A Rebirth—of Sorts

I was talking with a friend about grief recently when she asked, "Have you gone through the stages?"  Obviously, she meant the 5 stages of grief, first proposed by Elizabeth-Kubler Ross in her book On Death and Dying, but I didn't know how to answer that question. It has been two and a half years since Art died so I must have gone through them, at least on a subconscious level, but I couldn't say for sure. Should I have been keeping track?


After thinking about this for awhile, I had to admit that I couldn't remember exactly what the five stages are, so I decided to look it up. Thanks to "Google," (How did we ever survive without Google?) it only took a few seconds to refresh my memory and realize that I probably have gone through all of the stages—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance—but not necessarily in that order or in an obvious way. And, in a sense, I have been keeping track through this blog. Although not specifically named, the stages of grief are all reflected in my more than 40 postings. Furthermore, the process of writing this blog has helped me navigate through the difficult grieving process. Writing about my emotional journey has helped me to understand it. To some, writing this blog may seem self-indulgent, and perhaps it is; but, to me, it has been a saving grace.


As I've written so many times, the grieving process is not linear and it is not the same for everyone. I'm continuing to work on the acceptance stage. It is getting better, but I still find myself looking at Art's picture in disbelief and asking myself, "How could this have happened to us? Why did this happen to us?" There are no answers.


The New Year is just days away and something I read in my horoscope recently has given me a new perspective on my life as a widow. It read, "In many ways, you are just being born." Those words made me realize that life after the death of a spouse is very much like being born again. Successfully navigating widowhood requires letting go of memories of what life was like as part of a couple. It requires taking chances on new adventures and making new memories. That is the journey I am on now. 


I took an important first step this past November when I went on my very first cruise. It was the trip of a lifetime and, because Art had no interest in cruising (and I didn't think I did either), it was something we would never have done together. I'm looking forward to making more new memories in 2012. I'll keep you posted.

Whose Business Is it Anyway?

My friends and I have had some interesting discussions lately about how differently men and women handle the loss of a spouse. We have actually talked about this before, but the discussion was sparked anew by the recent news that the husband of a dear friend had started dating within weeks of his wife's death, and was proudly introducing a new woman in his life to the circle of friends he and his wife had shared as a couple. I have to admit that, when I heard about this, I felt a pang of betrayal on behalf of my friend; and I couldn't help but wonder if Art would have been so quick to search for female companionship if I had died first. My heart tells me he wouldn't have been, but, the truth is, it's impossible to predict how any individual might react to the loss of a loved one. And, more importantly, it is really nobody else's business.

Still, it is an interesting subject to think about. For years, I've heard it said that a man who has been happy in his marriage is more likely to remarry fairly soon after his wife's death—and statistics seem to bear that out. In fact, I can think of at least a half dozen male acquaintances who have begun dating within weeks and remarried within a year of their wive's deaths. But is the reverse true? If a man does not remarry shortly after his wife's death, or ever, does that mean he wasn't happy in his marriage? Does this also apply to women? Because women generally do not remarry quickly, or at all, after the loss of a spouse, does it mean they weren't happy in their marriage? Obviously, the answer to both those questions is "of course not."

Clearly, there are many factors involved in a widowed individual's decision to begin dating and/or to remarry that have nothing to do with how much they loved their deceased spouse or how happy they were in their marriage. I think, in many cases, it has more to do with how long they had been married; how old they are; how comfortable they are with living alone; how much they depended on their spouse for such things as doing household chores, handling finances, making and managing social engagements…; and, most important, what kind of a support system  they have.

I'm not alone in believing that one of the primary reasons men and women react differently to the loss of a spouse is the fact that most women have "girlfriends," who give them emotional support, and encourage them to stay active and involved. As I've written many times before, my wonderful circle of girlfriends has been the saving grace for me. I'm not sure where I'd be without them.  Do I think it might be nice to have a male friend to go out to dinner with once in awhile or who might join me for social occasions with other couples? The answer to that is "yes, I think it probably would be nice to go out with other couples and not always feel like a "fifth wheel." However, even though I've now been alone for almost 2 and 1/2 years, I have no desire to be part of the dating scene.

