Do you see Lindsay’s Psychophant link over there on the right hand side of this page? It’s a link to a short video.
I may have already clicked it multiple times this morning . . . it makes me giggle every time.
Back here . . .
One time?
I was looking out my kitchen window, and I saw our neighbor arrive home with a woman who was not his wife.
Huh.
I watched as he guided her into his house, one solicitous hand on the small of her back.
Huh.
Our neighborhood was not a chatty friendly sort of neighborhood. All of the houses on our short street had gorgeous views, and the houses were designed around those views. No sidewalks. No front yards to speak of. All of the houses were set sideways down a hill, so that each house’s yard was at a slightly different elevation.
A discussion with a neighbor required effort.
No one made the effort.
Everyone else on the street was nearing retirement age. Mark and I had little in common with them, and so we continued to make no effort. They made none in return.
Even after living there for several years, I had engaged in very few conversations with any of our neighbors.
We all liked our privacy, and unless there was a pressing need to talk, we never sought one another out.
The single occasional exception was the woman who lived next door.
Random bits of conversation over the years . . . compliments on the girls’ beauty, permission to send her gardeners into our yard to trim an unruly plum tree that draped from her property over into ours, stories of 4th of July parties she had thrown over the years, frustration with her husband’s refusal to retire, a strangely urgent conversation one time about being careful with the girls when I took them swimming, small bits of her history, news about her family, a vacation she was looking forward to taking.
I remember one time, I climbed a tall ladder to sit upon our steeply-pitched roof and clean out our gutters.
She came out into her back yard, a cup of coffee in one hand, “Be careful up there!”
There was no real way to have a conversation, as she was too far away for regular voices. I was annoyed that she was paying attention to me. Annoyed to be seen all awkward and nervous on my roof, throwing soggy leafy handfuls of muck into a bucket. I spoke loudly, “Yeah, I’m good.”
She watched me for a few minutes, and she was freaking me out, “Was there something you needed?”
She laughed apologetically, “No, I’m sorry. I was just remembering the days when I might have done something like that. Climbed up on my roof to clean out my gutters. I see you over there, painting and remodeling and getting things done. Dealing with your daughters. I like the woman you are. I just wanted to tell you that.”
Far too much emotion in her over-loud voice, and she tried to cover by taking another sip of her coffee.
Awkward.
It was abundantly clear that she wanted me to climb down from the roof and come talk to her. I was not in the mood. I was covered with sloppy filthy gutter goo, and how does she not see this is a bad time? This is not a moment in which I want to bond with my neighbor over how she used to be just like me. I am cleaning the gutters, silly woman!
Awkward.
So I pretended not to understand. I waved and called something lame like, “Thank you,” and then focused really hard on cleaning out the gutters, hoping she would go away.
When I looked up again, she was gone.
That had been maybe three months ago, and as I watched her husband walk this woman who was not her into her house, I tried to think when I had spoken with her last.
Was that the last time . . . the awkward gutter thing?
It had been raining endlessly, so it was no surprise that we hadn’t seen one another for a while. And then we’d been out of town visiting Mark’s family for almost two weeks. And then hadn’t she said something about going on a cruise with her daughter? Greece or something? Pretty sure.
Stupid fucking mid-life crisis husband with his dyed-blond whore.
I started keeping an eye on the neighbors’ house so that I would notice when she returned.
Time passed, and I didn’t see her.
A long cruise?
Had she moved out? A divorce? It seemed like she would have told me that.
I played back our final conversation in my mind. She had been weirdly emotional . . . maybe they had separated. Maybe she had moved out.
How had I missed that?
The neighbor kept showing up with this not-so-young dyed-blond whore. They had a barbecue in the back yard. They sat together in the swinging bench on the small back deck.
What the fuck, dude? What did you do with your wife?
By now, she had been gone so long that there was no sensible way for me to approach another neighbor and casually say, “Ummm . . . I know that we don’t know each other at all, but you know the couple that lives right next door to me? Where’d the wife go?”
And in all the years we had lived in this house? I had never once spoken to the husband next door. Not once.
No way was my first-ever conversation with him going to be, “So where’s your wife?”
So I just hated him. Hated him for driving away the only friendly face on our street. Hated him for throwing her over for this trashy blond grandma-slut. Hated him for throwing away his marriage. Hated him.
Time passed and I continued to hate this man.
He and the blond grandma-slut got noisier about their happiness in their back yard.
I hated them both.
Until one morning I was sitting at my dining room table reading the newspaper.
A wedding announcement. My neighbor and the grandma-slut (who now had a name) had gotten married. A lovely photo of the couple.
