Diary of Not a Wimpy Widow

Blog

  • Snow Fall

    January 23, 2014 

    This week about six inches of snow fell on my hilltop, with record cold temperatures. When a snow was predicted, Bill used to put the snow shovel by the back door, bring in some fire wood, and park the truck and car so they aimed downhill. So on Monday, I got out the snow shovel, brought in fire wood, and aimed the car and truck downhill. In addition I bought fresh gasoline for the snow blower and got it out of the horse barn.  

    I wish we had had a snow blower in February 2010. That was the year a record blizzard hit our area, dumping more than two feet of snow on top of an earlier snow so that accumulations were almost four feet. A lot for the Mid-Atlantic area. Thousands of people lost power to their homes, including Bill and me. We were without power for four days.  We had a portable generator, but during our storm preps we had neglected to move it from the horse barn to the back door of the house before the storm hit. Bill who had stage IV cancer had to dig a wide enough path to get the generator out of the barn and up to the house, so he could plug it in. That meant digging a 20 foot path through four feet of snow.  We had only one large container of gasoline for the generator, and thus could only run the generator for limited periods of time.

    On Day Two after the storm, we were relieved when our son and one of his friends came slogging through thigh-high snow with four full containers of gasoline; they had hiked in from the nearby subdivision through unplowed roads, a real act of heroism and stamina. With the new stores of gasoline, Bill and I could run the generator for a limited number of circuits, but at least we had running water and some heat. We cheered when the power company crew appeared on our lane. Even after power was restored, we were snowbound until the snow plows cleared our road.  

    Five months later in the month of June, Bill started the process of having a whole-house stand-by generator installed at our home. He died of cancer a week after the contract was signed.  

    When snow falls, I no longer have to worry about being in the dark and cold alone, or going outside in the middle of the night to add gasoline to a portable generator. That stand-by generator was Bill’s last gift to me. Thank you, honey.

  • Stagecoaches and Roller Coasters

    January 23, 2014

    Almost everyone has heard of the stages of loss and grief: denial and isolation; anger; bargaining; depression; acceptance. This model was introduced by Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in her 1969 book On Death and Dying and was meant to explain what terminally ill patients experienced as they faced their own impending deaths. Later the model was expanded to include other losses, including the loss of a spouse.  These stages were not intended to be linear, as though we are riding in a stagecoach, stopping at inns labeled Denial, Anger, etc., but that is the way many people think of them. Another way to look at grief is the roller coaster image: we are on a rollercoaster that drops into abysses of sorrow, but gradually over time the drops are not as severe and there are more spaces between. 

    I know for me the first year after Bill died really was The Year of Magical Thinking, as Joan Didion titled her book about her husband’s death and the year that followed.  I read that book the second month after Bill died, and found myself saying aloud, “Exactly! That is exactly how it is!” From the outside I think I appeared strong and calm and highly functioning, but on the inside I wailed.  And at night when I was alone I wailed aloud. All I wanted was for Bill to come back. A friend who had been widowed two years earlier said to me sadly, “We think if we do everything right, they will come back.” Widows are advised not to make any major decisions in the first year, and that is good advice. In fact, make as few decisions as possible. I had a memorial garden created for Bill on one side of my driveway, with native plants to attract butterflies and birds. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but in reality it cost much more than I had budgeted and is very difficult for me to maintain.

     The second year is almost harder than the first, because by now we realize that the one we love is not coming back. It is going to be like this forever. At about the two and a half year mark I began to wonder if I had lost not only Bill but my essential self, the woman who was happy and optimistic, who made silly jokes. I felt as though I was wrapped in a gray mist. I knew I could not get Bill back, but what about me? Fortunately my church for the first time offered a grief support group that met for eight sessions. It was for anyone who had suffered a loss, so there was a mix of people, some very recently bereaved. I realized that I was further along the path of sorrow than I had thought, and I could reach out and help others. Before the third anniversary of Bill’s death I could feel myself whole again….as whole as one can be who has lost her beloved life partner.

     Denial, depression, acceptance…and a tumultuous ride on the rollercoaster of grief.

    “Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.” Joan Didion

  • Sands in the Hourglass

    January 11, 2014 

    My birthday is a few days after the turning of the year, and so each New Year I get a double whammy: a new year with all its promises, and the fact that I am a year older. This year with my 71st birthday it hit me that there are many more grains of sand in the bottom of the hour glass than in the top– I am indeed growing older… and that this is an hour glass that I will not be able to turn over and start again. (Of course, Shirley MacLaine may be right and I may already have lived a number of lives.)

