A YEAR

By Suzanne Sparrow Watson

Yesterday marked one year since Alan died.  Some days it seems like yesterday, others like it was 100 years ago. His death hit me harder than I had anticipated, and I was surprised by that. Logically, I should have been prepared for it. After all, in the last ten months of his life he was diagnosed with both early Alzheimer’s and oral cancer.  Add to that he was nine years older than me; even the planning documents from our financial advisor and estate attorney assumed he would die first. I’ve also spent a lot of time over the past few years researching and co-writing a book about widowhood. Given all of this, I presumed I was mentally braced for the day when he was no longer by my side. I wasn’t. His death shattered my heart into a million pieces and at times I felt that it was almost too hard to go on. In the weeks after Alan died a widowed friend called me often to check on me and at one point I told her none of the widows I knew, nor any of the ones I’d researched, had accurately described how horrible it is to become a widow.  Her response was, “No one wanted to scare you.”

When I mentioned this conversation to Bob, he told me that maybe I should take a stab at writing a book or article on the subject.  I contemplated that, but in the end, decided it was more productive to focus on gaining strength than delving further into the subject of widowhood.  I have not written about my experiences as a widow in this blog, and after today, my intent is not to write about them again.  But I have learned some things that might be helpful to others who will experience the loss of a spouse, and some tips for those who want to support a widowed friend.  So here goes.

It is impossible to overemphasize how much it means to have people reach out to express their sympathy. I was overwhelmed by all the wonderful cards, notes, texts, and emails that I received after Alan died.  I have kept all of them and occasionally read them again.  It reminds me that other people also remembered him, and in ways large and small, they also shared my loss.  On the flip side, I was stunned by the people who never acknowledged his death.  People he had played golf with on a regular basis, others I had socialized with for years.  When I mentioned to a friend how hurt I was by this, she said, “Well, you know, some people just don’t know what to say.”

I find it odd that grown people can’t express the most basic of condolences.  There are social skills we should cultivate in this regard as we grow older, and that is one of them. When we are young our parents teach us to say “please” and “thank you”. As we advance in years, the polite phrase we need to learn is, “I’m sorry for your loss”. The sad fact is that it will come in handy on an increasingly frequent basis. That simple acknowledgement might seem minor or even trite, but believe me, it means the world to someone who has lost their loved one. I will never forget all the people who reached out – nor will I ever forget those who didn’t.

I quickly discovered that widowhood is one of those life experiences that you can’t understand until you go through it. Nothing really prepares you for the complete absence of your spouse; when they are gone there is a gaping hole that cannot be filled by any amount of activity or companionship of others. One of my favorite authors, Joan Didion, wrote a book, The Year of Living Magically, after her husband died.  Didion brilliantly wrote, “Grief turns out to be a place none of us know before we reach it. So, when someone says to you, ‘I can’t imagine what you’re going through’, they are right.  Here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is: the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.”

If that sounds depressing, it is. Widowhood kicks the hell out of your confidence and outlook. For most of the past year I lamented that I would never be happy again, that my peak of happiness was my marriage to Alan, and it died with him. There were times when I went three days without showering or seeing another human being. I woke up early every day, crying before I even got out of bed. I not only missed him and all the wonderful times we had, but I missed being married.  I missed having someone in my life to plan with, to depend on for companionship, to care for, and who loved me beyond measure. Many days I didn’t see how I was going to survive and often felt overwhelmed.

I was lucky to be surrounded by widowed friends who offered guidance that came from their hard-won experience. They reached out with wise advice: “Take it an hour at a time”, “Don’t do anything you don’t feel like doing”, “Put one foot in front of the other and just keep going”, “Write a journal so you can look back on your journey and mark your progress”, were just some of the suggestions.  One of the best was: “Write down the events and conversations that occurred directly before and after his death. Ten years from now those details will have faded in your memory, and you’ll be glad you have that memorialized.” I didn’t need to wait ten years. Just two weeks ago I re-read my notes and discovered I had mis-remembered a critical detail.  I was so glad I had a contemporaneous account of events to set my memory straight.

