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.