     How long might I live? Should I look to my family tree? 

    Both my parents died in their early eighties. My father had a hemorrhagic stroke followed by paralysis and dementia, and died of pneumonia. My mother who died a year after my father had a faulty heart valve and died of congestive heart failure. They spent much of their seventieth decade traveling extensively in Europe. One year they rented out their home and were gone for six months. My parents were frugal travelers, but they were intellectually curious, independent travelers, and I think if I could ask them, they would have no regrets about the money they spent for travel.

    My paternal grandmother lived to a very healthy 97. When she was 96, she flew with my aunt to the East Coast to see me and my family. Her mind and body were in excellent shape right to the end. She was writing her memoirs when she was 96. There is a possibility that the sands in the hour glass will last that long for me, too. And barring a major breakdown in government pensions and stock markets, my funds will last. But my health may not.

    I have been reflecting on the fact of the dwindling sands of time this week, because I have been composing a list of all the home repairs and improvements that should be done or that I would like to have done. On another paper is the list of all the places that I would like to travel; I have been very fortunate to have traveled widely in my life, especially over the past seventeen years, but travel is my passion. I consider it an essential part of my continuing education. Do I spend my limited resources on my home? Or do I spend the minimum on my home, and push my travel up to two big trips a year, while I still am well and strong? One of my widow friends laughed when I posed the question. “If we knew the future,” she said, “then we would know how to spend our money.” 

    I think I will follow my parents’ example, and travel as much as I can, while I can. Home improvements, beyond the necessary essential repairs, can wait. 

    Carpe Diem

  • “Time Spent with Cats is Never Wasted”

    December 28th, 2013

    Yesterday my daughter had to euthanize her beloved cat Roo who had been born of a feral mother in my daughter’s back yard. She rescued the little black kitten and he lived a full and wonderful life in her home with the other resident cats, occasionally catching the reckless mouse. Roo was a beautiful sleek black cat, very suspicious of strangers but loving with his family. He lived for fourteen years before the tumors of oral cancer invaded.  I know the pain of losing a beloved cat, whether to natural death or to the saving grace of the veterinarian’s drugs, and I grieve with my daughter for the loss of her beautiful and loving cat.

    So what do we learn from cats, besides the certainty of heartbreak and loss when these small creatures that we love are destined to live much shorter lives?

    We learn how to relax and how not to hurry, how to stretch out and luxuriate in the sun, how to be utterly at peace with the world.

    We learn how to walk in beauty, every step a lesson in grace.

    We learn how to launch ourselves without hesitation into the world in one mighty jump, and how to curl up so that our backs create a circle that echoes the globe.

    We learn how to focus, until the molecules of our bodies form an arrow of concentration on one small sparrow.

    We learn that the pat of a velvet paw, all claws sheathed on our wrist, and the tiny lick of a raspy tongue on the inside of our elbow can signify a salute from one small nation to another larger one.

    And we learn how to give our love and grieve and give our love yet again throughout the longer days of our lives.

    Time spent with cats is never wasted.

     

  • Wherever You Go, There You Are

    Yesterday was Christmas Day, the fourth Christmas without Bill. I know some widows decide they have to start new traditions, change the old patterns because they hold so much pain. They leave their homes and go to other cities, or they go to the homes of friends and relatives, or they go to a resort or on a cruise.  Perhaps that works for some. But for me the Christmas celebration is intertwined with home.  It would be much more painful for me to leave than to stay home for Christmas.

    And also I know that “wherever you go, there you are.” You cannot run from sorrow and grief, you carry it with you.  On the first anniversary of Bill’s death, I was in Baja, Mexico. I had not planned for that particular family vacation to fall on the anniversary week of Bill’s death, it just happened to be the only time that we could arrange for the condo rental. I enjoyed the ocean breezes, the sunsets over the beach, and time with my daughter and family. But my heart was heavy with sorrow, and finally at one dinner I sat at the table with tears flowing silently down my cheeks, while my granddaughter stared, puzzled, until my daughter explained.

    I think it probably is best to do whatever brings you the most comfort. For me at Christmas that means decorating my home, baking the traditional cookies, inviting family and friends here. And I take comfort from the memories of all the Christmases that Bill and I shared together. If you are a widow, what brings you comfort during traditional holidays?

    Now– facing the New Year is another story, and I will write about that later.

     

  • New Possessions

    A widow winds up buying some strange things. Here are some of the items I have purchased in the last three years, since my husband’s death.

