Say his name: the #1 tip, and my reality

A long time ago, I wrote this post in draft. It didn't get very far.

But the topic is MY NUMBER ONE TIP for how to help a widowed person: SAY THEIR NAME. And it's also why I HATE that everyone ELSE thinks the number one topic on "how to help" is what NOT to say to a widowed person. Everyone publishes the list of what not to say. Because it's good SEO. People WANT advice. Magazine editors think it's "not as depressing" as the actual articles about our lives after loss (WTF?). Even grief counselors and "community leaders" dig into this topic with zeal.

Which SUCKS because it spreads the idea that you should be afraid of saying the wrong thing about a widowed person, when the chief problem of most widowed people after about the first two months is that NO ONE WILL TALK TO THEM.

In general, widowed people feel isolated. Sometimes, they feel they must have leprosy because so many people avoid them. (Don't think we can't tell. For a while we're in a fog, but we can be very perceptive, too, and more than a little paranoid.) I often hear from friends and neighbors who "would like to help" that they are sure the widowed person's close friends and family are in some kind of inner circle and stick around and support the widow. Sometimes, the closest people feel the most threatened or fearful. Widowed people describe their communities "disappearing" around them after the casseroles end. It's not universal, but in the U.S. and Canada, the rearranged rolodex is THE most common complaint by far.

Well, it underlies the most common complaint: people acting awkward and saying stupid things. But the lists of "what not to say" don't help.

I, for one, do not want to encourage people to be frightened of someone who has lost a partner. Many widowed people (not most) know that stupid things are not intended to hurt them, but they feel pretty damn alone when they hear "He's in a better place," or "At least you had a chance to say goodbye." (Let alone, "did he have life insurance?")

So why did I make the "Shit People Say to Widows" video? Because it does unite us as a community, because I thought it was a chance to see the topic through each other's eyes for 3 minutes, and because it was fun as hell and funnier than.

Back to the topic: SAY HIS NAME. I felt I couldn't blog in an honest way about it because I was a pseudonymous blogger.  (Maybe I overthink things a little? RILLY?) Plus, the tips are really part of another project that isn't public yet. :-) Now I have done enough for the widowed community that I have a name, a real name, as myself: not just as Supa. (Though many people call me Supa anyway.)

So I'm "coming out." My name is Robin Moore (for the few of you who don't already know me). My first husband was Kevin MacDonald.

So, SAY HIS NAME, or her name, a lot. Say it a week after they died. Say it a month after they died, and a year, and two years, and ten years. Say it when you think of it. Say it in front of the widowed person, say it in front of their children. It's okay; it won't "remind" them of the loss. No one loses a life partner and just tries to forget it.

When people don't say his (or her) name, it makes the family feel like they are the only one who remembers their loved one. (I'm going to stop saying "or her" but I hope you know I mean widow OR widower and him OR her, and they didn't have to be married or straight to have a similar set of feelings or experiences after losing their partner. Do don't back out on some legality.)

Write his name in a card and you share a memory, whenever you think of it, even if it's years later (it will be less likely to get lost than it would have been right away!).  Write his name in a card for the anniversary of his death, or on his birthday, or on their anniversary, or call and say his name. Most people like to not be the only one remembering these dates, and they can't help but recall the dates because seasons keep changing and other dates keep appearing and you can always smell and feel when it is in the year in some vague way. Remembering is not an act of will, or from the brain. Time and life are all around us everywhere and if we are well, they are in our bodies. 

So, share a photo if you find one while cleaning up. Share a song or a silly story on a holiday. Call, email, or write a real note. Even if you have been out of touch in a while. Even if you USED to be scared of the widowed person.

As time goes by (and when I say "time," I am specifically talking about periods of more than five years), the traumas turn to memories, the sad memories become fond ones, many details get lost, and with enough time, the widowed person might even forget the date of their anniversary. That doesn't mean they will think it never happened; it will not remove the events of their life "before" from their life. And every experience will include the absence of that loved one, even if it not quite the first thing to come to mind. And no -- these memories do not threaten my new husband, any more than his ex-wife's name threatens me.