Hopefully you have a good support network, because when you’re widowed the love and support of family and good friends are critical to moving forward.  I am lucky to have had both.  Every day I would receive a phone call from someone to either check on me or ask me to join them for lunch or dinner.  Those moments brought me relief from the grief, even if it was temporary. Which brings me to the subject of asking for and receiving help. People really want to help, and to be asked to help you actually makes them feel better.  As we age, we all seek a greater sense of community with those who are on the same path. So, asking a friend to pick something up at the grocery store or help lift a heavy package, or just come sit with you, is to allow them to do something meaningful for you.  This was – and still is – a hard lesson for me.  I consider myself to be independent and hate to ask favors, but it is another essential skill to learn.

Everyone’s journey is different, and one wise piece of advice I got early on was “You do grief your way”.  So, despite people encouraging me to socialize more, I know that I require a lot of “processing” and alone time. I went to see a counselor once, and she said I had PTSD caused by the nine-day interval between the diagnosis of Alan’s cancer metastasis and his death. The month before he died his oncologist talked about a procedure he might do two years down the line, the week before he was out pruning bushes in the yard. So, his rather sudden death simply didn’t allow enough time for me to process the events I’d experienced.  Much like a dog that goes into a corner when it’s not feeling well, I needed time and space. The people in my support system all wanted to do something to make my life better, they wanted to help “fix” me and get me back to my old self. But I am a believer that “fixing” cannot come from an external source.  It’s up to us as individuals to set ourselves right, so I selectively accepted, and rejected, their invitations. The counselor also cautioned that I should only be around people who could fill me up, not drain me.  A widowed friend said something similar, “You don’t have anything to give right now, so spend time with people who can help fill your tank.” My close friends and family understood – and supported – my need for limited social engagement and didn’t push me.  I will forever be grateful to them for that.

Conversely, I believe that when you’re grieving and you accept a social invitation, there is an obligation to be as cheerful as possible.  No one wants to be around someone who is sad or, worse yet, crying.  I took the attitude that if I could slap a smile on my face and be good company, the likelihood of me receiving invitations to socialize again would rise exponentially.  At first, I found that very hard. At my weekly dinner with my bocce ball team, I would sit next to my best friend, Marge, and she could always sense my struggle. She would grab my hand under the table and give it a squeeze of encouragement and I would make it through the night. In time, the dinners became easier.

People told me I was strong, and I’d come through this, but they were remembering the person I used to be.  When you’re widowed you realize that life is never going to be the same, you are never going to be the same, and regaining confidence and resilience is not a given. It’s very hard to hear people call you strong when you’re not. For almost a year I couldn’t imagine ever feeling happy or competent – much less strong – again. I kept thinking about my younger, more capable, self. In my early 30’s I lived on my own, bought a three-bedroom ranch house, had a good career and an active social life.  Over the past year I often wondered where that young woman had gone.

But by early June I was sick of myself; sick of feeling depressed, sick of every room needing a Kleenex box, sick of not seeing a future. And then as often happens in life, a small thing caused me to turn a corner: I decided to recover the leather headboard on my bed.  I could see some indentations where Alan had leaned against it while reading every night.  Every time I entered the room, I saw his imprint on it.  So, I went to a local upholstery store and picked out some lovely fabric to recover it.  Just making that small change gave me a feeling of control and empowerment. Maybe too much. A few weeks ago, I hired a contractor to update several areas of the house. Alan loved this house and before he died, he urged me to keep it.  I have decided to do so, and I can’t think of a better tribute to him than to finish updating it as we had intended.

A few days after visiting the upholstery store I realized the heaviness I felt for so many months had lifted. I tried to analyze what I was feeling and concluded that it was happiness.  Had it really been so long since I’d been happy that I didn’t even recognize it anymore?  Apparently so. But having been so far down has made the rise even sweeter. I’ve earned this happiness.  I don’t often give myself credit, but I will say that I’m proud that I have survived the storm and come out the other side stronger.  Not yet strong, but getting there. I know that I will still have some tough times ahead, and I now have confidence that I can get through them.

I’ve also reconciled that the aggressive cancer that spelled Alan’s demise prevented a much longer, more painful journey for both of us from his early Alzheimer’s diagnosis.  Thirty years ago, after witnessing his father’s journey with Alzheimer’s, he asked me to promise that I would never let him get to that point. An understandable request, but a hard one to fulfill.  I thank God we were spared that journey.

Alan, and our marriage, will forever be the best chapter in the story of my life. I will miss him always and will carry him in my heart until the day I die.  But I’ve come to realize that life unfolds with a purpose and a plan.  I now believe that he is at peace. And finally – at last – so am I.