One, Two, Three: The Widow is Me

I think it was only about a month or so after becoming a widow when I was introduced to another one.

Within minutes, she told me the second year is worse. She hadn’t realized I was only about six weeks out from watching my husband die.

I heard that over and over and over again, “Just wait for the second year. It’s so much worse.”

While I had an idea of what they meant, I didn’t pay much attention to it.

Why? Because the first year is excruciating. Debilitating.

So, thanks for the heads up on another shitty year. Damn it.

Widows. We’re the blind leading the blind, really. You’d think we would know what to always say, but we don’t. It’s a terrible tragedy and words give it little justice. But we take comfort in that. We take comfort in that because we know it’s dark. And those who promise us a bright shiny future are like fingernails on a chalkboard.

I do find silver linings regularly, but it’s built from humor. Sometimes shit is not funny. My husband’s funeral wasn’t funny. His viewing wasn’t funny. The wake afterwards wasn’t funny. I pretty much had to be carried home. But there were some bitches there. And when I think back to them, it’s funny. The sobbing ex-girlfriend that no one who entered his life since adulthood had any idea who she was—humorous. The same one who texted his phone after seeing him in his casket—what the fuck. Almost every widow experienced an outlandish person when putting their spouse to rest. People like that you dismiss and only think of when you need a “what the fuck” type of laugh. One that holds no meaning. A “haha” when sorting through your dead husband’s clothes. In a strange way, we become thankful to them for their idiocy.

Meaningful “what the fuck” moments I’m full of. Like, what the fuck—where’s my husband? Oh yeah, he’s dead. That’s my biggest what the fuck, which happens more regularly than I’d like to admit. When I’m cleaning up messes he created—what the fuck. When I take my kids to therapy. And worse, when I have to join my kids in their therapy—what the fuckity fuck, because that will drain you. It’s necessary, but exhausting.

Damn it. Fuck you for dying, man.

And then this year. 2020 has been rude to everyone. Although I still have hope for this second half, this last quarter, it hasn’t been going so well. People just keep dying. Some I know. Some I don’t. Some I admire and some are distant statistics. But they’re all close to someone. Even the assholes. Someone loves them, too, and is feeling deep, excruciating grief every waking second. You would think that once your tears fall on a dead body you are able to comfort others more easily when it comes to death. But instead, it’s more difficult. Before, at least we were ignorant and could say the cliche things that everyone says. Now we’re aware.

Those words mean nothing. And while we appreciate the support, presence will always win over presents in grief. Unapologetic presence. Take us how we are presence.

And there are so many right now losing their husbands and wives, their mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, their people. There are so many losing their people and unable to have a gathering of love to remember them. A gathering of love to see the faces of those who will be a support to them and those they’ll never see again all in the same room.

This year has been isolating and, in many ways, we can blame the pandemic. We can use it as a truth and as an excuse. But when you’ve already lived a pretty socially distanced lifestyle, it’s been a year to really take notice. Take notice of who does reach out. Who do you reach out to? Take notice of who you’ve been happier without. Who you’ve been missing like crazy.

And now, the widow is me. It’s me telling you the second year is hard. It absolutely feels “worse” at times. It’s rough, and I understand all the warnings I received about it. People disappear. But those are usually the ones who needed you to grieve in their way. In a way that made them comfortable. The people who are no longer a key player in year two took your anger as weakness and gave you no space to feel. Or they were people who weren’t strong enough to see you without being reminded of them. In any of those cases, leave that with them.

Widows pick up all the pieces. They get blamed and shit on and it’s not cool. In the second year, dust settles and you can’t deny your reality. Your life is not what you hoped or asked for. But it is your life. And it’s only yours. That’s in clear view now. No denying it. You feel it everyday. And that can be lonely or freeing. Or maybe a fucked up mixture of both, because that’s what I’ve learned in widowland.

My second year here is a lot like the first, minus the meal train and unsolicited offers of help. It’s been a year where I’ve gotten a ton of shit done. I’ve assembled furniture meant for two people on my own by balancing pieces with chairs and boxes and ladders. I found three handymen to help me with other things that I cannot seem to fix on my own. YouTube tutorials can only get me so far, but I’ve become more resourceful than before.

I just recently started to breathe peacefully again. I just recently realized that I don’t need to rush to get everything done and clean everything up and build a lucrative career today. I can do all of those things, but I do not need to do them now. I don’t even need to do them next year if I don’t want to. And that has been my best realization. No matter how many ask me about my job or where I want to live or how I’m going to do this or where I’m going to get that, I’ve realized that for the moment—I’m okay. I don’t have to have all the answers and I don’t need them right now. And I definitely don’t owe them to anyone. My life is only the business of me and my children. Not a single other person needs those answers from me. And I no longer need others to understand me.

Because in the land of the widowed, we are all the things: Happy, sad, lonely, content, peaceful, angry, horny, celibate, incredibly confused, and oddly confident. Connecting with widowed people has changed my life greatly. I wish it didn’t come with such a high price, but it did. And we’re here. And we’re all pretty badass. We can be drowning in year one, cleaning up in year three, and hurting in year nine while also smiling and thriving and aching for who and what we’ve lost. And we can all simply get together and when one person says, “what the fuck” we all feel it. We get it. No explanation needed. And when one person screams, “I need to destroy something!” We hand them a hammer and let them go off with it. And then we laugh and relax.