Discovering What's Left

A TV sitcom I watched a few weeks ago took an interesting look at the "empty nest syndrome" that mothers often experience when their last child heads off to school. In that scenario, it was the father who seemed to be experiencing the feeling of not being needed any longer. When his wife finally got him to reveal why he was depressed, he confessed, "I always knew what was next, but now I can't think of what's left… except death." That comment was meant to be funny, but it really struck a cord with me and, for some reason, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Now I think I've finally figured out why.

I always thought there was something wrong with me because I never experienced the empty nest syndrome—not when my last child went off to kindergarten; not when my last child went off to college; and not even when the last child finally moved out of the house for good.  Of course, I missed them, but I didn't experience that sense of loss that so many mothers (and probably more fathers than one would think) seem to experience. What I felt was more a sense of freedom—an unburdening—and even a sense of pride in knowing that all four of our children were successfully launched into their own homes and were on their way to building careers, and making plans for their futures. Of course, I wasn't foolish enough to believe that my job as a mother was completely done—a mother never stops worrying about her children—but I was excited about the possibility of doing things I'd always wanted to do, without having to consider how it might impact my children.

Although our nest was empty, I never found myself wondering what was left. I just knew. There would be more time to continue building my career as a freelance writer, more time to read, have lunches and dinners with friends, and, most important, more time to travel with my husband, and just enjoy our time together, uninterrupted by the needs of others. Those empty nest years were all I hoped for, at least as long as they lasted.

When my husband died, I finally learned what it felt like to experience the empty nest syndrome. My nest was emptier than I ever would have imagined. I had never contemplated a life without Art, so for the first time that I can remember, I actually did find myself wondering what was next. However, as bereft as I felt, I didn't think the only thing left was death. I knew, instinctively, there would be something. Life does go on, and I still had my family and friends—and my career (if I still wanted it).

If you've stuck with me this long, you're probably wondering when I'm gong to get to the point, so here it is. In my moments of doubt after I finally made the decision to move to a CCRC, I couldn't  help but think that choosing the CCRC was "the beginning of the end." Although I said it was what I wanted, I wondered if I was just looking for a place to "bide my time"—without all the worries associated with owning a home or condo—while waiting to die? Is that what most people who choose CCRCs are doing? Are they just waiting to die? It's easy to be fooled when you see some residents in the halls and common areas using walkers and canes,  or riding  motorized scooters; but it didn't take me long to discover that my neighbors at Cypress Cove didn't come here to die. They came here to live. And boy do they know how to live!

They are busy every day volunteering at the convenient store; managing our two libraries; tutoring employees for whom English is a second language; running a woodshop where they not only make beautiful wooden bowls and other pieces of art, but also build bookcases, entertainment units and other needed items for fellow residents. They serve on numerous committees. They attend, and even teach, a variety of exercise classes. They help organize a series of monthly lectures and other entertainment programs.  They share all kinds of special talents (painting, sewing, photography…) with anyone who wants to learn a new skill; and they do so much more.

In their "spare" time they play bocce, shuffle board, bridge, Euchre, billiards, Mah Jongg, bingo, horseshoes… They go out to lunch together, attend concerts and theater presentations, and go on group cruises and sight-seeing trips. They compete in remote-controlled yacht races and host Monday afternoon happy hours at the "Yacht Club." The residents at Cypress Cove definitely know how to party, and they never miss an opportunity!

No one I've met in this community is sitting around wondering what's left. They've found what's left and they're enjoying every minute of it.

Making the Transition

Although most of my friends were supportive of my decision to move into a CCRC, I knew that, secretly, they thought I was making a big mistake; that I was too young to make such a drastic change in my life. But, I told myself, they all still had husbands, and didn't know what it was like to eat dinner alone every night, on a tray in front of the TV; to go to bed alone every night, and wake up alone every morning; and to wander through the dark house, on sleepless nights, remembering…

The hardest part of any move other than having to say "goodbye" to  wonderful neighbors, is going through all the accumulated "stuff" and deciding what to keep and what to sell, or give away, or donate. This time, fortunately, the people who bought my house also bought most of my furniture, and I was able to sell all my office furniture to friends, but there were still plenty of other decisions to make. I decided to start with the family pictures—boxes of them, drawers of them, envelopes of them—too many to begin to count. I had always had the good intention to make albums for each of my four children, but never quite got around to it, instead filling box after box with pictures and moving them from one new home to the next.