I kept reading, filled with outrage.
The article mentioned his first wife, and my eyes raced ahead . . . YES! Finally! Where had she gone?
Oh.
She had died.
Of cancer.
Not long after that awkward gutter thing.
While we were out of state visiting Mark’s family.
Tears ran down my face as I remembered her saying to me, her voice filled with emotion, “I like the woman you are. I just wanted to tell you that.”
How I hadn’t come down off that roof.
Fuck.
What I’m feeling after reading this post really has little to do with the point you were trying to make so… sorry.
My husband had cancer. He was so afraid of dying. There are so many questions with cancer. And the chemotherapy was awful. He would cry because he didn’t want to have to do it anymore… I have never seen someone suffer so much.
So what I’m feeling right now is a ridiculous amount of anger towards that idiot husband. 3 MONTHS? I mean seriously? He had to have that woman all lined up for when his sick wife died.
After witnessing what my husband went through? If he had not survived it? No way I would have been ready to go on with my life in 3 months.
No. Way.
And now more to the point.
You know what most people who are dying want?
To feel like they have mattered.
Even though you didn’t come down and talk to that woman? When she went missing you watched for her. You waited for her. You noticed her absence.
And when you found out what had happened? You grieved for her.
And today you wrote a piece of her story here so that all of us could watch for her, wait for her, notice her and grieve for her.
That is such a beautiful thing you have done for this woman.
This woman who was not even really your friend.
I think you have given her much more than coming down from the roof.
Haven -
I will not discuss your husband’s experience, as nothing I say is going to be meaningful. That your husband had to go through that? That you had to watch him go through that? And suffer yourself as a woman who loved a man in pain? Sigh. That’s horrific.
And . . .
I have been married to Mark for 21 years. He is everything to me. I trust him with my life. I trust him with my daughters. I trust him with the future.
I trust him.
If I were to die? I trust Mark to know what is right. For him, for our girls, and forever.
If I am gone? I want Mark to be happy. I want him to miss me, but I want him to be able to accept the next joy that life might have to offer.
If I am gone? I want Mark to be happy.
I trust him to choose correctly . . . no matter the timeline.
So there is no way for me to sit in judgment of the neighbor I did not like.
As for the rest of your comment?
Thank you, Haven.
I am so pleased that you watched for her, waited for her, and then grieved for her.
Thank you.
I can understand that.
I do not like the idea of my husband being alone. At all.
I want there to always be someone there who loves him. Who he can love.
I want there to be happiness for him with or without me.
But if it were me it would have taken much longer than 3 months to be any kind of stable and ready to move on.
I cannot understand it.
Maybe I should not be angry.
But I just cannot understand it.
Haven -
Sometimes? People need to hold onto someone else to help them through . . . doesn’t mean they are ready to move on and past the old life.
Just means they need to be holding someone’s hand on that journey.
I cannot imagine being with someone other than Mark. I cannot imagine.
But who knows what I might need if that imagination became reality?
Maybe I would need a hand to hold.
I don’t know.
Man, you had me all mad at the grandma-slut. Fuck.
BTW, that dog had a total boner when he woke up. Did you make me watch some kind of sleep walking doggie porn? Ew.
Theresa?
I have watched that video many times, and I noticed no boner. Hold on. Let me watch more carefully.
Be right back.
THAT’S HIS TAIL!
At the end of the video, as he is waking up?
That’s his tail.
Man, boring… No grandma-slut or doggie porn??
*Sigh* A tail? Man, I have been out of the game for too long…
BTW, on a serious note, loved this post. Regrets are pretty useless though, but taking something from it, learning, sharing, is pretty fuckin cool.
Love that perspective.
Thank you.
Theresa -
Yes, babe.
Yes you have.
Snicker.
this just leaves me aching…like all good pieces should.
Alisha -
Thank you for that, babe.
Thank you.
The problem is? There was no way for you to know she was dying. And though you were acquaintances, you were not friends. So regretting something like this – well, it’s a bit of a waste. Though you can always appreciate the bit of her life you did share.
Also? I wave to my neighbors the few times I see them. I never actually talk to them. I am a bit of a hermit & my husband is antisocial unless you want to talk bass fishing.
I probably wouldn’t even notice if the neighbor brought a girl friend home lol.
Sad.
Lizzie -
As nothing can ever be redone? Regrets are by their very nature always a waste.
That said? To the extent regrets are worth considering, this missed conversation is a regret of mine and it has value.
I do not consider the time I have spent thinking about this woman wasted time.
We will have to agree to disagree on this point.
