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.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
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/
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.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, August 29, 2011
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 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.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
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.
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.
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