Widowhood
Three o’ clock in the morning to 6 am is the worst part of my day.
Each morning when I wake up, my body has to re- acclimate to the fact that Pat is gone. Anyone who is grieving knows what I describe. It’s like forcing your body to adapt to a new, hostile environment.
There is no one but me to do the morning routine with Cal and prepare her nine medications. I empty the dishwasher and clean the kitchen, open the door for the nurses and make a cup of tea.
Pat’s death means I wander through the day awaiting the inevitable triggers, like discovering one of his NY Times crossword puzzles or coming upon a scrap of paper with his chicken scrawl handwriting, and then, without fail, the convulsive crying returns. The good news is how the crying fits no longer last as long as they did a few weeks ago, and the pain is not as intense as it was when I curled up in our bed next to him in the moments after his death. The stabbing pain is a chronic, throbbing ache.
I am an expert on grief (after all, I have written a book about it), I have been here before, it must simply be endured. I know.
Lately, the fear of loneliness, the recognition that I do not fit into my old life anymore has become more real. I am no longer Pat's wife, so my status and privilege is taken from me and it impacts my interactions with everyone from the online credit card customer representatives to the car dealer. Even the internet’s computer algorithms know I am a widow, and they sell me online dating services and other services for the newly unattached. And so, of course, it changes personal relationships with friends and colleagues.
Sadly, I sense friendships being altered because it is hard and uncomfortable to be around me, or, maybe, these friends liked Pat better than me and they are not interested in dealing with remaining half of a broken matching set. Who could blame them? Pat was more interesting and fun.
For my friends who are divorced, widowed, and single, I am getting schooled in how the world views husbandless women-of-a-certain-age. It is harsh and cruel and not wholly unexpected. One single friend described it as a comfort and protection that has been taken from you. And a divorced friend suggested that it may be viewed as selfish to complain about having lost a privilege so many people never enjoyed: the gift of being loved well and a wonderful partner in life.
I tell myself how I am going to be okay. The world’s merry-go-round keeps spinning. Pat will not be easily forgotten and he was fortunate to have so many people who loved him. But, for all of us, even the ones who are so cherished, the world moves beyond us. And I see the world going on, but a huge part of me has no desire to move forward. On the rainy days with the unrelenting stream of bad news, it is difficult for me to see anything to look forward to. I can’t help but believe that the best part of my life is over.
God, I hope that is not true. I know Pat would want me to enjoy life and go to shows and work and be with friends. He would not want me to die with him. But, I must confess, in the middle of the night, when I cannot trick myself into forgetting how much we have lost and how much I miss Pat and being his wife, I long to follow him to wherever he is now.
But, my hope and my joy can be found in the things that endure. First among them are our/his children, who are brave and beautiful and wise and so very grown up. Camille and PJ have been transformed into warriors in our tribe, who are so very protective of me because I am wounded but also revered and needed. Cal beams at me in the morning, and I am brought back to the fact to that following Pat into the abyss is not currently an option. One day I will try to be reunited with whatever he has become, but, that cannot happen today. People need me.
And then there are the families who need our help because they have a child with leukodystrophy. Yesterday, I spent an hour on FaceTime talking about the grief over hearing your child has MLD. Then, I need to work on ensuring that every newborn gets screened for Cal’s disease at birth.
Fall will mean returning to the classroom to teach my new course on the sociology of medicine and await a presidential election.
Cal’s Foundation will bring on our first employee this June.
As much as I don’t want to believe it, we risk being abandoned and isolated forever if we resist the idea of rejoining the world.
