The widows
The flow of life brings losses, and now, with many of my women friends past 60, the losses are of beloved partners. Two more were recently widowed; the actuarial tables are catching up with us.
I have learned much from this growing cohort; they are my teachers as they endure one of life's most profound changes. (For this post, I have changed their names.) They are surprised by the intensity of grief, even one who said she had "a dress rehearsal" because of several close calls.
The sudden transition to being alone, all the time, is an enormous chasm to cross.
Several joined social clubs specifically for the bereaved; this new service business is well-fed with prospects thanks to the Boomer demographic. The clubs sell memberships and charge a per-outing fee. Activities include walks, theatre performances, guided day trips—but there are also events designed to meet potential new partners, such as dances. Over 85% of the participants are women. (Marie said, "You can spot the women hoping to meet someone; they're wearing heels.")
Marie likes her group (which she privately calls "The Widows' Welcome Wagon") because she need not depend solely on her longtime friends for companionship. Joyce, who describes herself as an introvert, dropped out after several outings but might go back when she's ready.
Joyce fled the first Christmas alone in her big apartment to spend the holiday in another country, with her old university roommate, only to find being a houseguest required (in her own mind) unrelenting chipper behaviour. Home again, she called to say how good it felt to pass an evening alone, with no requirement to be convivial.
Grief is the widow's constant. Therapists speak of "grief work", which suggests grieving is a project, but to me it seems more like weather: sometimes wild, sometimes calm, rarely sunny. It cannot be controlled; the best we hope for is accommodation.
There are two arenas of grief: private and public. Public grief is the persona who presents herself at family occasions, goes to dinner at friends' homes, hauls herself to the garage to get the damn tires changed. Often that persona is complimented; she is "doing well" or "bearing up". ("Fooled them again", said Judith.)
Even so, the public face of grief may reveal asperity: against the heath care system, financial service professionals, the government's mind-boggling bureaucracy. Friends and family are faulted for actual or perceived missteps.
The private grief is an intense ordeal, unimaginable to those who have not lived it. It is a debilitating, identity-shaking condition; in all cases I've seen, health takes a hit during the first year. One woman hallucinates that her partner's car has pulled into the driveway, another buys herself birthday and anniversary gifts from her beloved, even signing the cards. Marie eats sugar nonstop, Judith forgets to eat.
My love for each of them exacerbates my feelings of impotence; if only we could lift pain off others. I have seen some women become frustrated that their widowed friend "is not feeling any better by now" and step back. This is exactly the time to be present; one widow said that the second year was worse than the first, because settling the estate distracted her. Only after that flurry of activity ended did crushing loneliness set in.
Any day can start out normally and then pierce the heart. When Marie called to contest charges on Leo's credit card, the bank played an archived conversation from their call centre; suddenly there was Leo's voice, buying additional card products she had never heard about.
She visited a woman who had lost her partner five years ago, and asked her if grief ever went away. The woman said no, but it changed into what she called "a nostalgic love", the raw pain tempered by time. This comforted her, as did these words from Annie Lamott:
"You will lose someone you can't live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn't seal back up. And you come through. It's like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly— that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp."
That dance part seems optimistic for those beginning widowhood. Maybe it comes; Lamott has always leaned toward the light.
For now, though, my widowed friends live in the state of yearning that Patti Smith, after years of loss, has long felt for her husband, Fred, and wrote of in "M Train":
"Just come back, I was thinking. You've been gone long enough. Just come back. I will stop traveling; I will wash your clothes."
I have learned much from this growing cohort; they are my teachers as they endure one of life's most profound changes. (For this post, I have changed their names.) They are surprised by the intensity of grief, even one who said she had "a dress rehearsal" because of several close calls.
The sudden transition to being alone, all the time, is an enormous chasm to cross.
Several joined social clubs specifically for the bereaved; this new service business is well-fed with prospects thanks to the Boomer demographic. The clubs sell memberships and charge a per-outing fee. Activities include walks, theatre performances, guided day trips—but there are also events designed to meet potential new partners, such as dances. Over 85% of the participants are women. (Marie said, "You can spot the women hoping to meet someone; they're wearing heels.")
Marie likes her group (which she privately calls "The Widows' Welcome Wagon") because she need not depend solely on her longtime friends for companionship. Joyce, who describes herself as an introvert, dropped out after several outings but might go back when she's ready.
Joyce fled the first Christmas alone in her big apartment to spend the holiday in another country, with her old university roommate, only to find being a houseguest required (in her own mind) unrelenting chipper behaviour. Home again, she called to say how good it felt to pass an evening alone, with no requirement to be convivial.
Grief is the widow's constant. Therapists speak of "grief work", which suggests grieving is a project, but to me it seems more like weather: sometimes wild, sometimes calm, rarely sunny. It cannot be controlled; the best we hope for is accommodation.
There are two arenas of grief: private and public. Public grief is the persona who presents herself at family occasions, goes to dinner at friends' homes, hauls herself to the garage to get the damn tires changed. Often that persona is complimented; she is "doing well" or "bearing up". ("Fooled them again", said Judith.)
Even so, the public face of grief may reveal asperity: against the heath care system, financial service professionals, the government's mind-boggling bureaucracy. Friends and family are faulted for actual or perceived missteps.
The private grief is an intense ordeal, unimaginable to those who have not lived it. It is a debilitating, identity-shaking condition; in all cases I've seen, health takes a hit during the first year. One woman hallucinates that her partner's car has pulled into the driveway, another buys herself birthday and anniversary gifts from her beloved, even signing the cards. Marie eats sugar nonstop, Judith forgets to eat.