Now the time had come to pay the price for my procrastination. I got four large envelopes and after many hours, and more than a few tears, I had gone through them all, throwing away the ones that just had, seemingly random, scenery from long forgotten visits to parks, botanical gardens, and lesser known historical landmarks, and dividing the remaining pictures of family and close friends, sometimes arbitrarily, among the four envelopes. In the end, I needed a fifth envelope and a large box to hold some framed pictures and other mementoes that I couldn't quite decide about. Those went to my oldest daughter, giving her (probably unfairly) the responsibility of deciding what to do with them. I suppose that's the price one has to pay for being the first born. I was a middle child, with no discernible responsibility, except to learn from the mistakes my older sister made and try to avoid making those same mistakes. Of course, she thought I was being a "goody two shoes" in attempt to solidify a spot as the "favorite child," but it was really just about self-preservation.

There's no need to bore you with the rest of the sorting, packing, shopping for new furniture and seemingly endless trips to Goodwill. In the end, it all got done—with more than a little help from my daughters, and close friends—and I found myself in my new apartment, still alone, but, somehow, feeling less alone in this smaller, cozier space. Actually, adjusting to my new apartment was the easy part. It felt like "home" almost from the beginning. As for the rest of it, that took awhile. I'd be lying if I said there were no "what have I done" moments. Of course there were, but I'll save those for the next time.

My Next Act

"It's a terrible thing, I think, in life to wait until you're ready. I have this feeling now that actually no one is ever ready to do anything. There is almost no such thing as ready. There is only now. And you may as well do it now. Generally speaking, now is as good a time as any."
Hugh Laurie

It's been three years since I last wrote in this blog. It's not because I haven't wanted to, and it's not because I was suffering from "writers' block." I had just reached the point that I had run the gamut of topics on widowhood, and  I knew it was time to make some meaningful changes in my life. It has taken me awhile to figure out what they should be. I had been living alone in my 4-bedroom, 3-full-bathroom home since Art died in 2009,  and, although I didn't feel  lonely—my wonderful friends made sure of that—I often felt very much alone, especially at night. In addition, the house, which was built in 1999, was likely to start needing major improvements (new air condition unit, hot water heater,  roof…) and that worried me.

It was clearly time to downsize, but I wasn't quite sure how I should do that. Should I look for a smaller house; or would an apartment or condo be better? Or should I make the giant leap of moving to a Continuing Care Retirement Community (CCRC) like some friends of mine were considering, and others had actually done. I had visited one of the most popular CCRCs in my area several times and just couldn't see myself living there. It seemed too large—almost like a small city—and impersonal. Then one day I went with friends to visit a different, somewhat newer, CCRC, and the minute I walked into the lobby, I thought, "I think I could see myself living here, but it's too soon. I'm too young.  I'm just not ready yet."

For awhile, it seemed like a condo would be the best option, but I knew there might come a time that even that would be too much for me to handle. As my friends and family have now heard me explain, ad nauseam—perhaps in an effort to convince myself as much as them—I knew that, should I reach the point that I needed care, I didn’t want to move back up North to be near my kids, and I didn’t want them getting a call one day telling them they had to do something about their mother. They would then be in the position of having to find a place to put me. That would mean another move and, more importantly, that was a decision I wanted to make for myself, while I still had my wits about me. The more I looked into it, it made sense to make this decision when I’m still relatively young and healthy, and do away with any worries about future care. I found an apartment I really liked and put my name on a waiting list in February of 2014, fully expecting that it might take a year or more before the type of apartment I wanted would be available. 

Much to my surprise, one became available in just a three months. Of course, when they called me about the availability, I said, "I'm not ready." Obviously, the savvy marketing person I was working with had heard that more than once before, and knew just how to convince me to "at least come look at it." I did, and I liked it, but I still wasn't convinced I was ready. I had the weekend to decide, and, after much soul searching (and a few tears) I decided it was the right thing to do. I knew it was “meant to be” when I sold my home without having to list it. After several months of renovations, my new "home" was ready and I moved in on September 25, 2014.  

It has been a year now and, although I'm still making some adjustments to this new lifestyle, I can honestly say I’m very happy with my apartment and the new friends I've made here. Not surprisingly, I'm one of the youngest residents (I turned 75 this past July), but most of the people I've met are  certainly young at heart, and in spirit, and continue to be actively involved in life. I am still participating in all the same activities that I’ve always had (I just have to drive a little farther for some of them) and I see my former neighbors and friends on a regular basis. Living here at Cypress Cove (www.cypresscoveliving.org) is about as close to living in a resort hotel as one can get, and I am truly grateful that I was financially able to make this decision. Not everyone has this option.

…so my next act has begun, and there will be many more stories to tell.

