I started to post this on Facebook and then thought . . . maybe this is in fact a CaringBridge post.

I haven't posted a life update in a while because I pride myself on being able to make a good story out of anything . . . and I'm not sure my tale of needless complications, incompetence, and relentless wheel-squeaking will entertain anyone. But I am a woman of parts, so let's go.

First, I had the WEIRDEST dream about Woody last night. I've been waiting and waiting for a beautiful visitation in which he lets me know how cheerful and whole and healed he is in his new . . . what's the word? existence, persona, beingness? Whatever the afterlife comprises.

Instead I got this:

Woody was still home and still very sick, and while I was pretty clear that we were reaching the end of this medical journey, he still seemed to believe that he would recover. In my dream, things had gone so far that HIS HEAD HAD BEEN REMOVED FROM HIS BODY and each was operating independently, so I had both a head and a body to tend to – and on this day, dream day, he was quite put-upon; did I not understand how he was SUFFERING? For example, he says, pointing to his dismembered head, his tooth is inflamed and hurts SO BAD, it's really quite excruciating. And THEN – he gestures to his knee – his knee is swollen and extremely painful and he cannot walk at all. (I mean – he probably shouldn't be walking anyway, without a head and all.)

I said, Hon, have you mentioned this to a DOCTOR? I think we need to see a doctor. He reluctantly agrees.

(In real life, it is very much in character for Woody to do a ton of Internet research, diagnose himself, and refuse to call a doctor. It is very UNLIKE him to keep his symptoms to himself for so long; he liked me to know exactly how much he was suffering. Bless him, bless him.)

So, we get to the doctor, I'm in a waiting room for a while, and they finally call me in to see him – and it looks like his head is back on his body. "You reattached his head??" I said, in some wonderment – I mean, I was pretty sure that ship had sailed. "No, no," says the nurse – but here's me looking at his head, which is right above his shoulders where it should be, no gap at all – and just then Woody decides he can get up, arises from the bed, and instantly face-plants and gets a nosebleed.

About this point I woke up.

What does it all mean???

I've been missing my husband a lot this week and have teared up almost every day because . . . well, here's what's going on.

WOODY'S COMPUTER

• One of Wood's pals has offered to help me publish the book my darling has been working on for almost two decades, "The Politics of Star Trek"
• I found some files labeled "really really final manuscript" on a thumb drive – but the date was 2009. Surely he's done work on this book since 2009! Right??
• I finally got around to sorting through the SUITCASE full of electronic equipment he'd left behind . . . and I could not anywhere find the right power cord for his laptop
• Our darling friend Marcia figured out what I needed, I ordered it from Amazon, I powered up the device . . . and could not crack his password
• I had a little flirtation with Northeastern's crack tech department, but they finally determined that the device was not actually a "Northeastern computer" despite being purchased with Northeastern funds, they couldn't help me
• Off to my old pals at Microcenter, who were able to retrieve the data from his hard drive. Eureka! I now have the files I need (more recent than 2009 . . . but still not all that recent. Dearest husband, I have some questions)
• In any event: I have the files now and just need to scan through them, compile the absolute latest ones, and start sending them to Bill – which I will when I have a minute

But also:

I no longer have any need or use for his laptop, so I gave it to Microcenter for recycling.

His computer. One of the items in his life most closely connected to who he was and what he did. It felt like saying goodbye to one of his limbs.

Which . . . oh, okay. The dismembered head is making a little more sense now.

Oh, and also: In the time that my darling was working on this book, someone else has published a book with the exact same title. It doesn't seem to have been a big seller and it's not in any of my local library systems (and the cheapest copy on Bookfinder.com is hundreds of dollars), so I dunno if that means Wood's book is a nonstarter – but it's definitely one reason I've not been hugely motivated to get moving on this.

So that's thing 1.

WOODY'S PHONE

I've kept this (and continued to pay for service) because I thought his computer might have two-factor authentication on it, requiring his phone. (I was able to crack that password. My darling is adorably consistent.) But it did not and I have no use for this device, so I'm recycling it this week (and it's new enough that I'll get a little credit at the Apple store, which is nice).

