Chronicles of an Unwilling Widow

Partnership of One...

2/27/2015

I am in a wheelchair. I can walk for short distances but for anything longer than 20 feet, I need my chair. I also ride and show horses. Horse shows and wheelchairs are not really conducive. The barn aisles are dirt or gravel, often times the way to the arena is hilly or has ruts. I mean, come on, no one could expect a horse show to be ADA compliant. And I have no problem with that. After all, I live in the real world and sometimes things are a bit of a challenge.

That’s why I have an off road motorized scooter. It’s just like the ones that you see on TV with the happy grandmother or grandfather toddling along behind their numerous grand kids at the local zoo or park. Except mine is on steroids. I can go anywhere on it without getting stuck. In fact, it even has a name to show how bad-ass it is. We call it: Conan The Barbarian, or just Conan to his friends.

When my husband was alive, we had a rack that was placed in the hitch which we could winch Conan up and strap him down for the journey. It was a two person operation, but it worked very well. Unfortunately, I am now operating as a one person team so an alternative had to be found.

That alternative was an enclosed utility trailer with a ramp. One that I could just hitch up myself, ride Conan up the ramp, strap him in, shut the door and off we go.

So trailer shopping I went. And trailer shopping I left. A new utility trailer cost about $4000. No way.

Fortunately, we have Craigslist in our lives. There I found an old beat up trailer for $150. I went and looked at it, saw that it needed work, but it was functional.

All it needed was some new plywood, the roof fixed a little and a new tire. With approximately another $500 in supplies, it would be good as new. I already had someone that owed me some work and this was well within his capabilities to fix. Maybe it won’t be as sleek and shiny as the new trailers, but heck, I’m not entering it into any trailer shows.

So I paid for the trailer, went to the local tire shop just down the road, paid for a new tire and the mounting and made arrangements with the seller to pick it up a few days later as she had to empty it out and pull it to the front of the house so I could hitch it up to my truck. She also said that she would take the rim to the tire shop and have someone change it on the trailer.

I called her the next day to verify that I would be coming by in two days to pick up the trailer. She said that was fine and then explained that I might have to bring ‘a man’ to change the tire as she didn’t know if she could get her male friend to do it. Then she said something that stopped me in my tracks. She said:

“Make sure you bring a man to change the tire because a woman can’t do that.”

Huh? Now, I’ll admit that I normally left those things for my husband to do, as working on the vehicles was bread and butter to him. He loved nothing better than to tinker with something, anything, mechanical. But before I met him, I was a fairly competent woman, living on my own, and I survived just about anything thrown at me. Flat tires, blocked drains. Maybe they weren’t all fixed perfectly or the first time….but eventually I muddled through.

I found myself getting angry at her. Thoughts floated through my mind “Come on lady, this is 2015, not 1940!” “What a loser, can’t even change a tire.” “Seriously? Does she need a man to open the olive jar too?”

As I hung up the phone I just kept getting angrier and angrier. So as I try to do when I am accosted with a surge of emotions, I sat quietly to analyze where this all came from. I’ve heard this sentiment from several people over the years, so it couldn’t be that. This attitude of hers is prevalent among a lot of women, so that couldn’t be what was bothering me.

That’s when it hit me. It wasn’t the statement that I couldn’t do it…it was the thought that I had to do it. That I was no longer in a partnership. A partnership that I had melded into quickly and easily. My husband and I would trade off tasks seamlessly, without any conscious thought. There were some things that I would just instantly do and others that he would.

It was never an ‘assigning’ of chores, but rather subconscious teamwork that helped accomplish everything we had to do in our daily lives.

And now I had to adjust my thinking.

And that’s why I was angry. I was angry at her for making me realize that I had to do things alone. I was angry at the universe that I had to do things alone. And yes, as irrational as it was, I was angry at my husband for not being there to help me.

Well, I eventually went to pick up the trailer. I didn’t need to bring a ‘man’ to change the tire as her friend did that before we got there. But I did take my niece along, more for company than anything else. I was friendly and polite to the seller as she blithered on about how lucky she was that her ‘male’ friend could change the tire so we ‘poor women’ wouldn’t have to deal with it. I even smiled and waved to her as we drove off.

As we turned the corner and headed back on the highway, my anger was gone. Instead I sighed quietly with resignation and a sadness for that wonderful, easy partnership I lost when my husband died.

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Sounds of Silence...

2/24/2015

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You never realize how loud silence can be until you're forced to listen to it.

I was always the quiet one in the relationship, my husband was the Chatty Cathy. Now the house is quiet, too quiet. For instance I never knew that the clock on the wall ticked. We've had that clock for over 10 years and I never heard it until now. In fact it's gotten so loud it actually wakes me up at night.

I tried talking to the four footed furry brigade, and although their tails wag appreciatively to the sound of my voice, the fact that they're also running from empty food bowl to empty food bowl searching for any food that was left behind tells me that they weren't really interested in my conversation.

I do have a Siamese cat that talks, but he generally has only three sounds, one that says ‘feed me’, one that says ‘pet me’, and one that says ‘I really do not like the puppy chewing on my tail.’ So the subject matter I can have in any vocalization with him is extremely limited.

Because I work from home and often don’t have any phone conversations with anyone, I can go days and only utter about three words.

I find myself listening a lot, and I am becoming aware of all the many little sounds that permeate through the house. Sounds that were there the entire time. The hot water heater turning on in the little room outside. The fans blowing and oscillating. The clicking of the keyboard as I type. I can hear the refrigerator running, the coffee brewing in the morning. The whir of my computer fan.

But mostly I hear the silence. I feel it pressing against me, surrounding me. It muffles around my ears and becomes so thick I am loathe to break it.

