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.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
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."
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."
Friday, May 6, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
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.
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.
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