So, say his name. Show your friend that you remember him, too. He's not just a loss. He was a person and a very big part of your friend's life for a pretty long time. He didn't just disappear when he died (though it can feel like a disappearance for a little surreal while). He changed the people he loved. (This is true in divorces, too. You can't just "un love" someone or "un live" the life you already shared. Let's be human, please!).  

I'm sharing, above, the memorial quilt from my church, on which I embroidered his name during support group one night. I thought I was doing a terrible job, and I switched the thread midstream because I thought it came out too lumpy. It looks fine to me now. Every time I'm in church the quilt faces me. His name is among hundreds of other names. Each quilt records decades of love -- fathers, mothers, lovers, grandparents, and children. We have a whole quilt devoted to children who died, and it's comforting to see the range, from newborns to M.D.s.

They can't be forgotten. They won't be forgotten. Don't you act like you forgot.

Say his name.

Sh*t People Say to Widows (Video) is DONE!

Here, at last, is the video we created together: "Shit People Say to Widows." Guaranteed 100% authentic quotes from (mostly) well meaning friends, family, and colleagues. Featuring comments submitted by a few dozen widowed people from my community, WidowedVillage.org.

Share it as much as you like... please! It was a lot of work and many, many people contributed.

Thank you!

Elizabeth Edwards (2): The Estranged Widowed

Rose "Elizabeth Edwards"

One of the most destructive grief myths is "the deeper the love, the greater the grief." John and Elizabeth Edwards had, no doubt, a complicated relationship. He'd had an affair, another child, and the couple were separated, but stories tell us he moved back home to be with Elizabeth and their two children recently, as her condition worsened. So I anticipate that despite this late, public transformation to devoted family leader, there will be lots of talk about John Edwards' transition to widower and likely, lots of judgment of how he grieves based on how he "should" feel.

(Widowed people just looooove to hear things like this when they become part of public conversation. Did you know we have punching bags in our basements? Funeral homes ought to give them away as bonuses, along with the special kleenex and a year's worth of massage therapy.)

Some of us buy into the myth that big love results in big grief. We long to be told our love was "special," we romanticize our loves when they end in death, and we naturally idealize those who are no longer around to act real and challenge our glistening memories.

But it's not true. As we adjust to our life after loss, and the drama subsides, widowed people learn that there are no formulas for grief, no number of tears to shed per year of marriage, no tricks, no shortcuts, no system.

I've had the honor of sitting alongside hundreds of widows, hearing their stories, watching them adjust over time, in person and online through my social media outreach. I've known dozens who mourned partners who died during divorce proceedings, after affairs, during separations, and even years AFTER divorce. These spouses (and former spouses) feel the same type and degree of pain, and experience many of the same adjustments, as the widows with storybook marriages (both real and imagined). These souls deserve the title of "widowed."

Why would anyone want to be called a "widow?" We often say, "welcome to the club that no one wants to join." But it does matter, because unmarried couples are routinely turned away from receiving support after they lose a partner. Because inconsistent acceptance of marriage by LGBT people means that they are nearly always taken less seriously by those who have sympathy for widowed people. And as little institutional and social support there is for grieving people, it's important that everyone who needs it is included.

My own experience of marriage and the many stories I've heard make me doubt that relationships that are "difficult" in public are all that different from more private or easier ones, especially below the surface. Any long-term partnership develops organically. Each union is as different from another as one animal from another. Their triumphs are often formed in compromise; even when a couple gets along easily, outsiders can't tell what's going on inside each individual or inside their life together. My friend Malena translated a Spanish proverb to me once, as "No one knows what is in the soup but the spoon." It took me a while to figure out what this means: not only can you not tell what makes a relationship tick, but sometimes a couple that seems unhappy meets each other's needs perfectly. (My parents seem to have used this recipe.)

"Happy marriages" aren't always what they seem, either, and you should be especially mistrustful of the rosy glasses of a grieving person. Spouses tend to "saint" their loved ones the moment they die, no matter what happened before. And there is an old saying that one should "never speak ill of the dead." 
Imagine the burden this puts on widowed people who find out about former lives and loves, drug abuse, or "love children" after their partner dies.

