This Too Shall Pass

I’ve been thinking about this blog for a while and it’s kind of funny that I’m typing it up now, considering how my week has gone.  Sick kid, two trips to the ER, fear of going to my mailbox to find the medical bills that I know will be lurking in there at some point soon…to say the least, I have had a somewhat problem-filled week.

There is only one thing that is getting me through it.  And that is thinking over and over again, “This too shall pass.”

I don’t know who said it first.  I just looked it up on Wikipedia and it turns out that they think it was a Persian.  Probably some woman who was on her 12^th hour of beating her laundry against a rock, cursing the fact that she still had to get dinner on the table, knowing that her husband was probably back at home, kicking back in some hay and having a beer (did they have beer way back then?  I’ll have to look it up).

ANYWAY, I’ve found myself saying that over and over again this last week.  Actually, I’ve found myself saying that over and over again for the last 4 years.  And there’s a very good reason for that.

Because it’s true.

There are times when I look back and cannot believe that the things that have happened to me have had anything to do with the life I’m living now.  It just seems like it happened to a different person.  I’ve found myself saying to my mother quite often, “Can you believe that was me?” And she’ll shake her head in disbelief and reply, “I know.”

I think back to when my husband died, when I still had a child in a crib, a child who had just gotten out of a crib, and a child who was getting ready to start all-day school for the first time.  There should be a word that means “overwhelmed times 20” (deliriously astounded?) because that’s where I was in my life.  I kept wondering how in the world I would make it through, how I would get to the next day the next week, or the next year.  And eventually I realized something very important.

My problems were fluid.

My kids weren’t always going to be toddlers.  They were going to grow up.  Those days of not wanting to go anywhere because I didn’t have the energy to strap all three of those kids into their five-point harnesses and booster seats, gave way to hopping in the car with all three of them and backing out of the driveway while they all buckle themselves in.  Taking 20 minutes at the end of every meal to clean the floor after three young kids who seemed to have secret trap doors in their mouths that always allowed food to escape and miss napkins and bibs is no longer an issue because I can hand any one of them a broom and say, “Clean that mess up.”  Trying to tie shoes, change a diaper, and kiss a boo boo all at the same time doesn’t happen anymore and has been replaced by potty-trained shoe-tiers who can put their own band-aids on.

Just like my kids, my problems aren’t going to stay the same either.  They’re going to change, some for the better, some not.  I may have some of the same problems tomorrow that I have today, but for the most part, I’m either resolving them or they’re resolving themselves.  And yes, new issues will come up that will either force me to figure them out or adjust to what they’re bringing to my life.

Life is change.  It’s shifting, altering, and fluctuating right before us.  So are problems.  And usually the reason why we can’t see that is because the bigger the problem, the more gradual the solution.  The problem of losing my husband 4 years ago and dealing with 3 toddlers is not the problem I have now.  I don’t know exactly when it changed…it just did.  Gradually.  In its own time.  On its own schedule.

So when I find myself so overwhelmed in the “now,” I remind myself that the “now” is changing all of the time.  Tomorrow could look completely different.  It could look better, it could look worse.  But with every new day that dawns, the possibility of change rises with the sun.  And that’s worth getting out of bed for.

Oh.  And I just looked up when beer was invented.  Wikipedia says that it was probably around 9500 B.C.  Which means there was a good chance that that Persian woman’s husband was kicking back with a frosty one while she was working her fingers to the bone.  And when that husband woke up the next morning, head aching and stomach churning from the primitive adult beverage he had consumed the night before…you want to know what he probably said?

“This too shall pass.”

Feels Like Home To Me

We all go through different stages in our lives. And all of those stages affect us differently. And how we deal with those stages shape the people we become.

For some reason tonight, I started thinking about when my husband and I were first married. I’ve already told you all that I got married at the ripe, old age of 20. What you don’t know is that I got married 3 weeks after I turned 20 because I refused to get married as a teenager.

Well. You know. The younger you are, the more 3 weeks makes a difference.

Whatever.

So, at the beginning of my marriage…we had no money. Like…I-felt-guilty-about-buying-a-pair-of-socks-no-money. My husband had a good, steady job, but I was still in college. So my contribution was minimal.

Okay. Fine. So my contribution came when he could claim me as a dependent on his taxes.

Anyway.

