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Nothing that
had happened in my life prepared me for dealing with Joe’s death. There
had been other deaths: mother, father, and both of my brothers. Each
grieving experience was different, but none reached this depth of pain
and loss. My oldest son stayed with me for ten days after the memorial
service. Driving home from taking him to the airport I felt the car
going slower and slower. How could I possibly go into our home alone?
There was a
shaft of light falling on the carpet. I flung myself there and sat and
rocked and cried. “I don’t want to live without him,” I sobbed and, in
the next breath, “But I don’t want to die.” Slowly, very, very slowly, I
began to take control of my grief, and my life.
Friends
asked, “What hurts the most?” Without a moment’s hesitation I would
answer, “loneliness for Joe”. He was not there to share my daily life.
The evenings and nights seemed endless. I could not reach out for his
hug. There was nothing to fill that void. In the hospital room, where he
lay dying, I began to face this and many other problems. I knew that he
could not live, and my mind raced ahead with questions, like “How can I
possibly go into our bedroom?” To anchor these thoughts, I began writing
them down, one problem at the top of each page in a spiral notebook. I
listed things that I could do that might help. As more issues crowded
my mind, I added them, with possible solutions. On the front of that
notebook I wrote “After”. Another notebook was entitled “Pain”. In this
book I wrote the feelings that overwhelmed me, as fast as I could write.
Some pages became blurred where tears fell. After Joe died, I continued
writing my solutions and feelings. I filled six spiral notebooks!
I wanted to
go to church, but I was concerned that I might cry and not be able to
stop. Also, I could not face talking with people. Timing my arrival, I
slipped into “our pew” shortly after the service had started, and I
walked out during the last hymn. I could not sing the hymns without
crying, but I could read the words, and they helped so much. When I did
cry softly, no one seemed to notice. I always left a space to my right,
as if Joe were sitting beside me. In the beginning, seeing that vacant
place hurt a lot. Later, it felt good to feel his presence near. I even
learned to welcome people as they began to sit in his spot.
Where were
the friends who had been so close? After the first rush of calls, cards
and tangible offerings, the number dwindled to two. What happened to all
the rest? It really hurt that they were not there for me. I could not
get past my own loneliness and loss. Sometime later, I began to
understand their feelings. They wanted to “fix it” and make it better
for me, but that was impossible. My lifestyle had changed. I was no
longer half of a couple, and I was dealing with issues and problems that
they did not face. My very presence was a reminder of Joe’s death, their
feelings for him, and their own mortality. Who wants to deal with all
that? They had not lost a mate, so how could they possibly understand my
feelings and where I was? I did not understand before it happened to me.
So who could
understand? I began to form a support system of my own. I joined a grief
support group. It was really hard for me to go to that first meeting
where everyone was a stranger but, the moment I walked through the door,
we were strangers no longer. We had a common bond. What a relief it was
to share how I felt and to be understood! It was in this group that I
made my first “widow friend”. Her husband had died a month before Joe.
We began seeing each other outside the group and could call each other
at any time. Later, I added two more new friends, who had lost their
mates some years before, but they still remembered. They were living
proof that one can survive and begin to live again.
One day, I
found myself wandering around in a grocery store, aimlessly, without
having put anything in my basket for at least thirty minutes. I suddenly
realized that I did not want to go home. Joe was not there! I began to
do things to make the house seem less empty. Before I went out, I turned
on the lights and had a radio playing to welcome me on my return. I
tried to have something in mind to do the moment I entered the house.
Beside the
phone was a list of people and phone numbers that I knew was okay to
call. I bought some new plants. It was amazing how they changed the
appearance of the areas where they were placed. I made sure that a
couple times a week I would invite someone into my home, to fix
something, to help me in some way, or just for tea and talk. Even a
schedule of TV programs to watch ahead was security producing, whether I
actually watched them or not. I made a few changes in places that had
belonged to Joe so they did not look quite the same.
I was tempted
to run from my grief in those early months. The pain was too hard to
bear. I found myself programming my life away, making sure I did not
have time to give way to my grief. Other people kept me busy also.
Fortunately, I realized what was going on, and I began to say no and
make time to grieve. There would be this heavy feeling in my chest, and
I could not take a deep breath. Then I knew that I had to open the
floodgate. Sometimes I would look at pictures of us together and places
we had been. Or I would read cards and letters that Joe had written. Or
I would sit in “his chair”. Soon the tears would come, and I cried until
I could no longer cry. It felt awful, but it also felt good. I
discovered that these times of release in private helped me not to cry
as much in public. I tried to understand, however, when some tiny thing
would cause me to break down when I was with others. I knew that these
sudden outbreaks would happen, and it was okay.