Before I met my husband, I used to live alone and I don’t remember the silence being so loud. So over powering. So oppressive.

I find my thoughts bubbling over with words that will never be said. Little comments that I would normally tell my husband about something that I saw or heard. Little comments that really weren’t important, but just observations of that moment. Little comments that are forever lost because they are never spoken out loud and the moment had passed.

I turn on the TV, the radio, my iPod, anything to thwart the silence and it works for a while, but eventually I have to turn them off and the silence rushes in again, like water suddenly released from a dam.

When the silence reigns, my mind turns inward, scrutinizing my every thought both past and present. My memories come to the fore. Some good, some bad. It’s as if my life were on replay.

Often times I can direct those memories, shying away from anything I really don’t want to remember, and relishing the ones I do.

But I can feel my mind poking the bad ones, testing their potency, their ability to harm and disrupt my peace of mind. It brushes against my worst one, the reason why there is silence, and then runs scurrying away as if burned.

Before I met my husband, I wasn’t very sociable. I’ve always been the awkward one, the tongue tied one. The social misfit. My humor was too dry, my observations too cryptic. I would often send out a remark that caused people around me to stop and stare. My brain is just wired differently and I see the world around me in an odd light.

But with my husband, I was free to speak my mind. He understood what I was trying to say, no matter how convoluted it was. I became used to being heard. I spoke more when he was around, I felt confident, more secure. I could speak without being judged. I didn't realize until now how much I spoke with him.

With my husband as a role model, I made friends - good friends. I learned what it was like to be part of a group of people with the same interests. I joined in conversations. I learned how to integrate into society. I was no longer the one that would go to a party and end up in the corner petting the host’s cat for the whole evening.

I know that I could pick up the phone and give anyone of them a call and just talk about whatever comes to mind. And it is that thought that keeps me from starring in a remake of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Eventually I will become accustomed to the silence again. In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to converse with the four footed furry brigade, respond appropriately to my cat and give a friend or family member a call when the silence becomes too loud.

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To Lay To Rest...

2/23/2015

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Today is not a good day.

Most of my days lately are not good, but today was worse than what I am slowly perceiving as normal.

Yesterday we had a memorial service for my husband.

Funerals, memorials, services and receptions. Every culture and religion has them. They are a time to honor the dead and console the living. A time to “lay the dearly departed to rest”. It is a time to share memories and anecdotes. A time to laugh and cry together as you say goodbye.

And that’s the problem with me today. I’m still not ready to say goodbye.

When I think back to the events of yesterday, I remember a wonderful service given my husband by the brethren of his lodge, a beautiful eulogy given by my brother, a sea of loving and supportive faces looking up at me as I spoke a few words and a magnificent reception created by my sister-in-law and family.

But I don’t remember what I felt. It was almost as if I were going through the motions. I smiled, hugged everyone, thanked everyone, talked with everyone but it wasn’t me. It was as if I was separated from myself. As if this was some grand play and I was one of the main characters. Because none of this could possibly be real.

I do remember a jumble of feelings when I stood up there to talk about my husband. They were swirling around with memories and fragments that I didn’t say half of what I wanted to. For instance, that he was my best friend and I considered myself lucky to have had him with me, even for the short time we were together.

But then again, those who knew us would already know that without me having to say anything.

There was a lot of talk about my husband during the reception. People sharing memories, people saying that they would miss him, people sending out their silent goodbyes to him. And I’m glad that they were able to get some closure.

But I’m not ready yet. I honestly don’t think I’ll ever be ready. I don’t want closure. I want him.

All day today, as I went about my business, a little voice keeps crying inside of me wanting him back. Wanting him here. Wanting him to hold me, tell me that this was all a nightmare and gently wake me up. That none of this is real and it was all a mistake. But all those people who came yesterday were living proof that it was true.

My husband is dead and all the wishing and the longing won’t change that. And that thought just makes me want to lie on the floor, curl up in a little ball, and retreat from this painful reality. I’m finding it extremely difficult to wrap my head around it. So once again, I’m still partially waiting for him to come through the door.

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross came up with the 5 stages of grief years ago in a book On Death and Dying. Denial, bargaining, anger, depression and acceptance.

The reason I mention all of this is because if I were to gauge my feelings by this, I should be in the ‘depression’ stage.

I’ve gone through the denial, meandered through bargaining, stormed through anger and am supposed to be well on my way into depression and racing for the finish line of acceptance.

Except I find myself right back at denial again.

So wait, did I take a wrong turn? How am I right back at the beginning?

Because the 5 stages were meant to be referred to as ‘common’ emotions that many people go through and there is no order in which to traverse through them. Often times, one will feel several of them at the same time. Sometimes none at all. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross later wrote that she regrets ever writing about it because people tend to think that you should move from one stage to another in a linear pattern and that they should use these stages as road maps. But there is no finish line. There is no road map. There are no rules that govern how this journey goes.

In grief, one will go stumbling from one stage to another and back again. Staying here for a while, there a little longer. Maybe skip around. Even repeat a few. Like the stages are on a lazy susan and someone sent it twirling and whatever stops near you is the stage of the day.

So today I am right back where I started after leaving the hospital on January 27, 2015. Denial, with a touch of bargaining.

With all my being, I want to hit that reset button. I want to not be here. I want to scream and rage at the heavens. I want to storm up to God and demand that He make it right. I want to hold onto my husband’s hand and never let go. I want to hear him say, ‘I love you.’ I want the safe assurance that he is and will always be by my side. I want his crooked little smile to appear in the doorway as he hides a special present behind his back. I want to sleep next to him and feel his warmth and hear his breathing. I want, I want, I want, I want….

I want what I cannot and never will have again. And I don't want to believe it.

And that’s why today is a bad day.

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Of Mice and Men...

