One step forward, two steps back...

Was invited to a get together with some very good friends and fellow artists this evening, but I ended up not going. It was the second social event of the day that I had to decline. I thought at first I would try and push myself to go, but I spend so much time hiding my grief as it is...that I just didn't have the heart or energy to try. I have to do enough of that just to get through the work week. Fortunately, my friends seem to understand and want what's best for me. Right now, that seems to be some solitude to think and work through things.

The phone rang early this morning, it was one of Lionel's younger brothers. His voice on the answering machine startled me. I was so used to hearing him leaving messages for Lionel, always the exact same wording and tone, LOL. "Lionel, pick up! Pick up the phone, boy! Pick up!"

It caught me so off guard that the machine answered before I could find my phone. I called back and left a message. Then he called back, to say that he might stop by for some of Lionel's things. That forced me to get up and try to get somewhat prepared.

I noticed all of his shoes, still lined up under the kitchen counter, gathering dust. He would have hated that. Lionel took great pride in keeping his shoes well polished, possibly a holdover from his time in the military.

I can see him sitting on the sofa, hunched over, buffing a pair while he watched television. He would frequently tease me about the scuffed-up state of my own footwear, as he walked me to work in the morning. Whenever I stated that I didn't care because I was just going to work, he would roll his eyes. "That's not the point." he'd say, exasperated with my petty rebellions.

He hated shopping so much, that I remembered being with him when he got every pair, the sneakers, the sandals, his black work shoes (from back when he could still work), house shoes, the two brown leather pair he wore day in and day out. I brushed them off and collected them into a cardboard box. It's funny how a box of abandoned shoes can trigger so many memories.

Lionel had a lot of problems with his feet, because of the diabetes and even before that, because he did so much walking, roaming around. When he was working security, he would be on his feet all day, sometimes and couldn't wait to get home and pull off his shoes. As soon as he returned, removing his shoes would be the second thing he did...after turning on the television, of course.

When the diabetes started to cause nerve damage in his feet, he would complain that his feet and toes felt icy cold all of the time. Sometimes, as he lay in bed watching television, I would sit in the recliner beside him and try to massage the circulation back into them. For some reason, it seemed to work when I did it -- but not when he tried to do for himself...although I frequently saw him trying. He was adamant about walking every day, feeling that increased his circulation...no pun intended.

In the hospital, due to fluid retention that was apparently caused by his failing kidneys, his feet swelled to the size of hams and his legs were so swollen with skin stretched so tight, they looked like they'd burst any second. Along with his legs, his feet were so heavy that he could barely move them. Eventually, the staff put some inflatable boots on them, trying to promote circulation. But those were so hot, tight and uncomfortable that he was continually trying to get them off, even with his hands tied down.

When he couldn't, he'd beg me, with looks and gestures, to remove them. I would try to explain that I couldn't because they were for his own good . He would just look at me, frustrated and miserable, through tear-filled eyes. He'd keep trying to wriggle out of them until he exhausted himself. Then we'd both sit there, looking at each other. Both helpless. Both in agony. But, I can't write about all that yet.

I can't even bring myself to think about it.