The Spider Catcher
Why did it take the death of my life partner to be able to put things into perspective? Why is it that now I can take a shower with a harmless spider, whose web is above the spout, without feeling like I have to keep my eye on it even while shampooing my hair? Now I am able to share an outdoor pool with a couple of spiders, and still feel relaxed. I can encounter a poisonous snake in the yard and not need to scream for help. I can even appreciate the beauty of the landscape despite overgrown lawns and garden beds that have gone to seed—without feeling engulfed by guilt for wasting time enjoying the day.
My late husband could do all those things, but it took his passing for me to get the hang of it.
Kirk invented the “spider catcher” (which he failed to patent, and I’m about to reveal his secret). He took an empty 2-lb. yogurt tub and wrote on it, with permanent marker, “Spider Catcher.” It lived on the kitchen counter. Whenever I hollered about a large spider in the bathroom, he would grab the spider catcher, place it over the intruder, slide a paper or a fly swatter beneath, thereby trapping the arachnid in the yogurt tub and put the creature outside. My job was to open the door.
Well, guess what. I have learned to operate my own spider catcher. (I am ashamed to admit that I tossed the prototype in the trash. I wish I had it back.) I’ve captured a few creatures and opened the door. Spiders. Wasps. And unidentified insects. I now catch frogs with my bare hands! And crickets (although they are a little prickly on my fingers. I need more practice.)
I am wondering, if the tables were turned, what Kirk might have learned to tolerate if I had been the one to make the early departure. Insurance policies. Bank accounts and their corresponding statements. Keeping the car registration up to date. Preparing papers for the tax lady. Could he have even begun to file receipts or other documents in a sensible manner? He kept 65 years’ worth of paper in cardboard cartons in no particular order. (I’ve moved it all to storage. I’ll think about it some other year.)
But the truth is, I have had these spider catching and frog grabbing skills all my life. I just didn’t exercise them. And I’m sure Kirk was able to pay his bills and balance his bank statement before I came on the scene. It’s not that we were in any way deficient; it’s that we had the joy of having a partner with whom we fit together like puzzle pieces (although, admittedly, there were rare occasions when the pieces had to be hammered into place).
When two people are close enough to anticipate each other’s needs & desires, likes and dislikes, and help out accordingly, these partners get comfortable and allow themselves the luxury of being cared for. Not everybody gets to experience that degree of companionship.
I can’t do everything, although I wish I could. So, I am learning a skill that Kirk already mastered—how to let things go. How to recognize that not all problems are, in fact, problems. I used to think being a perfectionist was a good thing. Now I see that an appreciation for something with all its flaws is a better goal than trying not to make any mistakes at all.
I miss his voice, his touch, his smell. But it appears he is still teaching me.