2/20/2015

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I moved a night stand.

A small, easy task, right?

Not when it was my husband’s night stand.

See, my nightstand is small and now I have to keep the alarm clock, flashlight, TV remotes, etc. on it. All of the things that were on my husband’s side of the bed. So I decided to move his larger nightstand to my side and push the bed over just about a foot for it to fit.

I kept putting it off, but was getting tired of having to roll over the entire bed, not to mention several members of the four footed furry brigade, to turn off the alarm in the morning. So finally I did it. It took about 20 minutes to move everything and about 4 hours to calm down.

Because just that little alteration put me into a full blown panic attack.

I’ve never had a panic attack before, but I know people who have and it was just as they described it. Heart beating so fast I thought it would explode out of my chest. Can’t catch my breath. My vision went blurry and wavy. A roaring filled my ears.

All because I rearranged the bedroom, just a little bit.

It was all I could do to stop myself from immediately putting everything back to the way it was. I sat down and told myself over and over that it was okay.

It was as if by rearranging his side of the bedroom, I was erasing him.

It scared me.

This was the first thing I changed since my husband died. I even sleep on my side of the bed, with his side still tucked in. Although the four footed furry brigade has no problem taking up his whole side of the bed. But then again, they did that when he was alive so no change there.

All of the ‘experts’ say that it takes time. Don’t rush into changing things, giving away his clothes, etc. But they never say why. No one told me that such a simple thing would shatter me for half a day. In fact, if my husband were alive and I needed to switch the nightstands, he would have helped me move things around.

But irrationally my brain couldn’t or wouldn’t process it.

One thing that most people don’t talk about is the strange way of thinking that bombards you after the sudden death of a spouse.

For instance, I am incapable of throwing anything away that my husband once touched. I know that keeping an empty bottle of soy sauce is a little strange because throwing it away will not diminish my memories or feelings for my husband, but I want to keep it on the counter where he last placed it.

It’s not like I want to build a shrine to him. But I’m still not ready to move anything…even things like an empty cocoa tin.

And I can understand why. Because, like I said before, throwing it away seems like I’m erasing him bit by bit from this world. First the empty bottle or tin, then his clothes, his papers, etc. until little by little all that he touched and used would be gone from this world.

Logically, my brain is telling me that he no longer is connected to any of those items and that soon, even traces of his DNA will fade and be gone. But the rest of me refuses to let it go.

Luckily, I am in the position where I can keep his things the way they were when he was last here. I don’t need to sell my property, which, unfortunately, many widows have to do, and I now live alone so his items are not in anyone’s way.

So, I am not going to do anything about his things right now. They can stay exactly as he left them until I am ready.

Even the empty bottle on the counter.

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Blunt Not the Heart...

2/19/2015

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Anger is never without a reason, but seldom with a good one. - Benjamin Franklin

I am angry. I am angry at God, the world, the universe and my husband.

Sounds crazy, right? I agree. Oh, not about being angry at God, the world and the universe. In my opinion, those are justifiable targets.

No, what is crazy is being angry at my husband for dying. I am absolutely positive that if there was any way that he could have prevented that, he would have.

So why am I angry at him?

Aristotle once said, “Anybody can become angry - that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.”

Grief counselors all agree that anger is part of the grieving process, and they all have various reasons why people who are grieving become so angry. They also all say that anger is a necessary part and that being angry at the departed is normal. I hate it when counselors all agree. It leaves no wiggle room to escape.

A few different reasons cited for the anger are the following:

·         Angry at being abandoned by your loved one.

·         Angry that others have their loved ones and you don’t.

·         Angry at yourself for not seeing what would happen and stopping it.

·         Angry at life for letting horrible people live while good people die.

So what good does knowing this do?

Nothing. Well, it does help to know that I’m not going crazy, but to be honest that really never concerned me. Other than that, I have no clue how this knowledge can help me.

But let’s take it point by point and see if we can make sense of this.

Angry at being abandoned by a loved one.

Why am I angry at my husband? He didn’t abandon me. Well, technically he did, but he didn’t want to or do it on purpose. So why be angry at him? Actually the answer is pretty simple. Who else could I be angry at? Oh, I am angry at the doctors and the hospital where he died. But the ultimate betrayal was done by my husband.

He was supposed to move Heaven and earth to stay with me. He was supposed to bargain with God to let him come back. He was supposed to convince St. Peter that he died too young and find another body to inhabit while journeying home and presenting himself on my doorstep as a reincarnation of himself.

After all, that happens all the time in the movies. Why not in real life?

And that right there is the key word – “real” life.

Hollywood is all fiction. It is all glitter and dazzle and magic and fake. Even the actors themselves are fake, living glamorous fairy tale lives, always looking perfect and wise with opinions on everything.

But the smoke and mirrors are done so well, that even a fairly intelligent person can fall into the trap of believing. Why? Because we want to believe. Logically my brain knows that my husband won’t return, won’t show up in a different body, he won’t find a medium to speak through to me. But my heart wants it so badly it hurts.

And that’s why I am angry at him. Because he didn’t make my fairy tale ending come true.

Completely unreasonable thinking, but there you have it. Eventually I will come to realize the truth but right now I want Disney to step in and make it all better.

Angry that others have their loved ones and you don’t.

When I see someone with their husband, a little voice in my head cries out, “Not fair! Why did I lose my husband and they didn’t? What makes them so special? What did I do wrong to deserve this?”

The answer is nothing.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I do not want and never want any of my friends or family to go through this. I don’t even want strangers to go through this. Even though that little finger of jealousy comes creeping up my spine that they still have their loved ones, not even in the darkest regions of my soul do I want them to lose their loved ones. And believe me, my dark regions can get pretty dark.

But still that little voice pouts and whimpers about it.

