Epiphany

Monday, May 21, 2018

Last week my dear friend Sheri called me. We haven't spoke in a while, but she is one of those friends that you can go months between chats yet feel like it's been a minute. We are two peas in a pod in so many ways even though we rarely hung out. We met through work where much of our interaction was via email and then after a couple of years she moved away. But the bond was there. We spent an hour catching up - her life is a mess and my life is a mess! 

We talked about how difficult this second year of widowhood is. This was surprising to her as I think it is to many. I think people have some timer set for when you, the widow, are back to normal and/or have moved forward. I thought that too, before I got here. The second year is hard because you are really lonely. Lonely for your spouse, your best friend, your old life, at least that is my case.

I not only miss adult companionship and conversation, but companionship and conversation with Howie. When you are married you are on the same page and function as one unit (at least that was us) and it’s just hard without that. I see why people become isolated when they lose their spouse. It takes a lot of effort, coordination, and commitment to participate in a social life when previously your spouse, who fulfilled all those needs, lived right with you. 

We did most things together. Yes, I scrap-booked while he hunted and I read books while he fished, but he really was my whole world, even with our son in the picture. We maintained a group of friends, but none lived really near us. Getting together required planning and was often for larger events that might span a weekend. If I wanted to go to a movie or out to dinner on a random night, I went with Howie.

So, after talking to Sheri, the thought came to me that I wished we lived near each other as she and and I could probably both use a good girlfriend to just hang out with. I realized that I never really cultivated any relationships outside of Howie. In part because of the distances, in part because I really didn't need or want any. 

This might be a "duh" moment for many of you, but because Howie really just met every need I had, I didn't want for more. I think that is why not having him is so hard. I lost waaaaay more than just a spouse. 

So, that leaves me with this gaping hole. It also means if I want it filled with other people I will have to work at it. I will have to put myself out there and develop some friendships. The thing is I don't know if I want to. For me, there is this challenging paradox of being both really busy and yet bored. The maintenance of running my life now is exhausting. There is just always something to do. And I still work, of course. I am tired AND bored because even though I may be doing something, it’s not really something fun, and it’s not usually stimulating or rewarding.

Thank you, Sheri, for the great conversation and for making me realize that I miss having OTHER people in my life too. 

Thankful and Lucky

9.14.17

I went to a Young Widow group tonight. It was my first time and I arrived late (stupid google map!) so missed some of the introductions. My friend Kelly, who lost her husband only 22 days before I lost mine, went with me. It was really great to see her, more on that in a bit.

There was one topic that sticks out. It was around how widows lose friends and even family. A common experience is that immediately after your spouse dies everyone wants to help, but eventually those offers dry up. And people feel bad asking for continued help, or to first start asking for help after XXX length of time has passed. Then there is the loss of friends – couples that you did things with and also friends that were more your spouse’s friends than yours. One woman experienced being told to not text a friend’s husband after both couples had texted each other interchangeably for many years. She was shocked to feel like a threat after so many years. And finally there is the loss of family members – the in laws and that side of the family. I have heard more than once that the in laws just sort of evaporate.

So, there Kelly and I sat listening and participating at some points, but after the meeting we sat in her car for THREE HOURS and just talked. One of the first things we said was how LUCKY we both are that we have NOT experienced the loss of friends or family. Kelly just had a One Year Remembrance BBQ for her husband and there were over 125 people there! Kelly and I have some friends in common (and many more individually) and they are all still there for us in the same capacity in which they always have been. We also both had and still have GREAT relationships with our mother in laws and our husband's families. We have both talked to our MILs about the “what if I remarry?” question and both told us that they would remain our MILs; we’d just get more. I have never felt so appreciative and thankful in my whole life.

So what did we talk about for 3 hours? Our husbands. Our sadiversaries. Psychics and mediums. Grief groups. Work. Trying to be social. Being indecisive. Being lonely. Closet space. Everything! We could not believe how in sync we were with our grief status, thoughts, and feelings. We lost our spouses just 22 days apart and we are only 1 year apart in age. Our losses are different in that my husband’s life was slowly stolen by a horrible cancer and her husband’s life was ripped from him in an instant by a FedEx truck. But so many other facets of our lives are very similar.

Here is a funny snippet from our conversation. Neither of us is ready to take off our wedding rings, yet both of us would like a male friend in certain situations; we notice the gaping hole in our lives. In reality we want our husbands returned but since that’s not possible then at least a stand-in male would be nice. Before, we chose to do an activity with our girlfriends, siblings, children, or husband, etc. It’s sad to deal with the feeling of powerlessness when the option for husband has been forcibly removed. So, on the one hand we want to wear our wedding rings but on the other hand we still want a male friend. However, if a man approached us, knowing we have wedding rings on, we would instantly think he was a jerk for going after a married woman! Guess we can’t have our cake and eat it too.

It was the closet

Shot through the heart.

In grief group they are called ambushes. I don’t really like that word, but I guess it fits. I think of them as a shot through the heart because that’s where it hurts. And man, it hurts.

Today my son needed a t-shirt, because he didn’t tell me he was out of clean ones, and so I went to get him one of his dad’s. All of his clothes is still in our closet, exactly as he left them; mine hanging on the left, his on the right. I spread them apart where they meet on the clothes rod and the first shirt of his that faced me was his favorite camping t-shirt. It wasn’t dusty. It wasn’t saggy. It looked like it just came out of the laundry and was holding Howie’s shape. I could vividly picture him in it. His muscular chest, tan arms, and beautiful face. Ow! Right in the heart. Damn that hurt! Suddenly the tears were there but I held them in. I looked around at all of his stuff. It’s all waiting because he will be back in just a second to wear them, right? 

F*ck, it's almost been a YEAR...

Up until now his clothes, his things, have all been “white noise.” I see them but I’m not thinking about them. They are part of the scenery. Like when you drive on autopilot. You got from A to B but you don’t remember anything specific from along the way. But suddenly today that shirt, his clothes, were hurting me. Why? Is it because the first marking of his death is coming? It is time to get rid of, or at least pack up, his clothes? But how could I?

Another widowed friend, 4 years out, (geez, I know a lot of widows all of the sudden!) told me that she has kept her husband’s office the same as how he left it. She said she didn’t want to erase him. He LIVED after all; he made a mark on people’s lives. I agree with and love that sentiment.

So, like I always do, I look at his picture and the urn on my headboard and ask what to do. And ask for strength. And tell him that I miss him. And I love him.

Being a widow sucks.