Awkward: A conversation in year 6 of widowhood

First grade assignment. (She's a much better writer now.)

You might think I'd end up in fewer awkward conversations at almost seven years after my husband died.

Fewer, yes. But still pretty damn awkward.

It was one tangle and took all of three tense minutes. We were talking about my first husband's artwork.

Me: This is a piece by my late husband.
Random lady: Oh! I'm so sorry for your loss!
Me: It's okay. I mean, it's not okay, but it was almost seven years ago.
RL: Well, how are you doing?
Me: I'm doing okay at this point. It is a comfort that he left such a wonderful legacy as an artist. His work is appreciated by so many people. Of course, we have his work hanging in our home, and we look at it every day. One of my favorite pieces is a giant drawing of a bunny sculpture in the National Gallery gardens. My husband wants to hang it in his office.
RL:  (Puzzled look)
Me:  Well… my new husband. I am remarried.
RL: Oh! I'm so glad for you.

The Bunny -- Cernnunos

Me: (Feeling awkward that this other person was just feeling sad for me a minute ago, but also feeling that it's not fair to let her think that remarriage is what "fixed" the loss. But then, wasn't I just trying to avoid a conversation that included any pity for me? Because it's been seven years and I don't need that any more?)
(Pause while I also realize that I don't want to blurt out, "my new husband isn't what fixed my life. Time and perspective is what made it better.")
(Pause while I wonder if in my head I also insulted my new husband by implying that he isn't a big part of my life, or perhaps that he isn't number one in my life, which he is.)
(Realize that clarifying everything would turn this into a non-casual conversation and a teaching moment that might be better suited to a blog post.)
(A lot of over thinking happens during this long moment when I do not actually say anything.)
Me: Um… thank you. It was seven years ago. (Realize I just made her feel a scootch bad for no good reason.)
(Pause while I silently, without moving, hit myself over the head.)
RL: So you have remarried?
Me: Yes, and we are doing well, thank you -- he and I and my daughter.
RL: Oh, you have a daughter?
Me: Yes, but it is his (points to artwork) daughter….
(Pause while I think, "as if that fucking matters?" and find a way to hit myself again).
(In all this pausing, I am so absorbed with over thinking and trying to find my way out of it that I have no idea what thoughts are occupying her pauses, or what she can see on my face.)
RL: Oh! How old was she when he….. ? Does she remember him?

And then we have that whole OTHER semi-awkward conversation, which didn't need to even start, but which is, at least, familiar and which I sort of have a "spiel" for, which is a balance between a tiny bit of education and reassuring the other person that my life is not one giant trauma. At least, because I've had that conversation so many times, I am safe from over thinking or stumbling any further. I accept that people are curious about this, but I think, do I always have to be someone with history? I could have avoided bringing the whole thing up.

My attitude is such a contrast with the first six months or so, when I felt obliged to tell everyone I met. It came out all the time -- even in a grocery store line --  "my husband died" as if I were saying "awful weather, isn't it?" My personal needs came first; I couldn't have cared less about causing social awkwardness -- it was my truth and 100% of my reality then.

Now, at this stage, my husband still really, truly died (well, my FIRST husband). It shouldn't be ignored -- and it's not acceptable or okay for people to die young or leave a young child behind. And it's important to demonstrate that you can live on and it's valuable to share your testimony. But maybe not every day. It has truly been a while -- this is the first notable awkwardness in probably a year. Most of the time, these days, when I discuss my loss, the context is comfortable and appropriate. This is, in a way, a milestone.

(Another major milestone was the first time I forgot to tell someone who needed to know!)

Yes, it's good to "normalize" these things for other people, but how much did my awkward pauses and unnecessary raising of topics "help" this person understand better?

It wasn't her fault, not one bit. And I appreciate that I have developed "spiel" for part of it. Sometimes, I can balance all these different needs: social, advocacy, personal.

But sometimes I am just tired of having a backstory.

Everything Possible: video and thoughts on marriage and death

In our state, we will be voting a referendum on whether same sex couples will have the right to marry. My church's denomination has been a big advocate for marriage equality, and yesterday we sang this song in hopes of the referendum's success tomorrow.

What struck me this time, again, was how intrinsically linked are the right to marry and the legacy we leave after we die. As the song goes:

... The only measure of your words and your deeds
Will be the love you leave behind when you're done 

(The rest of the lyrics and the credit are at the bottom of this post)

After all, Gavin and I married in the shadow of death, nine years before he died. After complications from a heart valve replacement, he had several dangerous cardiac incidents and we thought he might die... it was in that light that I felt it was important to bind my life to his in that public and peculiar way we call marriage. (I had never, I don't think, figured I'd marry.) But leaving a record was important.

Eight years later as we endured multiple hospitalizations fighting kidney cancer, I found another reason the marriage certificate matters -- without it, I would not be allowed to visit ICUs. I saw five ICUs in those 22 months and he could easily have died in one (we moved to hospice at the last minute -- four days).

How much more unbearable would that time have been -- and afterward -- if we'd not had the right to marry?

