the conversation into a cavern echoing a hollow what-if?