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.