My love for each of them exacerbates my feelings of impotence; if only we could lift pain off others. I have seen some women become frustrated that their widowed friend "is not feeling any better by now" and step back. This is exactly the time to be present; one widow said that the second year was worse than the first, because settling the estate distracted her. Only after that flurry of activity ended did crushing loneliness set in.
Any day can start out normally and then pierce the heart. When Marie called to contest charges on Leo's credit card, the bank played an archived conversation from their call centre; suddenly there was Leo's voice, buying additional card products she had never heard about.
She visited a woman who had lost her partner five years ago, and asked her if grief ever went away. The woman said no, but it changed into what she called "a nostalgic love", the raw pain tempered by time. This comforted her, as did these words from Annie Lamott:
"You will lose someone you can't live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn't seal back up. And you come through. It's like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly— that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp."
That dance part seems optimistic for those beginning widowhood. Maybe it comes; Lamott has always leaned toward the light.
For now, though, my widowed friends live in the state of yearning that Patti Smith, after years of loss, has long felt for her husband, Fred, and wrote of in "M Train":
"Just come back, I was thinking. You've been gone long enough. Just come back. I will stop traveling; I will wash your clothes."
Comments
KPD: I know that anger; my sister died young, too. I just gave one of the few possessions I had of hers, a charm bracelet, to the granddaughter she never knew.
Zénaide: I have learned that what is comforting each is somewhat different. One friend likes to go through the photos of their trips and social events, another can't bear it. I see that each has her own sensibility and I'm trying to follow their lead.
spacegeek33: I am impressed by the rituals now put in place for widows. One friend went to a Remembrance Ceremony hosted by the university to which she donated her husband's body. It was beautiful and comforting. The hospice he was in also has a memorial service every year. Every gesture- if the bereaved person wants it- helps.
In my chat with PS in Verona, we talked about the books she mentioned in her books. She brought up "Just Kids." I said--"Well, the one I really like is 'M Train'." She said "I always like people who like 'M Train'." To me, it's a masterpiece.
As you know, the husband of a friend died of bladder cancer in the spring of 2019. As you say, while she was simply tetanised at first, death also means a lot of bureaucratic stuff, so she could throw herself into that. She is hanging on but I suspect that she is more lonely than when family and friends were visiting and two memorials (one for close friends and a second, more official and academic one) had to be organised.
As I think I also mentioned on your blog, there were also complications worthy of an Italian tragicomedy, as the house where she and her son, daughter-in-law, and their children live (in flats on 2 1/2 storeys). This is at ground zero of the extensive repair and renovation work at Jean-Talon métro station, with all sorts of consequences.
I'm so conscious of my good fortune so far, but also aware that I'm only two years younger than my mother when she was widowed (Paul's very healthy now; my father had cancer for many years). . . and older than several friends who lost their husbands suddenly in the last few years. My dear friend and former neighbour, lost her husband of 40+ years about eight years ago and a few years after that she published a wonderful "grief memoir" that asserts that this part of her life is another phase of her marriage. For anyone who might be interested, the book is called Minerva's Owl: The Bereavement Phase of My Marriage. I hope you won't mind if I include the URL for the blogpost I wrote about it: https://materfamiliasknits.blogspot.com/2018/04/a-memoir-of-love-and-grief-bereavement.html . . . Carol's great hope has been that others might find comfort in her words. . .
And "fooled them again" -- yes! I remember Mom saying that sometimes when she was out, all she wanted to do was get home and into the shower where she could scream and cry all she wanted. . . .
An important post. . . .thank you!
Funny enough, pearls (PEARLS!!!) and a new dog lifted me up and has been keeping me afloat ever since. Sarah is a dear friend, and she is nearby! I am lucky.
What else helped? A wonderful website What's Your Grief. HIGHLY recommended. I stumbled upon it by chance, googling movies about loss and grief (Steel Magnolias, anyone?)
Second year was the hardest by far. But it does get less painful.
I cannot imagine any guy beside me, not ready for that step still. And our son just turned 14, he is not ready for that either... So - pearls rule! :)
materfamilias: Yes, I recall you speaking of your brother, and as you know a son has the same condition, but advances since then and perhaps better (but far from ideal) compliance has kept him here. I also remember your post and your friend's book and thank you for providing the links here. There is a whole field of bereavement memoirs, and many are profound in their wisdom, worth reading whether one has endured this loss or not.
Marina: I feel as if I know you by association! And thank you for your comment. as so many readers here will need to support friends, or ask for support for themselves. I have tried to find the author for a quote I remember from Hemingway, or maybe Fitzgerald: "There is but one end to a great love affair."
People expect you to grief for some time and it is hard to explain that it doesn't work that way. Only those who know how it is are able to relate truly. And that is a sudden and painful realisation.
no, never got it! But Sarah said that you liked them and that was enough appreciation for me :)
xoxo
Regarding the relief, yes, it is there. All three of my friends say they are tired of people mentioning the "blessing". One said, "Even in the hospice, at least he was still with me."
re language: English is deficient in its terms for loss. A widow is the survivor of a spouse, and the term applies until she has remarried. "Widow" is increasingly applied to both men and women, like "actor", rather than "widower" for men, though that's not universal.
In English, we have a term for the person who has lost both parents (orphans), but there is no term for the parent who has lost a child. Some other languages have a word or a compound word for that specific loss, and also terms for the person who has lost only her mother or father.