So I learned first, that marriage does matter, and second, marriage is an essential right.  I hope if you live in a state where similar initiatives are up, that you'll consider supporting marriage equality. You know how I like to say that "we widows 'get it!' "


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Two more videos that also tell this tale, if you are not convinced:

1. A young man loses his partner AND SO MUCH MORE because his rights aren't protected by law:





2. Republican Maureen Walsh, a widow, testifies why marriage matters:

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* Here are the rest of the lyrics with credit: 

Everything Possible
Words and Music by Fred Small Copyright 1983 Pine Barrens Music (BMI)

We have cleared off the table, the leftovers saved
Washed the dishes and put them away
I have told you a story and tucked you in tight
At the end of your knockabout day
As the moon sets its sails to carry you to sleep
Over the midnight sea
I will sing you a song no one sang to me
May it keep you good company

You can be anybody you want to be
You can love whomever you will
You can travel any country where your heart leads
And know I will love you still

You can live by yourself, you can gather friends around
You can choose one special one
And the only measure of your words and your deeds
Will be the love you leave behind when you're done

There are girls who grow up strong and bold
There are boys quiet and kind
Some race on ahead, some follow behind
Some go in their own way and time
Some women love women, some men love men
Some raise children, some never do
You can dream all the day never reaching the end
Of everything possible for you

Don't be rattled by names, by taunts, by games
But seek out spirits true
If you give your friends the best part of yourself
They will give the same back to you

You can be anybody you want to be
You can love whomever you will
You can travel any country where your heart leads
And know I will love you still
You can live by yourself, you can gather friends around
You can choose one special one
And the only measure of your words and your deeds
Will be the love you leave behind when you're done.

Dating a Widower, compared to Dating a Divorced Man

My friend and colleague Abel Keogh writes a popular column on his blog, and runs several areas on Facebook, about the perils and pitfalls experienced by women who choose to date widowed men.

I have various quibbles with this topic, which he and I have discussed many times. To me, the Dating a Widower movement, such as it is, looks like it's just based on following Google to high readership. Just because people ask a question, doesn't mean there is a substantive answer to be found... though it can be created by someone inventive, responsive to readers, and with tremendous knowledge of the subject... as well as first hand experience as a member of the population in question. Abel is far from the only author tackling this subject: in addition to his two books, Dating a Widower and Marrying a Widower, there is Julie Donner Anderson's Past: Perfect! Present: Tense! and her associated forums and other activities.

I'll admit that those who date widowed people is not a group I have chosen to speak to or for... and that knowing how few men under 55 are widowed compared to women (at one time Social Security told me it was 1 man to 7 women) makes me quite skeptical... but some of the stories Abel and his readers share are pretty dreadful.

Many of the men in question seem to have significant trouble living comfortably with their past lives and experiences. Perhaps some of them were even a little nuts before they were widowed (we are changed by our losses... but not that much).

I also think that widowers with children still at home (most of the widowers I know fall in this category) are a bit more justified in hanging on to "stuff" from their past lives and sharing family (like in-laws) and memories a bit more actively. This is a giant set of exceptions that negates, for me, a lot of Abel's advice.

To be honest I have been pretty suspicious of these areas in part because when I was dating, at 40 ... I looked only at men who had been married. To me, the only relevant person to compare a widower's baggage to was... a divorced man. (I mostly restricted my searches to men who had been parents, because I had a young child and needed someone who'd understand that if I cancelled a date due to flu that he shouldn't take it personally... and I considered never-marrieds undateable... prejudices which had been confirmed by experience.).

I do not doubt that many women DO ask these questions and that people are confronting some difficult situations with this "baggage." But emotionally unavailable men come in many flavors. And it seems too easy to me to provide advice to women who are dating... probably the most insecure people in the world. What makes widowed men so much more "difficult" to deal with than, say, divorced men? Or men who reached 40 without ever marrying?

So let's do a comparison of baggage. I married a divorced man and we spend more time dealing with his feelings about his 23-year marriage disintegrating and their divorce than we do with Gavin almost literally disintegrating before my eyes and his death. (Although the score does even out a bit if you start counting the time I spend on managing his posthumous career as an artist and the fact that I spend tons of time on volunteer work for widowed people like Widowed Village and the Soaring Spirits board. )

I've always wanted to do a comparison that went beyond "my husband didn't WANT to leave me." Abel has just published a huge list justifying why this is a legitimate area... some of the ways that widowers behave badly in the dating market. So let's tear in and see what we find!: 

