After

“A friend is someone who understands your past, believes in your future, and accepts you just the way you are.”

--Unknown

My friend’s husband died last night after a long battle with cancer.  But as we all know...it doesn’t matter how long you’ve “known”...it’s always a shock when that moment comes.

We were always meant to be friends and I think we were always meant to have a place in each others lives.  Our friendship is unusual because in the two years we’ve known each other...I’ve never once met her husband. 

He has been sick the entire time I’ve known her, but since I had never met him, that made me 100% her friend.  Someone who knew her and her struggles and could be there completely for her...without feeling disloyal to her husband.

He knew about our friendship and at times I got the feeling that he wasn’t crazy about it.  My presence in her life probably reminded him that terrible things were possible.  And that there was a chance I might be here to help her when he couldn’t be.

We met 2 years ago at a church fundraiser.  I had been looking for a photographer to take pictures of my kids and she had a booth in the Narthex.  My sister told me later that it was strange how I went straight to her booth without looking anywhere else.  But when I saw the pictures and the magic she could create...I had no doubt that she was the person who was meant capture my children at that playful age.

As we were setting up our appointment and emailing back and forth, she asked me if the session was going to be all about the kids or if there would be some family pictures taken.  I emailed her back and told her that I mainly wanted the pictures to be taken of the kids, but that I’d like a few taken of me with them.  I told her that these would be the first pictures we would have taken as a family since I lost my husband.

The response I received from her later that evening gave me chills and somehow cemented our friendship right away.  She told me that her husband was battling cancer, but that they knew it was terminal.  And that she had two small children.

We made our session appointment and I enjoyed watching her work and interact with my kids...she really worked magic and had all kinds of tricks up her sleeve.  But I think we were both anxious to get that initial meeting out of the way so that we could make plans to get margaritas and really get to what would be the meat of our relationship.

During our first dinner, she asked me a million questions about benefits and raising children alone and after every question, she apologized and told me that she felt terrible for asking me these questions before her husband was even gone.

I finally said, “You have to quit apologizing.  We’re women and we’re mothers.  You think that if I had known my husband was going to die, I wouldn’t have asked someone questions who had already been through it so that I could be as prepared as possible?”

During the last couple of years, we’ve talked, texted, and gotten together when we can.  A 4-year-old and a 2-year-old along with a business and a terminally ill husband kept her beyond busy and single parenting and my own projects kept me on my toes.  In the last few months, knowing that the end was probably near, I would leave her messages, reminding her that I was here if she ever needed me. 

More often than not, her response would be, “I’m going to need you.  I’m going to need you after.”

And so here we are.  After.

As I deal with loss after my husband’s death, I find myself less sad about the person who is gone and more affected when I think about the people who are left behind.  I don’t necessarily always mourn the loss, I mourn the loss of the life that they thought they would have and the memories that will never be.

While I read her blog, something that I’m jealous that she had the presence of mind to keep up so well while she dealt the many things she had going on, I am instantly reminded of my own moments, telling my children and making arrangements.  Knowing what a blur it will be in the upcoming days, weeks, and months...I cry with the knowledge that there will be some things I will be able to ease.  And some things she will have to go through alone.

The first day we met at that photo session, I asked her to do me a favor.  As a tribute to my husband, I asked her to take pictures of my kids releasing balloons.  I wanted to remember them at that age and have something to remind me that such a simple act provided the four of us some peace for a moment.

She teared up for a minute and then aimed her camera at my children.  She took those pictures knowing that some day, it would be her standing there with a little fist in one hand and some curly ribbon in the other.

Waiting for the right moment to release.



For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2011

Sometimes It's Not So Easy To Walk The Walk

So this is it. The dreaded anniversary weekend. And just as I thought, I’ve been feeling much better this week than I did last. I’m such a weird griever. The only thing I can say is…I’ve never been a procrastinator. Leaving things to the last minute completely stresses me out. Now I’ve learned that I get everything done early. Even grief.

This weekend will be a busy one. Ever since I lost my husband, I started hosting a gathering to remember him on his anniversary. That first year was a whopper (and something I’m not sure I’ll ever do again). I was doing my best to feel “normal” and since we were always big entertainers, I thought, “What better way to commemorate my husband than with cheesesticks and a keg?”

Little did I know, throwing that party would make me miss him more than ever because he wasn’t here to give it with me. Hey…we live and we learn.

When he was with me, we used to always give a big summer party. In fact, the weekend following his death, we were supposed to give our biggest one yet and I had no idea how many people to expect. We had invited all of our friends and family and then he’d opened it up to people at work.

I had a fear that I would be calling my parents in tears, telling them that 500 people had shown up, I had no idea where that pot came from, and that I was going to have to replace all of the carpet and screens.

Anyway, my husband passed away on a Wednesday and the party was scheduled for the following Saturday. Even in the blur of trying to put together a funeral as quickly as possible, I remember really stressing about whether or not someone would show up for that party who hadn’t gotten the word.

I mean…can you imagine? You show up at someone’s house in your Hawaiian shirt and a six pack only to find 100 people dressed in black, eating ham, and crying?

Luckily, that didn’t happen. Or if it did, my family was good enough not to tell me.

Since that year, I have gotten involved in a local 5k race that honors organ donors and celebrates organ recipients (my husband was an organ donor). Fortunate enough for me, it’s usually held right around my husband’s anniversary. In fact, this year it’s ON his anniversary. So I form a team and let all of my friends and family know that they can join us if they’d like to. I supply bagels and juice afterwards and we all sit around talking about how, if my husband were actually with us, he’d probably be griping about the fact that we woke him up that early to take a walk.