We each have to find our own way to deal with our loss and get on with life in a way that is comfortable for us. What works for me doesn't necessarily work for someone else. I spent more than half of my life with a wonderful man whom I loved very much and who fulfilled me in every way, and I'm not looking for a replacement. But if I were, it would be nobody's business but mine.

Sleep

It has been almost two months since I last wrote in my blog, and I think that is probably a good thing. It's a sign that I am keeping busy—primarily traveling and doing some volunteer work—and that I'm not spending as much time focusing on the "trials" of widowhood and thinking about what is missing in my life. I am actually starting to spend more time thinking about other things, and one of the issues I've been thinking about lately is sleep—or the lack of it.

What is it about post-menopausal women and sleep? It seems like the inability to fall asleep and/or stay asleep is one of the primary topics of conversation among my friends, most of whom are post-menopausal. For a while after Art died, it was easy for me to blame my grief for difficulties falling asleep, or for staying asleep for more than a couple of hours at a time. There is no doubt that it did play a role during those first months, or even longer; but the truth is, over the years, beginning when I was in my mid-40s, there have been many periods of time when I have had difficulty either falling asleep or staying asleep, or both. That seems to be the story for many of my friends too. So, I've come to the totally unscientific conclusion that this difficulty with getting a good night's sleep is primarily a women's issue.

I know all the tips for avoiding insomnia: don't drink caffeine for at least 8 hours before bedtime; avoid alcohol, nicotine and stimulating activities in the hours before bedtime; don't use the bed for anything but sleeping (and sex); go to bed and get up at the same time every day; avoid napping during the day; keep the bedroom dark and cool… And if all else fails, there is always Ambien. Sleeping pills have come a long way in recent years. They are less sedating and not as likely to be physically addicting, but I am still reluctant to take them on a regular basis. Still, getting a good night's sleep is important to our overall health, so I keep them handy, especially when I travel.

There is some medical evidence that hormones can have an effect on a woman's sleep pattern, especially during perimenopause. But, in my totally unscientific opinion, I think one of the main problems with getting a good night's sleep—at least for women my age—is our inability to shut off our minds at bedtime.

There is an old John Denver song that advises: Sweet, sweet surrender/live, live without care/like the fish in the water/like the birds in the air. If only we women could learn to do that, we'd all be getting a lot more sleep.

What I've Learned

It has now officially been two years since Art died. It's difficult for me to believe it has been that long, because I still miss him every single day. I was fortunate to be able to be away from home and with all four of our children again this year so I didn't have to spend that sad "anniversary" alone. We all gathered in New York City, where my son and his wife live, and had a good time sharing memories, eating good food and exploring the city. I know that one of these days, I will have to face the anniversary of Art's death at home alone, but I'm glad it wasn't this year. I don't think I was quite ready yet.

I've spent these few days since I returned home thinking about some of the things I've learned during these two years since Art's death.  I think the most important lesson I've learned about living alone, at my age, is that I need to stay alert—every minute of every day. I can't afford to let myself be distracted  and, for example, absent-mindedly leave a burner on, or trip over something and fall. After all, I've already had one fall in the house resulting in a broken arm. (Fortunately, I wasn't alone when that happened.) I've learned to stand a few seconds when I get  up from a chair or out of bed, to make sure I have my balance before I start walking. And I've learned to always keep the phone right beside me when I am sitting watching TV or reading, so that I won't be tempted to jump up and rush to answer it, potentially risking a fall.

Another important lesson I've learned about living alone is to keep the lines of communication with my neighbors open, so that they are aware of my comings and goings. Several months after Art died, I neglected to tell my next door neighbors that I was taking a short trip. My neighbors across the street knew I was going, but, unfortunately, they were gone for a couple of days during that same time period. When my next door neighbor noticed there hadn't been any activity in my home for a day or two, she  tried to call me to make sure everything was okay. Of course, I didn't answer the phone, so she came and rang my doorbell. She does have a key to my house, but instead of using it, decided to call my daughter in CT who told her that I was traveling. When I returned home, she apologized for calling my daughter saying, "You and she must think I'm a really nosey neighbor." I assured her that I was the one who should be apologizing for not telling her I was going to be away; and I thanked her for caring enough to check on me. It is a great comfort for me, and my children, to know that my neighbors are watching over me.

