61 minutes well spent

I just watched Young Widow: Naked in the Memorial Playground, a documentary by Elizabeth Titus. I'll have more to say about it later, but wanted to quickly share this list from the film:


Top 10 things you don't say to a widow

1. He died for a reason
2. God never gives you more than you can bear
3. I've been through a divorce, so I know exactly how you feel
4. My dog died, so I know exactly how you feel
5. My 89 year old grandmother died, so I know exactly how you feel
6. At least you didn't have children
7. At least you had children
8. It was for the best
9. God wanted him more than you
10. Are you over it yet?

I have been on the receiving end of versions of #2, #4, #5, #8 and #10.

I feel the earth move under my feet

One day about six weeks ago, I woke up feeling totally like myself. It was so good, that old familiar feeling of knowing who I am. I thought I was through the worst of it, never mind the mountains of literature that told me grief comes in waves throughout the first year and beyond. I was somehow better than that, faster.

So this second wave of grief took me by surprise, an intense aftershock just when I began to trust the earth beneath my feet. I’m back to crying in my car and spending the workday choking back the tears that hover at the top of my throat. I’m back to lying awake for long stretches at night, then going through the day in a fog. I’m back to losing things and forgetting to pay bills.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about mourning dresses. For most of history, widows in many cultures wore them for a year or more. We have gotten away from the tradition in the last hundred years or so, and I’m coming to think that might not have been such great progress.

This isn’t to say that I’m wishing for a black wool dress and crepe veil, just some small outward sign to show the world how raw my heart is. To remind people that it has only been seven months, which sometimes feels like the blink of an eye. To ask for just a little more patience and kindness when people have already been impossibly patient and kind.

But today is Friday, casual Friday. So I’ll put on my jeans, go to work and hope for the best.

Lesson 1: Assisted Living

I was greeted in the emergency room by a woman called the Patient Advocate. Minutes later, she was holding my hand when the doctor told me my husband was dead. My recollection of the next several hours is hazy, but one thing she said has come back to me a hundred times.

“People are going to want to help you,” she said. “Let them.”

Here I was, four decades into a stubbornly independent life. I suddenly needed help in a way I never knew was possible.

I called my sister-in-law from the hospital to tell her what happened, and she asked if I wanted her to come. “Yes,” I said without hesitation. “Please come.”

Normally, I would have told her to get some sleep and come the next day. She lives 90 miles away and it was already evening. I would have thought about traffic and darkness and whether she had eaten dinner yet. I would have told her not to worry about me, I would be fine. Instead, I asked her to come.

The next day, I opened the door to find a neighbor with tears streaming down her face. She was holding a plate of chocolate cake. “I don’t know what to say, so I made this. It’s still warm.” She came inside and sat with me for hours and I let her. We ate cake and cried and laughed, and I never told her to go home even though I knew this was messing up her family’s busy schedule.

In the last two months, I have become the ultimate “YES” woman. I have come to think of our home as a kind of assisted living facility, where no offer of help goes unaccepted. The boundless generosity of spirit in my family and friends is truly amazing, and I appreciate every single act of compassion - no matter how small or grand.

“People are going to want to help you,” she said. “Let them.”