Yoko Ono

A lot of phraseology is created between a couple. Those few words that can be said between two people in a crowded room to get an entire idea across. Families can have them as well. Things said between parents and children that become catch phrases. Things you keep saying to one another at Christmas gatherings years after those children have families of their own.

A new phrase was created shortly after the death of my husband that everyone in my circle, family and friends, grasped the immeidate concept as soon as they heard it.

"Don't Yoko Ono it."

I wear my husband's wedding ring, pinkie ring and cross around my neck.
"Don't Yoko Ono it."
They're afraid I'll never be able to take them off again. It's been a little over 11 weeks since my husband was taken from me and the only time I've removed his rings and cross was for his viewing. They promptly returned around my neck the day everyone left and I had to go write a very large check to a kind man dressed in a black suit. That was the same day I picked up my husband's ashes.

I only drive his car now. It makes me feel closer to him, as proud of that car as he was.
"Don't Yoko Ono it."
They want to know if I'm going to sell off my car. Why does a single woman need two well maintained Toyota's that are both less than 10 years old with less than 75K miles on the odometers? Except they're both paid off and I don't need the extra cash selling a car would bring in. Yet. Or maybe ever. I haven't quite figured that one out.

I still have Steve's dirty laundry sitting next to my bed. I keep his clothes in plastic bags to hold in his smell, though I realized they only hold the smell of the plastic bags now, his scent long gone.
"Don't Yoko Ono it."
What are they afraid of? I'll stuff his clothes full of towels, prop the fake Steve in bed and cuddle with it? Talk to it? Try and take it out to dinner on our 8th wedding anniversary which is quickly approaching?

Three weeks after my husband died I made it my mission to throw out just one thing. One thing just to prove to myself I wouldn't turn into Yoko Ono. So I decided to throw away my husband's underwear. I could donate his clothes, people will wear them. But not his underwear. I couldn't bear the thought of his underwear sitting at the Salvation Army, people walking by and laughing "who would buy used underwear?" while it sat there gathering dust. No one wants used underwear even if it's been washed. So I pulled them all out. Sat them all down. Looked them all over. Then gathered them all up in my arms and wandered the house crying for an hour. 

Underwear is such a personal thing. And for a wife, for this wife, the easiest way to boil down that the man I loved and cared for was truly gone. Every pair of underwear he had, I bought. I like the look of the boxer briefs. Boxer briefs with color and design - cause men should feel they look hot under their clothes too. Every week I washed his underwear. As I folded them, I checked for wear. I put them away. I packed them each week for his business trips. I unpacked them again when he got home. I started the entire process over from there. And my husband? He thanked me at every stage.
"Thank you for washing the clothes, baby."
"Thank you for putting everything away, sweetie."
"You're such a good wife for packing me up, darling. Thank you."
"I'm so happy to be home. Thank you for unpacking my suitcase."

I walked around that house with 20-plus pair of boxer briefs in my arms sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn't throw them away. I couldn't throw away my husband, throw away nine and a half good years with my husband, throw away the daily love and concern for my husband. I was totally gonna Yoko Ono this shit.

Until his brother called. Butch, the oldest and toughest of the four boys. The truly streetwise New Yorker who made his mark on Wall Street. The brother I thought never liked me and would be relieved to have me out of the family. The brother who calls me the most often, who verifies I have my bases covered, who tells me I'll always be a DeRose. The brother who listened to me that day sob and scream and beg for my husband to come home.

And then he got me laughing. That DeRose family trait of cry as much as you need, so long as you follow it up with gut busting laughter. One of the traits of Steve's family I've admired most. Butch did that for me. Thinking he was making a quick check-up call while running errands, Butch sat in a parking lot on his cell phone, and made me laugh. And while I'm certain I made his day, and perhaps even his week, all the harder for him; before we hung up I was able to throw away my husband's underwear. And I was ok with doing it.

With the help of family and friends, I'm so totally not going to Yoko Ono it.