The realities of widowhood

In the years of my childhood, we had many aunts and uncles, of multiple generations. We called them all Aunt or Uncle but some were great-aunts and uncles and a few qualified for a great-great label. We also used the titles as one of respect – my dad’s godfather was always Uncle Jerry Ryan although he was not a blood relative. Like my dad, who was named for him, he was Jeremiah but always called Jerry.

                Aunt Mamie was my grandfather’s aunt so I think that would make her a great-great aunt. She liked to eat at the local hospital for her Sunday dinner and she still drove at an advanced age although she once got a ticket not for speeding but for driving too slow on the interstate highway. I was fond of Aunt Mamie but one thing that I remember very well is that she wore a diamond solitaire engagement ring on her left hand although she had never married.  Her finance had died during the Great War in 1918. A neighbor of my grandparents, Miss Ella, also wore a ring and lost a finance in the same era.

                As a little girl, it seemed romantic that these ladies had never wed, that they had given their hearts to men who died a long time ago.  Until my Pop died and my Granny became a widow for the second time in her life, my idea of widows came from “Gone With The Wind”.  Although I’d seen the movie once back when it came to theaters when movies showed up every few years and no capability to own or watch movies at home existed, I read the book at an early age.  I read it while still in grade school and for my 10^th birthday, my dad gave me my own copy because I’d worn out the Book-of-the-Month club edition belonging to my mother.

                I thought widows wore only black with long, trailing veils thanks to Gone With The Wind. When my Pop died, however, my Granny wore a purple dress to his funeral and I began to learn that reality and fiction were not always equal. Over the decades, my other grandmother became a widow, some of my aunts, and my mother.  And then in January 2019 it was me.

                By the time my husband of almost 25 years died, it wasn’t unexpected although I don’t believe anyone is ever prepared for widowhood.  He died after a year and a half of increased health issues, several surgeries, multiple hospitalizations, and residence in a long-term facility.  The facility had placed him on hospice in early November although when questioned by me, I was assured it didn’t necessarily mean he was on his deathbed but apparently, he was.

                I did wear black to his funeral where I talked about our life together after the Scripture and Gospel readings.  And in the past two and a half, edging toward three years, I’ve mourned, I’ve had days that were hard and days that were not, times I’ve wept, and times I’ve raged.  Until those last months, I envisioned that we would grow older together but that wasn’t in the cards I was dealt.

                If I had realized what the realities of widowhood were like I would have prepared better, financially if not emotionally.  I’ve learned the hard way that it’s not as easy to make ends meet on a lesser income with one bread winner. I’ve learned that some credit cards won’t extend credit to widows. I’ve struggled to get his name off our bills but with little success, which means each time I have to deal with the phone company, the mortgage company and several others, I have to explain once again that my husband, whose name is on the account is dead.  There are months when I struggle with the bills.

                And it saddens me no end that I have not yet placed a marker on my husband’s grave.  He wanted the veteran’s marker and he will have it – one day. The local funeral home mocked up a stone – a standard one – with enough embellishments to make the cost around 4K – too much.  The veteran’s stone is free but I pay the setting or mounting costs. Each time I think I have it, something happens and I must spend the funds I put aside for that.

                I’ve adapted to solitary life in many ways but I’m still adjusting. I’ve learned to cook for one or two, not a family, save when all three of my kids come to eat at home. I’ve learned to sleep with nothing but my pets for company.  I’ve attended events solo and though I can do it with some enjoyment, it mostly sucks.  So does dining out alone.

                Just after the funeral, well-meaning people suggested I could marry again. Almost three years later, if I express an interest in simple male companionship, there are those who think I’m unfaithful. I can’t win for losing. I still wear my rings but I am considering removing them. After all, I’m no longer married, but widowed.  For awhile I wore his wedding ring on a chain around my neck but there came a time when I put that away as well.

                It’s a daily struggle to recreate a new life but I’m doing it, day by day, in a slow process.

                I returned to teaching on Sundays in the Parish School of Religion. I’m active in church. I am preparing 7/8 graders for Confirmation and am working to teach them social action because faith without works is dead.  There are ways we plan to help around the parish and in the community. I am trying to figure out a way to work with the local homeless – the numbers continue to grow.

                I took a voluntary separation from my newspaper job last December which despite the financial impact, which hasn’t been good, I don’t regret. Working 7 days a week with few days off took its’ toll, all the more so after I became the last member of the editorial staff still standing.

                I’ve got back in the groove with my writing with one new release so far this year, four new contracts signed and I’m writing every day.

                Yet, often I felt out of step and somehow lost as if I haven’t quite figured all this out yet.

                Such is widowhood but hopefully I still sort it all out and find my place.