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
Showing posts with label comfort. Show all posts
Showing posts with label comfort. Show all posts
Monday, June 21, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 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
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
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