You should also know that at the beginning of my marriage…I followed my husband 1500 miles away from my home to that steady job.  Away from everyone I knew and everything that was familiar. From mountains to beach. From heavy sweatshirts to bikini wear (and even at that age I didn’t have the abs for it). From sweaty Birkenstocks at the grocery store, to shirtless/shoeless men with ferrets in the meat department.

Lovely.

Knowing that I was completely out of my element, my husband did his very best to make me feel at home. Now, I realize that for most men, feeling at home involves a good bean-bag chair and a six pack of Miller High Life. But my husband went above and beyond the manly/husbandly call of duty.

(Especially for an Engineer.)

He bought me a piano.

I’ve played the piano since I was five. I’ve sung since I can remember. I even went so far as to get a music scholarship to college (which I promptly dumped because…frankly…it was just too damn hard). Music was my stress reliever. My outlet. My way to get back at the world in an out-of-tune way when it just pissed me off.

When I married my husband, I realized that I would be giving up my childhood piano and I had no idea when we would ever be able to afford to actually buy one ourselves. And that was okay. I loved him and I just couldn’t wait to be with him. So giving up something that was so much a part of me and replacing it with something that I couldn’t wait to be with every waking minute...seemed like a pretty fair trade.

But one day…at an estate sale…my husband saw a piano for $200. And he looked at me and said, “Let’s get that.”

Knowing that we really didn’t have $200 to spend on it, I said, “Why? It’s not necessary.”

And he replied, “Because you need it. And I want you to feel like you’re home.”

Okay. I know all you girls are feeling all “melty.” But I really hesitated. Ummmm…water bill…piano? Car payment…piano?

Busch Lite money…piano?

I looked at him (in my divine 20-year-old wisdom) and said, “I don’t care what I have. I don’t care where we are. You’re home. And I can take you with me wherever I go.”

I didn’t realize until later, how that moment, that realization, would affect me.

At 20, I possessed the naïve belief that nothing bad would ever happen. That he would always be with me. That even if we ended up in a cardboard box…we’d still be home.

At that age, I never thought I would be without him. I didn’t know that I could afford to have my kids involved in the activities they wanted to be in. That we could eat out some times and not have to worry. That I could have the material things that I needed.

But that without him...I'd still feel homeless.

I had a big family day today. I had a lot of personal tears because a huge fraction of my family was gone. No one else knew. No one else saw.

But every once in awhile…I would have a feeling. I would smile into thin air. I would laugh when nothing was funny. I would be inspired by a blank wall.

And there was something in me that knew. I could take him with me.

I was home.

Tired of Ripping Off the Big Grief Band-Aid

Once again, I’m grieving the pending loss of an inanimate object.

What is with me??? I mean, it’s not like it got up and kissed me good morning every day. It’s not like it comforted me when I was blue. It hasn’t even bought me any jewelry worth mentioning.

But it was something my husband put together years ago.

My oldest daughter’s birthday is coming up and my big surprise for her is that when she comes home from school, her room will have been magically changed from a little girl’s room…to a space more fitting for a pre-teen.

Now, I’m really excited to do this. It involves everything that I love: Shopping, decorating, and…well…shopping.

But in my attempt to make this miraculous transformation…something’s got to go in order to make more room. And that something would be the dresser my husband put together for her years ago.

In what seems like a lifetime ago, my 2 ½ year old daughter was promoted from the nursery to her own “big girl room” because her brother was on the way. I happily decorated a very girly space for her and I can still see my husband grunting and groaning over the cheap piece of furniture that I’d bought for her room. And I’ll never forget the look of delight on her face when she walked into her new space.

Now, I know that, realistically speaking, I’m really kind of grieving two things: The loss of the dresser and the fact that my daughter is no longer a little girl. A transformation that my husband has missed.

But it got me to thinking last night.

Sometimes I feel like as I slowly get rid of all of these things from my past, things that were here when my husband was here…well…I feel like I’m slowly ripping off a band-aid. I mourn every piece that goes, every pad of paper that I throw away that might have one page with his handwriting on it, every pillow that has gone flat, but he may have slept on it at some point.

Don’t get me wrong. I like the changes I have made to my house. I wouldn’t want to be a bedroom with the wallpaper falling down around me. I realize that, while getting rid of the dryer was sad, I don’t have the time to line dry everything. I’m happy with the new exterior paint color.