So how to quiet it? Well, let’s think about this. The “not fair” part? Easy. Life is not fair. In fact the whole human race would be a much better species if the term “fairness” was never invented. There is no scale that balances the rights and wrongs of this world. There is nothing dictating who gets what and when and where. It just happens. And it happens to everyone. Fairness only exists in pre-school with adult supervision insuring that everyone gets their share. After moving up into the higher grades, fairness goes out the window, because in life and Mother Nature straight lines and fairness do not exist.

How about the question of why they get to keep their loved one and I didn’t? Why are they special? Well they aren’t. They aren’t charmed by some power that keeps their loved ones safe. They didn’t do anything special that keeps death away from their family. The sad fact is, it could happen to them just as quickly as it happened to me. I pray fervently that it doesn’t but the truth is that everyone is vulnerable. That’s why I hope that everyone who still has their loved ones take time each day to treasure them and thank whatever deity they pray to that they are still around.

Finally the question of what did I do wrong to deserve this? Once again, the answer is nothing. This isn’t some punishment for not eating all my vegetables, or not administering to the poor and sick in Bombay. This didn’t happen to “me” specifically. Death did not personally hunt me down and take away the person I love most in my life.

It just is. That’s a hard thing to accept and realize, but I’m working on it.

Angry at yourself for not seeing what would happen and stopping it.

The answer to this one is short and sweet. I’m not God. I’m not omnipotent. I can’t see the future, never could see the future and never will see the future. Everyone has 20/20 hindsight and right now mine is in zoom mode.

Angry at life for letting horrible people live while good people die.

Now this one is hard and I have no answer for it.

At this moment, somewhere in the world, there is a terrible person doing terrible things and enjoying it. A person who personifies pure evil. A person who taints and warps anything and everything around them, causing pain and fear in others. A person who makes the world a worse place by existing. And that person is alive and well.

On the flip side, my husband was a good man. He was a person who tried to help others. A person who tried to do things that took away the pain and fear from others. A person who fought evil in his own small way and tried to make the world a better place. A person who is no longer here.

Something is seriously wrong with this picture.

Why doesn’t someone do something about it? Well, who? God? Every religion in the world knows that God’s ways are mysterious. That we can’t fathom His reasoning for allowing events to happen. The holocaust and recent events are all testaments to that.

So who else? The moral police? They don’t exist. Society? Well, society can take care of the evil people and often does, but society had no say in my husband dying. It couldn’t have prevented it.

How about Karma? Doesn’t Karma reward the virtuous and punish the wicked? Doesn’t it balance things out in the world?

I simply don’t know.

What I do know is that I am struggling with this one the most. Having an analytical brain (which is great for being a programmer, but not so great for figuring out the complexities of life), I am searching for an answer to this one. Along with about 2 million other people.

In conclusion, even after going through all of this point by point, I’m still angry. I don’t know how long I will be angry. Even the experts can’t agree on that. So I’ll just have to make certain that I don’t turn that anger towards an innocent bystander, like the four footed furry brigade, or the guy who cuts me off on the freeway or just whomever has the misfortune to be standing within the blast zone when my anger becomes too much to handle for the moment.

Because right now, that’s all I know how to do. The rest will have to resolve on its own.

So I think I will leave now and go kick a pillow.

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With Mirth and Laughter...

2/18/2015

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“If Heaven exists, to know that there is laughter, that would be a great thing.” – Robin Williams

When you become a widow, it’s okay to still laugh. I want other widows to know this, so I repeat, it’s okay to still laugh.

Why am I saying this? Because of several startled looks I’ve received over the past few weeks.

Society has a preconceived notion about widows.

Older widows should be serene, calm, slightly sorrowful but loving grandmothers who speak nostalgically about the ‘old’ days when grandpa was still alive.

Young widows are supposed to weep and mourn, gather their young children around them, then eventually set out on a search for someone new and form the perfect blended family, preferably with a widower that has children of his own.

Middle aged widows are supposed to wear black veils, meet in local boutiques with other widows, have coffee ‘dates’ with the ‘girls’ and spend Sunday afternoons tending to their husband’s graves while telling them about their week.

All widows, young and old, are not allowed to laugh and have fun. After all, how can they? Their soul mate, their love of all loves is gone. They are broken and fragile. They should only respond with sad, wistful smiles at attempts to cheer them up. They should retreat from society and only appear at family functions or attend another funeral to console another widow.

And I fell into that trap, for only a short while thankfully.

For several days after my husband’s death, I had various conversations with friends and family and we would talk and even laugh about some of the quirky memories of my husband and everything was fine. My friends and family understood that even when I was animated and laughing about something that my husband did, I was still grieving his death. It is when I encounter acquaintances and even strangers that the disapproving frowns appear.

For instance, I was talking with our local pharmacist who knew my husband very well. I was picking up prescriptions and as always, there was a line behind me within ear shot.

As the pharmacist rang up my prescriptions, she gave me her condolences, asked when it happened and how I was doing. I answered her and she told me that my husband would be missed as they always had an enjoyable conversation whenever he came in. Soon we were talking about a funny incident that happened the last time my husband was in there. We were laughing about it while I finished my purchase and as I turned to leave, I saw a shocked and disapproving expression on the lady’s face behind me. I could almost hear her thoughts about how callous I was to be laughing and having a lively conversation a mere four days after my husband’s death.

I’ll honestly admit that I felt guilty at that moment and even had the thought that I shouldn’t be laughing and enjoying myself. How could I? After all I was just ripped in half just a few days earlier. I found this happening several times, as people would express shock or disapproval whenever I deviated from how they thought a widow should act. And I even, at times, wondered myself how I could enjoy a TV show or a movie or playing with the pup when my life as I knew it has been destroyed.

