So, What’s Widowhood REALLY Like?

Don’t you just hate it when you can’t fall asleep? Every once in a while I’ll have a night (or two or three in a row) where every fear or fright from the past, present and future makes it presence in my brain and no matter how many tricks I use to try to clear my mind so I can asleep, they don’t work. Last night I was up wandering the house several times with only the soft glow of a nightlight in every room to keep me company. First it was three o’clock in the morning, then four, and earlier I’d ready tried meditation, mindless games of solitaire, counting sheep (there were 200 in the bedroom when I gave up), making warm milk, and raiding the refrigerator. Thank goodness I made sugar-free chocolate pudding earlier in the day.

At one point in the night I concluded that I’m profoundly lonely. Yes, Virginia, a widow can look like she’s doing all the right things to go on with her life but looks don’t always tell the whole story. I can take care of business of living like every other person on earth. I can go to one social event after another and make small talk with the best of them but that doesn’t stop the emptiness of knowing that everyone who knew me inside and out is dead. Everyone who loved me unconditionally is dead---well, except for the dog but he’s a schnauzer and they are not known for having affectionate personalities. Levi is no exception. If I want to hold him, he has a three minute rule, and then he’s off making the rounds of the windows. Varmint patrol---searching for birds, rabbits, cats and squirrels that might attack the house---is his life and no widow’s woes are going to stand in the way of his destiny and sworn duty as the Dog of the House.

The rational side of me knows there are other people besides the dog who care about me and my well-being---a brother, nieces, a nephew, in-laws and a few life-long friends but their lives are busy and full and we only see each other in the rhythm assigned by the gods of family and friends to those types of relationships. But rational thought does not rule a sleepless night and then there is Facebook. Like a voyeur at a window you get to see firsthand how crazy busy and/or happy your Facebook contacts are and if the stars are lined up just right that can make you feel even lonelier than you were before tacking your happy little notes at the bottom of their postings. I have one niece who refuses to use Facebook and guess what, she’s the one person who will text or call me for no reason at all. If the math works, you must condemn social media and pronoun it guilty of being bad for one-on-one human contact.

At the culinary college luncheon I went to last week there was a classy looking woman at my table who’d been widowed about the same time that I was and she was happily chatting up her “significant other” a guy who apparently takes her to a LOT of nice places and loves to cook for her. On my left was another woman who’d been divorced for several decades and still seems to be carrying around a lot of anger about it. The other three women sharing the table were all in various stages of widowhood. Sisters in Arms, all acting happy and companionable as we traded small talk. Small talk. I get so tired of small talk. I want a REAL conversation someday. Even in the last twelve years of my husband’s life when his language was limited to a couple of dozen words I could actually have better, in-depth conversations with him than with all the people I’ve met since his passing. And that came from decades of knowing how he thought. I could literally put words in his mouth for him to verify or reject.

What’s it going to take to make me happy again? Not fake happy like so many of us widows pretend to be when we’re out and about trying to form new friendship or are interacting with family and friends. Real happiness that helps you sleep at night and wake up in the morning knowing that you are loved and will be missed when you are gone? Of course we all know that happiness has to come from within, you can’t hang your well-being on another person. It’s a hard and fast rule written in stone and as old as the other rules written on stone tablets. And a rule that is hard to swallow in the middle of a long, sleepless night. ©

Back In The Saddle Again

It’s been a busy week that took me all over the place including a trip to my internist for my biannual appointment. He pronounced me five pounds up from when I last saw him. I already knew that, of course, and was ready with a promise that I’m starting Weight Watchers and walking this weekend. Lecture averted and he’s expecting follow-up e-mails. He knows me well. I do better when accountability is part of the equation.

The senior citizen’s hall has a lot of outings spring through fall and I’m starting to catch on about the mystery trips they sponsor. They go to places you don’t think are interesting until after you’ve been there. The mystery tour I went to today was to a large medical research institute that has 314 scientists and their support staff who are all working on finding cures and treatments for various cancers and neuro-degenerative diseases. Plus they have a wing with research labs they lease out to universities adding more people working in the building. When I thought about scientists working on cures I pictured a dedicated loner here and there spread out across the country, all locked in a cramped lab totally void of human contact. The institute I toured was spacious with hallways large enough to host parties and lots of glass walls, serene areas, a symposium hall and ‘Thank God it’s Friday’ beer nights in the cafeteria. And young! When did people doing such important work get so young? It also cracked me up that in the cafeteria every chair was close enough to a bank of floor plugs to power a lap top. I’ve never seen so many floor plugs all in one place in my life.