The guilt John Edwards may suffer as part of his grief may be stronger than that of a more faithful partner, but one never knows. Guilt is a natural part of most grief experiences — most of us fantasize that our loved one would still be alive if we'd acted differently: taken a different route that day, spoken up to a doctor — and we bear this with us until we come to forgive. The guilt is so magnified that it hardly matters what the irritant is: there's simply no math that will tell you how someone may feel after a loss.

I'll wager that it won't matter that John and Elizabeth Edwards had a difficult relationship. His grief won't be lessened or increased by the fact that they'd been separated. Now the children's experience… they are old enough (the youngest is 12) to talk about everything they've seen. The challenge for John Edwards will be to be as honest as he can with them, about the good times and the bad times, to honor their relationship — and his — with his co-parent.

Unlike a child, grief is an elemental, animal set of feelings and experiences and it doesn't understand the details of any story. A different grief is borne by each person: our emotions vary in size, shape, and color. But it is always the same weight: 100%, and it can't be fooled or outwitted by any system, no matter how hard we beg.

Estranged, separated, divorced, unmarried, the death of someone you'd planned a future with is always a huge loss. We should call these losses by the same name: A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.

A very widowed day

I am having a very widowed day, even for a Monday.

One of Gavin's best friends is dying. He had a massive aneurysm and wasn't found for a few days. I tried to go up and visit him, even after I found out, despite the different name, that it was the same hospital where we saw our oncologist, where Gavin had chemo all summer one year and a dreadful surgery that fall. That I’d again be crossing the vast clean lobby, but this time without my love in a wheelchair. The same parking lot, with native plants to color-code each level, so friendly – a hospital parking lot.

Don was -- not just a friend. We spent a lot of time with Don and Linda before their divorce, which depressed us. Don was nearly Gavin’s twin, the same suit size, same height, similarly thin, handsome, and clean cut. Their art was even similar, their concerns and conversations and love for Guy Davenport and theory. Don has a blacker side than Gavin did, though, and loved obscure poetry, had a crazy romantic self who appeared once in a bit, insisted on living rougher and never started a family.

He visited Gavin on his last day, in hospice, and a week before that, was one of the few I invited to the ICU. I cried talking to Linda about it – she was his only one, traveling from her new home to take care of some things and watch over him.

I feel I must go in tribute, too, in return. To thank him for his kindness – we visited after I took Shortie to the ballet, and she padded about his studio after him. That was the last time I saw him – just when I was starting to date, so two years ago plus.

Even with a life hanging, my pilgrimage was prevented by a very trivial widowed chain of events. As always, you can have something spiritual and important and gory and real, and still get messed up by worry and paperwork and the way small bits of time pass you by.

First, Mr. Fresh listened to Car Talk during his morning workout and decided I should not drive up to the hospital with my bad brakes. There was “another problem” it could be and he “isn’t crazy about the idea of losing me just yet.”

I made an appointment with the repair shop and took it in. They’d give me a loaner: even better for the long drive up to see Don. When I showed up, they pointed out that my license was expired. Who KNEW they expire on your birthday? A side effect of wishing that day away every year since the diagnosis, which was the day before my birthday. Second widowhood-related complication.

The MVA was smooth and easy, but still took an hour. And then it was time, as it is always time, to fetch the dinner and the daughter. Yes, I got something important done, which had to be done, but now I can’t take the car in until tomorrow and drive the loaner up to the hospital.

It’s a small setback, but that’s what every day is like, when it isn’t dead serious or grey during grief: a set of menial tasks to please someone you don’t really care about. It’s the company that makes it all worthwhile. At least, that was what I thought the whole first year after my loss: the deliciousness of having company and the emptiness of life without that one person. So I got another flashback, one of perspective.

And that’s what makes me saddest: that Don lay there. That Linda was the only one to be asking if there was work to be delivered to a show in November (most of what we talked about). To mourn, but only as a friend, because the partnership ended long ago. She’ll be grieving only memories, not any present or future.

