The Largest Unorganized Organization in the World

A NOTE TO MY READERS. RECENTLY, THE SPOUSES OF SEVERAL OF MY FRIENDS HAVE PASSED. THAT IS THE REASON FOR THIS BLOG. I WROTE THIS ARTICLE FIVE YEARS AFTER THE DEATH OF MY HUSBAND. PERHAPS, TODAY, IT WILL HELP IN SOME SMALL WAY WITH THOSE OF YOU HAVE BEEN AND CURRENTLY ARE IN THIS SITUATION. I JOINED THE WIDOWHOOD GROUP IN 2017. THIS ARTICLE WAS PUBLISHED IN 2022 IN THE BOOK, UNPLUGGED VOICES, 125 Tales of Art and Life from Northern New Mexico, the Four Corners and the West. IT HAS BEEN GENTLY EDITED SINCE THAT PUBLICATION.

A woman becomes a widow in a heartbeat. Or, rather, with the lack of a heartbeat. It’s the largest unorganized organization in the world – Widowhood. Have you ever considered what it must be like to be a widow (or, if you’re a man, a widower)? I’ve been a widow for almost five years. 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.

How does it feel when joining this group? 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 address each question. You’ve called everyone you think should know. Children. Grandchildren. 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. Or acquaintance.

You’ve gone home from the hospital, or hospice, or nursing home. You walk into your home and wonder: what next? What do you do first? Second? Third? You thought that all of the “I”s were dotted, and the “T”s crossed, but you find out there is a lot to do. Thankfully, details, large and small, take up some of the time, mitigating the alone feeling. And, then, you realize, you are alone. Really, alone.

You need to eat, so you fix dinner. Not for two, this time; for one. How to make a meal for one when all along it was for two? How long did you cook? Twenty – thirty- forty – or, in my case, almost sixty years. “For the two of you before your children were in the picture? Then, for the family as it grew.

Then you cooked for the reduced family as they went away to college – jobs – marriage. A long time! So you decide, enough, no more cooking. 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 rearrange your life. You take care of the dog, your way. You go to bed alone – with the dog. You eat dinner alone. You carry the wash downstairs by ourself. And, when it is dry, back up.

You remember those things about him that were funny, and things that were not. You remember going to the market, and you are pushing the grocery cart. You step away from the cart for a second, and when you come back, a large, fresh pineapple sits atop the groceries you have chosen. You hate pineapple! You remember the times you could have been a better wife, more understanding, more caring, more of a helpmate. You even make these stories a part of conversations. You stand guard over the best stories to hold them dear.

I remember 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.” Another widow had clued her in to what would happen. And, surely enough, it happened to me.

As the secretary for an important state teachers’ organization, I read a letter, ascribing it not to the author, but to a person in my distant past. The man-person sitting next to me at the officers’ table quietly pointed out my error. I corrected the name and said, “Oh, my, that was a widow brain happening.” Shortly after that, the meeting broke. A woman that I judged to be older than I was approached me and very, very quietly said, “That’s a real thing, you know.” I was taken aback. “Widow brain,” she continued in that same soft, quiet voice. “It really is a real thin.” 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’s a real thing. And, yes, after four years, it’s still around.

Will you ever get angry with him because he died? The only time I get angry with Larry for dying is when I have to load the car to travel. Spatial relationships was not his forte, so he wasn’t very good at knowing how much could fit in the car; I was always the vehicle packer, figuring out where the boxes and suitcases would fit into the Oldsmobile or the Suburban. In the weeks before Daughter #3 was to give birth to her first child, my living room filled with boxes holding things that Daughter #1 would need when she quit her job and went West to be the child’s nanny.

Every day, Larry would arrive home, walk past the boxes, and say, “It will never fit.” Every day! Came time for me to leave for California to take the boxes and help with the newborn; it was time to load the car. Larry carried the boxes from the living room for me to pack 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 need to remind him that I DIDN’T HAVE ANOTHER BOX TO PUT INTO THE CAR! Yes, I did. But, now, I have to carry the boxes and bags from the house to pack the car by myself.