Some widowers ...	Do divorced men do something similar?
Have shrines to their late wives in their living room or large portraits in other places in home or office.	No. Often the ex-wife has been cut out of the family photos and pictures are spookily absent. Sometimes this means there are no pictures of the kids, either, or that the divorce lives in hotel-room-like impersonal environment. Having some amount of old photos on display is a good idea if he and the late wife had kids. Advantage: widower.
Hold the late wife as a perfect saint who can never be spoken ill of.	Frequently bring up the ex-wife as a demon about whom no good can ever be said. Advantage: widower.
Keep the late wife's clothing in the closet or toiletries in the bathroom, or offer the new girlfriend their late wife's jewelry, clothing, etc.	No, sometimes the ex-wife's possessions have been burned or tossed from a window, though, or sent to storage without her knowledge. Advantage: widower.
... same for lingerie or sex toys.	Just.... ew.
Want to be buried next to their late wives.	Well, it would be nice if the widower would at least pretend that this choice got complicated. If they had kids, the old plan MIGHT still make sense. Advantage; the fresh start of the divorce'.
Have a bedroom in their home dedicated and reserved for the family of their late wives.	If it's a huge house and they had kids together... maybe. I think I'd find it hard to complain about living in a house with that much extra space.
Talk about how their late wife was a great athlete, professional, mom, and an all around perfect human being	Frequently divorced men share with their dates their feelings that their ex-wife was a skank, dumbass, or spendthrift. Both behaviors are tacky and unnecessary in most situations. Both widowed and divorced men should be able to talk about people in their past without cartoonish characterizations. Advantage: widower.
Organize and participate in 5ks or other charitable events in the name of their late wife	No, but sometimes people who've lost a child or parent or friend to a disease continue these activities, and is that weird?
Wants to be reunited with their late wife in the next life	Okay that is pretty weird, but isn't it a question of theology, like, are you healed when you get to heaven? Even if you had an amputation? (Sorry. Not my personal set of beliefs so I don't quite "get" it.) And it doesn't apply to divorce anyway, unless the ex-wife has also died.
Have the late wife's pots, pans, dishes, spices, etc. in the kitchen	Well.... yes. We use a lot of items that belonged to Mr. Fresh's first wife. Wasn't most of it joint property? Are we expected to replace EVERYTHING? (Plus we live in their house but dude, I KNOW that's weird, and it was equally my choice.)
Have the late wife's voice on their answering machine	Okay, I personally think that should be taken care of before you date, at least, by the time that person calls your home number. Advantage: Divorce.
Live in a house that has their late wife's touches everywhere	See pots and pans, above.
Have tattoos of their late wife that they’re not willing to get rid of	Blech, but isn't a tattoo supposed to be permanent? I have mixed feelings about tattoo removal... because what is a commitment anyway? Unless he's out of space for a new one with your name on it.
Constantly compare you or have family members that constantly compare you to their late wife	People "compare" me to Mr. Fresh's first wife all the time, and they compare him to Gavin all the time, but kindly, and without excessive characterization. We both do it, too, but again, most of the time, we do it gently and usually we're talking about behavior and not, say, waist size. It is hard to avoid, but "constantly" would piss anybody off. Mr. Fresh and I have had our issues with it.
Wear rings that symbolize their love for their late wife	See answering machine, above.
Make a giant six-acre heart-shaped meadow for their late wife	No. As stated in many examples above, divorced men do not tend to have fond memories of their ex-wives. I believe however that new partners benefit from displays of love like this.... not to mention tourists: the Taj Mahal was built to remember the Shah's late wife. (History does not record for us how that affected his next relationship or the other concubines, concurrent or subsequent.) Isn't it possible he would do something like this for you, too? Advantage: Widower.

I have to admit my "baggage comparison" isn't really as decisive as I might have wished. I realize that it's probably not reasonable to compare dating a widow (a nice normal one like me) with dating a widower, but I think widowed people generally are treasures in the dating world. (I only managed to find one widower when I was dating. It didn't go well, but it had nothing to do with his loss.)

So I tend to wonder, why is there no comparable community (and books) for those dating widowed WOMEN,given that they are 7/8ths of the widowed population? (Annie and Able share their thoughts on this here). "Dating a widow" is probably an even more popular Google term than "widower," but leads you only to spam, irrelevant or disreputable dating sites, and p0rn ... not to an entire movement. While there is some discussion of dating widowed women, most of it is pretty low quality and it doesn't seem to have any traction. Nor does it seem to generate this much controversy, even though widowed women talk about dating a lot. (A LOT lot.)

It still seems like an insult to my friends who are widowed men (who are frequently outraged by these blogs) to admit that there is something there... but surely there is. Perhaps men are more frequently bad daters, overall? Who knows.

There is certainly scads and scads of material about dating divorced men... but those men are so prevalent it would be impossible to avoid them. Which I suppose is part of the peculiarity... it IS possible to avoid dating widowers, and look at all this advice on WHY.

What do you think?

Reflections on independence

This flag, reflected in the window of the Marriott San Diego when I was at Camp Widow last year, shows a little bit of how flags REALLY work: their symbolism might seem to be written in stone, but a flag at every moment, to every person, looks different. Linear, elemental, in primary colors, a flag symbolizes a foundation, but any real flag changes constantly, responding to wind and water. This one appears here to be cut off and wavy, and it was alone on just one tier of many mirrored levels of the hotel facade.

And I really hate Monday holidays (pretty sure I posted this last year too), which is a reflection of how crappy I am as a single parent.

Joyce Carol Oates, Janet Maslin, and the problematic second husband

Joyce Carol Oates with husband #2 at their wedding.

The more salient criticism many — not just Janet Maslin — have of the Joyce Carol Oates life/memoir is that this book, about her first year after losing her first husband, "fails to mention" that she was engaged to her second husband by month 11. Everyone rankled by this omission seems to think Oates' choice deliberate and disingenuous, inconsistent with their expectation (NOT the author's assertion) that this is an honest (and perhaps even complete?) account of her grief and loss.

One needn't be a remarried widow like myself to know that grief and great happiness — and that activity we so vaguely, distantly call "moving on" — can exist in one life at the same time. Feelings of great sorrow over loss can exist at the same time as we become attached to another mate, we can make large decisions while we are suffering (or even impaired). The surreality and vividness of living between and among two extremes is indeed one of the hallmarks of grief, as noted by commenters as revered as C.S. Lewis.

Joyce Carol Oates, Janet Maslin, and voicemail mementos

My little corner of the internet is  ablaze with responses to Janet Maslin's "brutal" review of Joyce Carol Oates' memoir, A Widow's Story, published yesterday (the review was published Sunday). So meta: all this commentary without anyone (except Maslin), as far as I can tell, reading the book itself, without responding to Oates' experience or perspective.

Because the review includes this sentence, which sounds — to me and many others — like an ad hominem attack, and thus, crossing the boundary of a book review:

A book long and rambling enough to contemplate an answering-machine recording could have found time to mention a whole new spouse. 

