I haven't been on a vacation in three years, though some may call this past year and some odd months of my self-imposed exile from the general public a vacation. Call it what you want, all I know is I don't want the t-shirt, and you certainly don't want the postcard . . . The last trip I took wasn't even with Bob, it was with my mom, to Cape Cod, in September of 2009. Bob was already showing signs of illness at that time—unexplained weight loss, the beginning twinges of leg pain; in hindsight, I even noted acute changes in his personality (extreme irritability, very withdrawn) but we wouldn't get his cancer diagnosis till nearly four months later. I was upset that he didn't want to go to the Cape with me, as it had been nearly a year that we'd traveled together, and we'd never been to the cape. But I also understood that he was overwhelmed, with a disease that had yet to be named, among other things: he had just returned from a work trip to France, was contemplating a job change, we were talking of putting our house for sale and trying to get some projects around the joint done, and just wanted some down time before his big job search was to ensue.
My mom and I had a wonderful time in Massachusets, but throughout the trip, I couldn't help but wish Bob would have joined us. He should have joined us. So many photo ops, so much good seafood (I had vowed to eat seafood every day of that vacation, as nothing compares to lobster, scallops and other sea critters procured fresh from the body of water right outside my window, and if I remember correctly, we made it till the vary last night, when my mom cried uncle! and wanted red meat. In a bad way.), so much to do and see, smell and feel and hear . . . shortly after my mom and I returned, Bob fell seriously ill, and that was the end of so many things in our lives. . .
I've been entertaining the idea of a vacation for a long time since Bob died, but thinking and doing, I've come to know, are very different realities. In theory, a vacation sounds wonderful. In reality, it means doing it all alone now, from the planning, to the packing, to the execution, to the return to an empty house. It's a reminder of the things we wanted to do, the things we should have done, the places we wanted to visit together, the things we wanted to share with each other. My throat catches, when I think of Bob in the grips of his disease, telling me that he'd love to take one more trip somewhere with me, but it was impossible, given his condition. I remember writing an e-mail to his primary doctor, when we were trying with all our might, to get Bob "well enough" for the horrific surgery he was to endure, telling him I wanted to whisk Bob away to a remote Pacific island, and live out the rest of his days in peace, away from the mad scientists at the U. His primary doctor wrote back, saying maybe that's what we should do, get away for a little vacation, just the two of us. I coulnd't help but laugh hysterically, and wrote back, "Are you serious?! You see what Bob looks like when we come in for our weekly appointments! It's an act of God to get him to the U; you really think a 'little vacation' is gonna happen in our world?" That was an exchange I hadn't thought of, in a very long time . . .
As I thought more and more about a vacation, I began to have gradiose ideas of taking a trip overseas, myself, as a sweeping gesture of embracing widowhood, of honoring my life with Bob, of "proving" to whom, I'm not quite sure, that I could do this alone, for Bob! that I am "getting better!" Then I realized that I'm not quite ready to embark on such an adventure. Yet. Next idea was the Memphis trip we talked about when Bob was in the throes of chemo and his world reduced to the five-by-five confines that encompassed the sofa and television. Even though his appetite was non-existent, we'd watch the Food Network and talk about when he'd get better, we'd rent a Greyhound bus and invite everyone we knew to join us for a roadtrip down to Tennesee, for some real-live blues and bbq . . . but that didn't feel right, either. In fact, the whole idea now feels kind of hollow, without Bob . . . kind of twists my guts more than a little bit, to be honest, thinking about a trip to anywhere, as no matter where I go, it will be an emotionally-laden one, embarking on them alone.
Then I thought of Bob's sister, Nancy, and her beautiful family, in Billings, Montana. And how much Bob loved all of them, how badly he wanted to get out to see them one more time, how much I love them all, and how much closer we've all become because of Bob's ordeal, and how little we get to see each other, being so far away, how they are often the ones doing the traveling to MN, instead of the other way around, especially in the past few years. And I thought of how I almost went to college in Montana, a lifetime and a half ago, when I was 18, but chickened out at the last minute, and came whimpering back to Minnesota, with my tail between my legs, but how I've been enamoured with the Big Sky state ever since . . . and with the realization of such connections, I suddenly knew that's where my first trip needed to be. To Montana. I'd pack me and my little mutt and head out to Billings, stay for a few days, then keep going westward, toward Glacier National Park, and mosey our way back to MN, via South Dakota, maybe make a stop here and there in Deadwood, the Badlands, hell, even Wall Drug, to see a real-live stuffed jackalope . . . I haven't been farther west in the state than Bozeman, so the second half of the trip would be a brand-new experience. I then remembered how damn big the Dakotas and Montana are—they don't call it Big Sky country for nothin'—and though my heart wanted to do a solo trip, I had visions of going stark-raving mad (again) in the bowels of North Dakota, a million miles from anywhere. Alone. I then decided I wanted my mom to ride shotgun.
I called Nancy to see if they'd be up for a few late-summer, last-minute guests; I wasn't sure of the girls' and Nancy's school schedules and as I'm telling her my plans, it suddenly occurs to me that perhaps I had waited too long wrestling with my thinking/doing connundrum—maybe they were neck-deep in school again, or at the very least, end-of-summer plans of their own. But, Nancy quickly took me up on my request, said that they'd love us to visit, and to stay as long as we wanted. . . I called my mom and asked if she'd be up for a long road trip out to Montana, that we'd be leaving in a few short days, and she also, too-quickly took me up on my offer. No turning back now. . .
We left on a Wednesday, deciding to take the North Dakota route, via I94, a trip Bob and I had often talked about doing, but had never done . . . we were gone for about 11 days and covered a whole lotta ground in that time, literally and figurative.y. These are a few of the things I learned on my first trip since Bob got sick:
1. My mom doesn't think it's cute if Rocco licks her ice cream. Even if I lick the dog-licked part off.
2. My in-laws rock. In fact, "in-laws" just doesn't cut it; Bob's family is my family, and vice versa, forever.
3. Don't jump on a trampoline in the dark
4. There is definitely a continuum to the meaning of "Dog Friendly" hotel
5. Bismarck, NoDak (as the locals say) isn't really the "wild west" as someone tried to convince me
6. Travel accomodations can be made on the fly
7. But sometimes planning ahead is a good idea, too
8. Always remember to shut off the camera when not in use
9. Always have a backup battery for the camera, for when I forget to shut it off
10. As in life, for the one prick encountered on a trip, I will encounter countless wonderful fellow travelers; try not to allow the prick make a bigger, more lasting impression
11. Make every effort to reconnect with old friends "on the way," no matter how long it's been since we've seen each other, or how much driving we still have to do. Priceless. . .
12. Don't use cruise control when it's torrentially pouring outside
13. You can teach an old (or at least, neurotic) dog new tricks!
14. If I encounter a labyrynth along the way, take the time to walk it. The revelations are astounding.
15. Next time I go to Glacier National Park, it'll be on a motorcycle
16. Getting off the beaten path is almost always worth it. Unless it's for Wall Drug.
17. I will encounter endless reminders of Bob everywhere . . .
Maybe in my next entry, I'll explain some of the lessons, but right now, I'm kinda tired . . . xxoo