Sometimes people say “no one should die alone,” which is sort of a point, but it’s very important to note that we do all come into this world alone and we all do die alone.

But as much as I hate being a widow, I think the proper expression should be: No one should die without widowing someone. It’s only in giving love that we live well, and we don't need just a caregiver, but a witness. No one lost Don’s future and that’s a crying shame.

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What is a "remarried widow?"

A remarried widow shouldn’t exist. People ask her, “how can you call yourself a widow if you’re also married?” She’s milking the label. They don’t know what it was like to be married, widowed, and single all at the same time, 3 labels she never chose to wear together. She’s already cheated on a dead man. Nothing gets more absurd beyond that, so she keeps the labels that fit.

A remarried widow may be two things at one time, but she can never be what she was before.

A remarried widow is used to being a problem to somebody. She knows there’s not that much in life that she can control so she doesn’t accept a lot of the rules that others live with.

A remarried widow is grieving, but she is not alone.

A remarried widow is comfortable being two things at once, satisfied with ambiguity, and secure in her definition.

A remarried widow raises children who have one Daddy who died and another Daddy who met him a few times and thought he was a good guy and who will show up at soccer practice.

A remarried woman has made some tough decisions, and has also been presented with some easy choices.

A remarried widow enjoyed her independence, for a moment.

A remarried widow is sharing a story with a happy ending, and she knows you’re comfortable hearing about it only because of the last bits. She accepts this frustrating aspect of socializing but she is still thankful to own all the earlier parts of the story, too, as well as what may be next.

A remarried widow says, in public, that she knows how lucky she is to have had two great loves in one lifetime. Secretly she thinks it’s an option for everyone.

A remarried widow is not remotely interested in your “epic” kitchen remodel.

A remarried widow inspires women whose lives are recently broken, especially those who can’t imagine kissing someone new.

A remarried widow wears black, but never to weddings.

A remarried widow is pretty judgmental about most divorces.

A remarried widow recognizes her duties and her pleasures.

A remarried widow cries at weddings, funerals, and birthdays.

A remarried widow has really good life insurance coverage and so does her husband.

A remarried widow does not want to go through it again, but doesn’t want to die first, either.


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Proof (Products for an Alternative Valentine's Day)

For several years in the mid-90s I used to sandpaper the mottos off of conversation hearts candies and use food coloring and a teeny, tiny, itty bitty paintbrush to write my own, nasty sayings. It was especially useful because it kept me busy, singing in my garret, after the Christmas craft sales were done.

I sold hundreds, in little boxes of six like the above, and by large handfuls for the occasional party of snarky singles (I don’t think we used to use that word? We’d just say “mean,” right?).

So, now let these pictures serve as proof that I used to actually be funny.
Proof that I have always been somewhat bitter, because I made them fifteen years ago, young and thin, even while I was in love.
Maybe I was fated to be a widow, disappointed, unhappy that others are doing well, pissed to see others in happy true love.

But they’ll also prove that Bittersweets, my version, were made and marketed years ago. You’ll see on the back of each box I’ve painstakingly included the year of copyright with my name (retouched for blogging benefit, but clear on the objects). Because actually, I don’t begrudge anyone their success. I just like to get paid. (Although I will lend the dig that mine are a way lot funnier than most of yours).

You can expect a call from my lawyer.




Also – I used to make these little boxes. It's hard to survive an entire commercial holiday like Valentine's Day with a single product. Imagine the presentation ... it’s funny for about 1 second. Still, at $3 a pop (in 1995 dollars), they moved.

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My Response to the Today Show, Part 2: An Open Letter to Kathie Lee Gifford

(Read part 1 and see a video of the encounter I'm responding to.)

Dear Kathie Lee,

I watched your show on Friday, February 4, and you were laughing an awful lot when that young widow, my friend Brenda, called in. I recognized it, that discomfort, that laugh. See, I’ve been there, and I got stung. Death is way scary, but if it’s happening to someone you love, you – yourself, alone – will yet end up okay.

