The Things I Took for Granted

I don't think I ever took my husband for granted, but since his death, I've realized that I did take for granted many of the things he did for me, especially after he retired. Nearly every week I discover something new he did that is now my responsibility. The list is endless: he took care of the pool and did all those chores that are unique to Florida—like power washing the lanai, outdoor furniture and other places that are prone to developing mold; he washed the windows on a regular basis; he took care of my car, making sure the oil was changed, tires rotated, and the insurance and licensing was up to date; he changed the air filters in the air-conditioning system and arranged for the yearly inspections; he handled the finances and paid the taxes; he took out the garbage; he opened jars that were sealed too tightly, got things down from high places, did the heavy lifting…And he always, ALWAYS, put up the Christmas tree. He took it down too and put everything away—neatly, in special storage boxes. That alone made me the envy of all my women friends.

On a bad day, I'd say there's not much to envy about me now. But on a good day, I realize how much I've learned about living alone and dealing with the everyday issues that I never even thought about before, because Art took care of them. I've learned a great deal about myself too. During this past year, I've found an inner strength that I never knew I had. I guess that's something to celebrate.

Counting Blessings

At first glance, it didn't seem like I had much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving. My life has changed in ways that I couldn't have imagined a year ago, and I wasn't in the mood to celebrate anything. But, I busied myself making pies for Thanksgiving dinner at my sister's house and, in the process, I began to realize how much I do have to be thankful for.

I was immeasurably blessed to have had Art in my life for nearly 50 years. He was a truly good and loving man who gave me a far better life than I could ever have imagined when I was growing up in a small, blue-collar town in Western New York. Together we were blessed to have four children who have grown to be successful, happy, loving, and caring adults. When Art became ill, they all took time from their work and other responsibilities to come to Florida to be with their Dad while he was in the hospital. For 24 days, in shifts of two, we made sure Art was never alone in his hospital room. When his health improved and he seemed to be on the road to recovery, they all came back together to spend quality time with him. We were hopeful then, never imagining that it would be the last happy time we would have with Art as a family. Looking back on it now, I think that was a blessing.

I am blessed to live near my sister and brother-in-law who have been with us every step of the way. I can never begin to repay them for all they did for us during Art's illness, including spending their 50th wedding anniversary with me in Tampa where Art was receiving treatment at the Moffitt Cancer center.

I am blessed to have wonderful friends and neighbors who have demonstrated their love and support in countless ways—helping with the pool, arranging to have my palm trees trimmed, surprising me by cleaning my lanai while I was away, cooking me dinner, inviting me to join them for movies, and lunches, and dinners out, and so much more,  As one neighbor told me, "If you let us share in your sorrow, maybe it will make it a little easier for you." They have shared in my sorrow and it has made it easier for me.

Life threw me a curve when Art died five months ago. I don't know what the future holds for me, but I do know I don't have to go through it alone.

Two Steps Forward, One Back

When someone loses a loved one, everyone says, "Remember the happy times." We've all said it. I've said it many times to friends who have experienced a loss. I've been trying to follow that advice since my husband died, and at times I've been successful.  But for the past couple of weeks I've been finding it difficult to keep myself focused on happy memories, because the bad times are still too fresh in my mind. It was a year ago in mid-November that Art was diagnosed with stage IV non-Hodgkins Lymphoma and spent 24 days, including Thanksgiving, in the hospital. Although he rallied for awhile, and there were some happy moments, he died just 7 months later.

I've been trying to focus on the 47 years worth of living memories that we had together—moments when Art was healthy, running, playing golf, drinking a glass of his favorite red wine, listening to his extensive collection of jazz CDs, and enjoying happy times with friends and family—but memories of the dying moments keep coming back to haunt me. I know this is all a necessary part of grieving. I understand that it's not a linear process, but some days that just doesn't help.

Food for the Soul

There wasn't much good in the news this week. There were the senseless murders at Fort Hood and in Orlando, the national unemployment rate rose to double digits, and our lawmakers and TV and radio pundits continued to bicker over healthcare reform while millions of Americans go without health insurance. News like that doesn't do much for your mood, especially when you're already teetering on the edge of depression, as I have been all week. Thanks to 24-hour news—in my humble opinion, one of the worst things that's ever happened to us as a nation—it's difficult to avoid the bad news and almost impossible to find any good news. It's hard not to lose faith in your fellow man when you're constantly bombarded with images of yellow police tape cordoning off the latest mass murder site, and of people shouting cruel invectives at each other over something as fundamental as the right to have access to good, and affordable, health care. It makes me want to shout, "Life's too short. Trust me. I've learned that lesson. Can't we just try to get along? Can't we look beyond our own selfish interests long enough to see there are people all around us who could use some help?"