Also this week I went on a tour of a four year culinary arts college. I’ve been there before and I would go again. The tours always end the same way: with a classy meal at their high-style restaurant where the students serve in starched uniforms and the dessert cart holds picture-perfect and decadent offerings. My entrée choice was, “apple cider ginger braised pork shoulder with toasted kamut raisin pilaf, broccoli, crisp bacon, topped with tomato chimichurri, crunchy bread flute and ‘oeuf sur le plat’” but I debated between that and the, “beef tenderloin ribbons 'Straccetti-style' scorched in olive oil, garlic, and rosemary and served on Roman-style gnocchi, pizziola sauce and glazed asparagus.” I wonder if the students have to take a class on how to write menus. You need a translator to understand everything. The soup they served was cauliflower but it had a lot of tiny and uncommon ingredients that had us all talking and asking questions. All and all it was a great way to spend a rainy day.

Since last fall when I moved out my antique booth in a near-by town I’ve been keeping an eye out to find another booth closer to home and smaller. This week I rented a 2’ x 8’ space in a mall where the place has more of a mid-century vide than true antiques which suits me just fine because I’ll be able to sell a wider range of things than in my old booth. With another summer of e-Baying and mall sales I should finally be downsized enough to make me happy and positioned better to move, should something interesting pop up. The only ‘if’ in the equation is the mall is new and unknown but it’s on an extremely busy intersection so I’m betting on that. Plus the rent is cheap and the lease is short so I can call it summer entertainment if I don’t sell well there. I move in the middle of April.

I love being around other collectors. When I walk into antique malls, I feel an instant camaraderie. It’s hard to explain but after signing the lease, I felt a calm come over me, like I’d found myself again. As much as I’ve been around the women at the senior hall and the Red Hat Society, I don’t feel like I fit in all that well. They’re all lovely people, don’t get me wrong. But collectors, for one thing, don’t spend much time talking about their grandkids, churches and trips aboard. It’s more, “Where did you ever find that?” and “What do you know about this------?” And they understand the thrill of finding something like another square fruit jar with an embossed cross-hatched pattern. (I use them for canisters.) Yup, I feel like I’m back in the saddle again! Now, if summer would get to Michigan I could be happy again. ©

April Widow Woes

"It's strange indeed how memories can lie dormant in a man's mind for so many years. Yet those memories can be awakened and brought forth fresh and new, just by something you've seen, or something you've heard, or the sight of an old familiar face."

Wilson Rawls, Where the Red Fern Grows

I don’t like April anymore. It used to be one of my favorite months. Don and I were both born in April, we were married in April and my parents celebrated their wedding anniversaries in April. But my mom also died on Easter Day in April and most of Don’s ashes were interred in April. April sucks when it comes to memory triggering days that drag me kicking and screaming back to the land of sadness. And with the turn of a calendar page today, I’m back to listening to my inner voice that keeps nagging to adopt another dog. Ya, like that would give me the companionship missing in my life and be a smart thing to do at my age. My life already seems to be more complicated than I can take right now without adding another living thing into the mix. Heck, Sunday I was even thinking my house plants need to run away from home before I kill them. I don’t want to be held responsible should they feel neglected. I wish I could find good homes for four of the ten plants because lately I’ve been planning their demise---maybe put them outside for the summer and “forget” to bring them in before the first frost. But without their photosynthesis cycle to turn the carbon dioxide in the house into oxygen my house would probably become my own death trap. And one of those plants is 55 years old! How much longer can it live if it runs its natural course? See what I mean, my life is too complicated.

You should see my dining room table. It’s covered with priority mail boxes filled with stuff I have listed on e-Bay. For several years April 1^st has been kick off day to start e-Bay back up again---I don’t like doing it in the winter. But this year the weather isn’t cooperating and the garage is too cold to work out there where I usually do my e-Bay sales. It drives me crazy to have the clutter in the house but it also drives me crazy to lose a month of selling time, should I wait for spring to come to Michigan. I have a three stall garage that is also longer than most---a wheelchair van accessible design---so I have plenty of room out there to work.

While in the process of trashing my dining room table I got a call from the real estate agent who got my phone number from an acquaintance from the senior hall. He had called before and I told I wasn’t ready to move. This time he wanted to know if I’d gotten the material he sent me on how to have a garage sale and he said he would “help me with one if I needed it.” What a laugh. If I wanted garage sale prices for specialized stuff I don’t need a stranger to help me. I told the guy the person who gave him my phone number jumped the gun, I’m not ready to move and I won’t be until they build a senior condo community on the other end of town. “Is the community aspect that important to you?” he asked. “Yes,” I told him. What’s the point of moving if I don’t get what is missing in my life in exchange for all the trouble? I thought. “You friend wanted to get rid of the responsibility of keeping up a yard. I know that’s important as you get older and I can find you a nice condo near-by,” he replied. What responsibility? I make one phone call and write one check in the spring. But I didn’t say that. I hate pushy people who tempt you into being rude. I may be old but I haven’t crossed the Rude Bridge yet…at least not on a regular bases where I’d have to own the character trait.

I’m in a bad mood today, can you tell? Stay tuned I have some fun things to do the rest of the week so I should be back to my bouncy, optimistic self the next time I write. ©