So, this fundraiser has been very helpful to me and something I kind of look forward to every year. But I have come to realize…not all widows feel the same way.

I noticed, after meeting some local widows, that a lot of us seem to have our causes. In fact, I think we’re the walking-est group of people you’ll ever meet. We can’t get through a summer without supporting each other by taking at least 20 walks for various charities. I used to think that everyone did that: Lost someone, found a cause, got great legs.

Until last week.

I have a friend who lost his partner and the love of his life (who also happened to be my friend from college) to cancer about 6 months ago. We started talking about all of these walks and fundraisers and he told me that he had been approached several times about various cancer research fundraisers. Like those who approached him, I thought for sure he would join in anything he could. I was in for a surprise.

When I asked, “Well, what do you participate in?”

He calmly replied, “Nothing. It’s too late. He’s already gone. If they had asked me before he died I would have been at everything. But now it’s too late.”

Now, some people may look at this as selfish or short-sighted. But for some reason, it made complete sense to me. And it was a response I had never heard of before.

I mean…he’s right. It is too late for him. His partner is gone and, frankly, I think his response is a pretty normal reaction. We all want to blame someone, something, for our spouse’s death. So what’s a more appropriate thing to blame than…cancer?

Now, I’m not writing this so that you all stop what you’re doing and ask the American Cancer Society for a refund. I’m just saying that we all deal with things in our own way. As we have said before…what makes sense to one person may not make sense to anyone else. Really…he could think I’m completely off my rocker when I celebrate my husband’s life by not showering, strapping on a pair of running shoes, and hanging out with 3000 people he never knew. But that’s my choice.

And my friend fully admits that someday, he may be ready to take that walk. But for right now, he’s angry. He doesn’t want to give anything to the enemy that took the most important person in his life away…even if it’s in an effort to get rid of it.

What I admire the most is the friend of his who said, “Tell me your partner’s name. I’ll walk for him until you can.”


© Catherine Tidd 2010

The Healing Power of "The Story"

Father’s Day Hell. Done. Kids Okay. Check. Memorial service for my neighbor….What??

That’s right, my friends.

Most of us have been just trying to get through Father’s Day weekend. Whether it’s because we have kids, we wanted to have kids, or we’re thankful we dodged that bullet…we’ve all been wading through our own you-know-what (I’m trying to keep this PG just in case my mom reads it).

But somehow, this weekend, I got a double helping of grief. Because not only did I have to jolly my kids through Father’s Day, I had to come home to a memorial service going on next door. My very sweet next door neighbor passed away a few weeks ago. He went into a doctor’s appointment on a Tuesday, was diagnosed with cancer, and by the next Tuesday he was gone. We were all shocked, to say the least.

Anyway, I always think it’s important, when it comes to these kinds of things, to just show up and acknowledge the passing. You know...give the wife a hug and let her know that how well liked her husband was. I mean, nothing makes us feel better than knowing that hundreds of people thought so much of our loved one that they decided to come over and pop open a beer with us.

Now, you would think having experienced what I have, that I would be a person who would know what to say. That I would have some magical words of comfort. That I wouldn’t be as stupid as some of the people I have encountered during my meandering walk through the Grief Canyon.

Yup. You would think.

But because of the experience I’ve been through, it makes me more self-conscious than ever that I’m going to say the wrong thing. Because if there’s one thing I know by now it’s that what one person finds comforting will make another person want to smack you. Most of the time, I just try and keep my trap shut.

So after my exhausting day with the kids, I trudged over to my neighbor’s house for (hopefully) a quick glass of wine and a pat on the back. And in my attempt to keep my foot out of my mouth (so that I could drink more wine), I started asking my neighbor questions about how they met, how long they’d been married…you know general things like that.

And then something interesting happened.

My neighbor’s face suddenly lit up (as much as it can when you’re fighting against the rip-tide of grief) as she told me their story. She talked on and on about meeting him in college and how crazy and fun he was. She asked me to go with her to watch a slide show that someone had put together of their life and as I followed her into the living room, the most obvious thing hit me.

We all just want to tell our story.

In everyone’s attempt to “say the right thing” in times of grief they’re ignoring a very simple fact that would save everyone a lot of aggravation. They don’t have to talk at all. They don’t have to worry about whether saying, “I’m sorry” is going to annoy someone. They shouldn’t even attempt to look at the bright side and say, “Well, at least he went quickly.” They shouldn’t make a pathetic stab at philosophy by saying, “Everything happens for a reason.” Or our FAVORITE: “He’s in a better place now.”

They just have to ask one simple question about the person who is gone. And listen.

When I think back to when I lost my husband, I still realize that the most healing time I had was just sitting around with friends while they asked me questions about us and our life. Even in my darkest hour, I enjoyed strolling down Memory Lane with anyone who would take the time to listen. Don’t we all? I LOVE it when people ask me how I met my husband. I love it when they look at me in my younger and more attractive days and ask what we were doing then. I love it when they ask me if all of my kids were fathered by my husband.

(Now, in reality, if you had ever seen my husband and seen my kids, you would never ask that question.)

This realization has been such an “ah ha” moment for me. That listening has more healing powers than saying something that you think is comforting while making the other person feel like they’d rather be walking on glass than talking to you. It’s probably something that you all have known for years, but I’m always a little behind on the grief train. So the best thing you can do is smile politely and nod your head while you let me ramble.

‘Cause it will just make me feel better.

For more blogs and articles from other widow(er) writers, join us at www.theWiddahood.com!  


© Catherine Tidd 2010