But as I was sitting on my bed feeling a little blue last night, I asked myself, “If you could do anything...and money was no object…what would you want to do?  Would you have left this house already?  Or will you never be able to leave this house?”

Here’s what I decided.

If my husband had to go, what I wish I could have done was have the unlimited funds to pick up and leave this house right away. Just kind of make a clean break. Move into someplace completely new with new everything…furniture, pictures…everything. No more slowly taking off that band-aid. Just rip it off, arm hairs and all, and be done with it.

But I’d want to be able to keep my house and leave it exactly the way it was when he was here.

(I don’t know if there is such a thing as a “house hoarder” but I’d like to give it a shot.)

Wouldn’t that be amazing? To kind of move forward a little, but to know that if you wanted to, you could walk right back into your old house and remember things exactly how they were. When you start feeling sad, it could be kind of like your “Grief Clubhouse” and you could just drive over, walk in, and bawl your eyes out. No reason to get rid of any of the stuff you don’t use…because you’re already in a new and energy efficient place (with a maid. Hey…if I’m going to daydream, I might as well go all the way). You don’t have to get rid of that dryer…the one at your new house works great. Who cares if your kids don’t fit in those little beds anymore? They’ve got new stuff at the new house.

I have visions of myself as I am now, walking into this house as it was then, like it’s a museum. Just walking through the rooms and seeing things as he left them. His clothes still in the closet. Our bed unmade ‘cause we just didn’t have time. His coffee pot still on the counter. His shoes thrown some place where I’m sure to trip over them.

There’s just one thing that keeps this scenario from being perfect.

Him.

I've Got An Attitude

So, I have made no secret of the fact that this is a tough time of year for me. Actually, I can pretty much come up with a reason for ANY time of the year to be tough…I don’t care if it’s the Chinese New Year or Martha Stewart’s birthday. I can find a way to tie anything into how much I miss my husband.

That is the gift that is widowhood. But this time I really mean it. July blows.

I’m hoping by next week, I will have gotten over what feels like the flu-like symptoms of extreme grieving. You know what I mean? I start feeling not quite right one day and by the next, I’m in full-blown “can’t get out of my bed” mode. My nose is runny and my eyes could probably water my entire lawn. My face is chapped and there are tissues all over my bedroom floor. And this time, for some reason, I feel like I’m starting to have grief hot-flashes.

Bonus.

But this afternoon, I started thinking about something my sister told me a long time ago: The only thing you can control in life is your attitude. And I’m going to run with it.

Yesterday, as I sat sniffling under my down comforter (even though it’s the middle of summer), feeling sorry for myself and everything I’ve been through, I really thought about what I’ve done and that I’m still here. And instead of thinking, “My Gosh, I’ve had a horrible life,” I started thinking, “I did all that? That was me?” And then I thought…

Damn, I’m good.

When I think about the time I spent in the hospital with my husband hooked up to every tube imaginable and learning that he would never be coming home, I can either let that memory bring me to my knees or I can think, “I stayed with him. I was calm (mostly) and held his hand. And when the time came, I still had the presence of mind to give life to others by permitting my husband to be an organ donor. I did that.”

When I think about coming home from the hospital to three small children, it always gives me a mini-nervous breakdown. The fact that I sat my five, three, and one year old children down and calmly told them that Daddy wasn’t going to come home anymore, still amazes me. But I’ve decided to take that bad amazement in turn it into good (‘cause that word can really be used either way).

Instead of imagining their little faces and thinking, “I sat down and told them the worst news they might ever hear,” I’ve decided to look at it another way. I’ve decided to think of it as, “I told my children terrible news in a calm, gentle way and they’re still okay. In fact, they’re doing really well. And I did that. I made it okay for them.”


When I think about going to a memorial service for my husband held at the Air Force Academy to honor those graduates who had died that year, I can’t believe that I did that. (For those of you who have not been to a military memorial…let me tell you…the slowness and precision of the service is one of the most excruciating things you can witness. Beautiful, but incredibly powerful.) I stood there alone while they called the names of each former cadet who had died and someone from their squadron yelled, “Absent, sir!” in front of the entire Homecoming crowd and the current student body

They called in order of age...from oldest to youngest. My husband was second to last.

I dug my fingernails into the palms of my hands, gritted my teeth, and stood still, waiting for my husband’s moment. And when I think back to that, I think, “I did that. I honored him by being there. And for better or for worse, it is a moment I will always remember.”

