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.