I've learned to manage most of the things that Art always took care of, but I've also come to realize that there is no shame in asking for help with some things, or in paying someone to do them for me—especially if they involve climbing on ladders or using potentially dangerous electrical equipment. However, I have to admit that it still sometimes bothers me to ask for help.

I've learned that it's important for me to get out and be with people on a regular basis. I am much better off psychologically if I don't spend too many days home alone, where my thoughts inevitably begin dwelling on unhappy memories of the past. It's strange how that works. It's not that I don't have memories of Art when I am busy and active. It's just that those memories are more likely to be of happy times.

I've learned that just because I have begun to talk to myself on a regular basis it does not necessarily mean I'm going crazy. At least, I hope that's the case. I seem to remember hearing somewhere that you don't have to worry until you start answering back.

I've learned that the "couple thing" will probably always be an issue for me. I still find myself feeling a twinge of sadness and envy when I hear my friends talk about the fun things they and their husbands do together or with other couples. BUT, I think it would be even more upsetting if they didn't talk about those things around me.

I've learned that no matter what I am doing or how happy I am at any given moment (I do have many moments of happiness), I can't entirely shake the feeling that a piece of me is missing. I know that may get better in time, but even if it doesn't, it's okay, because it's the sad truth. A piece of me is missing.

The Corners of My Mind

Anyone who has lost a spouse, child, parent or dear friend knows there is no way to predict when a memory of that loved one may be triggered by something someone says or does, or by something we read in the paper or see on TV. Sometimes the memories are painful and make us cry; sometimes they make us smile.  I still think of my Mom, who died six years ago, whenever I have a dish of ice cream, and I smile. Mom loved ice cream. She had it every night before going to bed, and we used to tease that it was her primary food group. In contrast, my eyes fill with tears every time I hear "Seasons of Love," from the Broadway musical Rent, because it reminds me of my beautiful and loving niece, who died tragically at age 28. After her funeral, we honored her memory by playing a recording of that song while scattering rose petals on the lake behind her parents' home.

After almost two years, I can pretty much predict the triggers that will evoke painful memories of Art. News that someone I know and love has been diagnosed with cancer, or has a spouse or family member battling this insidious disease, inevitably triggers a flood of memories of the months Art struggled with lymphoma. Although I still think of those times more often than I probably should—especially at night when I'm trying to get to sleep—the intensity of my grief has diminished. I think that's a good thing. Grieving can be exhausting.

More and more the memories of Art that pull at the corners of my mind on a daily basis are triggered by mundane activities.  When I'm baking, I think about how Art loved to lick out the bowl especially when  I made lemon pie filling; and if I baked chocolate chip cookies when Art wasn't home, I always saved him a teaspoon of the dough—in the refrigerator carefully wrapped in plastic wrap—for him to eat when he got home. I hear a Johnny Mathis song on the radio and I remember that Art took me to a Johnny Mathis concert on Valentine's Day when I was a senior in college. When I go to Costco, I think of  the many times Art would suggest we do our Costco shopping at lunch time. "I'll even let you buy me lunch," he'd say, and I would tease him about being a "cheap date."

I walk past the kitchen window that looks out onto the lanai and, although I no longer expect to see Art sitting there in his favorite spot, I remember him sitting there reading and listening to jazz on his iPod. Sometimes I would join him, but, except for Sunday mornings when we would sit out there together and read the Sunday paper, more often than not I was busy with a writing project or doing something else around the house. In retrospect, I regret not spending more time sitting out there with him; and for a long time after Art died, I couldn't bring myself sit on the lanai alone.

Now I sit on the lanai and read quite often. I listen to my iPod, and I even sit in Art's favorite spot. I think that would be called "making progress."

Remembering Mom

I will be missing Art on Mother's day—as I do every day—but, most of all, I'll be missing my Mom, who died in 2005 at age 90. I still think of her just about every day. She was only 60 when my father died and she spent the next 30 years alone. Sadly, until I became a widow, I'm not sure I truly understood how difficult those years must have been for her. She never complained about being alone or lonely, although I'm sure there must have been times that she felt that way.