When I remember all of those hard times, I honestly wonder, “Who was that woman?” ‘Cause the woman looking back at me in the mirror with puffy eyes and dry lips doesn’t seem that brave. She doesn’t look like the kind of person who could take such a blow and still stand up. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of person who could have a conversation with her children without scarring them for the rest of their lives. She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who could stand at that memorial without falling to the ground in a big sobbing heap of designer suit and Payless shoes.

But we’re both wrapped up in the same person. The woman who found the strength to go through all of that is still here. It’s the memory of that woman that makes things hard. Because when I’m feeling low, I feel like she’s on vacation. And I really need her here to give me a pep talk.

Or…maybe not. What if she turns out to be one of those bitches who just tells me to “get over it?”


© Catherine Tidd 2010

Lost in the Widowhood

“I feel so lost.”

How many times have we felt that way? How many times have we heard that from other grievers? How many times have we just wanted to pull on a t-shirt that says it, so we just don’t have to explain anymore why we’re operating in such a daze?

We all go through these periods of feeling lost. Like we’re floating out there in the world with nothing to anchor us. We make the best effort we can to find that connection…the internet, support groups, counseling…something, anything to make us feel like we’re still part of the world.

For some of us, these periods last longer than for others. It’s discouraging and we feel like, when we see others who share a similar experience supposedly “getting on with it,” that we’re failing in some way. That we’re not living up to our grieving potential. That we’ll never get that promotion from “new widow” to “widow…once removed.”

But I have a different idea.

When we lose someone, our perspective changes. In a big way. The little things become just that…little (that is, until a little thing comes along and completely runs us off the road. That’s always fun). Our connection with the world and the people around us does a complete 180. Spiritually (not necessarily religiously) our connection deepens. We seek out those who feel the same awakening because that is who we suddenly feel a connection to. It’s baffling to many of us that who we find comfort in are not those people who have known us all of our lives, but complete strangers. When we see someone in pain, we can’t look at it in the same, detached way we could before. Because their pain was once our pain. And we feel it right to the core.

It’s frightening, this opening of the spirit. It leaves us vulnerable and insecure. And when we used to feel that way…scared and exposed…who did we turn to?

You guessed it. The person who’s not here anymore. Talk about your double-whammy.

Sometimes I think that the people who are having the hardest time, are sometimes doing the most soul-searching. We all feel loss very deeply, but I wonder if those people who can’t figure out what to do with certain areas of their lives – whether it’s professionally, romantically, or just what to wear in the morning – are actually taking the time to really figure themselves out. They’re not jumping into anything. Because jumping would imply that you have to land somewhere. And they’re just not ready to do that yet, damn it.

The problem is…everyone else around you is saying that you should be ready (mainly because the fact that you are still going through the grieving process makes them feel uncomfortable…it has nothing to do with you). They think you need to stop floating and join the real world once again. And it’s almost harder when you reach out to people who have shared a similar loss who seem to be “getting on with it” because in the back of your mind you think that you’re just not doing this right.

Sometimes I wonder if we are holding on so tightly to who we were, what we had, and what could have been…we focus all of our energy on that and let that take up so much space in our hearts that we don’t have room for the new person that’s waiting in the wings. It’s not denial…or if it is, it’s the sneakiest form. We know what’s happened. We are fully aware of what we have lost. What we don’t know is what happens next. And that’s when we start floating.

I feel like I’m making this sound more magical than it really is. This “evolution of spirit” doesn’t seem like it should come in the form of a ripped bathrobe and a bag of Oreos. When we wake up in the morning and feel like our entire body is made of lead, we don’t think, “Wow. I feel like crap this morning. I must really be doing some soul-searching.”

For me, I jumped into everything right after my husband died. It didn’t occur to me that I needed to figure out who I was, who I had evolved into, now that I was on my own. I wanted to get on with my life immediately. What I failed to recognize was that…my life was not the same anymore. That it was impossible to jump right back into my old life because my old life had taken a permanent vacation. The rules that I had followed before didn’t apply. This was a new game and in order to play it, I had to change. And change takes time.

And that’s really when I began to hurt.

I’ll never forget it. I was going about 100 miles an hour for 6 months after my husband died and then suddenly, I started to cry. And cry. And cry. I didn’t want to do anything. All of the decisions I had been so desperate to make a few months ago seemed as trivial as they were impossible. When I told my sister that I couldn’t figure out what in the hell was wrong with me she replied, “You’ve been moving too fast. And now you’re being forced to sit down and deal with what has happened.”