Yesterday, my faith in mankind was restored, at least for a little while. A good friend recruited me to work at an "Empty Bowls" fund raiser for the local Harry Chapin Food Bank. Colorful pottery bowls, made by local high school students, were sold for $10 each, and everyone who bought a bowl could have it—or a take-out container—filled with one of at least a half dozen kinds of delicious soup donated by local restaurants. Volunteers of all ages were on hand to sell tickets, serve the soup, clean up, or do whatever else was needed. Musical groups from the local schools provided entertainment while their proud parents and grandparents looked on. The weather was perfect. and people were happy to be there  supporting a good cause. I was happy to be there with my friends helping out in some small way. And, at least for those few hours, all seemed right with the world.

Going Through the Motions

During my grief support group meeting last night, we spent some time discussing how we respond when people ask, "How are you doing?" We all seemed to be resorting to a "canned" response, which goes something like this: "I'm doing okay. I have good days and bad days." Our counselor then asked, "What is a good day?" And that stumped us all. That's a difficult question to answer, and I suspect it is a very individual thing.

It's easy to identify the bad days. In the beginning, it was pretty much every day. The good days? That takes some thought. I have spent a good deal of time thinking about it today, and I think, for me at least, a good day is a day when I don't feel like I'm just "going through the motions"—a day when I can engage in some diversion that takes me out of myself and lets me forget, at least for a little while, what I have lost; a day when I spend more time remembering the happy times and less time thinking about the "if onlys"— if only they had diagnosed him sooner; if only I had suspected cancer in the beginning and taken him to the Moffitt (a research hospital that specializes in diagnosing and treating cancer); if only we'd had more time… I can honestly say that I'm having more good days, thanks primarily to my wonderful circle of friends. I'm not sure they are outnumbering the bad days yet, but I know that will come.

Last week was filled with diversion for me. I attended a medical writers conference in Dallas. I led a networking discussion on freelancing, participated in a panel on writing creative nonfiction, and had lively conversation with friends over dinners and lunches. While I was in that environment I didn't think of myself as "Donna the widow." I was "Donna the medical writer." Of course there were some sad moments when I saw old friends, most of whom I only see once a year. Some of them knew about Art's illness and subsequent death; some knew he had been ill but didn't know he'd died; and some didn't know any of it. There were some awkward moments and a few tears, but, for the most part it was okay.

One moment sticks in my mind. In response to the news of my loss, one person responded with sympathy and then said, "You look good." I can't help but wonder how she expected me to look.

Whose Life Is This?

Last week I took my first trip since Art died. I went North to see our kids—all 4 of them together for the first time since Art's memorial service. It didn't seem right getting on that plane without him, and it didn't seem right being there with our kids without him. It was a "whirlwind" visit and I had a good time, but it was bitter sweet. Much of the time I felt like I was on the outside looking in at someone else's life. It couldn't possibly be my life.

I had been warned that coming back to this empty house would be difficult; and it was. Although I've been back home for several days, I still haven't been able to shake the feeling that this isn't my life. This isn't the way it was supposed to be. I know it's all part of the grieving process and I know it will get better with time, but that doesn't make it any easier right now.

A couple of weeks ago I received an email from someone I'd worked with about 20 years ago. I've seen her two or three times since then and we have communicated via email sporadically. It had been at least a year since I'd heard from her, so she didn't know about Art's illness or his death. Needless to say, she was shocked by the news. "I had always figured you two would just live into old age together," she  wrote." So did I.

Seeking Some Middle Ground

This has not been one of my better days. It started when I decided to finish the book I've been reading for my next  book club meeting. The ending made me cry. It was sad but not tragic—really more poignant than sad. Once the tears started, I decided not to fight them. After all, I was alone and didn't have to put on a happy face for anyone. Later, I went to get the mail and there was a card and note from Art's Aunt Irene. She was the youngest of his 9 aunts and uncles and this was the first I'd heard from her since Art died. I knew she had heard about his illness and death, but I had not heard one word from her since we saw her at a family reunion more than a year ago--before Art got sick. I have to admit that I was a little hurt and angry about that, but when I read her note, all was forgiven. I could sense how sad she was about Art's death and how difficult it was for her to write to me. She wrote: "I have tried for weeks to write to express my love and sympathy, but just kept blocking it out. Perhaps I just could not accept the fact that Art was no longer with us in person. I can still picture him as the handsome young nephew, 'Husky', who was in my wedding."

Of course, reading Aunt Irene's note brought more tears. Art often talked about being in her wedding. It was one of his happy childhood memories. He'd be glad to know that is how she chooses to remember him. I'm grateful to Aunt Irene for finally writing to me. Everyone grieves differently. We each have to find our own way through it.

