Thoughts on the Importance of Girlfriends

For many women, friends are our primary partners through life; they are the ones who move us into new homes, out of bad relationships, through births and illness… Even for women who do marry, this is true at the beginning of our adult lives, and at the end—after divorce or the death of a spouse.

That quote is from an article I read several weeks ago. I jotted it down, because it struck a note with me, and I thought it might be a good topic for a blog post. Unfortunately, I didn't note the source, so I owe the author of that article a sincere apology. After reading the article, I found myself thinking about the important role "girlfriends" have played in the various stages of my life, and I was surprised to realize that I am still in contact with at least one of my "girlfriends" from just about every major stage of my life—beginning as a child, through my college years, and extending through seven relocations during my marriage. Most often, the contacts have been limited to exchanging Christmas cards, emails or Facebook messages, but the bond is still there, and, occasionally, our paths have crossed again, unexpectedly.

One of the earliest memories of my childhood is the red-headed, freckled-faced little girl named Janet who became my first "girlfriend" at the age of 4. She lived across the street from me at the time and, although we've gone in different directions in our adult lives, we are still "best friends"—73 years later! Growing up, we were different sides of the same coin. I was the serious student, she the fun-loving one, always ready for a party. Our mothers said we were "good for each other." I reminded her when it was time to study, and she reminded me when it was time to have some fun. She married a year before I did, but we had our first children (girls) just 25 days apart, which is exactly the difference between Janet's and my ages. We don't have the opportunity to see each other as often as we used to and our phone conversations aren't as frequent as they once were, but when we do connect, it's as if we'd never been apart. Two other girlfriends from my childhood days are now living just a few miles from me here in Florida and we get together occasionally (not nearly often enough) for lunch and to reminisce about "old times" growing up in a small town "where everyone knows your name."

Surprisingly, living in Florida has presented unexpected opportunities for connecting with some of my old girlfriends. Shortly after my husband and I moved here, 17 years ago, I learned that my college roommate Kitsie and her husband regularly spent part of the winter on Sanibel Island, just a few miles from our home. Happily, Kitsie and I managed to get together during several of their visits. Although they no longer come to Sanibel, we still keep in contact via Facebook. Most recently, I was happily surprised to learn that two other girlfriends from my college sorority were vacationing not far from where I live.  Gail and I had been in contact for many years, and had seen each other a time or two recently, but I hadn't seen Diane since we graduated 55 years ago! The three of us met for lunch and, after the first few minutes, it was like we'd never been apart.

When I was a young mother, there were many girlfriends who helped me through the learning curve of motherhood. In truth, I think we actually helped each other as we dealt with the many challenges associated with child rearing. One woman, in particular stands out in my memory, perhaps because she was my first role model as a young mother. I met Ellen when my first child was just a few months old. She was a bit older and, as the mother of three toddlers, far more experienced than I. She was always there to help when I needed it. During the three short years we lived side-by-side in that duplex in Syracuse, NY, we shared what seemed like a lifetime of memories.  Over the intervening years, despite many moves and one long period without communication—when she was undergoing a particularly difficult time in her first marriage—we never entirely lost contact. We are both widows now, and, after 50+ years, we still communicate regularly and have even managed to get together (in Florida) several times in recent years.

No period of my life has been more difficult to navigate than my husband's illness and subsequent death. I couldn't have gotten through it without the support of my wonderful family; but "when the dust had settled" and, of necessity, they all had to deal with their own grief and move on with their lives, it was my closest girlfriends in my Ft. Myers neighborhood who were there to help me pick up the pieces. They let me grieve, but wouldn't let me give up on living the full life that they knew Art would want for me. Although some of them thought I was making a mistake when I made the decision to sell my home and move to a CCRC, they all supported me and helped me make the transition. Fortunately I'm just a 30 minute drive away from my old neighborhood, so we still get together on a regular basis.

As I approach the third year of my new life in Cypress Cove,  I find myself blessed with many new friends, including a group of special "girlfriends," fondly known as the "Merry Widows." Although our ages range from the mid-90s to the mid-70s, our personalities are distinctively different, and we come from different backgrounds, we bonded fairly quickly. Before long, we started meeting  for dinner every Friday night. We laugh together, share our life stories and family news, celebrate birthdays and holidays, give each other moral and physical support when needed, and so much more. Chalk up another lesson learned: You're never too old for new girlfriends.