Oh, no, I didn’t mean that time thinking about this woman was wasted, only that regretting not doing more is, well, something that just makes you feel bad. I do know because I regret some things. Though usually it is for things I said rather than didn’t say. And I try hard not to think about things I regret because like worry, there is not much you can do about it.
I do like to remember people that I have known. I like to remember the funny conversation I had with my grandmother a few weeks before she died and not regret that I didn’t get to see her in the hospital because I was only 17 and not an “adult”
And I am probably saying this all wrong. (See paragraph above) Sometimes I should just not comment.
sigh.
See, and here is one of those times when the limits of the written word are revealed. I read a tone of judgment into your words that wasn’t there, and for that, I apologize.
Regrets are unpleasant. Just like worry is unpleasant.
For the most part, neither of these pastimes serves any useful purpose.
But they are both part of being human.
I remember the good times, and I try to focus on the good times. I do. But not all moments are good, and there is value in the examination of a moment in which I did not behave as I would have wished. Even though I had no way of knowing she was dying? I knew she wanted to talk, and I should have gotten off the roof to see why she had sought me out. Sigh.
Apologies, babe.
You said nothing wrong.
I read judgment where there was none.
Apologies.
Also?
How much do I love that you came back to explain?
So very very much.
Thank you.
I think I spend my life explaining. I am not always so good with the words and what I mean does not always come out the way I want it to.
But mostly? I do try not to judge others. I am too busy judging myself.
Being human sucks sometimes.
Snort!
I know, right? My own self-judgment played a role in my reaction to you.
But being human doesn’t suck.
Explanations are just sometimes required.
Love you.
As I was reading it was reminding me of a story about my neighbor, the cheat, the one who moved out to live with the girl he cheated with and got pregnant. I was going to comment about it, but then I got to the end of your post and it just didn’t seem appropriate, so I will say nothing.
Rhonda -
Ummm . . . OK.
Silly silent you.
That’s fine.
Hi Kris. I’m Danielle… I read you everyday and usually read your posts aloud to my hubby whether he wants to hear it or not. This however is the first time I have commented. Yes – I am a Pretty All True comment virgin.
I just want to thank you for making me laugh some days and cry some days and occasionally make me say WTF?
Is it bad I breathed a sigh of relief when I read she died of cancer? I was sure she had committed suicide….. and though dying is dying somehow cancer seems a better way to go? Maybe I should stop rambling – I feel like I have wrote a blog post in a comment.
Thanks for giving me something to look forward to reading each night and thanks for sharing so much of yourself…. and teaching me along the way.
Danielle -
YAY! I am so glad you stepped forward to comment here today! I love that.
You know what’s funny? Because I knew what I thought and what actually was, it never for a moment occurred to me that a reader might think suicide. It never once occurred to me at the time . . . although it never occurred to me she was dead at all. Thank you for letting me know your thoughts on that. I am always intrigued at what readers see in my stories.
And?
I feel a little bad for your husband, having to listen to all my posts against his will.
Does he like any of them?
I envision him bound and gagged, with his eyelids somehow propped open.
LISTEN TO THIS!
Ahem.
Hehe. Typically what happens is I am sitting on the couch with my laptop and all of a sudden I bust out laughing. He says what’s so funny and then I say something about Maj or Kallan through giggles that are barely understandable. So then I just read him the post… and yes he finds them just as funny as me – so don’t feel bad for him! He gets to be read to and just sit back and enjoy the awesomeness that is you!
Danielle -
This part here . . . He gets to just sit back and enjoy the awesomeness that is you!
That makes me all happy.
Mark? You paying attention, babe?
Just sit back and enjoy the awesomeness that is me!
Ahem.
I grew up knowing all of my neighbors, their children. Heck, my next door neighbors from when I grew up sat at the family table. See, I had no surviving grandparents, and these were the guys who would take me & my sister camping. When my mom had a car accident and spent a week in the hospital, we stayed at their house.
I barely know my neighbors here. Sure, we’re friendly – but I walk my dogs absurdly early in the morning. I work all day. Weekends, I try to get out & about, but there are the kids, and yardwork, and I’m so “go go go” all of the time that, well, there just really isn’t the time to get to know people.
I lament the fact that I barely know my neighbors, though I’ve lived here for 8 years; the neighborhood was established, nearly all of my neighbors are or are near retirement…slowly, people are moving, or there are the random estate sales. I keep on telling myself that things will change, that my kids will actually know their neighbors, just like I knew my own . . . but I worry that I’m lying to myself.
John -
I grew up with no real neighbors and a family that was deeply suspicious of outsiders. A knock on the door was never welcomed. Never.