Now if I were married to Frank Gifford – but of course! I forgot, I can’t be, because you are. But if I were married to a man much older than I – oh wait! I was! But I’m not anymore because – oh yeah, you know what? HE DIED. So if I were a talk show host with a terrific national platform, and an avowed woman of Christ, I might use my pulpit a little differently.

And if I were – still – married to a much older man (Gavin and I had 20 years between us; looks like you and Frank have 23? Correct my math: 1930-1953 = 23, right?) I would probably laugh in a pretty uncomfortable way when the topic is raised, too.

But I wouldn’t be stupid enough to be married to him and reproduce without a solid life insurance portfolio behind me.

Which – I did. Once.

So see, I know what it’s like, and I know how to act at parties. I “get” polite society. I understand that sometimes you might just, oh, pretend, that you don’t know what V!agra is. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable or anything.

But when someone who’s 25 and who’s lost their helpmeet, their love, their partner, their Christian-married husband, someone without a trace of botox or need for a lotion of any kind, calls in asking for help?

I’d try not to laugh too hard. Because I know it hurts. I know it’s a threat to open your heart. You might actually hear something, and words, they can make magic, they make things happen. If you don’t hear it, he could live forever. (I know he’ll always love you.)

I’m not saying anything will happen. But you said your vows, and you said the old ones, didn’t you: one of you will go while the other one stays. It could easily be you first. But statistically, it’s far more likely that Frank will be the one who goes first.

Hey, don’t look at me. It’s not me who created these rules. I’m not even the messenger. The ancients said death will part us and you both repeated it, willingly, smiling even, I bet. (Gavin and I did.) I’m not wise enough to scribe that in stone for everyone to use every day and mean it.

So if I were you, and I didn’t listen so well the first time, I might try to make amends. I might think about what my giggles were hiding. I might open my ears and my heart. I might talk to others. I’d apologize to Brenda, give the panel of men a good talking to about how women like men who listen and are sensitive, and how widows are the best deal in the dating market, and maybe start listening to some human stories from situations that scare you.

I can’t tell you to lay off the vino. I’m not the one who placed the glass there at 9 a.m. That’s not your fault, and hell, I’m a thirsty girl.

And Kathie Lee, I ain’t saying you need to own the word “widow” yet. Fact is, I saw myself in your nervous tittering, in your dashing to the explanation: “Maybe she’s not really ready to date yet!!!”

And yeah, when I had an older husband, I’d spend the energy ingratiating myself to the younger men sitting next to me, too. I might laugh at their dumb jokes. But I wouldn’t be proud of it.

I’d like you to be prepared better than I was. You won’t be poor, and you won’t have a kid in diapers, or responsibility for his senile mother, so you’ll already be way ahead of me.

But you can do better than you did on Friday. You can listen. You can let that big heart of yours, big enough for loving your man and your family, open to hear the stories of loss AND of loving again that are out there in the world beyond the studio, the people who make you look good and the ones who say "yes" to everything.

What do you think Frank wants? He wants you to be happy. He'd want you to be out there dating again someday, with full respect for the love you two shared. (Wouldn't you want the same for him?) It'll be an act of courage to love again, but we don't compare. We're women of action, we who grieve.

Lady, you've got a platform, and I know you like to work on making the world a better place. Let’s work together to increase understanding for young people living with loss, struggling to raise children alone, and help prepare folks for the death that, if we are human, and if we love God, we know will come for all of us. Tell me what you’d like to do, there’s more than enough work for us all.

C’mon, woman. I know you can do it.

Love,

Supa Dupa Fresh
The Freshwidow

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My Response to the Today Show, Part 1: The Baggage of Surviving a Happy Marriage

A young widowed friend of mine, Brenda Boitson, recently called in a question about dating as a widow to the Panel of Men who give women advice about men on the Today Show. The video is online if you wish to view about four minutes of embarrassingly shallow behavior, starting with “Why? We don’t want to become your next victim.” You’ll see that the response of this small group of 6 people illustrates the problem the stigma of loss brings to any social situation, without shedding much light on Brenda’s question of what to do about it.

