IT WAS THE BEST OF TIMES; IT WAS THE WORST OF TIMES

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us . . ."

                                            - Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

As I sit down this evening to write about the year that is ending, I must beg Mr. Dickens' pardon for my stealing the brilliant first lines of his much-lauded 1859 novel. It has indeed been a year of highs and lows for our country and our world.  But tonight I'm going to write about personal highs and lows.  

                     

                                            Photo by Custom Patches By Bob on Unsplash

When I began to think about this past year, I was surprised to find that sad and challenging events notwithstanding, there was much that was positive to be chronicled.  I will begin here with the worsts, in order to make way for the bests.

The worsts

I endured the loss of my beloved husband, Bill, and the "firsts" without him that followed -- his birthday, my birthday, family birthdays, Thanksgiving, our anniversary, Christmas.

About three months after Bill passed, my 2014 Prius was T-boned by a car exiting a parking lot.  My car was totaled, and just as I was completing the paperwork that attends a death, I was confronted with insurance paperwork, along with the necessity of purchasing another car.

Eczema, something I had never suffered before, entered my life while Bill was sick.  It became worse when he died and much worse after the accident.

Bill, God love him, was a pack rat and he left me with mountains of stuff to deal with. 

The bests

I was surrounded by love and support from family and friends in the wake of Bill's death.  I will never forget this kindness.

Bill's sons and I planned and pulled off a wonderful celebration of his life.  His sons also spent many hours over several days going through his stuff, taking what they wanted and helping me to dispose of much of the rest.

I was not seriously injured in the accident.  My whiplash is being treated by wonderful physical therapists.

I have taken advantage of the six free massages offered by a local hospice.

A friend and former colleague has taken over interactions with the insurance companies that are handling the accident.

My daughter Anne and her husband Peter searched online for a car. Peter found, and went with me to purchase, the 2024 Kia Niro plug-in hybrid that I am now driving. 

I was buoyed by the support group I participated in for two years before Bill's passing.  The people in this group - their stories and their vulnerability - will be forever in my heart.

I visited Victoria, British Columbia with a friend, travelled east to visit old friends, and drove six hours to visit other old friends.

I spent many happy hours with my very young grandchildren.  I hung out with friends.  I read and I wrote.  I gardened and I walked. 

Of course, I never stopped missing Bill, and the above events and activities were interspersed with bouts of deep grief.  While I do not in Dickens' words have "everything ahead of [me]," neither do I have "nothing ahead of [me]."

I know my grief will be with me in the new year, but given the many blessings in my life, I am cautiously optimistic about 2026.

May we all find reasons for hope as the year turns.

OF LOVE, LONELINESS, AND AN ANNIVERSARY

I have been thinking about the varieties of loneliness I have experienced in my life.  I was lonely as a child.  I had playmates, but my main companions were books.  As a teenager, I had friends, but longed for a boyfriend.  (I was a late bloomer - no boyfriend until I was 18).  As the years went by, I found that I did not know how to be alone, and that I was lonely whenever I was not in love.  This made for some dark days.  Happily, as I wrote about in an old post, I eventually learned to enjoy my own company, and to treasure time alone.  

I rarely knew loneliness in midlife.  This was not just because I had a partner.  I remember years ago reading a quote from the actress Jessica Lange to the effect that she had never felt lonely since having children.  I did not understand.  I, who was both partnerless and childless at the time, could not fathom a life without loneliness.  

 

But Jessica was right.  I have never felt lonely since having children, even after my daughters were fully grown and launched. I do not look to them to fill my days--although their children, my grandchildren, do plenty of that, but there is something about having this net of family that has kept loneliness at bay.

 

At least, that was the case until six months ago when my husband died. I am now experiencing a new kind of lonely.  I do not want for people with whom to spend time. My life is filled to the brim with beloved family and friends.  I do not wish for another life partner. The loneliness I am feeling now is the loneliness that comes of missing a particular person. 

 

I am delighted to spend time with my friends and family. There is, however, a Bill-sized hole in my heart that no one else can fill. Evenings are the most challenging time, especially the long, dark evenings at this time of year. Evenings, I look for him in the funky old chair where he always sat.  Evenings, I am sad.

Today Bill and I would have celebrated 21 years of marriage, and although I had the joy of spending most of the day with precious granddaughters, there is a loneliness that comes of not being able to share the day with him.  

 

In the mid-century novel Love Story, a character famously says, "Love means never having to say you're sorry."  That's a crock.  I wish I could tell Bill I am sorry for the times I was impatient or an otherwise less-than-ideal wife.  I do tell him these things.  I believe he knew and knows how much I love him.  Love means many things, including the possibility of loss and grief.  If not for the love that Bill and I shared, I would not be feeling the loneliness of missing him. 

 

I am grateful for that love.  It was worth the loss and loneliness. And in honor of that love, I will treasure my memories and seek to make the most of the years that are left to me.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BED'S TOO BIG/THE FRYING PAN'S TOO WIDE

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.

                                    Photo by Allison Saeng for Unsplash

(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.)