The circle of women around us weave invisible nets of love that carry us when we're weak and sing with us when we are strong.  (Author unknown)

The Merry Widow Witches of Cypress Cove

The Things I'm Learning

September 25th will be the second anniversary of the day I moved to  Cypress Cove Continuing Care Retirement Community. Although I occasionally find myself longing for my lanai and the easy accessibility to my swimming pool, I can honestly say that I have no regrets about my decision to make this move. This is my home now, in every sense of the word.

These first two years have been quite a learning experience! First and foremost, I've developed a new respect for the process of aging. At age 76, I am one of the younger residents here—the average age is 85—but I'm not the youngest. There are several residents, primarily women, who are still in their mid-to-late 60s and early 70s. Everyone born after December 31, 1939 is currently considered a "youngster"and, with the possible exception of some level of vision and hearing loss, we are a relatively healthy, active group. As such, we've had to learn some important, sometimes amusing lessons, about living successfully with people who may not be quite as physically able as we are.

The first thing I had to learn was to slow down when walking in the common areas. I have always been a fast walker, a habit I developed from my Mom, who, until she developed Parkinson's disease, always seemed to be in a hurry. Now that I'm living in a community where a fairly large percentage of people walk more slowly than I like—either just because of their age or because they are using a cane or walker—I've had to make some decisions about what the correct protocol is. If I get behind someone who is walking too slowly for me, is it rude to pass them by, or should I slow my pace to match theirs, even if I'm in hurry? Before I got to know many of my neighbors, I tended to slow my pace, rather than take a chance on offending someone. Then I injured my ankle (ironically, from my morning power walks) and that solved the problem. The several months it took me to recover taught me a valuable lesson in patience.

I've also learned not to be offended if someone doesn't recognize me the second, third, and even fourth time we meet, even though I am almost always wearing the name tag all residents are given when they move in. It took me awhile to noticed that a number of those residents had the letters VIP on their name tags. At first I thought, "What makes them so special? I'm a new resident. Shouldn't I be a VIP?" Then I learned that VIP stands for "visually impaired." Eventually the VIP people I see on a regular basis began to recognize the sound of my voice and remember my name.

Not surprisingly in this demographic, there are many residents with hearing issues, and that can be frustrating. No doubt, we've all read or heard jokes about aging and hearing loss. Three guys are out walking. The first one says, "Windy , isn't it?" The second one says, "No, it's Thursday." The third one says, "So am I. Let's go get a beer." Well, those kinds of conversations occur on a regular basis among my friends here. I have learned to take them in stride and willingly repeat what I've just said as many times as necessary. At a recent dinner with several of my friends, one of them—who had just finished telling us how much better she could hear since she cleaned her hearing aids—completely misheard a story one of the women was telling. Her response to what she thought she heard was so far off the mark that we couldn't help but laugh, and she joined right in with us.

On a more serious note, I've learned that it's not a good idea to speak to anyone unless you are absolutely sure they can see you, or at least hear you approaching. Several months ago, a friend of mine said "hello" to a mutual friend, who had her back turned as she unlocked her apartment door. The woman was startled and turned so quickly that she fell backward and fractured a bone in her back. Needless to say my friend felt responsible for the injury, although she certainly wasn't. Fortunately, after time in the hospital and weeks in rehab, our friend is back with us, moving a bit more slowly, with the help of a walker, but still engaged and active in community life.

I imagine there are many more lessons to learn, but I suspect I've already learned the most valuable lesson of all. There are times when aging can seem like a curse, unless you're willing to consider the alternative. After all, as one of my old golfing friends used to say, "At least we're on the right side of the grass." In the end, as in most of the challenges we face in life, it really is about what you make of it.

As I've watched my new neighbors joyfully participate in every aspect of community life here, despite their various, sometimes daunting, infirmities, I've gained a new appreciation for the relatively good health I currently enjoy—so what if I can't walk as fast as I used to? And I now know that it is possible to age gracefully.