Small Victories

Art and I had an"old fashioned" marriage—at least by today's standards. I took care of the kids; did the grocery shopping, cooking, laundry, and most of the cleaning; made doctor and dentist appointments; packed school lunches, drove car pool…all those things that were considered "woman's work" back then (and still are by many). Art took care of the "man's work"—home repair, lawn care, car care, taking out the garbage…and, most important, bringing home the paycheck. Still, we always thought of ourselves as a team. In fact, I can still close my eyes and hear him say, "We make a good team." And we did.

Although Art's job required him to travel quite a bit, when he was home, he never hesitated to help me with household chores. He would set the table for dinner and help clean up afterwords (until the kids were old enough to do it). If he heard the drier buzz, he'd be the first one to get the clothes out, fold them, and put them away. When the kids were babies, he was perfectly comfortable changing their diapers, bathing them, rocking them to sleep… With the possible exception of cooking, there wasn't much he wouldn't do around the house. He didn't like to cook; but I did, so I was perfectly happy to have that job to myself. Still, he did cook occasionally. Like most men, he was good at grilling, and he made good pancakes (the kids called them "panny cakes") and scrambled eggs with ham.

In contrast, other than taking out the garbage when Art was traveling, I rarely did any of those things traditionally called "man's work." I occasionally helped with some of the outside work, like planting flowers and raking some leaves in the fall, but I never mowed the lawn, trimmed the shrubs, or spread mulch; and, although I do know the difference between a regular screwdriver and a phillip's head screwdriver—and how to use a hammer—I never even tried to repair anything inside or outside the house. Of course, I never dreamed I would ever have to. Now I realize that I should have been paying more attention.

In the three years since Art died I have either hired someone or relied on family and friends to help me with the "man's work"—plumbing issues, car repair, and things that required climbing on ladders or running power washers…. Depending on others to help with the things Art routinely handled hasn't exactly bolstered a feeling of self-confidence. That's why I was so pleased with myself when I recently figured out why my dishwasher wasn't working and was able to solve the problem without calling a repairman. I also researched, purchased, and installed a new vacuum system for my pool, with just a little help from a friend.

Small victories, but victories nonetheless.

Best Laid Plans

The poet T. S. Eliot famously wrote that April is the "cruelest" month, but, for me, it's June. I used to look forward to June because it marks the beginning of summer. It is the month of warm days and cool nights, graduations, weddings, Father's Day, my youngest daughter's birthday… I was married in June and that was one of the happiest days of my life. But then Art died in June, just one day after our 47th wedding anniversary, and that was the saddest day of my life. So for me, the month of June now represents both the best and the worst times of my life.

This year June seems particularly cruel, because this is the year Art and I would have celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary. Foolishly, I had already made plans for celebrating our special day. Instead of throwing a big party I wanted to rent a place on Maui (our favorite spot) big enough for the whole family. I even alerted our four children to start saving their money for plane tickets. Looking back on it now, I realize that, even if Art had lived, it would have been a challenge to execute my plan. Maui isn't someplace you go for a long weekend, so, considering the demands of their various jobs and other obligations, it would be difficult to find a date when everyone could take enough time away to make the trip. After Art died, the kids and I talked about my plan and decided we still want to try to have a family gathering in Maui sometime; but it won't be this year, and it probably won't be in June.

Sadly, I won't be celebrating a golden wedding anniversary, but I won't be sitting home alone on June 23rd feeling sorry for myself. I'll be on a tour of Sicily with two of my daughters. Being there on the anniversaries of the best and worst days of my life will be bittersweet, but it seems somehow appropriate. Art's grandparents, on both sides, emigrated to the United States from Sicily and, although we often talked about taking a trip there, we never seemed to find the right time, for reasons that, in retrospect, seem pretty insignificant.

It still saddens me that Art and I never traveled to Sicily together, but I like to think he'll be there with us in spirit.

For Better or Worse

In a recent episode of a popular TV series, two of the characters were talking about the fact that marriage is "for better or worse," when one of them commented, "Oh yes, I forgot about 'or worse.' Nobody told us about that." Although I chuckled at the time, I couldn't help thinking how true it is. When you're going through the excitement of planning a wedding and talking about how wonderful it will be to spend the rest of your life with the one you love, no one mentions the "or worse" part of the vow you're taking. Of course, "worse" is a relative term, and, given the current divorce rate, many couples don't stay married long enough to experience "or worse."

From my perspective, there's nothing worse than having to stand helplessly by as your spouse suffers through a debilitating, ultimately terminal, illness.  So I've already experienced the "or worse" in my marriage, and, although it has been nearly three years since that terrible time, it still haunts me. I suppose it always will at some level. But would I have chosen not to marry if I had known what the "or worse" was going to be? Of course not. As heartbreaking as it was, in the grand scheme of things, it was a small price for me to pay for 47 years spent loving, and being loved by, a wonderful man.