As an adult, I have reached out . . . during our time in Vallejo, I was an organizer. Really. I led all kinds of groups and headed up all sorts of organizations and clubs.
With this move to Oregon, I have retreated back into who I really am a bit. A more private and solitary person.
Now that the girls have social lives of their own, I am less inclined to organize things for them. Which means I am less inclined to connect with people.
I have friends, but I am not very good at adding friends.
And more? I don’t really want any new friends.
Anyway.
Kris-
I think maybe she did say what she wanted to say.
That’s all.
Cari -
That is what I like to think.
Thank you.
Aww.. I didn’t really expect that ending.. I was kind of hoping .. I don’t know, but not that. So sad.
Yeah.
Kris?
I cut off contact from someone that I was once very close to. In order to choose a healthy path. I had spent too much time and self.
Years passed, out of the blue, he tried to make contact.
I did not react.
Not too much time went by before a friend called to ask if I had heard. I had. He died unexpectedly.
I did what felt right, was right at the time. However, I am tearful just the same.
I get your regret. Also? The vision of you up there on the roof? That is a cool vision. Your exchange might have meant more than you know.
Left me wondering. Great piece. Love this place. And the neighbors? Wicked.
Robin -
So much love to you, babe.
You see me . . . on that roof and here today.
Thank you.
Kris
Is it weird that I knew she was dying when she said that to you?
Uggh.
I often worry about the tiny moments….
I like the woman that you are, too.
(Not dying. Promise.)
CJ -
So often it’s the tiny moments that change everything.
Even if we are unaware of the change at the time.
Yeah . . . I worry about the tiny moments as well.
Everybody knows to watch out for the big moments.
Harder to notice and grasp the small ones.
Thanks, you.
oh man. that hurt. i was not expecting the ending, and clearly, neither were you. im glad you wrote about it, it makes a person more aware of those awkward moments. Im sorry you felt regret over this, but Im so glad she said the sweet words that she really meant and that you will remember them and treasure them now.
Frelle -
Looking back, with the span of distance and time that separates me from that moment on the roof, I see that it was indeed a lovely moment.
I regret not giving her the moment she wanted, if indeed there was more she wanted to say. A further connection she wanted to make. I do regret that.
But the moment she gave me has lingered . . . in a very good way.
I remember her.
I agree with Nichole; your lady told you her thoughts about you because she needed you to know that she appreciated how you lived & loved your life there & then.
I understand why she spoke to you like that. It’s something I would do. I wouldn’t share that my time was short because I wouldn’t want to have the conversation that would follow but I would so need to give away the important bits that I carry in my heart to the people that I think would accept my gift even though they wouldn’t know why. I’d probably go indoors and cry by myself afterward, too. Sometimes there is nothing required in return.
I so hope that what she said was what she wanted to say, and that it gave her peace to share it with me.
I wish there was a way to let her know that her words lingered with me.
That she has stayed with me.
Sigh.
God.
This woman on the roof?
The one who you were, that hates small talk and neighbors.
That’s me.
This post is a reminder to think of others.
Sigh.
I do think of others . . . I do.
But in that moment I thought of myself and the tasks I had to accomplish.
As we all do at times. There is no way to give ourselves over to every request. Generally, there is another time . . . another opportunity to have this conversation.
But then sometimes, it turns out that was the last opportunity, and you missed it.
No way to know that at the time.
But still sad.
We moved to our current house ten summers ago. The next door neighbors were lovely – brought us a basket of wine and cheese and hot pads (??) to welcome us.
They had a son in his twenties who’d moved out (he is now married with a child – the light of their lives).
They were friendly but gave us space. Offered to dog sit whenever. Perfect neighbors.
Five years later, I gave them a gift certificate to the Cheesecake Factory (from Bella the dog. because I’m so clever) in appreciation for all their help with her. I couldn’t think of anything they needed and knew they liked going out to dinner. so.
They sent a lovely thank you note.
The following summer, their son Brian got married. I found Gary out front clearly hung over (never knew he drank) and congratulated him on the marriage.
He told me it was bittersweet watching his son grow up. All the milestones he reached. Since their older son had been killed in a car accident five summers before.
I did the math.
When we’d moved in, their son had just died. They brought us wine and cheese and pot holders and we talked about how hard it is having TWO kids (wink wink).
Their dead son had been on his way home from his job at the f’ing Cheesecake Factory. Seriously.
Sometimes, you just don’t know.
What is there to say to that?
Sigh.
Sometimes, you just don’t know.
Love to you, Julie.
Kris