(Enter floating sensation and detachment.)

I guess my point is…when you’re feeling that lost feeling, try to look at it in a different way: That your damaged spirit is actually trying to take care of you while you figure out who you are. For some people this takes longer than others. For some, we’ll float back and forth between who we think we “should” be…and who we are actually evolving into. Because sometimes…that’s two different people.

And just remember…the reason we feel lost is because we’re hoping to be found.


© Catherine Tidd 2010

Widowhood: Only the Lonely

Loneliness is not a surprising by-product of widowhood. I mean, even for the people who have never been through it…it’s a no-brainer. But frankly, I think that “lonely” is not a strong enough word.

There is a deep silence that comes with losing your spouse. And it doesn’t matter if you’re standing in the middle of a crowded room…you will still notice it. It’s the quiet that comes when you don’t have that familiar voice, whispering in your ear at a wedding, “Can you believe she wore that? I mean, what was she thinking?” It’s the missing sound of two glasses clinking together on your anniversary. It’s the absence of someone breathing soundly next to you as you go to sleep at night.

Our friends are so good about trying to make sure that we know that we’re not alone. And we know we’re not friendless. We could call up any number of people if we just wanted to hang out. But we are alone. Our marriages were amputated in the prime of our lives and, for some of us, there is no prosthesis.

A lot of us, since our loss, have found comfort in chat rooms and support websites and that has helped relieve the discomfort of the amputation a little. It’s like taking two Motrin after extensive surgery. It eases the throbbing a bit, but when we look down, the limb is still missing.

We’ve found anonymous support from strangers who don’t know us but are as close as we can come to confiding in people who know exactly what we’ve been through. We tell these strangers some of the most intimate details of our lives, knowing that out of thousands of people one person might understand us and out of thousands of people, no one will be heartless to enough say, “You did what??? You’re crazy!”

Because, if nothing else, we all have crazy in common.

It’s an anonymous way to just let our widowed freakiness spread its' wings and fly. We get support from people who understand what REAL retail therapy is. People who get that a sleepless night with a newborn is one thing…a sleepless night with a dead spouse is a whole other deal. People who understand how guilt, anger, frustration, and sadness all come in a beautifully wrapped package with our names on it, signed “With Love, Widowhood.”

Finding these groups has buffered the fact that, with our spouses gone, most of us have lost the person we would have leaned on when the worst thing we could have possibly imagine happening...happened. It’s almost like we need to roll over in bed and say in utter disbelief to our spouses, “Did you hear that you died? And you were so young!” This would be followed, by a hug from them, a pat on the back, and the murmuring of some comforting words while we cried on their shoulder.

But when we roll over…well…our spouses already know that they died. It kind of spoils it a little.

I don’t think that most people who haven’t experienced loss truly understand that element of solitude. And that’s the very foundation of what makes us so lonely. The person who cared when something really great or really bad happened is missing. The person who was just as excited and saddened by the milestones of our kids is someplace else (I hope…I’ll leave that one up to you). The person who was just as invested in our lives and the decisions we made is now (again, hopefully) enjoying everlasting comfort while we slug it out down here on our own.

Do you remember the moment that you truly felt the change? (And for my handful of very brave male readers…don’t worry…I’m not about to talk about “The Change.”) I mean, the time when you realized that this was it? When you catapulted from married to involuntarily single?

For you, it may not have been a moment. But it was for me. I was leaving Wal-Mart (where so many of my breakdown moments occur) when I noticed that “Wild Hogs” was about to come out on DVD. Now, my husband and I had had many failed attempts to go see that movie in the theater, so when I saw that big billboard up at the store, I automatically got really excited. I thought to myself, “I can’t wait to get home and tell him it’s finally out!”

I think there was an audible “thud” as reality came crashing down on me standing next to the stale cookies that were on sale.

As most of us feel, I would give anything for just one more day, one more conversation with my husband. I’ve had dreams about it. Where we’re just lying in bed and I’m telling him all about what the kids are up to. We both know that he’s gone, but I’m filling him in anyway, like we’ve never missed a beat.

Those are the mornings I wake up and feel the most alone…the most like I’m missing that appendage. And even though there are so many people I could call who would commiserate with me, they’re just not in my head and in my heart living my life.

