Yesterday I drove from Toronto to Scranton, arriving shortly after 10 o’clock in the evening. Helma greeted me with a wonderful meal, the kind of meal that can bring one back from the dead. I wasn’t feeling quite that bad, but the six-hour drive turned into seven hours because of busloads of sports fans heading east (to Rochester?) combined with sections of heavy rain and dense fog.
My plan was to pick up a fruit basket or something once I got into town to take with me to the hospice, to give to the night nurses. Last year I returned to the hospice on Christmas Eve with copious amounts of food that was brought to the house after David died. I simply couldn’t eat it all, and the nurses were grateful for “real” food instead of chocolate. (I can hear some of you saying now, but chocolate is real food!) Helma called along the way to check up on me, and kindly offered to buy the basket for me to save me a trip to the grocery store, bless’er.
After a big meal and some conversation it was nearly half past midnight, and I announced that it was time for me to go to the hospice.
Helma was surprised: “Now?”
“Yes, now.”
I put the basket in the car and drove the quiet streets of Scranton, darkened but for the seasonal Christmas lights. It was much warmer than it was the same time last year. I remember the big snowfall was on December 9 because it was the first time Mister Hugh set paw in snow.
I didn’t make up my mind until recently where I wanted to be the night of December 17-18. When I arrived at the hospice, I found the head nurse and explained to her that I’d just driven from Toronto to return to the place where my husband had died one year before. When I began to elaborate on why I felt the need to be there, I could tell by the look on her face that I was in the right place because I didn’t need to explain anything.
Recent Comments