But: His phone. The thing he held in his hand every blessed day of his life. Yet another extension of him that I'm saying goodbye to. (Yes, I see you dismembered head. Got it, thanks.)

They are just things. They are not him. I don't need them and have no reason to keep them. It's all good, I feel fine about "releasing" them.

(Do you remember that "release" is my word for 2024? I do not love this word, but boy have I reflected on it this week.)

And yet. And yet. It is wrenching, and I am weeping.

WOODY'S STUDY

His study is now Melanie's bedroom, and it looks stunning, she is happy, that was a very very good move.

We moved the bazillion books in his study to the larger basement room, I've dutifully been packing them up, 30 smallish boxes at a time, and Bob the Book Guy has been here twice and comes again today. I predict I'll call Bob at least three more times. But slowly, slowly one half of the room has resurfaced; the end is in sight. I mean: you have to be wicked farsighted to see it, but still. In SIGHT!

And that leaves an empty room upstairs, Mel's former bedroom, which will ultimately be my study. It had sustained some water damage over the years and badly needed a new coat of paint as well, so I had my guys come out about a month ago to get started.

• Ha ha ha! "Some water damage" was in fact "Lady, you've got a giant leak somewhere, the insulation in the walls is SOAKING WET, call insurance, call your solar panel people, we need to get this fixed before we go any further"
• Insurance – they are bastard people. They refuse to help me because this is clearly a long-term problem rather than the one-time emergency thing that home insurance is designed for. (Put a pin in this, we'll come back)
• Solar panels – nice people, near impossible to get ahold of. I call my new best friend Chantelle-at-Trinity-Solar almost every day. But the "good" news is that they diagnosed the problem: Squirrels crawled under my solar panels and chewed through some shingles. I've got two patches of bare roof, no protection, and that's where the water is getting in.
• It's not a cheap problem to solve, but I LOVE having an answer. However, the solar folks won't pay for it because this is not a solar panel problem, it's a squirrel problem. Also, they took photos of the damage, which my roofers need in order to give me an estimate of what the roof work will cost, but solar wasn't sharing the photos; also, the solar guys put the panels back in place so my roofers can't see the damage, though they tried their best with a drone
• (Mel phoned me from downstairs: "Mom? I think a drone just flew past my window .  .  .")
• And this has all taken a month, phone calls phone calls phone calls and then waiting for people to call me back, and in the meantime I'm living in a state of chaos. No progress in Mel's old room. My bedroom also has a little water damage, and I've moved everything from Woody's side of the bed (i.e., his haunted nightstand) and taken the pictures off that wall; his nightstand is now in front of my full-length mirror (I can only view half of myself! LIKE I'M DISMEMBERED OH WOW) and the pictures are stacked on my dresser, and everything is messy and UGH I HATE IT
• I finally got sick of waiting for everyone to call me back, so I called their bosses and complained, and that got folks moving. But now I need to call my BF Chantelle again because my roofers are ready to go and I need the solar guys to come back out and remove the panels. They will then reinstall them when the work is done, all of which I have to pay for, and I want them to install a "critter guard" at the same time to keep this from happening again, though Chantelle has yet to tell me what that will cost.

And honestly, I think I can make a good case to State Farm that I'm doing my very best to take care of my house and prevent future damage and also that I was half out of my mind for the past two years taking care of my dying husband, and I'm such a longtime customer, could they please find it in their heart to help me with some of these bills – again, given that some of them are preventive in nature and some are to make my house more environmentally sound, all of which is a good thing that supports their overall mission? It's worth a shot, anyway. All I can do is ask.

IN CONCLUSION

How'd I do? Were you entertained? Ha.

It's been quite a ride. Someday I'll have a beautiful study. Someday my basement will be a lovely and usable space again. Someday I will have moved out all of Woody's things that I don't need and preserved the things of his I've chosen to keep, arranged in a way that brings me joy and allows me to revel in happy memories.

But that day is not today. Today I have 30 boxes of books to move to my driveway and two phones to recycle (yes, two – Woody neglected to recycle his former phone when he got the new one, which is very on-brand for him) and a BF to call – and if I don't reach Chantelle today, I'm going to her boss again. Eventually Chantelle will learn that she ignores me at her peril.

All will be well. Someday.

❤️💔