Widow – I Hate That Word

Have you ever considered what it must be like to be a widow (or, if you are a man, a widower)?  I’ve been a widow for more than four years.  I’ve already told you that I HATE that word – widow.  But, that’s what I am – a widow.  Every form I complete wants to know:  married, single, widow.  I always wonder why the form’s maker wants to know.  A woman becomes a widow with the lack of a heartbeat.

How does it feel to be a widow?  Heart broken.  Lost.  Like life has dealt you a horrible poker hand.  But, you take a breath.  Answer the questions.  How are you?  What can I do for you?  Where do you want these flower bouquets?  Where shall I put all of this food?  You don’t really know the answers.  But, you give one to each question.

You’ve called everyone you think should know.  Children.  Granddaughters.  Other relatives.  Friends.  Friends all offer condolences.  What does that mean – condolences?  You wonder if they have just suffered the loss of a loved one.  Or, a long time friend.  An acquaintance.

You’ve gone home from the hospital, if he was in the hospital.  You walk into your home and wonder … what next?  What do you do first?  Second?  Third?  There is a lot to do.  You thought that all the “I-s” were dotted, and the “T-s” crossed, but you find out that that is not true.  Thankfully, the details, large and small, take up some of the time you are feeling alone.  And, then, you realize, you are alone.  Really, alone.

You need to eat¸ so you fix dinner.  Not for two, this time; for one.  What do you do to make a meal for one when all along it was for two?  How long have you cooked?  Twenty – thirty – forty … or, in my case, almost 60 years.  For the two of you before your children were in the picture?  Then, for the family as it grew to whatever size it is, today.  You cooked for the reduced family as they went away to college … jobs …  marriage.  A long time!  So you decide, no more cooking.  You’ve cooked long enough.  Do just enough to keep up your strength.  You’ll prepare food, you just don’t cook.  When you give a new friend a tour of the house, you say, “And, this is the kitchen.  It came with the house.”  And, you eat a lot of cereal!

You start to make peace with yourself.  Slowly.  Very slowly.  You remember those things about him that were funny.  You remember those things about him that were not.  You remember the times you should have been a better wife, more understanding, more caring, more of a helpmate.  You even make them a part of conversations about your situation.  You store the best stories to hold them dear.

I remember the time that a friend said she had something important to tell me.  Something that, as a widow (there’s that word, again), I should really know.  She said, “You’ll put the sugar in the refrigerator – and not know why.  You’ll forget to close and lock the outside door.  You’ll give the cat the dog’s food.  And, the dog the cat’s food.  And, not know why.”

“That,” she said, “is widow brain.”  Expect it to happen.  When her husband of many years died many years ago, it happened to  her.  Another widow clued her in to what was happening.  And, surely enough, it happened to me.  In fact, I was the secretary for an important state teachers’ organization and was reading communications from various people.  I read that the letter was from someone whose name was not on the letter.  Rather, it was the name I said was of a person in my distant past.  The man-person sitting next to me at the officer’s table quietly pointed out my error.  I corrected the name and said, “Oh my, that was a widow brain happening.”  Shortly, the meeting broke for mid-morning refreshments.  A woman, who I judged to be older than I was, approached me and very, very quietly said, “That’s a real thing, you know.”  I was unsure of her remark and asked for some clarification.  “Widow brain,” she repeated in that soft, quiet voice. “It really is a real thing.”  We had a very short conversation about widow brain and returned to our meeting.  Widow brain attacked me, ferociously, for at least six months or more.  It has faded to  about one or two attacks every month.  But, yes – it is a real thing.  And, yes, after four years, it still is around.

Do you ever get angry at him because he died?  I think that the only time I get angry with Larry for dying is when I have to load the car to travel.  He wasn’t very good an knowing how much could fit into a car; I was always the packer.  I was the one who figured out where the boxes and suitcases would fit into the Oldsmobile or the Suburban.  At the time my eldest granddaughter was going to be born, Daughter #1 left her job in Denver to travel to San Diego to be the child’s nanny.  In the weeks before the birth, my living room filled with boxes holding things that my daughter would need in San Diego.  Every day, Larry would come home from work, walk by the boxes, and say, “It will never fit!”  Every day.  “It will never fit!”

The day came when Daughter #3 went to the hospital to give birth, and it was time to pack the car; I would leave for California, the next day.  Larry carried the boxes from the house.  I packed them into the Olds wagon.  When the last box was stowed, Larry made one of his infamous remarks.  “Well,” he said.  “You couldn’t have gotten another box in that car.”  Did I have to remind him that I DIDN’T HAVE ANOTHER BOX TO PUT IN THE CAR!  Yes, I did.  But, now, I have to carry the boxes and bags from the house to pack in the car.

Getting things done is another issue.  I’ve talked, before, about getting big AND little things done.  Fixing the outside faucet that wouldn’t turn off was easy – call a plumber.  Fixing the tile that comes up from the floor of the bathroom – who puts one tile back in place?  Fortunate is the widow who has friends that are able and willing to help.  And, I am fortunate, indeed!

You will cry, more easily, and at the most unexpected times.  Expect to miss the conversations, the dramatic discussions, the arguments, the sharing of discoveries.  My advice to widows, if they care to hear it, is make every attempt to remember the “good times.”  Make pleasant light of difficulties if you choose to discuss them.

Although younger than I, sister Clara joined the widow group years before I joined the group.  It would be good to remember what my sister Clara said, when I asked her if the pain ever really goes away.  She said, “No.”

Be safe and be well.

The Cranky Crone

Thoughtful  comments are appreciated.