But when he’s gone
Me and them lonesome blues collide
The bed’s too big
The frying pan’s too wide.
- Joni Mitchell
In the post I wrote a week after my husband’s passing, I confessed that I wasn’t ready to say much about being a widow. It still feels raw and new, but now that a month has passed, I feel ready to share a bit about my experience of widowhood so far. Once again, I write to sort and process my thoughts. I appreciate your patience with my ramblings – I intend to turn to other subjects soon.
Often, when I awake, I step outside, where I spend some time in the peace of my garden. One morning, after I had done some watering and weeding, I looked down at my grubby clothes and thought, These are my morning clothes. I quickly noted the pun. They were, in fact, my mourning clothes.
I continue to suffer from “widow’s brain.” One day, I stood staring into a cupboard for a long time, before pulling out a mug and making myself a cup of tea. After carrying it to kitchen table, I discovered the cup that I had already made. Another day, I broke a glass while putting it in the dishwasher, a simple task that had never confounded me before. A few days ago, I bought a bag of cat food and left it in the cart when I loaded my other groceries into the car. And then there was the day when I found myself stymied by the thought of preparing food for myself. I had to call a couple of friends to ask what I should keep on hand in order to make simple meals.
I am having dreams about getting lost on complex staircases or losing my way in the city – my psyche must be attempting to figure out the path ahead.
I am discovering that grief is physical. The night after Bill died, I slept like a rock and woke up exhausted and feeling as if I had been beaten about the head and neck with a two-by-four. Of course, there was exhaustion after the intensity and physical and emotional toll of his final few weeks, but the fatigue has lingered. The nights of good sleep ended after about a week, and now I sleep poorly more-often-than-not. It doesn’t matter how I sleep, though. Even after a good night, I wake up tired.
There was relief at first. Relief that he had left his weary body behind. Relief that his sons and I would no longer be getting up in the night to administer medications. Relief that the limbo of the dying process was over. In truth, the life I had been living with Bill had become more memory than reality over the months before his death, as he slept more and more hours each day and had less and less energy for interaction.
So, for a while, I thought I was doing pretty well. I had some crying jags, but not too many. I started in on the mounds of paperwork attendant to a death. I spent time with friends and family. I told myself I was OK.
And then, maybe three weeks in, my days became a lot more challenging. Here’s the thing -- I like spending time alone. When Bill would occasionally go away for a few days, I would relish having the house to myself. But, after two or three days, I would be ready for him to come home. Now, as time passes, it is becoming more and more real to me that he will not be coming home. He hasn’t gone to the store. He hasn’t taken a short trip. I am repeatedly startled to realize that this is my life now, that I will be moving forward without him. Again, it's not that I mind being alone; it’s that I miss him in all of his particularity. I miss the man he was and the life we shared before his illness took over.
My tears are flowing more freely now, as I look around and find:
He’s not here to hold me.
He's not here to talk with me.
He's not here to comfort me when I'm upset.
He’s not here to read my writing drafts. (I very nearly got up from my desk to ask him to read over his obituary.)
He’s not here to tell me I am pretty, that I look nice. (Yes, after twenty years of marriage, he said such things to me almost daily.)
He’s not here to read to the grandkids.
He’s not here to work in the garden with me.
He’s not here to eat dinner with me.
He’s not here to hold my hand while we watch TV.
He’s not here to take out the garbage.
He’s not here to answer my phone calls and texts when I’m out.
He’s not here to drive me crazy.
Are you surprised by that last one? Look, he was a gentle, steady, generous guy, but just because he has died, doesn’t mean I have to pretend he was perfect. He was not. And neither am I. So, like most marriages, ours wasn’t perfect. My speedy Jersey ways would bump up against his midwestern deliberation. I am impatient. (He was patient with my impatience, bless him.) He was a pack rat. Getting rid of things makes me feel lighter; it made him feel anxious. Still, through it all, whatever our challenges, we loved each other deeply and shared a long-lasting attraction, as well as values and an ever-widening family. We chose each other and were never tempted to quit one other.
Last Christmas, instead of exchanging gifts, we each wrote a letter to the other. I keep re-reading his. He closed it with these words: “You are the pole against which I lean and I love you dearly.” And, of course, he was the pole against which I leaned. To mix metaphors a bit, I feel untethered, like I might just float away. Or to employ yet another metaphor, I have lost my tap root. Of course, I am fortunate that I have family and friends to tether and root me, to keep me from floating away. Still, I miss my main tether, my tap root, and expect I always will.
(I cannot close this post without expressing my gratitude for the kindness I have experienced. The friends who have spent time with me. The friends and family who have called and sent notes and cards. The friend who helped me to clear out an entire room. The one who carted off medical supplies when I could not think through where to donate them and the one who took away a pile of rags that I didn't want to toss in the garbage -- she even found somewhere to donate those. My daughters and a son-in-law, who moved furniture for me. Bill's sons and a son-in-law who have kept the lawn mowed. The dear fellow whom I occasionally hire to help with the garden, who refused to let me pay him for the work he did soon after Bill died. The manager of Bill's dentist's office, who, when I called to report Bill's death, told me she had seen his obituary and had written off the balance on his account. I am sure there is more that I am forgetting. Recounting all of this moves me to tears.)
