Firsts aren't always best.

Yesterday I had another of what I've come to call my "firsts". The first time I attend an event or activity that I formerly attended with Gwen or as Gwen's husband. This was a monthly gathering of UM retirees. There's always an interesting speaker, and we often met people we knew there. Yesterday there were two of them. One was an ex-neighbor. The last time we saw him was at the UM Comprehensive Cancer Center a year or so ago. At that time he had just been diagnosed with Stage IIIA lung cancer. (Swam every day, never smoked a day in his life.) Yesterday he was happy to tell me that surgeons had been able to remove the cancer, and that he was now "cured". I, of course, was so happy for him, as I am for the many friends and relatives I know who have beaten cancer. Yet, that joy is always twinged with a little jealousy that Gwen wasn't so fortunate. (There, I've said it.) Anyway, the inevitable next question from my friend was, "And, how is your wife doing?" Always a tough one to answer. Others who have walked the trail I am walking tell me that I can expect to encounter this for an indefinite length of time. So be it.

The other person I met at the meeting yesterday was a good friend of Gwen's, also a nurse, who had worked at the Kellogg Eye Center with her. She had indirectly heard of Gwen's death, but was under the mistaken impression that we still lived in Marquette. She was glad to hear from me about Gwen's final days and funeral, and there were lots of tears and hugs. All of this reminded me of my very first "first", about three weeks after Gwen had died. (It's still so hard to type the words "Gwen" and "died" in the same sentence.) The poem is about a breakfast meeting with retirees from the last high school where I worked.

BREAKFAST WITH RETIRED FRIENDS

One by one

They shake my hand, look aside

Pat me on the back.

Tell me they’re sorry for my loss.

And they are.

Then they order their French toast

And bacon and eggs,

And continue their conversations

About winter in Florida,

And they laugh at each others’ jokes,

As it should be.

And I wonder

Don’t they know?

Should I tell them?

Twenty day ago

My wife, my sweet Gwen,

Died.

And I miss her.

And I miss her.

John A. Bayerl

December 3, 2010

And, happy as I know she is now, I'll bet she misses me.