Let's deconstruct this. First, is an answering machine recording a small thing in telling a story? And second, is becoming engaged after a marriage a significant part of the story? Specifically, is it the kind of thing that, if you were writing a memoir about your loss, you'd be required to include in the book? Let's say, if you were one of the most prolific writers in America? And if one decides that you should put that engagement in your memoir, would it be dishonest to NOT talk about it in the same book as the voicemail recording?

So, first things first, because this is a juicy one, and it will take up the rest of the post (we'll do #2 tomorrow). I asked the thousand-or-so widowed people I talk with on Facebook:

Did you hang on to voice mail messages of your loved one? For how long? Were they important to you? If your late partner's voice was the GREETING on your voice mail or answering machine, did you leave it? For how long?

… And here are just a few of the tiny tales I received back:

My husband passed away March 6, 2010 and i still haven't had his cell phone turned off. It is the only place I still hear his voice. (Debbie)


I left my greeting for a long time...maybe almost 2 years? I just couldn't bear to erase it even though I know some people may have been made uncomfortable by it. Then something happened to it and I had the kids put a message on, I didn't want to replace it with my voice. I can still hear his message in my head, years later, clear as a bell. (Linda)



Never had any messages or his voice on a greeting all i have of his voice is the home movies, which took me 2 1/2 yrs to watch and can't even explain the feeling when i heard his voice after so long....(Rachel)

Yes, for some reason, I always kept several of his voicemails on my phone at all times. I have three saved. One was from 3 years ago when he called to tell me he knew the day before had been really tough (at work) and that he knew that day would be better and that he loved me. The second one, he just called to wish me a happy day. These messages are so important to me that I paid a company to save them and send them to me as MP3 files. So I have them forever, even if they get erased accidentally on my phone. I never get tired of listening to them. (Lorie)

My mother-in-law still has his voice on her answering machine, it was really hard at first but now 5 yrs later when I call I cross my fingers I get her machine just to hear him. (Dara)


I still have the "tape" from the answering machine. Its been at least 18 years. (Sandy)

I have my husbands voice message to me. It just says "I love you." Me and my daughter listen to it often. (Bev)



(My new partner) found Scott's cell phone in the drawer. "Hey Hon, I didn't know you had a Razor?" My response? "That's... Scott's phone, and I can't bear to get rid of it." I've let the battery go so I don't know if there is anything still on it. I'm thinking because the number is gone, so are the messages. There is (was) one from me on there. A happy one that he saved. (My new partner) found a place for the phone...I've always wished I would have saved the tape of my Mom's message. She's gone over 20 years now. (Lynn)



Wow, I was just looking at my phone today with the ONE message on it from Bill, he was going from one of his trips to hospital to come pick him up. I listen every once in a while. I am coming up on a year in 3 weeks. I was looking at the phone and trying to decide if I would delete it. I will miss him for everyday of my life, but I need to move forward. (Paula)



I have his voice along with the kids as my cell phone message and I never want to take it off. To me it's a way to tell the world, especially his family, that I will never forget. Even just talking about a simple message tears my heart. I miss him so much. (Danielle)

I don't have any voice messages, but I do have his cell phone, I now have people call me on that phone. There is one greeting saved with his voice on it. I play it every once in a while just so I can hear a little bit of his voice. Wish I had more. (Yoly)

At three years I still have my late husband as the greeting. He recorded it with the kids. Funny, I've been thinking it was time to change it but still I just love hearing his cheery voice every now and again. The voicemails are gone unfortunately when I changed the number. (Jenn)

My husband passed away almost 2 years ago, I am still paying for his phone so that I can call and listed to his greeting. It says he will get right back to me — I'm still waiting! (Celeste)

Didn't save anything on the phones, but we have Grampy reading a recorded book for each of the four grandkids, a video "interview" of him telling us stories from his life that our daughter made and best of all...during his last days I asked... him to "talk to me like you do when I'm sad or upset." I recorded that and a friend put it on cd for me. He just gave them to me last night and I listened in the car on the way home. I cried and cried, but it was just what I needed to hear. Every time I thought, "please say you love me again," he did! I've often thought I could go without seeing him because I have pictures and I could go without touching him because I have his robes that I can wrap myself in, but I wish I had a phone to Heaven so I could talk to him. Now with his message to me on the cd I feel I have that! (Michelle)

Are these tiny details not beautiful? Do they not illustrate emotional truths, about living without someone and having true human feelings? A modern convenience - a machine, a service — are a memento, giving us the warmth of a voice, otherwise uncaptured, saved nearly by accident on the phone company's server.

Would you leave out a detail like this from your story? This snippet is our generation's gold watch: an heirloom, a talisman, precious. Everyday and transcendent at the same time. Current, relatable, real.

I can bet you that that anecdote which Maslin picked on will be one of the parts that resonates the most deeply with readers.

How about art other than memoir? I'm honored to be able to share with you this special song about listening to a loved one's voice later on — sung by my sister after her loss, more than a decade ago — a song which she movingly performed at Gavin's memorial service:



And tomorrow.... I'll address Maslin's charge of "major omission" from my point of view as a remarried widow.

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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Wordless Wednesday: 2 iPhones

Mr. Fresh calls my iPhone my "Lamby."

What does he call his iPhone? "My iPhone."

You can tell the difference, can't you? (Does anyone else have a nickname for their phone? Or perhaps a jealous friend has given your phone a DIFFERENT nickname?)

Ham and Eggs, or, Why I just wrote my will

There’s an old joke, really more of half a joke, that we used to use when referring to having our child. Someone would ask Gavin how the birth had been, and I’d chime in with, “It was lovely, but it was like ham and eggs… the chicken (pointing at Gavin) is involved, but the PIG is COMMITTED.”