But an incident happened to me that snapped me out of my guilt. I was out getting diesel and I met up with an acquaintance who had found out about my husband. She came up and gave me her condolences and I thanked her. She then asked how I was doing and I replied with a friendly smile that I was all right.

She almost did a double take when I smiled and then gave an awkward answer about how she was glad. I wondered if she expected me to break out in tears or something. She then asked what I was doing, if I needed any help. Again, I thanked her and reassured her that I was fine. In fact, I was on my way to the place where I ride and train with my show horse. Show season was starting and I was already behind in my training for it.

She asked me in a disbelieving tone, “You are going to ride your horse today? Didn’t your husband pass a way just last week?”

I must have given her a blank, owlish stare at this because she then leaned in and patted my arm in a patronizing way and said quietly, “You should stay home and mourn right now. It’s the proper thing to do. You shouldn't be jumping back into things so quickly.“

Now this actually ticked me off. But, I could see that she was sincere in her concern so I gave her a weak smile and said that I had to go and thanked her again for her condolences and advice. I almost leapt into my truck and practically burned rubber getting out of there.

What I probably should have done was tell her very politely that going to ride my horse was a way of honoring my husband as he was extremely proud of my riding and fully supportive. He went to every horse show. He not only was the cheering section for me, but for all of the riders from our barn who were showing.

I should also have told her that sitting around my empty house weeping and wailing was not what I needed to do. Yes, I have my moments when I sit and sob my heart out, but not all of the time. I needed friends around me and distractions because if I only sat and thought about it, I was afraid I would sink so far down I would never survive.

I wanted to tell her that I needed to feel normality, to know that there was life after my husband’s death. I needed to be surrounded by people who cared and were supporting but didn’t constantly act mournful and somber.

So yes, I went riding and spent time around my ranch ‘family’ where we not only talked about my husband and cried together a little, but also laughed and talked about other things. And yes, I had a wonderful ‘girls’ night with my nieces where we watched movies and just hung out eating pizza. And yes, I went on Facebook and liked jokes posted by friends and even commented on some. And yes, I did all of this even before my husband’s death certificates were filed.

I want widows to know that there is no time table or rules on when you can go out into the normal world and smile. For some, it may be weeks, for others, it may be days.

I want widows to know that sometimes, during a normal conversation, something will trigger a memory or a thought and you might get choked up and have to take a moment before resuming the conversation. But resuming the conversation is okay. You don’t have to stop and address your grief right then and there. That resuming the normal conversation is not diminishing your sorrow or the memory of your husband.

I want widows to know that resuming outside activities are okay. In fact, the same week that we are having the service for my husband, I will also be going to a four day horse show. Is that being disrespectful to my husband’s memory? Hell no.

I will be sad underneath. I may even cry because he won’t be in the stands watching me. The other of his show ‘girls’ will most likely be sad because he was extremely supportive of them all and we all called him our ‘show husband’ as he took care of all of us. But we will still show, and cheer each other one, and have fun talking and laughing about the inevitable ‘oops’ maneuver that we did in our patterns. And we will also help each other over the sorrow. I know that they will be there for me and will understand if I end up crying through my first pattern. But I will still show all four days and even enjoy it again.

There will always be people who will disapprove of me showing so soon. Just like they disapprove of me laughing and enjoying things so soon after his death.

But it is my belief that to not do so would be what dishonors his memory.

My husband would not want me to spend the rest of my life in sack cloth and ashes because I lost him.

Under the laughter and the fun, a part of me will always be sad, always be missing him desperately and wishing he was there with me. But the rest of me will be enjoying the moment.

And that’s okay.

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A Single Cup of Coffee...

2/17/2015

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It’s amazing how much trouble a simple everyday thing can cause. For instance, a cup of coffee. Every morning, my husband would make coffee for us. I am pretty particular about my coffee and my husband always made it perfectly.

We had a 12 cup coffee maker at the time. I only drank one cup, while my husband would drink it all day long.

Because I would never use it, I gave the coffee maker away to a dear friend and bought myself a new one that just made one cup.

It sat on the kitchen cabinet, ready to go, for two weeks. I knew how to use it, I had everything I needed to use it, but I didn’t use it.

I must have walked into the kitchen a dozen times each morning, determined to brew me a cup, and then turned right around and left without ever touching it.

I didn’t understand why I couldn’t make my coffee until one day it dawned on me.

By making that “single” cup of coffee, I was giving up one more thing that I shared with my husband.

By breaking down and making it, I was acknowledging that I would never again walk into the kitchen, be handed a cup of coffee with a smile and a kiss and settle down on the couch to talk over what was going to happen that day with my husband.

I found that there are a lot of things that I avoid doing as long as possible.

Training the puppy for instance. The way we trained all of our other dogs to come when called was to play a game we called ‘pass the puppy’. I would sit on one end of the room, my husband on the other, and we would take turns calling the pup back and forth, handing out treats each time. It usually ended up with us laughing hysterically as the pup tries to anticipate who had the next treat, running as fast as their little legs would carry them.

Now I have no one to pass the puppy to.

Other things I try to avoid are mundane things like filling up the soap dispensers in the bathroom and kitchen. My husband always took care of that and by me having to do it, once again, drives home the knowledge that he will never be here to do it again.

Grocery shopping is another. My husband was the chef in the family and he loved going to the store to get fresh ingredients. The few times I went with him, I saw his face light up at the sight of fresh basil or a nice piece of fresh fish that had just arrived. Now I go in with a list, get what I need and leave as fast as I can.

My husband was also the one that fed the four footed furry brigade. That is something I cannot postpone and every night I dutifully gather up the bowls and feed them. It actually isn’t hard and takes about 15-20 minutes tops.