In 1971, when I was writing a weekly column for a small local paper in Buffalo, New York, I wrote a special Mother's Day column in honor of my Mother. I'm sharing it here—40 years later—in her memory, and as a tribute to all mothers.

A Tribute to Mother

When I was a baby, Mother was a blurry, disembodied face; a warm gentle touch; the smell of milk, cereal, applesauce and baby powder; and a quiet voice softly chanting, "Don't cry baby, Mommy's  here."

When I was a  toddler, Mother was a comfortable, secure face—sometimes frowning, sometimes laughing, usually smiling; a strong hand helping me to cross the street or climb the stairs, and guiding me firmly away from danger; the smell of perfume, peanut butter and homemade chocolate cake; a sharply critical, "No, no, don't touch!"or gently assuring, "Don't cry, honey, Mommy will kiss it better."

As I grew older, and less dependent, I saw Mother through different eyes. I saw her as a person unlike the mothers of my friends—prettier than many; more patient than some, but often more demanding; and not always as talented or as understanding as I thought other mothers were. But she was always there when I needed her—waiting to brush away the tears and ease the pains of growing with a warm embrace or a comforting word. "Don't cry, sweetheart, there will be another dance."

I thought I knew what it was to be a mother—to cook, sew, wash, iron, clean house, attend PTA meetings and Brownie field trips, help with homework, administer first aid and words of advice, though not always welcomed—but I didn't really know. I didn't know about the joy of watching an infant sleeping, knees up, mouth moving in a slow sucking motion. I didn't know the excitement of watching a toddler's first, faltering steps, or the feelings of remorse while watching that toddler sleeping like an angel after a day filled with scoldings—to kiss a cheek and utter a silent vow that tomorrow there would be no sharp words.

I didn't know what it was like to lie awake and worry through each childhood illness, no matter how slight; to watch with breathless anxiety, which dare not be uttered, through each painful learning experience—riding a bike, roller skating, crossing the street unaided—to smile bravely, through misty eyes, as each child goes off to school, alone, for the first time; to want desperately to protect them from all the hurts, large or small, of growing.

I didn't know that a mother's anger is usually a "cover up" for fear and worry; that mothers often cry behind closed doors after administering punishment; that a mother's demands are not made easily—it's much simpler to make none—but with love, and the knowledge that a child who cannot meet the simple demands of family life cannot survive in the complex adult world.

I knew none of these things, but I'm a mother now…and I'm learning.

Memory Lane

As I've mentioned previously, I read my horoscope daily and, although I really don't put much stock in it, every once in awhile it seems particularly relevant to what is going on in my life. That was the case yesterday when I read this: You cannot unlive what you have lived, but you can find another way to respond to it. You'll take a judicious trip down memory lane, and it will be a little like cropping a picture and keeping the best parts of the image in the frame.

That's good advice for me to follow during the next couple of months as I approach the second anniversary of Art's death. Because few of the memories of what was going on in my life at this time two years ago are happy ones, it is important that the trips I take down memory lane, especially during May and June, are "judicious." And it will take more than a little "cropping" to keep only the best parts of the image in the frame. Thinking back on it now, there are very few images from those months that I would want to keep.

The one I've been thinking about most often lately is one that can both make me smile and bring me to tears. It happened during what turned out to be our last trip to the cancer center, where Art had a battery of tests to see if the latest round of chemo had slowed or arrested the lymphoma. We were staying in one of those suites hotels, which had two double beds and a living area with a couch that made into a double bed. Our youngest daughter was with us, and under normal conditions, Art and I would have slept in one bed and she would have slept in the other. However, conditions were anything but normal. Because I had broken my humerus a couple of weeks earlier and, with my arm in a sling, was unable to sleep comfortably, I insisted on sleeping in the couch/bed so that my restlessness wouldn't disturb anyone.

