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.

Moving Forward

I read my horoscope in the newspaper every day, and although I don't put a great deal of stock in the "predictions," I was recently struck by a horoscope entry that seems to reflect what is going on in my life.  It read: You will not be sure whether it is you guiding your life or your life guiding you. It really doesn't matter. The important thing is that you are moving forward in a way that feels good to you.


I've written before about my feeling that I have been just drifting through my life since Art's death, and reading that horoscope entry has raised that issue for me again. For 17 months now I've been going along with almost any activity—social or business-related—that friends, family or colleagues have suggested to me. I've been trying to fill the void in my life by staying so busy that I don't leave myself too much time to feel sad and lonely. Does that mean I'm still drifting?

I think that, for me at least, the answer to the question implied in that horoscope entry is: My life is guiding me. Most days I do feel like I am still drifting. Am I at least moving forward? I hope so, but I can't say that I'm totally sure of that. In the last few days I have taken some concrete steps to put my life in better order—to take care of some of the difficult tasks that I've been avoiding for months. They are baby steps, and they seem to be aimed in the right direction, but I still have a long way to go.

Am I moving forward in a way that feels good to me? I think the jury is still out on that one.

Is This a Test?

I can't believe it's been two months since I last wrote in this blog. It has been quite an emotional roller coaster and I guess I've been trying to figure out what it all means without sounding like I'm having a "pity party." Although September began as a bit of a "downer," with the news that two friends have been diagnosed with cancer, it ended on a high note with a family wedding. 


On September 25, My youngest daughter and her girlfriend were married in a beautiful outdoor ceremony at a lovely inn in Vermont—where, by the way, it is legal for same sex couples to marry. (It is also legal in Connecticut where they live.) How fortunate they are. Although it was sad not to have Art there for the wedding, it was the happiest time we'd had as a family since he died.


I came back to Florida a week later feeling like I was finally coming out of a long, dark tunnel, and I was ready to find out what lay ahead. But, unfortunately, all I found at the other end was another tunnel. Less than 36 hours after arriving back home, I was lying on an operating table having emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix. Who knew you could have a ruptured appendix at age 70? It was certainly the last thing I would have thought of. So there I was, again, dependent on my sister and brother-in-law, and my wonderful friends and neighbors, to take care of me. And, once again, they rose to the occasion. My sister and brother-in-law stayed with me for several days, and my friends responded immediately by bringing food, sending cards and flowers, stopping by to see me… How did I get so lucky to be living in this place at this time in my life? How can I ever repay my wonderful friends and family for all they've done for me over the last 2 years?


I'm a "glass half full" kind of person—always able to find one small bright spot no matter how bad the situation—so it pains me to admit that this latest "set back" really tested my innate sense of optimism. I couldn't see one positive thing about it, until several friends pointed out how lucky it was that it hadn't happened just before the wedding; or, worse yet, during the weekend of the wedding. Why hadn't I thought of that? If this had happened to one of my friends, I'd have been the first one to point out the one bright spot in their difficult situation. Clearly, I was too busy feeling sorry for myself; asking myself what I did to deserve this latest setback; wondering if someone was testing me to see how much  adversity I can take before giving in to despair. I almost did give into despair during the 4-day stay in the hospital. I was haunted by memories of all the days and nights spent in hospitals during Art's illness, and I missed him more than ever. Why wasn't he there taking care of me, the way he always did—the way I took care of him?


It's a new month now. I'm gradually regaining my strength, and my incision, which was left open so that it can heal from the inside out to avoid a potential infection, is almost healed. The surgeon discharged me from his care this past Friday—just in time for me to take my first giant step back toward normalcy by following through on plans my friend Kitty and I had made (before the ruptured appendix) to attend the "Rally to Restore Sanity" in Washington DC. We flew out early Saturday morning and were back home by 10:30 that night. It was tiring but well worth the trip. Attending that rally with over 200,000 other "reasonable" people reminded me that the world doesn't revolve around me and my problems. There are thousands who are far worse off than I have ever been. There are serious problems to be solved, and we all need to stop shouting at each other and try to find a way to work together to solve them.


So now that I've had my little "pity party," I think I'm ready to start looking for the light at the end of this new tunnel. 

Learning to Focus on the Happy Times

In this picture, Art is sitting on a wall overlooking a harbor in Marblehead, Massachusetts. When I downloaded the pictures I took on August 31, 2008, this one, in particular, took my attention. I loved it because of the beautiful view, and because Art was sitting quietly enjoying the view completely unaware that I was taking the picture.

I have this picture as "wallpaper" on my computer desktop, so I see it every time I turn on my computer, which is every day. Since Art's death, this picture has taken on an entirely new meaning for me. When I look at it now, I find myself wondering what Art was thinking that day. He hadn't felt well for a couple of days, but still seemed to be enjoying the visit with our son and daughter-in-law. Thinking about it now, exactly two years later, I went back and looked at all the other pictures I took that day and found two other shots of Art, standing alone, with his hands in his back pockets (a familiar pose), seemingly lost in thought. Was he feeling worse than he let on? Was he experiencing the first symptoms of lymphoma? Could he possibly have had a premonition that something life threatening (and ultimately life taking) was about to happen? Did he suspect that he would never feel totally healthy again?

Of course, I can never know the answers to those questions—and there is certainly nothing to be gained by obsessing over them—so I've decided to make a concerted effort to remember the happier moments associated with Art's last visit to the Boston area, where our son Mark and his wife were living at the time. For Art, the happiest moment of the trip came the very next day when he and Mark went to a Boston Red Sox game.  Art was always a Red Sox fan, and had actually planned to take me to a game when we were on our honeymoon. Unfortunately, that didn't work out, and he had to wait  46 years to see the Red Sox play at Fenway Park.

What I'm choosing to remember when I look at this picture now is that, thanks to Mark, Art got to see the Red Sox play in Fenway Park before he died. If he had had a bucket list, I'm sure that would have been on it.

Marking Time

I've recently noticed that I am now keeping track of events in my life based on whether they happened before Art got sick or after he died. I don't know if my friends have noticed. I suspect they probably have. I hope they aren't finding it too morbid. Actually, I don't think it's unusual for people to use traumatic events as sign posts, of sorts, in their lives. Most people in my generation can remember exactly where they were and what they were doing the day President Kennedy was assassinated; and today many Americans point to September 11,  2001 as the day life in America changed forever.

Lately, I've also been thinking about what is going to be different about my life now that I've officially passed the first anniversary of Art's death. I haven't figured it out yet. However, it has occurred to me that during this first year without Art I have been living my life, at least subconsciously, as if this were just a temporary situation—as if he'd be back and life would return to normal at some unspecified time in the future. It seems like I've just been drifting through each day, trying to keep busy, trying not to spend too much time wallowing in my grief. Obviously, I know Art is not coming back, but something has been keeping me  from fully accepting the finality of it all. I can't seem to bring myself to finish getting rid of the rest of his clothes, and his shoes, tools, camera equipment, golf clubs… It's possible that I'm just being lazy, but I suspect it's not that simple.

Last night the Florida sunset was breathtakingly beautiful and I walked out on the lanai to get a better view. While standing there watching the color change from pink to bright red, I was suddenly overwhelmed with sadness and began to cry. I'm not sure why. Maybe it's the realization that this isn't temporary.