My advice to widows, if they care to hear it, is to make very attempt to remember the “good times.” Make pleasant light of difficulties, if you choose to discuss them. 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 younger sister joined the widow group years before I did. It would be good to remember what she said when I asked her if the pain ever really goes away. She said, “No.”

I’ve wondered if my widowhood in the West is the same in any other location in the United States. The West. Let’s clear up, right now, what I consider the West. First of all it is NOT California, Washington, or Oregon; those are ocean states. And, maybe, it’s not Idaho; but the jury is out on that state. So for me, these states are the West: Wyoming, Nevada, Montana, Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, Texas, and, of course, Colorado.

I asked a group of retired teacher friends, (only widows because that’s what I am), the question: “Do you think being a widow in the West is different from other places?” “Yes,” was the unanimous answer. To a woman, they agreed. The retired teachers concurred that, here in the West, we have close access to our mountains. Their shared belief is that the mountains seem to offer a tacit, visual stability, and support. We can get into those mountains quickly and easily by car to absorb whatever they offer to us. But this is just opinion because I do not have widowed friends who live in other parts of the country.

My life has never been one of “letting the grass grow under my feet.” My life as a widow, as far as my activities away from home, are consistently the same as my life before widowhood. I still belong to organizations, serve some as secretary, still love rocks and minerals, still love creating a party for others’ enjoyment. I still go to see my physicians, get new glasses when needed, get through dental appointments. And, I think (others agree) I talk as much as I ever did.

It seems to me that husband and wife, as they live their married lives, live in a world of the Venn Diagram. Note that this looks like interlocking rings, the Christian symbol for marriage. Each person has a circle of life lived without the other. Only the places where the circles representing their lives overlap are the ones where they do things together, giving them a commonality in their marriage with mutual interests and activities. Where the circles do not overlap, their lives remain different, often independent of the other.

Widowhood means you have only one circle, no longer paired in a Venn Diagram. Not a comfortable place for me. Larry often watched the kitchen television set; I watched something different in the room we called the TV room. Something would come on my TV, and I would call Larry to come in and see it. And, now, when it happens that I see something Larry would like to see, it is a shock that he is not there for me to call. The overlapping part of the circles is gone.

When Larry died, I went through our clothes closet, removing the clothing I knew could be used by other men and gave things to those persons. I was asked why I hadn’t kept the clothing longer. My response was that every time I opened that closet, I was reminded, once again, that he was no longer present in this house. And, I knew that others could use those items. So, now, only my clothing hangs in that closet.

A friend and neighbor, also a widow, has not touched the clothing and personal items of her husband who passed at least two years before Larry. We are both from the West and, yet, our approach to being a widow seems to be very different. What caused our different approaches? Our upbringing as children? Reading as an adult Westerner? Conversations with other adults? A different family heritage? Family heritage or family genes? Sister (age 80, this year) and I (age 84) believe that we are both strong women. She is a widow of more than twenty years. Our mother was widowed, as was another sister; each of them has lived decades longer than their husbands. And, none chose to remarry. Is this what happens everywhere? I don’t have the answer to that.

I do know that widows in the West have to be resilient, with strong opinions and competencies that range from carpentry, handling household problems, dealing with making vehicles safe and road worthy, as well as taking care of financial duties. We have to get things done, like plumbing and flooring and electricity, not to mention lawn mowing and snow shoveling. Did we become that way because we were born in the West, grew up in the West, and learned to be a woman of the West? Perhaps these attributes are universal.

While discussing and collecting opinions, my women subjects/friends eventually conceded that a widow is a widow is a widow. Our diversity informs how we play this unwelcome role. Fortunately, I have friends who help. I know that I pray for all widows that they have the power and strength to handle all that will come their way. They are going to need it!

I became a widow in July of 2017. At the time of the publication of this blog, it has been eight years since that sad day.

Be Safe and Be Well
The Cranky Crone
Thoughtful comments are appreciated.