The dichotomy of widowhood
As a person who was made a widow much too early (and aren’t we all widowed much too early?) I have a confession to those of you not members in our very elite club.
I love seeing photos of you growing old together. But even more, I hate them.
I am so sorry. I wish I felt differently, but life threw me a curve ball and I was supposed to have the photos that you now have. But I don’t.
And I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t admit that still hurts. It hurts a lot.
So, even though I am happy for you and your travels and cruises and anniversaries and milestones and your growing old together, it hurts to know what I am missing: what I have lost, because it left, unexpectedly without my consent.
I hate the feeling I get seeing the photos, but please know, I don’t hate that you are living out what I hoped I always would – what I thought I always would. What I thought was a guarantee.
It’s like I went to Vegas and bet on both red and black during a game of roulette and still, somehow, managed to lose.
So much for guarantees.
But on the other hand, you know what they say about when life gives you lemons.
I’m sort of getting used to this new, unexpected, never-would-have-chosen it life.
There are even parts of it that I like. That I really like.
I lived much of my adult life as a chameleon. I changed my colors depending on the needs of the people close to me.
My sons liked playing hockey. I became a fan of hockey. My daughter performed in theater. I became a theater mom. My husband held the remote. I watched the NASA channel with him. (If you know the NASA channel, you know what a gesture of love this truly was.)
I liked what they liked because it was easy and it made life more convenient for my family. And my family was my life.
And then, my children grew up, as they tend to do. And my husband died, as I never intended.
And I found myself in a place I never expected to be. Alone.
It felt pretty foreboding.
Not to mention scary. And overwhelming. It was like I was living in a world where I didn’t belong. But I didn’t really have a choice. I needed to find a way to belong. I wanted that.
And now, here I am, four-plus years out and away from losing my husband, my very best friend in life, and I am finally finding the end of the rainbow.
I don’t need to be a chameleon anymore. I don’t want to. I’ve just recently realized this and it was pretty liberating.
I lived much of my life for others. In that, I sort of acquiesced to their needs, and I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I’d still love to be sitting in the living room watching TV, while my husband held the remote.
But that isn’t going to happen.
I lost him and was forced into a new life, and with that, gradually, I shed my chameleon skin. And learned to change my colors according to my own accord.
And you know what? I still mourn the life I lost. But I really like all the new colors of the one I found. You might even say I discovered my own rainbow, and it’s quite lovely, if I do say so myself.