(Gotta tell you though, when Stalin said, “You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs,” he didn’t mean that the chickens would get off [or over] easy, either.)

Labor pains weren’t the half of it, really, when you think about the many years we spent living in the limbo of infertility treatment. Despite my body being directly involved, I was definitely the pig. I took dozens of shots in my pink thighs. I volunteered my breasts till they were raw. I gave it up and delivered. And I ate a LOT.

In the end, it was he who died (though we didn’t get any meat out of it, except perhaps for stories like this one).

So I wonder if I was getting him back by some odd, post-mortem, self-flagellating math when I didn’t take care of my own will for FOUR MORE YEARS. Gavin had received plenty of credit for our baby without doing the work, and damn it if I was going to commit to one more thing. It was his body doing the fighting, and therefore his decisions about treatment and endpoints, but I resisted wherever I could. It’s impossible to pull your own life out of the action, isn’t it?

So it was easy, after he died, to relish my role as the chicken for a little while. I told everyone how important it was to have an advanced health care directive and a will, and to talk about death with your loved ones. But I manifested that unique alchemy or oscillation between bulletproof and broken that a widow often does. As a single Mom, who would I tell my last wishes to, anyway?

I’ve been married a year and a half now and we still haven’t had “the talk.” I really AM chicken.

But I just made up my will. You can tell it’s mine because it has a juice ring on the front page. I had it witnessed at a bruncheon I hosted for local widowed parents about two months or so after preparing it using some cheap internet product. The bona fides might or might not be solid, but my conscience is clear. At least I’ve done one of the jobs I think you all should do.

And I remember that despite the pig’s great commitment, his dying for our breakfast, we do end up eating the chicken, too. It’s just later in the day, for the most part.

Parts is parts, right?


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Widowed from a May-December Relationship

Gavin and I had a “May-December” relationship. I always resented this term. It made me sound too fresh and green, when I was sticky, black and mean; and cast him as so close to the end of the story, when in fact, he was just out of a band and doing drawings that befuddled the critics. I’d think, couldn’t we at least call it “a June-October relationship?”

Not that I cared very much what anyone thought. We were in love. I was mature for my age, with a lot to learn in his strong areas: people, politesse, the power of listening. We surprised each other with our affection and our commitment, as it grew.

Sure, there were 20 years between us. I used to say, “our age gap is not quite up to Hollywood standards.” But it didn’t matter. We loved all the same bands. We both felt moved by minimalist and conceptual art (though he always accused me of spending more time reading the labels than looking at the art). Appreciated the splendor of the mundane. Alternated between goofy and overly earnest.

A few friends cringed, a little, at first. Those on his side could see, I’m sure, that I was ripping him from dotage with his elderly mother and the fate of dying alone, of avoiding fatherhood. Others saw Daddy issues. He didn’t really like having folks ask our infant daughter who her nice grandpa was. But it’s a post-Viagra world, people. Age is nothing but a number, or in our case, two of them.

We were happy. We had, for the most part, a good balance in our relationship. Our skills and strengths, to some degree, were complimentary. (I really wish he hadn’t been a pillbox about dinner parties. We were at our best as hosts, minglers.)

But one of the great lessons of widowhood, at least for me, has been that, fuck you, love is NOT enough. Maybe some people could see in us how we’d end up, that I’d be left behind, that it was inevitable he’d die on me.

Mr. Fresh says, “You didn’t ask to be widowed at 39. Maybe at 59, when he was 79, but no one would have expected it when you had a 2-year-old.” He has a point. As much as I’ve been an old soul, even as a child, I always felt I’d start life in a new, much better direction at age 50. I thought the most beautiful women always have silver hair. I do have several relatives who’ve lived past 100.

That doesn’t mean I had to find my match outside my peer group, but I did spend a lot of energy looking to a future as an old person. Would Gavin be part of that later life? I didn’t think we’d be the cliché on the porch in rocking chairs, but who was I to quibble when I loved him? “’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

I don’t feel the same way anymore. I’ve played out the endgame of the May-December relationship. I don’t really have much advice or anything profound to say.

I just don’t recommend it.

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Et in Arcadia, Ego.

What do you say to someone whose spouse is dying? Of course she doesn't want to talk. Why should the wife of a cancer patient need to speak with a cancer widow?

I have this urgent mission to spread the word that we're mortal. But my tools are so primitive. My sharing is on the wrong damn side. There is no gentle message with the word "widow" in it. My very name spotlights the most fearsome, unholy, unhopeful state this wife, this mother, can imagine.

Don't get me wrong. If it were my body invaded by cancer, I'd start over at square one of "Fight, fight, fight." When would I stop? I don't know. But that's not me. And it's not you, either.

But I have worn your shoes. I was the partner, the one holding him up, framing the world for our friends, families, and our own dear child. How could I have explained it to her? She wouldn't have understood. Not any better than the rest of us did, even as we caught glimpses.

I wish I could build you an offramp, or at least draw one for you while you cope with a terminal disease and run, faster now, out of treatment options. I fired doctors. I wagged my fingers at them. Unlike you, we had no heroic measures left to take, but we wouldn't look beyond, couldn't see.

Can any of us look that loss in the face and say, "why, hello, old friend?" Because we've met. Otherwise we wouldn't be scared, except the children, who know what a primal, lizard-brain fear is and not the layers we've stuck on top of it. Layers of cake decoration, of gladiola and ivy.

A book about cake decorating is called, "If you make a mistake, put a rose on it." Are those flowers glorifying the hole or concealing it?

