Giving blood and Blizzards, and bathing the Chev: all to ease the deathiversary restlessness

Giving back by giving blood.

That did not go as planned, FFS.

I mean, this is always hard: random acts of kindness in the name of My Favourite Husband (MFH), leading up to his third deathiversary (which I wrote about here). I made my blood donor appointment and I didn’t break down. No tears were shed. I was slightly miffed that there was a link in my line so my normal five-minute fill was closer to a seven-minute one. But there was a Cookie By George in the snack area and Cheezies, so who was I to be pissy? 

Seriously, the reason for donating is that MFH had more than 100 blood transfusions during his illness. While it’ll take me a long time to replace them, every bag counts. Every donation saves a life. And so I looked at my filled bag, plump with my life-saving blood, and I was happy to give. 

But I’m restless. I feel uneasy. There’s things to do around my house but I can’t bring myself to focus. So after coming home from my visit to the “vampires” (a term MFH used for my blood donor visits), I sat outside in the sun to see if that would calm myself. It did, a little. 

But I was craving another connection. And so hopped into his ‘64 Chev half-ton — now my ‘64 Chev half-ton, named Oscar (after his previous owner) — and took him for a bath.

As I buckled in, sank into the worn bench seat, I exhaled and thought, “Oh, there you are.” I turned the key and Oscar came to life. 

Oscar growls and both MFH and I grinned at the growling. Not loud enough to break noise bylaws but loud enough to turn heads. As I backed out of my garage, I thought, “I love this truck." When I drive it, I feel MFH is in the passenger seat beside me.

It was a nice bath. A $10 bath. Bug guts came off. Shine was put on. The nerves that had been jangling were smoothed out a bit. It has been a couple seasons since Oscar has had a proper bath and he sparkled. 

OK, another stop? Why not? Let’s hit the local DQ, a national Canadian franchise that serves ice cream treats. Today was Miracle Treat Day and all proceeds from the sale of its Blizzard ice cream treat were being donated to a local children’s hospital. 

I wasn’t content to go through the drive thru, so I parked Oscar, grabbed my keys, shoved my phone in my back pocket and wallet in hand strolled into the shop. 

I waited my turn in line and that’s when the “feels” started sneaking up. MFH and I always bought Blizzards on Miracle Treat Day. Always. He always knew what he wanted — Smarties mixed into the ice cream. I took at least five minutes and ultimately ordered the same thing I do every time. 

There was an elderly couple in front of me and I listened as they debated their choices and made their decision. Once they ordered, I laid my hand gently on the woman’s arm and said, “Excuse me, can I pay for your treats?" She looked at me in confusion, trying to figure out if she knew me. Either that or she wondered what was wrong with me. Because after I asked, the tears started pooling and dripping down my face. So here am I, messy ponytail, ratty cut off shorts, baggy tank top and my gardening kicks crying and asking if I could buy their treats.

She asked why I’d want to do that and I explained, briefly, that MFH and I always had a Blizzard on Miracle Treat Day. He’s passed and I know he’d love it if I bought theirs. 

She thought about it and agreed. And asked if she could hug me. Of course, she can. I’m a 100 per cent hugger. We introduced ourselves and explained in general terms where we lived. And as our items came up, I bid them goodbye. The gentleman, quiet to this point, looked at me at said: “may God bless you”.

Despite my tears, despite my heart that aches a little bit right now, I know He already has blessed me. I have the gifts of a beautiful life before MFH died and after. I couldn’t want for more.