First of all, I have to point out that the “next victim” comment, which annoyed so many viewers, is actually a prime cliché (it’s not meaty enough to be called a joke) and can be a little funny in the right situation. I use it. If I’d been the one calling in instead of Brenda, I might have said, “Dudes, why y’all afraid of widows? It’s not like I killed him.” I’m sure, in fact, that I did use that line sometimes. Possibly even in bed.

We widows are pretty used to feeling like we have cooties, and expressing this jokelet on our own time can cast folks’ hidden, negative thoughts in such a ridiculous light that it neutralizes the social situation.

Yes, it was a horrendous comment in the context of Today, and it may have hurt Brenda’s feelings (doesn’t sound like it), but mostly it just exposed panelist Chuck Nice as a man of weak humor and low maturity. (Later in the show he’d helpfully point out that he’s also shallow and not a very thoughtful husband). I’m not used to the low standards of morning television, but I’d have expected the producers of a national show to prepare the men (I can’t say “gentlemen”) better for her call.

Second, the responses of all the folks on stage can teach us something about why people have such a hard time dating, or rather, why it’s so easy for them to date and so hard to find a partner and live happily ever after.

Third, I have some words for Kathie Lee Gifford, whose incessant giggling is the prime irritant in that segment. I’d like to be constructive and compassionate even though she was neither. But I’ll make that a separate post.

So what can the response of these “boys” (not men) to Brenda’s question tell us? Their laughter and avoiding the question says they are scared of death and feel threatened that it would hit someone in their age cohort. (If you’ve faced a loss, you already knew that). Their words tell us that people who date are perfectly comfortable dealing with divorce. Above all, it demonstrates why marriages don’t work out and then the same people date and date and date: they have no fricking idea that they are looking for the wrong things.

Because here’s the thing: Everyone says widows have baggage. But by the time we’re ready to date, most widows and widowers have learned to stow it neatly under the back of the seat in front of them.

By age 40, everyone has some kind of “baggage.” (Often, it’s a code word for “kids.”)

Maybe a widow has the baggage of having fulfilled her vows, “till death do us part.” If she feels cheated, she’s likely to blame God for it. And we have some contempt for the polite world’s denial of death because we know everyone will go through loss sooner or later. We just had it happen earlier, when we were young and had many responsibilities.

As a widow, I often felt that if believing in your own mortality was “baggage,” I didn’t want to exist without it. After all, no one gets out of this life alive.

Divorced people enter the dating world working hard to get over their strong sense that they gave everything and in return, were rejected. The men’s ads often say “seeking an independent woman” and the women’s ads say “Looking for a man who MEANS WHAT HE SAYS.” Read between the lines and you’ll find that he felt milked by the divorce and she couldn’t get over a cheating episode. Sometimes the roles are reversed, but divorced folks feel BURNED.

If you haven’t lost a love you’ll think we’re crass and brutal, but every widow I know has said this statement: MY husband didn’t WANT to leave.

Don’t get me wrong. I love divorced people. I married one. But if you think I have more baggage from losing my husband than he has from losing his wife’s affections AND his children – you’re wrong.

Widows argue that we had good marriages, but they ended as we pledged they would. We’ve been through tough stuff too and we figured out how to stay together. While we may not be ready to get hitched again, as daters, we’re arguably the only ones on the field with great track records. I remember thinking: I had one good marriage, I can have another if I like. I know how to make it work.

So here’s what’s wrong with their response to Brenda: the expert daters were framing all the questions wrong. (Not their fault; everyone does).

If you are looking for a good partner, you should date someone who was a good partner. If you want to marry, date women who think marriage is a good thing and who are able to be fulfilled within the institution. If you want to be treated well, date women and men who expect to be treated with respect and who view you as a potential commitment.

Yeah, death sucks, but if it’s baggage, you still have to accept it. After all, why else do you date, if not because you don’t want to die alone?

(Go to part 2, an open letter to Kathie Lee Gifford.)

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Schmaltz Pan Sequelae

Perhaps I went too far yesterday with my post about The Pan.

(1) Maybe I’m the only one who thinks this crazy way about cookware as investments linked to real estate. Likely, I’m the wife with the worst cleanup skills.