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

The Corners of My Mind

Anyone who has lost a spouse, child, parent or dear friend knows there is no way to predict when a memory of that loved one may be triggered by something someone says or does, or by something we read in the paper or see on TV. Sometimes the memories are painful and make us cry; sometimes they make us smile.  I still think of my Mom, who died six years ago, whenever I have a dish of ice cream, and I smile. Mom loved ice cream. She had it every night before going to bed, and we used to tease that it was her primary food group. In contrast, my eyes fill with tears every time I hear "Seasons of Love," from the Broadway musical Rent, because it reminds me of my beautiful and loving niece, who died tragically at age 28. After her funeral, we honored her memory by playing a recording of that song while scattering rose petals on the lake behind her parents' home.

After almost two years, I can pretty much predict the triggers that will evoke painful memories of Art. News that someone I know and love has been diagnosed with cancer, or has a spouse or family member battling this insidious disease, inevitably triggers a flood of memories of the months Art struggled with lymphoma. Although I still think of those times more often than I probably should—especially at night when I'm trying to get to sleep—the intensity of my grief has diminished. I think that's a good thing. Grieving can be exhausting.

More and more the memories of Art that pull at the corners of my mind on a daily basis are triggered by mundane activities.  When I'm baking, I think about how Art loved to lick out the bowl especially when  I made lemon pie filling; and if I baked chocolate chip cookies when Art wasn't home, I always saved him a teaspoon of the dough—in the refrigerator carefully wrapped in plastic wrap—for him to eat when he got home. I hear a Johnny Mathis song on the radio and I remember that Art took me to a Johnny Mathis concert on Valentine's Day when I was a senior in college. When I go to Costco, I think of  the many times Art would suggest we do our Costco shopping at lunch time. "I'll even let you buy me lunch," he'd say, and I would tease him about being a "cheap date."

I walk past the kitchen window that looks out onto the lanai and, although I no longer expect to see Art sitting there in his favorite spot, I remember him sitting there reading and listening to jazz on his iPod. Sometimes I would join him, but, except for Sunday mornings when we would sit out there together and read the Sunday paper, more often than not I was busy with a writing project or doing something else around the house. In retrospect, I regret not spending more time sitting out there with him; and for a long time after Art died, I couldn't bring myself sit on the lanai alone.

Now I sit on the lanai and read quite often. I listen to my iPod, and I even sit in Art's favorite spot. I think that would be called "making progress."

Remembering Mom

I will be missing Art on Mother's day—as I do every day—but, most of all, I'll be missing my Mom, who died in 2005 at age 90. I still think of her just about every day. She was only 60 when my father died and she spent the next 30 years alone. Sadly, until I became a widow, I'm not sure I truly understood how difficult those years must have been for her. She never complained about being alone or lonely, although I'm sure there must have been times that she felt that way.

In 1971, when I was writing a weekly column for a small local paper in Buffalo, New York, I wrote a special Mother's Day column in honor of my Mother. I'm sharing it here—40 years later—in her memory, and as a tribute to all mothers.

A Tribute to Mother

When I was a baby, Mother was a blurry, disembodied face; a warm gentle touch; the smell of milk, cereal, applesauce and baby powder; and a quiet voice softly chanting, "Don't cry baby, Mommy's  here."

When I was a  toddler, Mother was a comfortable, secure face—sometimes frowning, sometimes laughing, usually smiling; a strong hand helping me to cross the street or climb the stairs, and guiding me firmly away from danger; the smell of perfume, peanut butter and homemade chocolate cake; a sharply critical, "No, no, don't touch!"or gently assuring, "Don't cry, honey, Mommy will kiss it better."

As I grew older, and less dependent, I saw Mother through different eyes. I saw her as a person unlike the mothers of my friends—prettier than many; more patient than some, but often more demanding; and not always as talented or as understanding as I thought other mothers were. But she was always there when I needed her—waiting to brush away the tears and ease the pains of growing with a warm embrace or a comforting word. "Don't cry, sweetheart, there will be another dance."

I thought I knew what it was to be a mother—to cook, sew, wash, iron, clean house, attend PTA meetings and Brownie field trips, help with homework, administer first aid and words of advice, though not always welcomed—but I didn't really know. I didn't know about the joy of watching an infant sleeping, knees up, mouth moving in a slow sucking motion. I didn't know the excitement of watching a toddler's first, faltering steps, or the feelings of remorse while watching that toddler sleeping like an angel after a day filled with scoldings—to kiss a cheek and utter a silent vow that tomorrow there would be no sharp words.