Early the next morning, before it was even light out, Art came into the living area to see if I was awake. I was. He asked if it was alright to get in bed with me and, of course, I said yes. He laid down next to me, held me as close as possible, considering the condition of my arm, and we talked quietly about how much we'd missed sharing these quiet moments of closeness and how happy we would be to be intimate once again…when he was better and my arm had healed. He died just a little over a week later.

Although I wish I could "unlive" most of what led to that moment, it is an image I'm choosing to keep in the frame.

On Being Alone

I've been living alone for almost two years now, but I don't think I'm very good at being alone—at least not yet. The truth is, I never really lived alone, or  even had a room of my own, before. When I was young, I shared a room with my sister, and during my four years at college, I had as many as 3 roommates at a time.  Art and I were married three weeks after I graduated and we began sharing a bedroom, a home and a life. Over the years, Art's work required him to travel a great deal, but our four children kept me from being alone. He continued to travel occasionally after the kids left the nest, so of course, technically at least, I was alone during the times when he was gone. However, it really wasn't the same. He was rarely gone for more than a few days at a time, and, as I mentioned in a previous post, it was actually a nice change of pace for both of us. And, most importantly, I always knew he'd be back.


Last week was the quietest week I've had in a very long time, with nothing on my calendar except for one dinner with friends. I was actually looking forward to it and thought I'd make some headway on some chores I've been putting off for a long time. I also thought I would enjoy having all that time to myself. For the first couple of days, it felt good to not have any obligations, but that feeling disappeared pretty quickly. By the time Saturday evening rolled around I was very much aware of how alone I am (and I was more than a little annoyed at myself because I had made almost no progress on those chores I'd been avoiding for months). Don't get me wrong. I'm not lonely. There is a difference. I have wonderful friends and family who keep me from being lonely. But there is nothing to keep me from being alone—at least nothing I'm willing to consider at this point in my life.


While I was taking my early morning walk today, I heard a song on my iPod Shuffle that is helping me see things from a different perspective. The song, sung by Sarah Brightman and Paul Stanley, was "I Will Be With You." The lyric that struck a chord with me was this: When you realize you were loved, you will never be alone.


I was loved.

Things Unsaid

So much to say in a marriage, so much unsaid. 

You reason that there will be other times, other occasions. 

Years! Joyce Carol Oates

In my last post (2/17/11), I mentioned several recently published books on widowhood, including "A Widow's Story," by Joyce Carol Oates. At the time, I really had no plans to read any of the books on that list. However, after reading a recent, positive review of Ms. Oates' book, I decided to download it on my Kindle. After all, she and I graduated from the same college (Syracuse University), I have followed her career for years, and I went to hear her speak just a little over a month after her husband's death in February 2008. She didn't mention it that night so I didn't know the story of her loss until I started reading her book. I haven't finished reading it yet, but I have been struck by how much some of the experiences she describes, especially with the healthcare system, mirror mine.

The book is beautifully written, but I've found it a bit more difficult to read than I anticipated. I've identified so strongly with the emotions she expresses that it has triggered some painful memories of Art's illness and subsequent death. In particular, the quotation I've included at the beginning of this post has reminded me of one regret I still have about the last few months of Art's life. I regret that we never discussed the very real possibility that he might die. I suspect it was because neither of us wanted to admit it—as if actually saying it out loud would make it true.

We knew from the beginning Art's condition was very serious, but there was always a ray of hope that the treatment would at least put him into remission, and maybe he'd even qualify for a stem cell transplant. I guess we thought we'd reach a point when we'd know he'd run out of options, and then we'd have an opportunity to make peace with it, and could spend what time we had left just being together and saying all the things we'd left unsaid during our 47-year marriage—things we didn't think we needed to say, because we knew them in our hearts. Maybe we weren't going to have enough time to do everything we'd dreamed about, but we had had a remarkably good life. We were happy together—always. We were both proud of the four children we had raised, and, most importantly, we loved each other unconditionally. At least, that's what I thought.

I can't be sure that Art had the same thought, because the end came so unexpectedly and so quickly. By the time it became clear that nothing more could be done for him, he was uncommunicative. In the hours before he died, when he was in hospice care, I told him I loved him—as I did every single day for the nearly 50 years we were together. I told him how grateful I was for the wonderful life he'd given me—a life far better than I could have ever imagined—and I assured him I would be alright. I don't know if he heard me or understood what I was saying, but I need to believe that he did.

