Mirror in the Bathroom

It’s almost always in my bathroom when I have a breakdown, and grief hits me like a heat wave.

My bedroom and attached bathroom are like a time capsule where my husband is still alive, steals the covers, and uses his electric razor every day.  His beard oils are still there, dimmed by dust.  His toothbrush stands stiff next to his half-full bag of Oral-B flossers. I stand on “his side” of the bathroom and stare into his mirror.  Will I see him? I don’t recognize myself.

I have one of his little passport-sized photos in the corner of my mirror.  I love that passport photo.  Bob was the kind of guy who always got pulled over by TSA at the airport.  Bob was very tall, very bald, and had a somewhat expressionless look on his bearded face. Some could take that as menacing. In fact, many TSA agents did.  We’d always have a laugh in the security line, betting which agent would pull him off the line for a random search or whatever they do.  Looking at that passport photo makes me smile, thinking of our travels together. I knew I could go anywhere in the world with Bob and be safe. Must have been that menacing look he had.

I go to bed every night and wake up every morning to his picture on my nightstand (not menacing). He’s looking at me, adoringly.  I remember taking the picture.  It was in the early days of dating, and that energy of new love and adventure was palpable. We were in a restaurant after seeing an art exhibit in Brooklyn. That sounds very pretentious, but I say it because he was an artist, and we both have NYC in our blood one way or another. One of our favorite things to do together was to visit all kinds of art museums and exhibits. Bob had insights and many thoughts about art and different artists.  Always an interesting conversation. Being an artist was a part of who he was.

So when I think about the man I miss, I often think about art.  His art canvases are all over our house.  If there is wall space, it most likely has an original Bob Budd filling it.  Our first date was at the MFA in Boston.  He was waiting outside for me on the museum lawn, leaning against a structure of the “LOVE” stamp.

The hardest thing I have to think about lately, though, is cleaning out the bathroom, my time capsule. I’m having some home renovations done, including this bathroom, so everything has to be cleared out. I’ve made so many attempts to do this, but none have been successful. Every day since he’s died, our bedroom and bathroom are spaces just for him and me; it’s a space where I feel like he will walk through the door at any moment.  Truth is, when I stare in my mirror, I’m looking behind me to see if he opens the door.

I try to clean out the basket of beard oils and his electric razor in our bathroom.  I end up taking everything out, smelling the oils, and tapping out any extra beard trimmings from the razor. I leave aside my favorite oil, the one he always wore, Whiskey Woodsmoke, and think I’m going to throw away the rest, but I don’t.  They all remain. I tap his razor on my hand, and only a couple of trimmings fall out.  I rub them into my palm, hoping to bring back the feeling of his beard on my face when he kissed me good night.

I still hear his voice. I still see him making different faces or gestures to make me laugh.  I still hear him singing songs to me.  I still see him brushing his teeth, trimming his beard, and making jokes.

Maybe I just put everything aside, and then when the bathroom renovation is done, I'll put everything back the way it was.  But that doesn’t make sense because that’s not the real reflection of my life anymore.  He’s gone.  But if I throw all of his stuff out, I’m “moving on” in a way that makes me feel like I’m abandoning him, and it makes me feel so melancholy.  Ugh.  Grief.  You are in every layer of my existence!

So right now I haven’t decided. I sit on the bathroom floor and cry, until the wave leaves me. I am honoring him with my tears. I miss him so much. The healthy Bob. The funny Bob.  The Bob who loved me madly and made life interesting. 

A widowed friend and I recently thought that saying “moving with” instead of “moving on” felt better. Bob will always be a part of me, and I will move forward with him. I struggle with building a new life without him, but it must be done because I am still here, even if he’s not, and I still have two kids to show up for. I’ll have to take it one beard oil at a time. 

Thanks for listening. 

Love, 
Julie