I didn't know what it was like to lie awake and worry through each childhood illness, no matter how slight; to watch with breathless anxiety, which dare not be uttered, through each painful learning experience—riding a bike, roller skating, crossing the street unaided—to smile bravely, through misty eyes, as each child goes off to school, alone, for the first time; to want desperately to protect them from all the hurts, large or small, of growing.

I didn't know that a mother's anger is usually a "cover up" for fear and worry; that mothers often cry behind closed doors after administering punishment; that a mother's demands are not made easily—it's much simpler to make none—but with love, and the knowledge that a child who cannot meet the simple demands of family life cannot survive in the complex adult world.

I knew none of these things, but I'm a mother now…and I'm learning.

Memory Lane

As I've mentioned previously, I read my horoscope daily and, although I really don't put much stock in it, every once in awhile it seems particularly relevant to what is going on in my life. That was the case yesterday when I read this: You cannot unlive what you have lived, but you can find another way to respond to it. You'll take a judicious trip down memory lane, and it will be a little like cropping a picture and keeping the best parts of the image in the frame.

That's good advice for me to follow during the next couple of months as I approach the second anniversary of Art's death. Because few of the memories of what was going on in my life at this time two years ago are happy ones, it is important that the trips I take down memory lane, especially during May and June, are "judicious." And it will take more than a little "cropping" to keep only the best parts of the image in the frame. Thinking back on it now, there are very few images from those months that I would want to keep.

The one I've been thinking about most often lately is one that can both make me smile and bring me to tears. It happened during what turned out to be our last trip to the cancer center, where Art had a battery of tests to see if the latest round of chemo had slowed or arrested the lymphoma. We were staying in one of those suites hotels, which had two double beds and a living area with a couch that made into a double bed. Our youngest daughter was with us, and under normal conditions, Art and I would have slept in one bed and she would have slept in the other. However, conditions were anything but normal. Because I had broken my humerus a couple of weeks earlier and, with my arm in a sling, was unable to sleep comfortably, I insisted on sleeping in the couch/bed so that my restlessness wouldn't disturb anyone.

Early the next morning, before it was even light out, Art came into the living area to see if I was awake. I was. He asked if it was alright to get in bed with me and, of course, I said yes. He laid down next to me, held me as close as possible, considering the condition of my arm, and we talked quietly about how much we'd missed sharing these quiet moments of closeness and how happy we would be to be intimate once again…when he was better and my arm had healed. He died just a little over a week later.

Although I wish I could "unlive" most of what led to that moment, it is an image I'm choosing to keep in the frame.

On Being Alone

I've been living alone for almost two years now, but I don't think I'm very good at being alone—at least not yet. The truth is, I never really lived alone, or  even had a room of my own, before. When I was young, I shared a room with my sister, and during my four years at college, I had as many as 3 roommates at a time.  Art and I were married three weeks after I graduated and we began sharing a bedroom, a home and a life. Over the years, Art's work required him to travel a great deal, but our four children kept me from being alone. He continued to travel occasionally after the kids left the nest, so of course, technically at least, I was alone during the times when he was gone. However, it really wasn't the same. He was rarely gone for more than a few days at a time, and, as I mentioned in a previous post, it was actually a nice change of pace for both of us. And, most importantly, I always knew he'd be back.


Last week was the quietest week I've had in a very long time, with nothing on my calendar except for one dinner with friends. I was actually looking forward to it and thought I'd make some headway on some chores I've been putting off for a long time. I also thought I would enjoy having all that time to myself. For the first couple of days, it felt good to not have any obligations, but that feeling disappeared pretty quickly. By the time Saturday evening rolled around I was very much aware of how alone I am (and I was more than a little annoyed at myself because I had made almost no progress on those chores I'd been avoiding for months). Don't get me wrong. I'm not lonely. There is a difference. I have wonderful friends and family who keep me from being lonely. But there is nothing to keep me from being alone—at least nothing I'm willing to consider at this point in my life.


While I was taking my early morning walk today, I heard a song on my iPod Shuffle that is helping me see things from a different perspective. The song, sung by Sarah Brightman and Paul Stanley, was "I Will Be With You." The lyric that struck a chord with me was this: When you realize you were loved, you will never be alone.


I was loved.

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.