However.

As Olivia walked me through some kitchen features on moving day (reader, meet Olivia, Mr. Fresh’s former spouse. Yes, it’s all amicable. Yes, this is the house they lived in for 20 years) she cracked open a drawer and said, “Oh, and here’s The Pan that came with the oven, it’s here if you want, but I’ll take this other one since it’s the one I’ve always used...”

(2) I told him the gist of the Pan post (I published it nearly a week after the fight) and he thought it was a cute idea. He insists he doesn't read this blog, or worry what I might say about him.

However.

Tonight he brought home a supermarket rotisserie chicken and I think it gave me food poisoning.


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Three Cliches, Including "Till Death Do Us Part."

Leave it to me to question the truisms that everyone says without thinking. (For some reason, I am still fun at parties…)

“It didn’t work out.”
I never understood why people would say this about a relationship after it was over. What was supposed to be the endpoint, which didn’t end up fulfilled? Is it that they didn’t “close the deal” by getting married? Surely they could enjoy their time together without having an end in mind. Did it “not work out” because they didn’t stay married until one of them died? Is a marriage that ends in divorce like the sound of a tree that falls in the forest when no one hears it? Surely those years together were worth something in this world, at least in the small sphere of your time in it.

Is it just that it’s one of those nonsense phrases that everyone uses, of which I have so little understanding or tolerance? Or is “it didn’t work out” truly contemptuous of time? Whatever it is, I always take a step back from any friend who says it. (Did I mention that I still have friends? ‘Cause I do. I’m not even lying.)

“Happily ever after.”
Who cares what it’s “after?!” Yeah, I get that you’re closing the book, so “after” the cover’s shut. What is it until?

On the other hand, we cynics today, we sophisticates, make so much fun of “fairytale endings.” What would be wrong with just plain being happy until we each individually (don’t forget, we all do die alone) fade out, hopefully in our sleep and at a good ripe age. So much contempt. Don’t you deserve to have joy? Wouldn’t most of us be happy to remember one moment of bliss at the end as the chapters shoot past our fading eyes?

“Till death do us part.”
How much do any of us really contemplate this statement? Gavin and I thought we were pretty serious about our love in the face of Death. We married in defiance of his heart problems and several near-death experiences. We requested that our friend Pat, glamorous jazz singer, sing “One Hand, One Heart” from West Side Story (“even death won’t part us now”) at our vows (and, um, “Like a Prayer”). And then we went to Mexico for the Days of the Dead (including a cemetery tour) for our lunes miel.

But seriously, who wants to fulfill those vows? We love to picture ourselves on the porch, white haired or bald in last year’s hiked-up pants giving lollipops to sticky grandkids.

But being the caregiver to a dying love, whether old or young? Recovering alone from the shock of a car accident? Romantic? Pfah! Research shows it takes 10 years off your life.

We cherish the Norman Rockwell picture of “till death do us part,” but none of us is ready for the Norman Cousins one.

Should I be pleased that death parted me from Gavin? I’m not sure. I did enjoy entering dating with a “successful” relationship (ah! There’s that endpoint!) behind me, and I certainly hold it over your everyday divorcee. And look, widowhood is a big part of my identity. (Today.)

But surely a marriage in which my husband died didn’t “work out,” did it?

Mr. Fresh says he hopes I die first so that I don’t have to go through this kind of loss again. I’m not sure how much of a kindness this is. I joke back, “Yeah, um, no thanks. I love you too, but be my guest.”

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* (I’m not endorsing divorce. I think it’s a grand waste and injustice 90% of the time. But seriously? Marriage and death? Not really on the same page for any of us.)

** (Is that time only valuable if it’s permanent? If we are mortal, shouldn’t our feelings be mortal, too?).


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"Moving On"

Are we gearing up to star in a soap opera or a reality T.V. show? We’re switching houses with Mr. Fresh’s first wife and two grown sons. All of my shit is going to be taken out of this old box where I’ve lived for 12 years, put into about 150 boxes and then fitted neatly into that giant white box, then the white box gets picked up by a monster truck and carted over to another box about a mile away. (I’m trying to “contain” the drama by compartmentalization. Is it working?)