It's Not the Same

I was talking with a friend, and former golfing "buddy," of Art's a couple of weeks ago, and he commented that he hasn't played golf at our club much since Art died. "It's just not the same without Art," he said. I've been thinking about that conversation a great deal lately. I don't know why it hasn't occurred to me before, because it's so simple. Those five words really sum up life after the loss of a spouse. It's just not the same. I'm living in the same house, sleeping in the same bed, participating in many of the same activities, going to many of the same places, seeing many of the same friends…but nothing is the same. And it never will be. Finally accepting that fact isn't easy, but it is an essential, and final, stage in the grieving process. After 19 months of widowhood, I think I've reached that stage. I've accepted that things will never be the same, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.

There was an interesting OpEd piece in yesterday's NY Times that dealt with how individuals typically grieve. The author, Ruth Davis Konigsberg, began by mentioning Joan Didion's best selling book, "The Year of Magical Thinking," which chronicled the sudden death of her husband and the year that followed. I read the book several years before I became a widow. I found it beautifully written and deeply emotional, but it never occurred to me that I might some day actually be able to identify with Joan Didion in a very personal way. As I mentioned in my very first blog post (August, 2009), I never saw myself as a widow, despite the fact that my Mother was widowed at age 60 and lived alone for the next 30 years. I guess that was "magical thinking" on my part.

In her article, Ms. Konigsberg mentioned several other first-person accounts of losing a husband that have been published since Joan Didion's book. They include "Here If you Need Me," by Kate Braestrup; "Epilogue," by Anne Roiphe; "Nothing Was the Same," by Kay Redfield; and "A Widow's Story,"  Joyce Carol Oate's recently released memoir. I haven't decided if I want to read any of them.

The point Ms. Konigsberg was trying to make is that, although these memoirs can be moving, they are really just very subjective snapshots of how each of these women experienced the death of her spouse. They don't teach much about how individuals typically grieve or for how long. She went on to cite recent studies by social scientists that indicate there are specific patterns to the intensity and duration of grief that can be more useful in helping the bereaved know what to expect. According to Ms. Konigsberg, these studies have found that older people who lose spouses from natural causes recover much more quickly than people have come to expect. In fact, many people have progressed beyond acute grief within six months after their loss. Of course, that doesn't mean they still don't miss their spouses. It just means they've returned to a somewhat normal life.

I think that's where I am now, and maybe this is as good as gets.

A New Year

Another holiday season has come and gone—the second one since Art died—and we are already a full month into a New Year. I'm not sure that this holiday season was easier than it was last year, but it wasn't harder, either. It was just different, and quieter, but not necessarily in a bad way. I kept last year's resolution and sent Christmas cards and an explanatory letter to friends who still didn't know about Art's illness and death. That resulted in phone calls and letters that brought back a flood of memories and some tears. Would it have been easier if I had done it sooner? There's no way to know that, and it really doesn't matter now, but I do feel relieved to have finally done it.

I've spent these first few weeks of the new year wondering about what lies ahead for me. Will this year be better than the last? Will I start missing Art less than I do right now? Will I stop thinking of him the first thing in the morning and the last thing at night? Will all those "special" occasions be easier to face this second year without him? Certainly, I hope 2011 will be better than last year, not just for me, but also for our country. But, to tell the truth, the possibility of missing Art less, and not starting and ending my days with thoughts of him, scares me a little. I don't want to forget him—ever—but I do want, and need, to stop just "going through the motions," and move on with my life in some truly meaningful way. I guess that finally figuring out how to do that should be my challenge for 2011.

I have four friends who have been widowed in the past few months and they need me to assure them that "things get better." Obviously, things do get better, as long as we're willing to keep trying to make them better; but it doesn't happen overnight and, as any grief counselor will tell us, it's not a linear process. Even after a year, I still have my "good" days and my "bad" days. I've experienced a number of truly happy moments this past year, but they've all been tinged with some level of sadness. Surely, that will change in time. Surely, I will experience pure joy again.