All too often the "or worse" moments in a marriage, especially a longterm marriage, involve the type of debilitating, potentially terminal illness my husband experienced—while I stood helplessly by praying for a miracle that never came. I have several friends who are living that nightmare now, and it saddens me to see them struggling through endless days sitting by hospital beds, or waiting in doctors' offices, emergency rooms, chemotherapy suites… All too often, these friends (some in their late 70s and early 80s) are being asked to make medical decisions they don't fully understand, and not knowing what questions to ask. Is this how we are supposed to spend our "golden years?"

Watching what my friends are going through now—and remembering what Art and I went through three years ago—has started me thinking about the issue of quality versus quantity of life. As fate would have it, a fellow medical writer recently sent a link to a wonderful article about how doctors deal with this issue when faced with medical crises in their own lives. There is a lot of "food for thought" in this article. I think everyone should read it. Here is the link.     http://zocalopublicsquare.org/thepublicsquare/2011/11/30/how-doctors-die/read/nexus/

After reading the article, I couldn't help but think about how nice it would be if we could have a national conversation about this issue without it being used as a political football; and without the use of the term "death panels" being thrown out there to scare senior citizens, or anyone with a life-threatening medical condition. Wouldn't it be nice if patients faced with a potentially terminal illness could feel comfortable about asking their doctors to thoroughly discuss the pros and cons of the treatments they are recommending? Perhaps more importantly, wouldn't it be nice if, when recommending a new cutting edge treatment—or any treatment—to a grievously ill patient, doctors could feel comfortable about talking honestly about quantity versus quality of life issues without fear of being accused of "rationing care?"

During the "or worse" moment in my marriage, I was faced with having to make a decision about how aggressively I wanted doctors to continue treating my husband. Unfortunately, he was not in a position to make that decision for himself, but, because we had both included advance directives about our end-of-life care in our wills, I knew his wishes. It is unimaginably difficult to make the decision to let go of a loved one. You always want to believe there is some miracle treatment that will stave off the inevitable. Fortunately, I had a doctor who was honest, and brave, enough to say, "I think it's time for comfort care." It was painful to hear, but it was the truth.   

That "Couple Thing" Revisited

A couple of weeks ago I received an email from a fellow medical writer who had just discovered my blog, and had found my last post particularly interesting. She shared that she was divorced a few years ago after 25 years of marriage, and that her mother was recently widowed after 60 years of marriage. This sparked her interest in how people rebuild their lives after the death of a spouse, divorce, or the end of any longterm intimate relationship. She also attached an article—How to be Successfully Single in Middle-Age, by Allison Allen—that she had found interesting and had used as the basis for a discussion with her mother about how she might cope with being suddenly alone after all those years of marriage. Although I am well beyond "middle age," I, too, found the article interesting and particularly relevant to women who are "going it alone," either by choice or circumstance, in a society that seems to be designed for couples.

I wrote about what I refer to as that "couple thing" in one of my very first posts and have made reference to the issue in my blog a number of times. For me (and I suspect most widows and widowers) it is one of the most difficult adjustments I have had to make. And, as I wrote in a recent post, it is one that I may never fully be comfortable with. Since Valentine's Day is fast approaching, it seems like an appropriate time to discuss what we widows (and others) might learn about being successfully single. After all, thanks primarily to the greeting card, jewelry, candy and flower industries, Valentine's Day is the ultimate, nationally promoted, day for couples (with New Year's Eve a close second).

Ms. Allen's article focuses on the writings of Mary Lou Serafino, a psychologist who helps people learn how to be comfortable with their singleness. Much of Dr. Serafino's advice is definitely directed toward women who are much younger than I, but she does make some important observations that singles of all ages can learn from. For example, she points out that psychological development does not stop at adulthood, as was once believed, thus giving us the potential to be "very different people 5 years from now than we are today." I also found several other pieces of advice particularly relevant.

• Look at periods of singleness as an investment in yourself—a time to work on finding new interests that will make your life richer. 
• Make it easier on yourself by seeking others who are working toward that same goal.
• Be willing to go beyond your comfort zone, even at the risk of triggering negative emotions.
• Learn to ignore the (mostly well-meaning) expressions of sympathy related to your being single.

Although it's probably not so true for the young single women of today, for someone like me who was part of a couple for more than half her life, it takes considerable courage to go out alone to dinner, or the theater, or even a movie—especially on a Friday or Saturday night. I haven't found that courage yet, but I'm working on it.