It’s not doing the task that bothers me, it’s the fact that I have to do it because he’s not here anymore. Every time I feed them, I am reminded why I am feeding them and not my husband.

It’s amazing all of the little things that we just do and never think of. For instance, our shower has one of those fancy gadgets with jet streams and waterfalls and different doo dads that I never could figure out. My husband always used a certain setting and never set it back to neutral. So before I took a shower, I always had to reset it or I would take a cold blast of water in the face. Now, I never have to reset it. And I never get a blast of cold water in my face.

I miss getting irritated at him for it.

Other things I miss are seeing the piles of trash on the kitchen counter right next to the trash can. For some reason, my husband could never stretch that last six inches to dispose of it properly. I had given up years ago nagging him about it. I just automatically threw it away whenever I went into the kitchen.

Now I just see clean, bare counters.

Shoes. My husband had dozens of them and like a little centipede, he would leave them all over the house. He was a big guy and his shoes were heavy so tripping over them was no picnic. I would constantly be picking them up and putting them in the closet wondering why he needed three pairs of shoes in just two days and asking him if they walked out on their own.

Now they stay lined up in the closet.

Each day I am reminded of the hundreds of little things that were so intertwined in our lives. Things that we each did automatically. Each time I do the things that he did, it just tears at the empty space he left behind.

I’m not sure when that will stop. Or if it will ever stop.

I do know that each time I settle in and take on another one of his tasks, the chasm between being a part of ‘husband and wife’, where I was, and being a ‘widow’, where I am now, grows wider and wider. I keep hanging on to the other side with all of my might.

Eventually I will have to let go.

But not yet.

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On A Pale Horse…

2/13/2015

1 Comment

Death is not a comfortable topic. It is often a taboo reference in normal conversation. We use softer phrases like ‘passed away’, ‘moved on’ or, as my southern relatives would say ‘they are with Jesus now’.

No one likes to talk about death. So no one teaches us what to do about death. There are no classes in how to plan a funeral, deal with the remains of your loved one, handle endless paperwork, all while functioning in a haze of disbelief, altered perception of reality and mind numbing weariness.

But death is inevitable in our life. At least one grandparent or parent or sibling or your spouse or even, heaven forbid, a child will die within your lifetime.

If you are lucky, someone else will be responsible for all of the arrangements. If you are unlucky, then it all falls on you.

I fall in the half-lucky, half-unlucky category. While the memorial will be arranged by my husband’s masonic lodge and the reception will be arranged by my wonderful sister-in-law and nieces, the rest I had to handle. Which means dealing with the remains and all of the paperwork.

First off, let me say that I understand that a mortuary is a business and a business needs to make money. But why do so many of them try to make an entire year’s profit off of one customer? After all, it’s not like they are going to run out of customers anytime soon. Mortuaries and tobacco companies all have the same luxury of never running out of a client base, and yet they both are aggressive in obtaining profits. Often times they actually work hand in hand together on the same person.

So for those who have never had to deal with this, and I fervently hope that you never have to, let me give you a detailed account of what I experienced. From talking to others, it appears that what I went through is basically the norm.

First off, you have to call a mortuary to pick up your loved one’s body from the hospital. Some hospitals give you 48 hours to do so. Ours gave me 24 hours. Since I had no idea where a mortuary was, much less the name of one, they handed me a sheet with a long list of mortuaries in the county to call. I pretty much just scrolled down to the ones that were nearest my home and stabbed a pencil randomly, thus picking out one. I have no idea what makes one mortuary better than another. I was astonished to see a four page list of them in San Diego County alone. Business must be booming.

So after I called them and arranged for them to retrieve my husband, they informed me that someone would call me the next day to set up an appointment for me to come into their office.

Upon arriving at the mortuary, I was asked if I had an appointment. I told them yes, gave them my husband’s name and the time I was told to come in. The secretary looked apologetic and told me that there was a mistake, the appointment was never entered into the books and I would have to reschedule.

Now my husband would often call me the ‘most stubborn woman west of the Mississippi’ and for good reason. And all that stubbornness came out right then and there.

“No.”

“I’m sorry,” the secretary asked in a surprised tone. “Did you say ‘no’?”

“That’s correct. You made the mistake and now you are going to fix it. I am not coming back here again,” I declared. “Do you realize what it took to come here in the first place? And now, because one of your schedulers made a mistake, I have to go through all of that again? No. I will not come back.”

The secretary picked up the phone and after a hurriedly whispered conversation she indicated that if I could wait, they would squeeze me in. As I looked around the enormous and very empty lobby, I deduced that they would not have to squeeze very hard.

Finally, after an hour, I was met by a sad faced, somber speaking “funeral arranger”. He looked at me with mournful eyes, moved slowly as if he felt every death that came through the doors and he seemed eager to see to my comforts, asking repeatedly if I wanted water, tea or coffee. He then escorted me into a room that had urns on bookshelves with price tags on them, samples of mementos that you could order in remembrance of your loved ones and advertisements all over the walls depicting black clad people gathered around a coffin, or a sad woman clutching a wooden box, all of them proclaiming that if you loved your dearly departed you would instantly order their items, some of them 10% off.

The sad faced man sat down at the table with a discreet folder in his hand and instantly a shift in his expression flickered across his face and he became all business.

“What type of service would you like?” he asked.

“We are having a private service at my husband’s lodge,” I replied.

“You could have it here,” he stated. “We are having a sale, 20% off of flower arrangements and catering.”

Wait! A sale?? Did I unwittingly consign my husband’s body to the Walmart of mortuaries?

As I sat their staring dumbly at the now-not-so-sad faced man, he whipped a brochure out and started talking about the color scheme and decorations, then another brochure with various coffins, and another one showing what type of hearse I could rent. I still have no idea where he kept those brochures since he hadn’t even opened the folder yet.