I am motivated to push ugly truth because we are all so grossly unprepared. But how to be any other way when we're in the middle?

All I can do is witness. I never understood this when we studied it in art history. What's written on the grave is not a judgment, not really a prophecy, but an observation. If the dead could speak to those in Eden, or on our green earth, what would they say?

"Et in Arcadia, Ego." It's classical culture, a later civilization's interpretation of the dead Greeks (in Latin, of course). "As you are now, so once was I."

I know, it's easy for me. I'm the one who lived. I hated having to do both at once: to lie about hope. But I had to have something left for the next job: my own and my daughter's survival. I hated the lurk of the dark trees on the opposite bank, far off but facing me.

Maybe easy is not the right word for being where you are now, on the near side of the river. Living must be easier than dying, no? I don't think so. Looking back on it, my job was harder than Gavin's, more complicated.

I wish I could help you ready your heart and soul, just in case, you know, on the off chance that a tiny bit of probability (let's just pretend) indicates that he won't pull through.

Because I so see myself in you. And I want you to be well. I want your heart to be full, and your family to prosper. I know I can't fend off your grief or the gray fog or the fact that (if it happens, or if it doesn't) you'll be changed forever.

But can I just hold your hand?


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Musical Monday: Not the Only One, Bonnie Raitt

I haven’t talked that much about the courtship between me and Mr. Fresh. But at our first dinner, the one I hadn’t expected to even be a date, one phrase stuck out. As we discussed what we’d learned about ourselves in relationships, our strengths and weaknesses, he told me: “I don’t have a romantic bone in my body.” It was clear this was a disappointment to the current girlfriend, the one he was ready to dump; likely it was even her phrase. I was familiar with men who tell you their shortfalls right away and I knew they can use this phrase as a warning, so that later in the relationship, they “told you so” and “never concealed anything.”

But you know my state of mind at that time – the skin hunger, the urgency, and heavens, now I had a trustworthy man smiling at me across the table, who’d appeared almost in ambush. And to me, with my experiences, "romantic" was not at all on my list. Isn’t witnessing your true love’s last breath just dreadfully romantic? I wasn’t on that page any more, if I’d ever been.

So, while it may have seemed to him like a disclaimer, a self-deprecating statement, and it may have disqualified him from a second date with many women, in my state all I could hear was “bone.”

Here was a live human male saying, over and over to me, “bone, bone, bone, bone, bone.”

Imagine my surprise on hearing, half a year after we were married, that he thought of this as “our song:”



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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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After Life: His Decision and Mine

Not only did I betray my husband’s beliefs by telling my daughter his soul had done what I wanted it to do – but I also couldn’t obey his last wishes. To my credit, I asked his permission two days before he died.

Gavin was in a Hospice facility. We were just beginning to open conversations about his final wishes, although we’d had similar talks ten years before, when he’d had another health scare. It made sense to firm things up. We talked about it in “someday” terms, though the staff felt he couldn’t hold out more than a few weeks.

Honey, you’ve always said you didn’t want to be cremated, that you liked the idea of being buried in a simple pine box. You said it sounded restful.
It doesn’t really matter to me.
What about the plot in Pittsburgh… where your grandmother is. With a spot for your Mom.
I don’t have that much connection there anymore. It’s not important to me. It would be inconvenient for you.
But what do you really want?
When I die, I’m not going to be there to know about it anyway. None of this stuff matters.
Well, I remember you didn’t like the idea of being cremated…
What I would like doesn’t matter. I’m not going to be there anymore.
So how strongly do you feel about not being cremated?
Do whatever you want. It’s not important to me. (He turned away).

I know. A harpie. A nag. I couldn’t even let him alone when he was getting close to the place where everyone goes, at last, completely alone.

I didn’t want him to leave, even then.

But also. We’d checked his meager life insurance right after diagnosis. Although it was purchased when he went off to college, doubtless as a bad deal, surely from a door-to-door salesman, it was his only coverage because sometime in the next few years he was diagnosed with a heart valve defect. Small as the policy was, it was a lot for us. $16,000. The amount stuck in my mind, it was the only thing static during the two years he was ill. Enough to live half a year, maybe more without extraordinary medical bills.

I knew any funeral with a body would run $15 - $30K minimum. I hate open caskets anyway, tradition be damned. I detest paying funeral homes their professional fees and markup. Viewings with disgusting gladiola and cousins pretending to care. And none of those places or events is the right place for a 2.5 year old child. *

(Do funeral homes even offer babysitting?)

I know, I’m a wicked heartless bitch. I wanted to cremate him, and I probably would have, anyway. I cared enough to ask, even if not enough to listen.

Would he have minded that I cared more about our life after than his wishes about something he didn’t care much about? After he left, wasn’t it my primary job to be sure his child and I (and his mother – story TK) were taken care of? He’d made it clear that dead people don’t matter, but living people do.

It was a pretty minimal existence we were armoring up for, anyway. A successful regional artist does about as well, most years, as a barista. I hadn’t been working to my full potential, or even half, for a long time. When he started this hospitalization, a week earlier, I’d taken indefinite leave from work. I held the equity in our home, and a good brain.

Gavin never really took money seriously. He felt rich with me, because my job paid the same amount every year, more than he’d ever made selling paintings. When he was ill, he got angry because I found a way to get more life insurance coverage. (We never followed through). He’d refused to apply for SSDI, which we were told he’d quality for automatically, based on having a diagnosis that generally means “one year or less.” He felt his signature on the form would be admitting it.