Two years ago my 28-year old niece died suddenly and tragically. Kim was a true "ray of sunshine" in our family and the grief everyone felt at her loss was almost too much to bear. It was a particularly difficult time for her two young nephews (my great nephews), because Kim had lived with them for several years and had become an integral part of their lives. Ethan, the older of the two, who is now 16 and a talented musician, has found a way to deal with his grief through his music. To honor the second anniversary of Kim's death, he wrote a beautiful song in which he sings of trying to find the middle ground between his tears, and happiness and joy. "Life is not a sitcom or a movie or a book," Ethan sings. " She doesn't come through the door no matter how many times I look."

I've listened to Ethan's song many times since he placed it on his Facebook page and I cry every time. I'm still looking for the middle ground between my tears, and happiness and joy. I know Art isn't coming through the door no matter how many times I look. And that's the hard part.

The Life I Didn't Choose

"A life I didn't choose chose me: even my tools are the wrong ones for what I have to do."Last week the grief counselor shared these words (written by poet Adrienne Rich) with our support group. I've been thinking about them all week and wondering what the right tools are.  What tools do I need to get through the rest of my life—this life I didn't choose—without my husband? The truth is, when we lose a spouse, we lose half of your identity. So who am I now? It's true that I am a widow; but is that all that I am? Can I be more than that? Can I find something deep within myself—perhaps something that I gave up when I decided to get married and have children—that can help me redefine my identity?

My friend Connie says, "We honor our husbands by going forward and living a life, in spite of our grief." But what does it take to do that? After three months of experiencing life as a widow, I think I'm beginning to get the message. It takes the strength to get out of bed every morning and face another day, when we'd rather not. It takes the humility to ask for help when we can't figure out how to do something that our spouse always did for us. And it takes the courage to go out on our own and try something new—something that just may help us begin building a new life.

The Healing Power of Tears

I've always considered myself an emotional person—someone who cries easily, when I'm sad, when I'm happy, when I'm angry—but all through my husband's 9-month battle with lymphoma. I wouldn't let myself cry because I was too busy trying to make sure he got the medical care he needed, and I didn't want him or our children to know how scared I was. After my husband died, I was too numb to cry—and there was so much to do. Besides, I was afraid that if I started crying I might not be able to stop. It's not that I didn't shed any tears. It's just that I wouldn't let myself give in to them and truly feel the terrible grief that accompanies the loss of a loved one. Finally one night, alone in my bedroom, the tears got the best of me. My face ached so badly from clenching my jaw in an effort to control my emotions, and I was so frustrated because I couldn't fall asleep, even with the help of a sleeping pill, that I began to sob. When I finally stopped crying—and after I dried my eyes and blew my nose—I realized that my face didn't ache any more. I got back into bed and slept through the night.

Although I did learn a lesson that night, I still have a tendency to fight back tears when I think about Art or try to talk about him with friends. My friend Connie, who was widowed five years ago, caught me doing just  that when we were together a couple of weeks ago. She hugged me and shared a quote that she has posted by her computer: "Crying is a shower for the soul." Now, when I feel myself clenching my jaw, and my face begins to ache, I realize that it's time to stop trying to distract myself with daily activities and, again, let the tears get the best of me.

Thinking about all this reminded me of a song that Rosey Grier sang on Free to Be You and Me, a Marlo Thomas TV special for children back in the 70s. "It's alright to cry. Crying gets the sad out of you. It's all right to cry. It might make you feel better"—at least for a little while.

Dining Alone

Dinner time is now one of the hardest parts of the day for me. It's not that I've never dined alone before, because I have, many times. Art's job required him to travel a great deal, and, once our children were out on their own, I frequently had dinner alone. But back then, it was a nice change of pace. It allowed me to cook something I liked that Art wouldn't eat,  heat up some leftovers—or just make a bowl of popcorn–and eat in front of the TV. I knew it was temporary. Art would be home by the end of the week. Now I'm back eating in front of the TV every night and I no longer see it as nice change of pace. It's not temporary. It's my new life.

I like to cook and, unlike many retired couples, Art and I had dinner at home together most nights. He didn't like to cook, but he sometimes helped with the "prep" work—peeling potatoes, chopping vegetables, etc.—or grilled the meat, and he always set the table and helped with the clean up. Most nights we opened a bottle of red wine, drank half of it, and saved the rest for the next night. During the late fall and winter months, when the Florida weather cooled and became less humid, we'd eat our dinner on the lanai by candlelight. I miss these rituals more than I could ever have imagined.

