The Other Woman

Gramma, 

My good friend, Tim, died from Lou Gehrig's.  His wife cleaned the union hall one day a week and he couldn't be left alone.  I spent many Thursday afternoons with him getting shit-faced and mocking the absurdities of life.  His stories were so hilarious, I thought I would cough up a necessary organ from laughing so hard.  I got to know all his friends this way.

Tim's family refers to me as "The Other Woman."  Some twenty years ago, Tim showed up at my door to ask if he and a few of his friends could continue hunting on my property.  After stalking deer or turkeys, I would go out to where they were they were debriefing.  We stood around drinking and laughing.

After Tim got sick, his friends helped him into his hunting gear and took him out to the woods with them.  They went to the cabin on weekends to go fishing.  Eventually, the DNR gave him a license to hunt from his truck.  He had a special compound bow that he used. 

Tim had a couple of electric wheelchairs in his mostly empty two car garage.  He challenged me to try one out, beating me at bumper chairs every time.  Eventually, I had to light his cigarettes or other smokables, then open his beer and put a straw in it. 

He would tell me how suicidal he was and how he was going to stick a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.  "And you are going to do this with arms that don't work?"  Then he would laugh, suck on his beer, and go on to plot plan B.  There was a lot of time spent somewhere between giving up and seeing how much more he could take. 

Tim spent ten years battling this horrid disease.  His tiny wife was his primary caregiver.  She had to call the police for help when he fell out of bed or when trying to get to the bathroom.  Tim would yell to hide the pot plants growing on the deck.  The police would look the other way. 

He was often bossy and mean to his wife, telling her what to do and how, as if she was stupid.  He didn't want me to have a friendship with her.  He wanted me all to himself.  I told her to ignore his request to stain the underside of the deck.  "Disappear into your bedroom for an afternoon and tell him you finished the job.  It's not like he's in a position to check it out."   

Near the end, he told me not to hug him.  His joints were coming loose and it hurt too much.  When he left, I was one of the first people called.  The funeral home was told that I would be coming to spend some time alone with the body.  Every year, on the anniversary of his death, his wife and I get together to celebrate him. 

I say with great fondness, that Tim and I had a friendship not just based on a solid relationship with beer, sarcasm and irreverence for everything, but a rich love of the beauty of nature and the importance of friends.  Laughter was an important part of his ability to cope.  I look forward to seeing him again.