So I thought I’d definitely cremate. Much more economical and environmental. We’d have a big service, a joyful party, a bunch of art. He wanted that and we did it. To appease him, I’d bury some of the ashes. To fulfill my vision of what’s right, I’d scatter some, somewhere important to us but not necessarily his hometown of Pittsburgh, where I’d never even been.

Marriage is all about compromise. Even when one partner is on the way out. Maybe even when one partner is gone.


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No Man Knows the Hour or the Day

Wouldn't you like to know when you'll die? When Gavin was ill, we talked to a multitude of experts about other things, trying to remain in control, without ever directly asking "how long does he have left." There's a certain vogue among "survivors" that says "knowing" tilts your mind toward conforming, toward proving the doctor right (or wrong) rather than just living as long as possible. We were committed that Gavin would "end up" in the upper tail of the survival curve.

A few people told us anyway, and you know, in this world, when you're smart, it's just not that easy to keep your eyes shut tight.

While we didn't take any of the estimates very seriously, we adjusted our minds and lives a dozen times during the 22 month ordeal. Looking back I compared what we expected, roughly, at each of many junction points, with what happened:

When my husband was first diagnosed with a terminal illness, we thought it would shave a few years off his life. (He had less than two years at that point).

Whenever we got into a car, I’d remind him he was statistically more likely to die today in a car accident than from the cancer. (Especially if I was driving.)

When we quit the first doctor, who told us he had a year or two without treatment, Gavin promised me he’d live to see our infant daughter graduate from college. I knew he was wrong. (That doctor’s estimate was right, even with treatments).

When the first treatment failed, we thought he might have another ten years (he had a little more than one year).

Gavin swore he’d be around to see our daughter kick a soccer ball around a big field.
I hoped he'd be right but also figured kids start playing soccer pretty young these days. A month or two later, like Sleeping Beauty’s wishful parents, I banned all balls from the house.

When the third treatment failed, we thought he had another few months (he had about one month left).

When he entered hospice, the experts told us he had a few weeks left (he had just four days).

Two days later, they thought he had a week or so left (he had just two days).

The next morning at 9:00 they thought he had a few hours (he lasted till 7:00 pm).

Is the lesson that the least sensitive doctor of them all -- the one we quit in rage and frustration -- was the best? I don't think so. I just think it's a fool's game to time the market or the reaper.

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Plastic is Fantastic

If you're going to have a fake tree, you should have a REALLY fake tree.

And if you're going to have a really fake tree, you shouldn't try to color-coordinate or decorate with a "theme." In fact, if your kid decides knotted jute makes a perfect garland on one side, let her go with it. (Sorry, this happened after we took the picture).

And if your tree looks full of frenzied joy already, use a hot-pink scratchy poncho for a tree skirt. The reindeers and bells one would look totally out of place and cotton snow would just disappear against the white needles.

And if you're going to have a really fake tree with wacky tacky ornaments all over it, no symmetry, and a poncho underneath, why bother taking it down on Three Kings' Day?

Gavin and I never got our Christmas cards out in time and usually couldn't even pretend they were meant for the New Year. One year we stamped a heart on them and send them out as Valentines.

Let's see how long Mr. Fresh can stand it. (It's not like he wants the poncho back or anything). :-)


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The Afterlife: What my Dead Husband Believed

I’ve been asked recently whether I believe in heaven. Gavin didn’t, and since it was his death, I felt that his beliefs should be those that governed.

I know, it doesn’t make sense; I can imagine him wherever I want to. But somehow it doesn’t seem fair to insist his soul do what I ask when he isn’t even on this plane anymore. Isn’t compromise at the heart of all marriages? Even the ones that are no longer active?

Gavin was raised Catholic and he thought they were great stories, but he never had any expectation that there was truth there. He studied science and Buddhism but the afterlife was not among his primary theological concerns. He told me clearly, once during his last four days of life (when he was in inpatient Hospice), that death was a nothing: whatever the process is, the finale is that your body dies and the lights are just shut off.

In all things, it’s what you do when you’re alive that matters, the legacy you leave, the love you make. That he took very seriously. Whether his artwork, reputation, or relationships continued to send good vibes after he was gone, he was sure wouldn’t matter to him.

So I have to believe, if I follow my wifely logic, that right now he’s nowhere. Just gone.

It’s not a great movie, but Mr. Magorium’s Magic Emporium has this quote about the end, which I felt expressed Gavin’s vision very well:

Mr. Magorium: When King Lear dies in Act Five do you know what William Shakespeare has written? He’s written, “He dies.” That's all, nothing more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential work of the dramatic literature is, “He dies.” It takes Shakespeare’s genius to come up with, “He dies.”

And yet every time I read those two words I find myself overwhelmed with dysphoria. And I know it’s only natural to be sad, not because of the words, “He dies,” but because of the life we saw prior to the words.

I’ve lived all five of my acts ... and I am not asking you to be happy that I must go. I’m only asking that you turn the page. Continue reading. And let the next story begin.

And if anyone ever asks what became of me, you relay my life in all its wonder, and end it with a simple, and modest, “He died.”


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I Dumped My Job

I’ve been busy working for money.

Not like all those Mommy bloggers who are really just justifying that they don’t work outside the home. So anxious to dispel your ideas and reassure themselves because they don’t really “own” their perfectly fine decisions. (Mr. Fresh’s very prejudicial take, not mine. Not really.)

Sometimes I wonder if I ever “own” anything about myself. There’s a thread, smooth with years of friction, pulling through my mind constantly to catch a “good excuse.” That maybe wants to fail people. That wants my potential to always still be true, to be outstanding, so that I never have to cash the check of my spectacular gifts.