You would
have thought I would know better (with my counseling background) than to
expect no guilt. Regardless, I was surprised when the first guilt trip
hit. I suddenly remembered that Joe had asked me to do something for him
when he was in the hospital. I had not done it. I allowed it to haunt me
endlessly for three days until, out of desperation, I grabbed a legal
pad and started to write “Dear Joe”. First I told him how sorry I was,
and how I wished I could do it over. I found the pen taking over and I
was writing an answer from him, how he understood, and there was nothing
to forgive. What a relief! That was the first of many letters written to
Joe, with varying content and reasons for writing. I always felt better
when each letter was finished and tucked away into a private manila
envelope. When other guilt arose, I wrote a description, tried to decide
how much I was due, forgave myself for that much, and then let the
undeserved guilt go. This was not an easy process, but very helpful.
I had kept
Joe’s ring. Soon after his death I had the ring made into a heart to
hang on a chain around my neck and under my clothes. When I wanted to
remember his love, I felt the heart close to my heart. There were things
I did and established in his memory: a pink dogwood planted where I
could see it from the kitchen window, donation of his books to a
library, volunteer work at the Salvation Army (his favorite charity)
and, a scholarship fund at his college. I wanted his life and his memory
to live on.
But what was
I doing for me? A tiny incident occurred that caused me to realize I was
not treating myself as worthwhile. Months after his death I noticed a
pyramid of grapefruit in the store. It hit me that I had not bought even
one since Joe died. Why? Before, I had always cut a grapefruit in half,
and there were two of us to eat it. With determination, I bought a
grapefruit, sectioned a half for breakfast the next morning and sat down
to eat it. Something was wrong. There was no cherry on top! Always for
us I had drizzled honey on our halves, warmed them slightly in the
microwave, and put a cherry on the top of each.
What other
things had I not been doing, that I did before he died, that I still
deserved? I began combing my hair and putting on lipstick first thing in
the day, making my bed, having brewed coffee instead of instant, going
out to lunch, and treating myself in many other little ways. To this
day, I always put a cherry on top my grapefruit half!
In the early
period after Joe died, I did not care if things got done, and it was a
relief when others took over. Gradually, however, I began to push myself
to take control, starting in little ways. On a calendar I began to note
each night one thing I had done that day about which I felt good. They
were little things: took a walk, wrote letter, cooked special dinner
for me, visited sick friend, paid bills, etc. At the end of each week I
read back over what I had done. As time went on, I had to write smaller
because there were so many things to record daily. This calendar was
proof that I was making choices and taking control of my life.
I hated those
forms in the early days that forced me to choose between “Married” or
“Single”! I felt married and wanted to stay that way. “See, I am wearing
a wedding band.” Much later I did remove my ring. I scheduled an alone
time when I could talk to Joe, to myself, and to God. I went over my
vows, which I had kept with Joe. “I will always be married to Joe in the
time we had together. But the reality I now face is that he is no longer
here.” I slowly slipped the wedding band off and put an old birthstone
ring on that finger. That helped me not to feel so naked and lost.
Later, I designed a new ring, using the gold from my wedding band. Much
later, after the major issues of my grief had been resolved, I became
acquainted with a male friend. At this point I talked with my son, who
was living in the area. As I remember the conversation, it was
basically, “I know how lonely you have been. I want to see you happy. Go
for it!” I realized if I could have asked Joe, his answer would have
been much the same. Although it was very difficult for me to relate to
another man, and it took time, that friendship has continued.
Do not think
that my journey through grief was always smooth, with me in perfect
control. It was rough, with potholes, curves and many hills. Later, I
referred to that first year as my “Yo-Yo Year”.
I survived
the first Christmas better than I had anticipated, only to be dumped
into deep despair on New Year’s Day. I will always remember those “ten
days from hell” when six major disasters happened, each bigger than the
one before. Then there were the little things that continuously came out
of the blue, like hearing our favorite song on the radio and having to
pull the car over on the shoulder of the road to cry. I had expected, on
the first year anniversary of his death, that my grieving would be
finished. After all, had not everyone consoled me with “the first year
is the worst”. It was not over!
Grief work is
hard work. It must be done, however, and it may need to continue for a
long time. For me, I found that I had to feel my grief before I could
let it go. I quit running from it, took time to remember, to feel, to
cry, to let my grief go, again and again. Gradually there was room made
for the memories I chose to cherish without feeling pain.
Marta Felber drew from her counseling background for self-healing after
the death of her husband. Formerly, she held counseling positions in:
Bucks County, Pennsylvania; Cairo, Egypt; Jakarta, Indonesia; and
finally in Northwest Arkansas. She is the author of two books on grief,
Grief Expressed: When a Mate Dies (Call: 1-800-798-0100 for
autographed copies) and Finding Your Way After Your Spouse Dies
(bookstores, including Amazon.com). Her present direction is toward
inspirational writing, combined with photography.
This
article is posted with permission. Please respect our “Reprint Policy”.
The article appeared in the Spring 2002 issue of Wings. |
