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Today marks one year since my husband passed away. It's interesting that I feel even worse. I wonder when a person starts to feel a little better after the loss of someone who was a part of their life for two-thirds of that life?
To keep busy this year, I went back to teaching school again. It worked great because teaching elementary school is an all-consuming job when you're in the middle of it. But then, I get home, and -- yup, he's still dead. It's interesting that life just keeps imposing itself on you even when you feel that your existence is on pause. The trash has to go out to the curb. The car still needs gas. Your stomach growls reminding you that food is needed again. I do the laundry, I clean up the kitchen, I wash my hair, and I water the plants. The world is turning, and I am living in it still, but it often feels like I'm just watching my life from a distance.
One beautiful thing about this date is that the moon is full tonight, so I know I can go out there and admire it and laugh knowing that My Sweetie is up there admiring it with me. The moon is my new symbol of him. Last Saturday, I sold the motorcycle. Finally. I found a person who appreciated its craftsmanship and wanted to ride it, not just pick off the parts. As I was waiting for the fellow to arrive at my house, I also used a primitive pinhole camera to check out the lunar eclipse. The day began to dim, the way my mood was dimming, because I was selling a very sentimental item. Then, the moon continued in its path, allowing the sun's rays to shine down uninterrupted.
When I considered what had caused this eclipse--the moon-- I relaxed. Just as I have learned to smile and feel comfort when I view the full moon, I felt okay to continue on with the sale of that Shovelhead chopper that I'd sat on for the past 39 years, snuggled up behind My Sweetie. That eclipse, on the day I was selling the bike, was as if he'd said, "I've checked out the buyer, I've checked out the bike. Go ahead. It's a good thing to do. Move on...I am."
Soon, the sun returned to its bright, mid-day state of glory. We loaded the motorcycle onto the trailer, and I waved as he drove it off to its new home and new life. I'm in a new life, too, and eventually I expect I'll figure it out. Probably. Maybe. Right now, I really don't like it.
This photo is from 1974, the year we were married.
This photo is from 2019.
Yes, different bikes, but the second one we got in 1987, so it's the one that had so many memories involved.
Discussion (17)
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People who mean well will tell you that time heals all wounds. That the pain you feel will just disappear, if you wait long enough.
That's absurd, of course. The pain doesn't go away. You just sort of get used to it.
.At first, you feel guilty just laughing at silly jokes. But after a while you start to laugh again, and as you observe, life continues to continue, the way it does. You'll learn to be functional, and live your new life. But you'll always wish he was back with you.
I explain it to my patients like this: Suppose you're in a car accident and you lose your right arm. At first, you're helpless. You can't button a shirt, you can't use the toilet, you can't cook - you were so used to having your right arm, that you don't know how to live without it.
But after a while, you learn how to do things with your left arm. You figure out how to get dressed, how to do chores, and so on. After a while, you're back to living a perfectly normal life, and enjoying yourself again.
But the day never comes when you think to yourself, "Goodness - I'm so glad that I don't have my right arm anymore!" No. That day never comes. You always miss your right arm, even if you've figured out how to be functional without it.
Sometimes, being functional, and living your life - sometimes just that is a beautiful victory. You'll get there, if you're not already. It's not so easy. But I'm rooting for you.
So is Your Sweetie.
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As a widower now for 16 years after a 38 year marriage, I will attest that the survivor's first cycle through the calendar after the loss is the toughest: every special day you shared, every event, every holiday, every family birthday, and all the other anniversaries you shared, still come around one by one, but this time you are flying solo.
But I will offer this hope: that as time goes along, the pain lessens, new occasions and experiences occur and become part of your new solo history, never forgetting the one who's gone, but forging ahead into the days that come.
And at some point, equilibrium of sorts is achieved. No, one never "gets over it," but one can come to live with the new reality and hopefully find some joy in the days left, because each one is a gift to be made of what you will.
I wish you peace and blessings as you move ahead.
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Cow Girl, Thank you for sharing your feelings. I will bookmark this. The advice you received from Dr B and Fritz will be valuable in the future for all of us happily married folks when the inevitable happens. Take it day by day and I pray each day will be easier than the day before.
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I've just passed the two-year mark since losing my husband of over 35 years (almost 37 years in each other's lives). Several fellow widows have told me that the second year is harder than the first, and I guess I've found that to be the case. The first year was adjustment; there's still adjustment, but now there's more this is it.
I too have wondered when it starts to feel a little better, and at times I wonder if perhaps it never does. I agree with Dr. Bastiat's likening it to losing a limb - it really does feel like a large part of me is simply gone.
"It’s interesting that life just keeps imposing itself on you even when you feel that your existence is on pause" - oh, do I understand that feeling. It feels like life is over, but yet life goes on. The grass needs mowing, or the snow needs shoveling. I do laundry and clean the cat litter box. I pay my bills. At times it seems as if I am treading water, waiting for....what? I don't know.
I have benefited immensely from having friends who have also lost their spouses. My closest friend of many years lost her husband eight years ago. After my Dave died, I called her and told her that I wished that I had known what she was going through, that I was sorry I wasn't there for her more - but the truth is that no one who has not lost their beloved spouse knows what this is like. It's not like losing one's parents, or siblings, or friends. Do you have widow friends?
You're welcome to PM me anytime. I wish you peace.
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I have not lost a spouse, so I can’t speak from experience but I would imagine it’s like adjusting to similar trauma. Getting involved in activities with other people can provide some solace. Perhaps if you belong to a church they may have some groups to participate in. It will not make all the pain go away but it might lessen the frequency of the pangs.
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