Never to get to the bank and find out they’re tin, or fake, maybe not even good fakes.

It was fun to say: sort of glamorous. And a good excuse: "I wish I could help you with that, but I am overwhelmed with paying work." Sometimes I wonder if, as post-70s-feminists, we've become romantics about work.

They called me a talented child, but no one knew what to do with me. I was head and shoulders above the other kids. Schoolwork was easy and occasionally, rarely, fun, but a good way to please people. I learned not to study, not to work, not to try. I could do things with one hand tied behind my back.

Dispelling the panic of my last few months at a (very) liberal (very) arts(y) college, I spieled, “I just have to figure out how to get paid for sitting around nursing a beer and talking about ideas. You know, a café intellectual. Anyone have any alumni contacts in that field?”

(Mommy blogging might be a pretty good fit, actually.)

The real world, when I finally entered it, was interested in neither head, nor shoulders, nor folks in half-upper-bondage. They didn't want to buy great ideas OR rent out people who were smarter than everyone else. Can you imagine?! I worked at “other things.” [Insert stories about “coping,” “money,” the beauty of compromising by living in the real world.]

Early this year I started “not working” for the first time since age 14. Then this freelance job showed up. In some ways, it was an ideal gig, work from home, flexible hours, using my talents, in a field I have a sense of mission toward. And in the past few weeks, as the work heated up, as they fell in love with me, and as I started to accept that I might have a job as a creative, someone with room for eccentricity and Oh God the hair, I was having fun. Some fun. I enjoyed being productive. Dressing up before breakfast.

I even tried to tame the mane, at a further disadvantage because many products are still in boxes somewhere.

I loved the idea of having “clients.” Doesn’t that sound romantic? At least, if you don’t perform Brazilian waxing? (Why do they call it that? It sounds more like “waning” than “waxing” to me).

But it was the worst possible timing. Mr. Fresh’s new job means he has no flex to cover for me on weekdays and is trashed on weekends. We moved. Shortie started kindergarten. The firm started to want me at lots of meetings. The client, who has rather sharp teeth (but who I like enormously), needs a lot of handholding. I was too busy, not fun busy, and losing sleep and still with the persistent cough.

Mr. Fresh and I did the math and figured out that, after travel and band aids, as a household we might clear $6/hour. I can be a fucking artist for that. Instead of kissing butt and driving all over the state with no road signs for the client whose address is listed wrong on their own web site.

This morning, when I quit, I felt like an enabler dumping an alcoholic. Maybe that’s a good sign… that I’ve broken a tie, recognized something that’s not right for me now, and stuck to my guns.

Maybe it’s the first step in housewifely entropy.
Maybe there are about a hundred other ways to make money and improve the world waiting on my “desk” (dining room table and a bunch of boxes) right now.
Maybe life is meant to be easy, and work a playground for my talents.
Maybe the client will develop some boundaries and call me back.
Maybe I’m playing games and just won a hand.

I thought I might want to pull a late-stage, last-ditch widow card: "I'm sorry, while I watched my husband die, I swore I'd never do anything un-fun again."

But that wasn't it. The romance is gone. There's no intrinsic value in work and no shame in being a stay-at-home Mom. Sorry, Mom, I'm over it. At least for now.

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Full Circle

I cherish a snapshot* of Gavin with his long thin arms loosely around me outside a hip brunch place in the college town next door. It’s a sunny day and I’m wearing the flowing skirt and fuchsia top I’d worn to graduate from college a few years before. My arms are toned from sword work, pushups, and youth. That photo, transferred to silk, is in a pillowed cartouche on the front of our wedding album and preserves one of the happiest smiles we had.

I remember always the feeling of his arms around me. I felt encircled, sealed tight but comfortable, binding me loosely inside a pure shape and close to his body. Gavin was a calm man and that state was contagious when he held me this way. I felt safe and energized.

From the start, nearly two years ago, Mr. Fresh has loved to hold me, join his strong arms around me when we’re lying in bed, my back to his front. Our hooks and crooks find each other and go soft. I feel nestled and nuzzled. I know I’m safe because he’s so strong and he means it.

It’s comfortable for me, but deeply, richly comforting for him. He needs this peace, it doesn’t follow him otherwise. If you look into his pool it’s roiling, even when he’s happy. He’s restless.

I love that I can do for him what Gavin did for me, even though I have no idea what it is, because I know how delicious it is and how necessary.


* The picture above is of the same hug but in 2005, with Short Stack in the huddle.

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Engage With Grace: Your End-of-Life Wishes

I'm participating with many other bloggers in a blog rally for Engage With Grace – a movement aimed at having all of us understand and communicate our end-of-life wishes. At the heart of Engage With Grace are five questions, often shown as a single Powerpoint slide, designed to get the conversation started. We’ve included them at the end of this post. They’re not easy questions, but they are important.

Engage with Grace targets a time of year when most of us are with the very people with whom we should be having these tough conversations -- our closest friends and family. To help ease us into these tough questions, and in the spirit of the season, this year's Engage With Grace conversation might open with five parallel questions that ARE pretty easy to answer:



Silly? Maybe. But it underscores how having a template like this -- just five questions in plain, simple language -- can deflate some of the complexity, formality and even misnomers that have sometimes surrounded the end-of-life discussion.

So with that, we’ve included the five questions from Engage With Grace below. Think about them, document them, share them.




To learn more please go to www.engagewithgrace.org. This post is based on text written by Alexandra Drane and the Engage With Grace team. If you want to reproduce this post on your blog (or anywhere) you can download a ready-made html version here.

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