This is it. This is when you all decide that I’ve crossed over. The only thing I can say in my defense is that…if I’m crazy…I’m taking you down with me.
So, the other day, my dryer quit. Now, I don’t have the detailed specifics. I checked its pulse. I held a mirror up in front of it. But before I knew it…it was gone.
Now, I’m guessing that dryers quit in multiple thousands of households every day. And I’m guessing that the level of annoyance when that happens is probably about the same.
Except.
My dryer has a history. In fact, my whole washer/dryer combo has a history. It’s probably not interesting to anyone else but me. But that doesn’t mean the history is not there.
In short…I moved to Florida after my husband and I got married. We didn’t have much money. No…wait. We didn’t have ANY money. However…and this may sound strange…we still wanted clean clothes.
Our area in Florida was known as the second worst county in the United States for rust. Which meant that (when you don’t have money) you’re not all that excited about putting a brand new washer and dryer in a garage (where the utility hook-ups are) filled with salt watered air. One could say that their value might depreciate. Or rust from the inside out until you go outside to find a pile of rust and underwear. So we did what any normal couple would do with no money.
We went to an estate sale.
I LOOOOVE estate sales. I’m the ultimate bargain shopper. So when we bought a piano at this sale and the sellers mentioned they would just throw in the washer and dryer for free we were on board. I mean…tell that to a couple who have been living on Ramen for 3 months and that’s the equivalent of winning the lottery.
When we had our little washer/dryer windfall, we told ourselves, “If they last us a year, it will have been a good (free) investment.”
So 14 years, 3 kids, and 1 deceased husband later, I’m replacing the dryer. I’d say that it has served us well.
This is when the “crazy me” emerges.
When the (always nice) delivery people from Lowes came to my house to deliver the new dryer and take the old one, I had the most irrational urge to tow-strap the 2 of them to the 2 wheeled dolly and say, “Did you know that this was so hard for us to buy 14 years ago? Did you know that my husband moved and installed this damn thing in at least 3 houses? How could you just take something that looks old but washed my husband’s clothes and not even give it a second thought???”
If this had actually happened I would have chalked it up to a Widow Moment. And then tipped them well.
A few days later, I was trying to explain my almost crazy behavior to my mom. To further secure her sainthood, she just replied, “You know what? The day that your great aunt replaced her old washer in her carriage house in Louisiana…well…it brought me to tears. And your grandmother and grandfather looked at me (in my early teens) like I was crazy.”
Well. It’s nice to know that appliance grief is genetic.
All I keep thinking is…if I’m so sad about selling that damn dryer…how am I going to feel when I decide to sell my house? The house that we remodeled and made our own, but may not fit us eventually? I mean…think of all of the appliances I’ll have to let go of.
Is there a word for this in therapy? “Appli-widowed-can’t-move-on-a-phobia?”
© Catherine Tidd 2010
Showing posts with label crazy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label crazy. Show all posts
Thursday, August 12, 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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