And does it make sense when I say…when I’m feeling this way…sometimes I just want to be left alone?

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

© Catherine Tidd 2010

Holding Our Own in the Court of Public Opinion

On my commute to work this morning (by which I mean my walk down to my basement office), I started wondering about something that seems to be a common theme with all of us widows: The ability to overcome what other people think of us.

When our spouses die, the surrounding public seems to think it’s their right…no…their duty to tell us how things should be done. They watch as we bumble our way into a somewhat normal existence after our lives have been completely turned upside down. The people we know patiently wait until we “get our acts together” and get back to business as usual.

Little do they know…we have decided to close that business in order to go forth like a hippie in the 60s on a journey of self-discovery.

We get a lot of advice from the people we know about what we should do, how we should live, and the decisions we should be making. Now, realistically speaking…these people usually don’t have a leg to stand on. Most of our friends and family have never raised children completely alone. They’ve never dated in later in life. And most have never faced the hole that we now find in our lives.

In the face of all of these helpful tips, I’m reminded of some of the best advice I’ve ever gotten from my therapist: Eliminate the word “should” from your vocabulary. There is no reason why you “should” stop grieving at a certain point, even though some people expect you to. There is no reason why you “should” spend your life alone, even if it’s hard for others to watch you date. And there’s no reason why you “should” expect your life to go back to normal when deep down you know it won’t.

Our sense of normal has completely changed. The way we make decisions has completely changed. Most of us now make choices with the little voice of our spouse ringing in our ears. And it’s hard enough to think, “Well, what would he (or she) have wanted me to do if he was here?”
We certainly don’t need the added complication of wondering what everyone else thinks.

I think most of the people we know expect that there will be a time of transition from being married to being widowed. What most people don’t understand is the change that occurs within us. It would be impossible to go through this kind of loss and come out as the same person. I personally think that the changes are good. We become more sympathetic to others and have a better understanding of what they might be going through. We are (hopefully) less likely to say stupid and thoughtless things just to fill dead air. And, thanks to the way we have been scrutinized, we are less likely to truly pass judgment on others.

I know that I’m a completely different person than I used to be. I may walk and talk the same, but my thought processes are completely different. That girl who would have been completely happy being a homemaker while she watched her husband’s career take off has left the building. The girl who so deeply cared about what everyone else thinks has taken a permanent vacation. The girl who couldn’t make a decision before she asked 10 other people their opinions is on a freighter to China and we’re not really sure when she’ll be back.

That’s right everybody. That person that you went to high school with and college with or have spent every holiday with since she was born has changed. It’s not a bad thing. I think it’s pretty natural. Very few people have the opportunity, early in life, to really look at things…where we’re going, what we’re doing, and what the hell the point all of this is anyway…and decide what’s truly important. Loss cracks open a door and gives us a glimpse of what is important in life. Some people choose to kick the door open and see what’s really possible and some people just quietly close it so as not to disturb anybody.

Most people won’t benefit from this kind of self discovery until they’re much older. Think of it this way…what we have been through, everyone will go through at some point in their lives. It is impossible to get through life without a taste of tragedy. We just happen to be overachievers and have gone through it first.

The good news for all of the people we know is that they’ll have a friend who will not say a damn word about what they’re doing when that happens.


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

© Catherine Tidd 2010

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

This is going to start out as a confusing story. But stick with me for a minute. I have a point…I promise.

Awhile back I found myself in the annoying situation of having lost my driver’s license. I reasoned with myself that it really wasn’t that big of a deal…I was due to renew next month anyway. But, as you all know, any time you find yourself sitting in the uncomfortable plastic chairs at the DMV, clutching your number like it’s the key to heaven…well, it’s a minor irritation.

Of course, I found my driver’s license the day that the new one arrived. Not thinking twice about it, I just threw my old one right next to my new one. Besides the obvious difference of a few pounds and a different haircut, they looked pretty much the same (although I think my skin looks better in the new one…BONUS!).

And then I really looked. And I saw it.

That young woman in the old picture didn’t know what was getting ready to happen. She had no idea that just a couple of years after that picture was taken, her life would change and she would never be the same. The information on the new and old cards were the same…same address, same height, always an organ donor. But the woman was completely different.