This past weekend, I took a major step toward returning to some semblance of normalcy and invited company for dinner Saturday evening. I made a big pot of spaghetti and meatballs, which was one of Art's favorite meals—and mine. As I went about the preparations, I quickly realized how much Art had always contributed when we entertained. I was able to concentrate on the cooking, because I knew he would make sure the house was clean, the table was set and the wine and other drinks were ready.

By the time my company left Saturday night, I was totally exhausted, but I think the evening was a success. And it was so nice not to have to dine alone… in front of the TV…on a Saturday night.

That "Couple Thing"

Earlier this week I spent a wonderful "girls' night out" at a charity event. On the way home the talk focused on trips my friends and their husbands were planning, and a group cruise two of them were taking with other couples from our community. Although my husband wasn't a fan of cruises—and even if he were still alive, we wouldn't be going on the cruise—I briefly found myself feeling very sad and, yes, even a little left out. Thinking about it later, I figured out that the sadness I was feeling was related to the loss of my life as part of a couple.

I've spent more than 47 years as one-half of a couple, and suddenly that aspect of my identity is gone. It's an issue related to being a widow that I never thought about until I became one. I have a number of friends who are widows and I suddenly understand what a difficult transition returning to life as a "single," can be. I suspect people who divorce experience the same sense of loss.

Obviously, I'm just getting started, so can't speak authoritatively on the issue, but I'm feeling some regret for not inviting my current widowed friends to join Art and me for dinner or other social events more frequently. These women immediately welcomed me into their widow's group, inviting me to dinners and movies, and sharing words of comfort and advice. I am grateful to them and hope to continue to enjoy their company. However, I also hope that I'll still get to socialize with the "couple friends" Art and I had. I hope they'll occasionally invite me out for lunch, or dinner, or a movie. I also hope they'll understand that I expect to pay my own way. I want to pay my own way, and I don't want anyone protesting when I tell the waitress I need a separate check.

Good Grief

It seems like an oxymoron. How could grief possibly be good? Obviously, we'd all prefer not to have any grief in our life, but I've learned, from a wise grief counselor, that when we do experience a loss, it's important to accept the reality of our loss and let ourselves grieve. As difficult as it may be, we need to allow ourselves to truly feel the pain of our loss—to cry, to scream, to rail against that higher power that let this happen to our loved one—and then find a way to move beyond it. After all, isn't that what our loved one would want us to do? It takes time. I'm not sure I'm ready yet. I'm still working on letting myself feel the loss.

Several years ago I read a book by Lolly Winston entitled "Good Grief."It is a novel about a woman who became a widow at age 36. The story is both heart wrenching and funny, as the main character tries to come to terms with her husband's death and reinvent her life. She wants to be a graceful and composed widow, like Jackie Kennedy, but, instead, she is "more of a Jack Daniels kind." Of course, when I read the book, I never thought I'd ever actually be a widow, but now that I am, I found myself thinking about the book and recalling one passage in particular: "The funny thing about rock bottom is there's stuff underneath. You think, This is it: I'm at the bottom now. It's all uphill from here! Then you discover the escalator goes down one more floor to another level of the bargain basement of junk."
I think that passage very accurately, and creatively, describes the process of grief.

All the literature on grief describe stages of grief, but emphasizes that it is not a linear process. There are good days and bad days. And just when you think you are having a good day, you walk into the garage and see your husband's golf clubs sitting there, with his cap perched on the head of his 5-wood…

The Beginning

I never saw myself as a widow—I suppose no one does—but that's how the world sees me now. I guess I have no choice but to accept it as my new identity. I don't have to let it define me, though, and that's what I'm working on now.

How does a widow act? What is she supposed to do? I guess the obvious answer is: "Be yourself. Just be yourself." That should be the easy part, but it's difficult to be yourself when your heart is broken. The man I've loved since I was 20 years old died on June 24, 2009, one day after our 47th wedding anniversary. It's been two months now and I still find it hard to believe he's gone. He was one of the truly "good guys," and it's just not fair.

For several weeks after Art died, I woke up every morning with a knot in my stomach, and my first thoughts were:: "I can't do this. I don't want to do this." I desperately wanted my old life back. I still do, but I think I'm finally beginning to accept the fact that my life has been irrevocably changed. As difficult as it is to face, I have to build a new life without Art. I still wake up with a knot in my stomach most mornings, but I'm starting to believe that maybe I can do this.

The good part is I don't have to do it alone. Although I am now physically alone in this retirement home Art and I shared for the last nine years, I'm not really alone. I have four wonderful, loving children who call me every day, a very caring extended family, and a whole community of supportive friends and neighbors who are determined not to let me be lonely.

Before he died, I promised Art I would be okay. It's not going to be easy, but I will keep that promise.