“No wait,” I said, holding up my hand.” I want to have my husband’s remains cremated.”

“Oh that’s fine,” he replied as the coffin brochure swiftly disappeared to be replaced by one for urns. He continued to extoll how wonderful they could create the funeral for me. “A moving tribute and experience for everyone.”

Finally my brain kicked in and I stopped his carefully prepared speech. “I just want to pick out a nice urn and order 10 copies of his death certificate,” I told him. Why I wanted 10 copies I still don’t know. Somewhere I remember hearing someone say you should always get 10 copies. We did the same for my mother and we still have 8 copies in the drawer. But during this time, your mind gets fixated on something and won’t listen to reason, so I wanted 10 copies.

I had already seen the urn I wanted. It was perfect for my husband who often referred to himself as a 6 foot tall, 4 foot wide cowboy. The urn was simply a pair of boots, an empty lariat and an cowboy hat together. As if he had just placed them by the door ready to use the next day.

“That’s the one I want, please.”

He got up and looked at the tag. “Oh this one is only $495. We have much nicer ones over here. Now this one is titanium with a hand burnished sheen to give it a unique look.” He held up the shiny urn as if it were a golden chalice.

I shook my head and after a few more attempts by him to steer me over to the more lucrative urns, he finally gave up and grudgingly took the small card by the urn I wanted and began filling out an order form.

I had also wanted a cross with some of my husband’s ashes in it to wear. A friend of mine had that done for her son and she had told me what a comfort it was to have a part of him with her every day. So I naively told the not-so-sad-but-more-disappointed faced man what I wanted.

Instantly his face lit up and another brochure almost leapt across the table towards me.

He began to flip through the pages, describing everything from jewelry boxes to diamonds made from your loved one’s ashes. As the pages flew by, I saw a small simple cross and pointed it out. “I’ll take that one,” I told him.

“You should order the matching bracelet and earrings,” he said showing me a smiling woman in the brochure who was wearing a plethora of jewelry. A part of me couldn’t help but wonder why they have smiling happy models displaying every item of jewelry you can imagine infused with the ashes of your loved ones. Shouldn’t they be a bit more somber as the whole reason for the jewelry was not a happy event. But this model looked like she had just won the lottery. I’m not certain as I didn’t look too closely, but I could swear she had a nose ring too.

“No, just the cross please,” I said. I was becoming increasingly exhausted by then. Normally I would have had a friend or a family member go with me, but it happened that day everyone had something they could not postpone, even though many tried. So I was running the gauntlet solo.

Seeing that he would not be able to sell me anything else, the now-irritated faced man completed the order forms.

Then he opened the folder and pulled out what appeared to me to be a sheath of papers, all with official letter heads and adorned with legalese. It was the contract for the mortuary and all of the state documents that the great State of California required. I’ve filled out building permits with less documentation.

“If I could have you fill these out please, then we can conclude this appointment,” the now-suddenly-back-to-sad faced man said as he pushed them over to me.

I began to fill them out. Each time I wrote my husband’s name, birth date, social security number and other information requested was like being stabbed in the heart. My hand was actually trembling because I so did not want to fill all of this out. Each stroke of the pen, each signature I signed, made his death more and more real. As if writing it down permanently was making it happen. I felt like if I could avoid even thinking about it then it never would have happened. Like a little kid who covers his eyes, sure that would hide him from the monsters. I still don’t remember half of what I filled out or signed.

And then it happened again. The sad-faced man looked at me mournfully and apologetically. “I’m sorry, but because there was a mix-up with the appointment not all of your husband’s paperwork is ready. You’ll have to come back tomorrow to fill out the rest.”

Once again my stubbornness kicked in and I again, quietly but firmly, said:

“No.”

He looked at me in the same surprised look as the secretary. Obviously they were not used to the word ‘no’. He repeated that the paperwork needed to be filled out but they wouldn’t receive the forms until the next morning.

I shook my head, “You called me for the appointment and said everything was ready, you screwed up the appointment and now you want to me to come back.” I shook my head again. “No. I will not come back.”

The now-shocked-and-a-little-nervous faced man stood up and excused himself. He grabbed the paperwork and scurried out the door, leaving me to peruse through the brochures. I am still amazed at the thought that people would actually pay $10,000 for a coffin. And that wasn’t even the highest priced one.

Eventually the now-again-sad faced man came back followed by an apologetic faced man who repeated what I had been told, that I would have to come back.

“No.”

It is amazing how surprised people get when you say that one simple word.

They both implored me, stating that it was out of their hands and I wouldn’t be able to pay them as part of the paperwork was needed to generate the full invoice and would I please cooperate with them. Eventually we compromised and they agreed to email me the forms if I would sign and scan them back right away. I could pay over the phone.

Finally, I was able to drag myself back to my truck and climb in. I was there for four hours and was completely wiped out.

The next day, the papers were emailed to me, I filled them out and sent them back and then called with a credit card to pay for everything.

Glad to have that done and over with, I settled back into trying to figure out how to navigate this reluctant journey I am on.

A couple of days later the phone rang and it was the sad-faced man on the other end. “I just realized that you bought the cross to wear but no chain. I can add that to your order. Now they have a very nice one for $95 dollars that is sterling silver or you can have it in gold for only $125….”

I hung up on him.

1 Comment

Bubble, Bubble, Toil And...

2/12/2015

1 Comment

On January 27th at 1:53 pm my world stopped. But the rest of the world did not.

Coming home from the hospital, after watching the man I love quietly pass from this world, one of my nieces said something that I completely agree with. She turned to me and said, “It’s all wrong. There should be something more. Look at everyone, they are just going about their lives. Don’t they realize that a wonderful man died? Something should happen…it should have affected them. Something should mark his passing.”