     

    1. A snow thrower. My son urged me to buy one three months after Bill’s death. I used it the first winter, but the last two winters we had very little snow. I can start it and run it, though it takes some muscle to turn it around. And my son has to do the annual maintenance. This was an expensive purchase.
    2. A hand-cranked drain auger, or snake. So far I have cleaned out one clogged drain with this handy gadget, but it works well and is worth the money.
    3. A Black & Decker screwdriver, battery powered. OK, this one is still in the packaging, but I have a plan to use it very soon! The battery powered drills that Bill used are just too heavy and bulky for my hand.
    4. An electric pressure washer for patios. This works very well. The trick is getting a location to plug it in (extension cords don’t work) plus a water source with a long enough hose.  I wrote about this pressure washer in another posting, “Nothing Is Ever Easy.”
    5. An electric leaf shredder by Worx. This product is easy to set up and shreds dry leaves quickly. It is dirty, dusty, and noisy work, but produces good leaf mulch for my flower beds.
    6. An onboard fully automatic battery charger. I bought this for the old pick-up truck, at my son’s suggestion. He hooked it up to the truck battery, and I keep the charger plugged into household current. This was the solution to the dead battery problems, because I don’t drive the truck very often or very far. When people comment on the plug hanging out of the truck’s grill, I tell them it is an electric truck.
    7. A Black & Decker cordless electric sweeper for exterior hard surfaces. Lightweight and easy to use, I can clean off three patios in ten minutes.

    And my favorite is? I think it is a tie between the battery charger for the pick-up truck (it is so nice not to deal with a dead battery!) and the electric sweeper. The sweeper has a slight edge because the patios need to be swept frequently, and this handy tool actually makes the job fun.

    Here is the ironic part of this story:  for my 30th birthday, Bill gave me an electric blanket with dual controls. “Look!” said two and a half year old David, “an eyectic ba-ba!” I had given birth to our daughter two weeks earlier just before Christmas, and I really wanted something soft and feminine. I was not thrilled with an electric blanket, dual control or not.  I told Bill never to get me anything that plugged in unless I specifically asked for it.

    Look at that list above. Six out of seven of these items plugs in.

  • Changes

     

    Today I gave a holiday party for my memoir writers’ group. We meet at my church the first and third Friday of each month, and have been doing this for over ten years. For the past four or five years, on the third Friday of December, we have held a holiday party after our meeting, sharing food and enjoying talking to one another in our church meeting room. Last year I had an inspiration and suggested that we adjourn from the church to my house, about five minutes away, for our holiday party. My little house was decorated for Christmas, there was music and candle light, and all thirteen seemed to enjoy the setting. So this year, I invited the group to my home for the party again.

     The thing is… if Bill had been alive, I doubt I would have invited them. This house was our home, and inviting a large group of people late in the afternoon close to what Bill considered dinner time (5:00 pm) would have been infringing on his space. Perhaps an extrovert would have been just fine with a late afternoon party for twelve strangers, but Bill was not an extrovert, although he was a very generous and warm host. It would have needed the kind of delicate negotiating act that any spouse in a marriage of many years would recognize.

     But now this is my house, my home. I can invite anyone here, any time that I choose. But oh how I wish that were not the case, that I could turn back the clock and have Bill here to say to, “What do you think about inviting my memoir writing group here for our annual holiday party next Friday? I think there are some guys you would enjoy talking to.”

     Now as I extinguish the candles and clean up the dishes, I think about loss and change, and I wonder how other widows view the bitter sweetness of new freedoms.

     

  • Sudden Sorrow

     

    After three years, I mostly have my sorrow under control, but sometimes it springs out in the most unlikely places and surprises me. This morning on my way to the garden center, I stopped at McDonalds to grab an egg McMuffin. As I was exiting, I held the door for an older gentleman to enter. “Good morning,” I said to him. He smiled, seeming a bit surprised, but returned my greeting. As I walked to the car, my eyes filled with tears. Such a simple thing, saying “Good morning.”  And I will never say good morning to Bill again, or see him again.

  • CAR TALK

    CAR TALK

                            I have never been fascinated by cars and how they work. I just want the car to run. And I really would like to go back to the days when you pulled into a filling station, and a happy attendant ran out, put gas in the car, cleaned the windshield, and checked under the hood if you asked. And put air in the tires if needed. Remember those days?

    Putting air in the tires is the job I dislike the most. You have to almost stand on your head to do the job, and the tire pressure gauge is hard for me to read. And the one parking spot by the air pump at the local gas station is usually taken. So when the little symbol on the dashboard popped up yesterday, I groaned. Of course first I had to dig out the car manual for the list of all the little symbols that light up, but I was pretty sure this symbol meant low tire pressure. And it did.

