My Widowhood Business Cards

“A widow is a fascinating being with the flavor of maturity, the spice of experience, the piquancy of novelty, the tang of practiced coquetry, and the halo of one man's approval.” 

Helen Rowland

Oh, my God, that is so NOT me! Helen Rowland was a humorist as well as a journalist so maybe she meant those words tongue-in-cheek. But I do like the phrases “flavor of maturity” and “the spice of experience” and I’m thinking of using them on my new business cards. Yes, I use calling cards aka business cards---hokey but true. I’ve never liked repeating my contact information to people in pubic and cards give me some measure of privacy. Call me paranoid but the practice started a long time ago when I was young and vulnerable and I see no reason to change as I slide into being old and vulnerable. I thought about using the pompous byline of “Widow Extraordinaire” on my new cards but then someone might ask me what is so extraordinary about me and I have to admit not a darn thing. “Caregiver Extraordinaire”---I could have stated that on my old cards without exaggerating but then I had nearly twelve years to perfect the role. Now, I’m a newbie at the widow walk and I’m just doing the best I can.

I was so excited yesterday. I finally sold Don’s power wheelchair after advertising it for nearly two months. Hallelujah! No more depressing thoughts every time I’d walk past it, but the most exciting part of the whole transaction is who bought it. The guy was also a stroke survivor with a great outlook on life---just like Don had---and before retiring he was a historian with our local museum. Several of the books he wrote are sitting in my library but Don would have scolded me for  passing up the opportunity to get them autographed. Don would have loved that. Missed opportunity or not, I couldn’t be happier that something Don loved as much as his new power chair ended up with someone he respected so much. The stars aligned just right and I got lucky on that feel-good deal.
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When the historian left, I wanted to share the news with someone and wouldn’t you know it, the first person that crossed my mind who’d understand the sources of my happiness was Don. Crazy isn’t it. Nearly four months out and I’m still having those moments---little flashes really---where I forget he’s gone. It’s normal, I'm told by other widows, but “normal” still leaves you feeling a little sad. So who does a recent widow call when the one person you really want to talk to is gone? I’m still trying to figure that out. Most of the time I can say that I’m alone but I’m not lonely. When I want to share something but don’t know anyone to share it with is not one of those times. So I decided I’m just going to have to work harder on expanding Levi’s vocabulary. He understands “no, you can’t have another treat”, “let’s go for a walk” and a dozen other phrases but he doesn’t get, “let me tell you what just happened!” Or maybe he does understand my inane attempts at explaining my current moods and he’s just thinking what humorist Dave Barry says all dogs think at times like that: I may lick myself in public, but I’d never say anything as stupid as that. And that leads me to an idea for a byline for my new business cards. Maybe they could read: 'In Training for the Craziest Widow of 2012 Contest!  ©

Dear Dead Don

Do you have any idea how hard it is to get used to your lack of presence in the house? How hard it is to want to share something with you only to realize I have to tell it to thin air? Darn you, Don! Why did you have to die? I wasn’t finished loving you just yet. And who am I going to yell at for leaving the top off the toothpaste or for not picking up the dog's toys at bedtime? But I’m being strong. You’d be proud of that. I’m taking care of business, getting all your “death stuff” done in fine, chronological order. All the right places and people have been notified that you’re now a dearly departed. All the hospital bills have been paid. And I am now the official head of the household with all the utilities newly in my name. Little Miss Efficiency, that’s me. Little Miss Lonely who talks to the walls and over feeds the dog and who now needs to leave bread crumbs to find her car in parking lots since I no longer park in handicapped.

I’m getting a brand new car tomorrow. Did you know that? Yup, a dealership special: trade in one dead husband and his wheelchair friendly vehicle and walk out with a shiny little Chevy Malibu. Do you know how that feels? Of course, you don’t! Guys never know why women get mad. At least half the time YOU couldn’t figure it out when I had a bee in my bonnet. Hint: New car days should be happy events. They shouldn’t be days that would make any grief counselor think the little old widow is making great progress. Yes, sir, a job well done. Boy, my arm is getting tired from patting myself on the back! 

Damn it, Don! I have money coming in from the insurance company. Money coming in from the sale of your riffle collection. Money coming in from income tax returns. Money coming in from selling your Vette and the power wheelchair. Money, money everywhere and there’s not single thing I can buy without feeling guilty. Tomorrow I’m going to say, “Guilt be damned! I’m buying a damn bike for the damn nature trails even if I have a damned good cry every time I ride the damn thing!” But today I’m not finished being mad at you for dying!

Your pissed off wife.

P.S. I know you know how much I detest the “P” word. So the fact that I’ve turned it into an adjective to sign off this letter ought to tell you not to come haunting my house tonight! If you weren’t already dead, I’d probably kill you for putting me through all this!

 

Selling off the Past

This month was the beginning of a very long road I must travel---selling off the past. First Don’s ’78 Vette went up for sale, then this week his gun collection. I didn’t plan on this collection going so soon after his passing but a police officer friend of ours told me about an annual gun auction in March so I got my act together and got them consigned to the sale. I was happy for the way it turned out. Don would have been pleased with the prices his commemorative riffles brought. He’d always said they were the worst investment he ever made because you couldn’t shoot them, couldn’t display them and couldn’t throw the boxes away. Now they are someone else’s “bad” investment. But it seemed strangely fitting that the riffle Don came to dislike for political reasons---his John Wayne commemorative---was one of the highest bid guns at the entire auction. He would have loved taking so much money from a presumed Republican NRA member.

This week I also sold our 2012 Traverse with the wheelchair lift. It only had 12,000 miles but it brought too many memories with it where ever I’d go and with the money I got from the sale of the guns plus the Traverse, I’m buying a new Malibu next week. No more car payments! What’s not to be like about this change in my life? Still, it’s bitter sweet. To move forward, I have to leave bits and pieces of Don’s and my past behind. It’s all part of that circle of grief pain the experts say you have to move through while trying not to stall or stop at any point.

Next on the list to go up for sale is Don’s electric wheelchair. It’s not even nine months old but I’m told it’s going to be a hard sell and that first year of depreciation is at 50%. Why? Because most people get their wheelchairs through their insurance companies or Medicare so the pool of buyers just isn’t there. We bought the chair out of pocket last summer because Don didn’t qualify for a new chair until later this summer and I didn’t want him to have to wait that long for an electric wheelchair he could take down the nature trails close by. With his manual chair we never got too far away from the parking lot before we’d both run out of energy. Oh, well, I can only hope who ever buys the wheelchair will be as happy with the freedom it gives him or her as Don was. The look on his face the first time he drove that chair around the parking lot at the Amigo dealership is something I dearly wish I had captured in a photo.

I was lousy at photo documenting the highlights of our lives. Don was a little better than me before his stroke but not as militant about it as a friend of ours who spends every wedding, party and holiday behind the lens of a camera. I always thought it was better to actually take part in events rather than to document them from the sidelines. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we should have taken more pictures. But I did inherit a sizable collection of photos of all the cars, trucks and heavy equipment Don owned over his life time and had driven when he was in the reserves. If I thought the humor of making a memorial wall of those photos wasn’t so obscure, I’d do one like other widows do with photographs of their spouses, candle shelf below and all. That’s the kind of joke Don would have gotten right off, but without his laughter at an “altar of lost vehicles” everyone else would just think I’m getting weird in my old age. Selling off the past is not going to be that “dashing and bold adventure” my fortune cookie tonight promised is in my future but it sure is taking me to the dark humor side of life. ©