And I agree. There should be angels singing a mournful dirge in sorrow that a great man died. The sky should cloud over and rain down heaven’s tears upon mankind because we had lost a kind and caring soul that brightened every room he walked into. But instead, the sun was shining, people were walking about laughing and talking. Completely unmindful of the tragedy that occurred just a few hours ago in that small ICU room.

My husband wasn’t famous. He never invented something that would benefit all mankind. Instead, he was something much more. He was a good man. He was a friend to everyone he met. There was a way about him that encouraged people to open up to him, take him into their confidence, talk things over and then walk away feeling better.

Sure he had his faults. I never could understand how he could walk past a pile of dirty clothes and really and truly not see it. Or that he always put the trash on top of the kitchen counter just above the trashcan which sat a mere 6 inches away.

But our motto was always to try and clean up our little corner of the world in the hopes that others would do so too. And although I strived to do that, he was able to do that. Despite the fact that he was a big man, he was a big softie. I was the firm one, the one who was ready to write someone off after we tried over and over to help them. But my husband never gave up. And when eventually the person we tried to help left our little corner of the world, either accepting or rejecting our help, he would immediately find someone else that needed a hand up. Note I said hand up…not hand out. Because both my husband and I believed in the old adage about teaching a man to fish.

We had failures, people who just took advantage of us and basically spit in our eye while doing it. And my husband would be angry and hurt, vowing that he would never help anyone again. But that lasted about 10 minutes before he once more had a wayward waif under his wing.

And that is the type of man the world lost and should mourn. Because people like that are more important than someone who can act in a movie or sing a song about killing others while dancing half naked or run around a large grassy area throwing, kicking or carrying a ball. But society doesn’t acknowledge people like my husband. It wants the sparkly, glittering people who have a dozen people shaping them and molding them, people who can’t comprehend reality. People who don’t have to struggle day to day to be good, because their entourage creates the illusion of goodness as they toss money at the more ‘unfortunate’ and smile their fake, bright smiles at how wonderful they are.

And that’s very sad for society. But that’s a topic for another day.

The topic for today is that my world stopped and the rest didn’t.

Which means, despite everything, I had to go back to work.

Luckily I work from home.

I’m a computer programmer and my work is tough and exacting, but I have the luxury of working from my home office.

Unluckily I work from home.

My husband shared my office with me. He would often spend hours in there at the same time as me, going over accounts for the ranch, handling the dozens of little day to day things that deal with insurance, utilities, bills, etc.

So I am basically working all day in an area that has a thousand little reminders of him. There is no escaping it. No going into a sterile, depersonalized environment where there was a different life separate from my home life.

Nope. Instead, I was surrounded by my husband’s things. His knick knacks that I had bought him over the years populated the top of his roll top desk that he loved. His boxes of papers scattered everywhere in a pattern that only he knew. No escape.

And that’s when I realized what a wonderful thing a person’s mind is. Without even realizing it, my mind created a little bubble around me. A bubble that insulated me from the bombardment of memories of all the days and hours we had spent companionably working. Listening to music as we each worked on what we had to do, content in the nearness of each other.

So I began to work again. Safe inside my bubble.

But then, I eventually had to talk to someone on the phone, or email someone about a project I was working on and they would say the inevitable.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

Pop! There went my bubble.

I politely thanked them for their condolences, swallowed hard and took a few deep breaths and was able to continue on with what I had to do. But my cocoon was shattered.

I tried to huddle back into my bubble and was somewhat successful, but now I was aware of what my mind was doing and I kept prodding it, like prodding a sore tooth with your tongue. You know it’s going to hurt, but you just can’t stop yourself from doing it.

I’d work a bit and manage to push aside the emotions, convince myself that I was okay, I can do this but in the back of my mind a little voice would say quietly, “You’re not all right. Your husband is dead. You’re all alone. Nothing will be right ever again”. And then I would want to curl up on my bed, my arms around a pillow and just sink into despair. But my mind would fight back and try and rebuild that bubble again just in time for me to prod it once more with that little voice.

Over and over again. Sometimes the bubble would last longer, sometimes the voice would be stronger.

One thing that helps is my husband’s wedding ring. I wear it on a little cord around my neck and grabbing it and holding tight does keep that little voice at bay. Or at least turns down the volume.

You see, that’s another thing that my husband did and what the world should mourn losing. My husband had a way of making those around him feel safe. That the negativity of this world cannot overcome the goodness and that we will all prevail.

And clutching his ring helps me remember that feeling.

Yes, the world stopped for me on January 27th at 1:53 pm. But maybe, with the help of my husband’s memories, I can get it started again.

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On Becoming a Widow...

2/11/2015

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On January 27, 2015, I became a member of an exclusive club that no one ever wants to join. Widowhood. My husband passed away after having complications from a routine surgery. Completely unexpected, unwanted and disbelieved.

It has been two weeks and still half of me believes that he will come walking through the door, while the other half crumbles inward when I realize that he will never come walking through the door.

I remember when I was first married and referring to myself as a 'wife' was strange and new. It was a label that created joy and excitement at the prospect of all of the wonderful adventures to come. When someone would ask if I was married, I would nod 'yes' with a happy smile.

Now, 13 years later, I have to refer to myself with another strange and new label - 'widow'. It is a label that creates sadness and longing at the prospect of all the lonely years to come. Now, when someone asks if I am married, I nod 'yes' with a sad smile, because I am still married and want to be still married and refuse to give up being married.

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Partnership of One...

Sounds of Silence...

To Lay To Rest...

Of Mice and Men...

Blunt Not the Heart...

With Mirth and Laughter...

A Single Cup of Coffee...

On A Pale Horse…

Bubble, Bubble, Toil And...

On Becoming a Widow...

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