Yes, we are buying out her half of the house where their marriage fell apart. Yes, the three of them, with one job between them, and a cat, will rent my old house downtown. “If we were all Vulcans, this plan wouldn’t even raise an eyebrow,” jokes Mr. Fresh every time a friend points out the potential pitfalls.

This old house represents my old dreams. A third of an acre close to public transportation, in a semi-urban suburb. Room for vegetable beds, perennial beds, dedicated space for tender, stellar dahlias. Space to build Gavin his dream studio. Ample sufficiency for a patio where we could dine au naturel 3 seasons of the year and a wild area for a child to explore. Maybe even room for a playset if we strike the jackpot someday.

Ten years later, I understand why they’re called “widows’ weeds.” The garden is overrun, some of them are taller than I am and they’re all much more fertile. Seeds shoot out at your pants cuffs as you forage for the last few string beans of the season.

Halfway through our time here, we did build Gavin’s studio. It’s an architectural beauty, industrial and considerate at the same time. He had a few months to work in it before our daughter was born. Just a few more after that to work, struggling to produce, to meet his expectations while caring for her. And then diagnosis. A few intervals, in between treatments (he was a single-tasker) when he took advantage of the light, the space designed to fit his work habits precisely.

My abandoned room for sewing, beadwork, and silkscreen (etc., etc., etc.) in the lovely loft.

This studio stores paintings, drawings, and prints left over from 30 years of shows. He was lucky to be so successful; 90% of his output is in homes and boardrooms, where it is appreciated, and it left the gallery paid and professionally framed. The oddments (and a few treasures that were held out, NFS) remain to us. What’s left after love.

But the house is also full of his crappy handyman work and that of the husband before us. We never could afford to fix up the house, grade a patio, open up the back windows to see the gardens. The house is a hundred reminders of what didn’t work in our relationship, the decisions about paint colors that we couldn’t peacefully make, two argumentative artists, devoted to being happy together even if things didn’t get done. We couldn’t fix it all ourselves. The heat was on me to produce (money, a child). Love couldn’t extinguish his disease.

I wake up and ask Mr. Fresh like a child on the boat to the New World: “And is it really true? That two people can shower at the same time in the new house?” “Yes.” “What if the dishwasher is running?” “Yes.” “And the laundry, then too?” I wouldn’t be more surprised if we got there and there was hot and cold running milk and honey.

So many widowed bloggers are moving, and we all say “moving on,” appreciating how undescriptive it is, how ambiguous a phrase, how if someone else says it we resist. But it’s sort of true. Still, can’t I move on and also stay? If I’ve had two loves, why not also two homes?

“To move” is such a big word. People say our stories move them. I’d like to think we’re starting a movement of the grieving, perhaps for visibility, perhaps for quiet. What do we need except for our loss to be reversed? At any rate, many of us are working together even if we don’t know what for yet.

So, widows, keep moving, keep talking and sharing and writing. And stay tuned to see find out how this “move” goes. Despite the potential for histrionics, exchanging real property in this economy makes a lot of sense for both households (or all 3, depending on how you count). And thus far, every step has been smooth and easy. Perhaps we’re turning into Vulcans, or at least, examples of Rational Economic Man. Or perhaps we each understand that our backstories are only ours, and not a threat, and that a good coat of bright colored paint can make a new day seem fresh.

Either way, it’s bound to qualify for good ratings.

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(Fragment 04) Guest Post at Rock and Drool

I wrote a guest post at Rock and Drool a few days ago. It's supposed to be a mean jab at divorcees, but I don't think that works so well. Perhaps I am not very talented at poking people, even though I have such strong inclinations. On the other hand, I enjoyed writing for a different audience about my pet topic and I'm thinking about how to do more.

Melissa of Rock and Drool connected with me after I commented on her post about talking to her pre-schooler about loss. We met IRL at BlogHer and she is as energetic, funny, sexy, honest and supercool as her blog. Go check it out!