The new one had a smile that said she was happy, but didn’t quite reach her eyes. Something said she had lived through an experience she shouldn’t have for a long time. There was a little more worry. A little more sadness. And still a little bit of disbelief.

I find myself looking at old pictures a lot around this time of year. I’ve been doing that since the first anniversary of my husband’s death. I especially look at pictures from the two months before he died. Now, my husband’s death was sudden and very unexpected, but for some reason I look at these pictures as if they’ll have an answer. I look at them and wonder how we could not have known that something so catastrophic was getting ready to happen. How could we have spent the 4th of July with family, blissfully happy and not know that this monster was waiting for us just around the corner.

My therapist has said that this sort of thing is normal. And I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear at least one of the things I’m doing is normal. But it still feels odd to be begging for an answer from my 31 year old self three years later. I know there was no reason for it. I know it was a random accident that could have happened to anyone.

But I’m still waiting for that girl to give me an answer.

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


© Catherine Tidd 2010

Seasons Change and Moods Swing

When normal people think of the change in seasons they think of…well…normal things. The holidays, trick-or-treating, lighting fireworks, enjoying watching the flowers bloom as you sneeze your head off and graduate from regular tissues to Puffs Plus (sorry…you can tell where my head is right now as I sneeze my head off).

But, if I may so bold, we widows are not really normal people.

For us, the change in seasons means that we need to brace ourselves for a new attack of memories. It’s not just the special days we struggle with…it’s everything that goes with it.

Now, Colorado is a beautiful state and I love the weather. I love how the summer is hot, in the fall the leaves change, the winter is snowy, and everything blooms in the spring. It’s like Mother Nature used us as a proto-type. Then she had a little too much to drink one night and created a deadly combo of heat and humidity that she slapped on the South before she passed out.

The pay-off was that she later received a kick-back from Sears for the business she threw their way in the air conditioning department. That has helped to pay for her hair extensions and new pre-owned Miata convertible.

When my husband died in the summer, I knew I could handle a Colorado fall, but the winter was going to be another story. I knew the days would be short, the weather had the possibility of being hideous, and there was a good chance I would get stuck inside for four months with three small children and very little adult interaction.

In case you were wondering…there’s not enough wine in the world to deal with that. Believe me, I know.

So, as winter approached, I dug my heels in and braced myself for what I thought was going to be my first real bout of depression. I mean, nothing says “down” like long, dark days, never-ending “Calgon Moments” with three children, and a dead husband. My life was why Prozac commercials were made.

But I got through it. I think because I had been expecting it, it really didn’t turn out so bad. I got used to dressing my kids up in all of their 15 layers and sending them out into the snow so I could get some peace. I found that the snow-blower (like my earlier revelation with the lawn mower) could drown out the tattling and screaming pretty well. And my neighbor next door opened his own liquor store so if I needed that emergency belt of wine, he could hook me up.

What I wasn’t expecting was how I felt in the spring.

Don’t you feel like the things that you expect…they really don’t turn out so bad. It’s the stuff that sneaks up on you that really knocks you on your ass.

I realized, once that first spring hit without my husband, that I had no one to sit on the porch with. No one to help me plant my flowers. No one to throw me in the pool when I was least expecting it.

My partner in crime was gone.

It was hard to explain to my children why, when the weather started getting nice, I was so damn cranky. I mean, every other sane person in the state was loving the 75 degree weather and couldn’t wait to get outside and enjoy life. I, on the other hand, would walk outside, take one look at that blue sky, and stomp right back in.

I started to realize with the warm weather came activities I didn’t want to do alone. I didn’t know how to grill. Setting a beautiful table to dine outside seemed like a waste of time for my kids who were just as happy on a blanket in the yard with PB&Js and Cheetos. And rocking on the front porch seemed a little pathetic with no one there to rock alongside me.

I will admit to you, my blogging friends, that it took me a good two summers before I was able to just hang out and enjoy a beautiful day on my porch like I used to (which seemed like a really big waste because my porches were the entire reason I wanted to buy my house).

But once I finally made the leap and forced myself to sit in that chair and watch my kids play outside, it wasn’t so bad. My bitterness eased into a slow acceptance of my situation and gradually became what all of us colleagues in grief like to call “the new normal.” I even got used to rocking solo and if I didn’t want to be alone, I knew I could always ask my liquor store-owning neighbor to come over and join me.

The wine he brought didn’t hurt either.


© Catherine Tidd 2010