Today the kiddos and I met some of the other moms and kids at a playground, and I think I managed to present myself as a reasonably well held together person. I enjoyed meeting up with the other moms and talking about the upcoming school year and raising puppies. (I enjoyed talking about NOT MINECRAFT, in other words.) Then I came home and stared at the wall for an hour or so.
Because here’s the thing about widowhood, or at least about my widowhood, as I approach the six month mark:
There are times when I feel relatively normal and productive and happy. We do art projects and make youtube videos and bake bread and paint the living room. I post these things on Facebook.
There are, however, times when gravity feels punishing and I do not want to get off of the sofa. There are days that I order sandwiches from Door Dash because assembling a simple sandwich feels like an insurmountable task.
Some days I meet friends or take the kids somewhere and have fun and laugh until my sides hurt.
Some days I sit in my car and cry.
Sometimes this all happens in one day.
If you see me and you think I’m getting it together and coping well with my new life, you are right.
If you see me and you think I am a complete mess barely capable of standing, you are right.
I am both things, which I think is where I am supposed to be right now.
I’m not okay, but I’m okay with that, and I think that’s okay.
For six years of Father’s Days, we were childless.
We had been childless before that, but for those six years we fought infertility, with little hope that we would ever receive the Father’s Day torch.
Then, finally, the miracle borne of medical science, excellent insurance and piles upon piles of money bestowed upon us the next six years full of jubilant Father’s Days.
Six years of Father’s Days overflowed with handprint paintings and homemade frames, of ridiculous cards selected by giggling little boys.
Now it is done.
Six was our allotted number of Father’s Days.
My children now embark on a lifetime of Father’s Days without their dad. A lifetime of deciding who should receive the gifts made at school. A lifetime of turning away from the card section of the store. A lifetime of loss.
This year the holiday feels insurmountable. His death so recent, his memory so vivid, it feels like I will see him grumbling down the stairs at any moment. We don’t know what to do with this holiday or with each other. We want him back.
How will it be in another six years of Father’s Days? Will they remember him — really remember him? Will they remember his hugs, his smell, his laugh? Will they feel the loss of him, or will they feel the absence of an abstract “dad” figure? Will they be sad that he is no longer with us, or resentful of the other kids who are celebrating?
You, often, hear people say, “Everything happens for a reason.” Do you ever wonder what the reason is? I find myself searching for the reasons, more and more. Initially, we were told my husband suffered a “black widow” heart attack. I found out today, that it was three blocked arteries. I am unsure, right now, […]
via Autopsy Results and Back to Work — Confessions of a 34 Year Old Widow
Is this strange? I have a mold of my dead husband’s teeth.
When he was alive, it was semi-normal. He had a mold of his teeth made for some orthodontic reason, and kept the mold when he switched to a different dentist.
I came across the mold while cleaning out the bottom bathroom drawer. Naturally that is where we all keep the creepy molds of our teeth, right? In between the never-used hair curlers and the beard trimmer attachments.
I picked this up and thought I should probably get rid of this. I don’t want to be that creepy widow keeping a mold of her dead husband’s teeth wrapped in bubble wrap in the closet.
Then I proceeded to wrap it in bubble wrap and put it in my closet.
I’m a creepy widow.