    Rather than drive down to the gas station, I dug out the air compressor and plugged it into the charger. When it was charged, I lugged it out to the car and dutifully checked the pressure of all the tires with the tire pressure gauge, squinting at each reading, and added air from the compressor. The dial on the compressor was a mystery to me, so I had to keep checking the pressure with the gauge. None of the tires seemed particularly low. I turned on the engine. The little symbol on the dashboard glowed. I said a bad word.

    So today I decided I would have to throw myself on the mercy of the local gas station mechanics and ask them to check the tires. I hated to do it. I knew I would feel very stupid, and my banner of independence would droop badly. To my surprise, the parking spot by the air pump was empty so I grabbed it. Maybe I should just try adding more air, I thought to myself. The left rear tire was a little low, the other three were fine; I added some air, coiled up the air hose, and got back in the car. I turned on the engine. The little symbol on the dashboard was gone. I drove home, humming a happy tune.

    I think it will be easier next time, but I still hate standing on my head.

  • Things That Go Bump in the Night

    THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

    It was a big crash that woke me up at 2:30 in the morning, a crash that seemed to go on for a long time and echoed throughout the dark house. Then… nothing. I lay still, my eyes wide open, staring at the open bedroom door. If it was an invader, it was a very noisy one. Probably the cats, I thought, knocking something down, though I could not imagine what. It sounded as though it came from the kitchen.

    I hesitated: should I go investigate or not? If Bill were alive, he would have gone. I turned on the bedside lamp, opened the nightstand drawer, and dug out the security system fob, the one with the red panic button. I had paid for the installation of a security system six months after Bill’s death, after a teen-age pet sitter had thrown an overnight party in my home.  Now I set the alarms every night.

    Fob in hand, I went down the hallway, turning on overhead lights as I went.

    I met the two Siamese cats in the kitchen, apparently on their way to investigate the noise, too. One of them meowed at me, as if accusing me of disturbing their sleep. I knew if they had set off the racket, they would be long gone and hiding in the family room. I did not see any disturbance in the kitchen or the living room. I checked the kitchen door: locked as I had left it. The kitchen windows were locked.

    I turned on the lights in the family room. Nothing out of place there, or in the bathroom. The long dark utility room was the last place to check, just the sort of place someone might hide in. I screwed up my courage, reached inside, and snapped on the lights: nothing disturbed, everything in place.

    Puzzled, I turned off all the lights except for the hanging light in the kitchen and went back to bed. My old dog was still snoring on her bed; she had slept right through the crash. Some help she would be! I put the security fob on top of the nightstand, within easy reach. I lay in the dark for a few minutes and then grabbed the cordless phone on the nightstand. I wondered if I could dial 911 in the dark. I peered at the phone in the light of the moon, trying to memorize the location of the four necessary buttons. I put the phone on the bed next to me, on top of the duvet.

    The bedside clock now said 3:30 am.  I got up, went down the hall, and turned on the outside light for the kitchen patio. Perhaps the raccoons had knocked down the large birdfeeder, creating the crash that I had heard. I peered through the glass of the door but could not see the feeder.  I was not going outside to check. The mystery would just have to wait for morning.

    I went back to bed and thought about the metal baseball bat that I knew was leaning in a corner of my bedroom closet.  It had turned up in the house when we returned from three years in England; our last tenant had been a single woman. I kept the bat, not saying anything to Bill.  I considered getting out of bed and getting the baseball bat; it could keep the telephone receiver company on the bed. But I lay still and fingered the buttons on the phone.

    The glowing face of the bedside clock said 4:30 am. Surely if there were an invader he would not have waited around for two hours to make his move. At last I drifted to sleep into a beautiful dream set in a Buddhist temple filled with delicate music and light. Perhaps my distraught brain was trying to comfort me.

    In the morning I got up and looked out the kitchen window; the bird feeder was on its post. The raccoons had not knocked it down. Then I noticed the pile of round trays on the kitchen floor near the door. I somehow had not noticed them in my nighttime search. The trays were a mix of metal, plastic, and wood, and normally were contained in a fabric strap that hung from the wall between the windows and the door. I had knocked them down a few times myself and knew they made a terrible racket.  Did the trays leap out of the holder by themselves or had some vibration on the door or window knocked them down?  Or were the cats responsible? I will never know.  It’s a mystery.