The One Where I Was First Called “Widow”

I was the first widow among my immediate friends’ circle. (Oh, how I hate that word, widow.) That’s really a difficult place to be when you are used to being a couple in a larger group of couples. Suddenly, one of these things is not like the other—and it was ME! The whole dynamic changes.

All of these friends are beautiful and are there for me, which is such an amazing feeling. None of them, though, have any real idea what I’m going through. They can imagine it, for sure. But there’s a difference in knowing.

The good thing is that outside of my closest circle there’s another circle. Friends who I might not talk to as often but who have always been around. As it turns out, these friends have really become invaluable to me. In this group are two widows. Both were widowed young, as well. And they too were the first widows among their own close circles of friends.

What I love about these friends is they stand back and keep watch, so to speak. They have been there. I am now walking in their shoes. They are in the background allowing me to find my way through grief. As soon as they see a hint of me needing some support, they turn up out of nowhere.

Apparently, we were elected by the Universe to be the light for others when we lost our spouses. Not an honor any of us ever wished to have received. Nonetheless, I will do my best when the time comes to fulfill my duty and help those who become widowed after me. I thank these friends (and my own mother) who came before me shining a light in my darkness.

The term widow makes me cringe. I just don’t like it when someone calls me that or it’s a box to tick on a form. It feels cold and rude to me at this point in my grief. It feels like it cuts me in half if that makes sense. Like it removes a part of me.

I remember the first time I received my auto insurance renewal after Shane died, under Changes to the Policy was the word Widow. I don’t know—maybe because it’s so new—it felt like a giant gut-punch. The first time I saw it I just stared at the paper before me. The tears flowed. It was crushing.

Shane died just a couple of months before Christmas. I remember walking down the driveway to get the mail. There were a few Christmas cards in the stack inside the mailbox. As I flipped through them on the walk back up the drive, one card, in particular, smacked me in the face—it was addressed to Ms. Sheila Burke.

I stood there in the cold and tears of complete sadness just streamed down my face. Shane and I were married for over 30 years and the person who sent the card had been our friend for as long. This was the first time my name appeared solo on a holiday card.

When your spouse dies, you don’t automatically revert to “Ms.”

When I tell you that last night I cooked enough for an army, or that it’s weird buying only a half-gallon of milk now—it is not necessary to tell me that I am just one person now. I know that. I am reminded of that every single night as I go to bed alone and face the silence of an ordinary day in the morning.

I know the sender of this card didn’t mean to make me feel sad. I know the just one person comment wasn’t malicious, but I think that these are great examples of how—if you have not experienced the same type of loss—it is hard to understand the grief of that loss and what to say or not say.

When we lose a spouse so many things change for us. It is so important to have someone you can talk to that has been through a similar loss. Just as in the loss of a child or a parent, only someone who has experienced that type of loss can truly understand how you are feeling.

The loss of a spouse, for instance, is impactful in so many ways. If you’ve been married a long time, this might be the first time in many years that the surviving spouse has lived alone. Feeling secure can become an issue. Suddenly all the household chores and duties that were split—are ALL yours. That can become quite overwhelming, especially if you never participated much in your spouse’s half of those chores.

The way you cook changes, the way you eat changes. Your sense of humor changes. If you are alone in the home, suddenly it’s quiet and there is no one to talk to or laugh with. ALL. DAY. LONG. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.

All of these things are happening simultaneously with severe heartache and stress. The best thing you can do is to be active.

Take walks
Adopt a pet
Reach out in person or online to friends
Volunteer
Babysit for family
Pet sit
Clean out a closet or a room
Box up all the clothes you will not use
Take up a new hobby or start crafting
Go on a road trip

Also, I think it’s imperative to understand that when I say it’s important to be active… that does not imply you should be active with the goal of being distracted. It is super important to feel all the feels when they pop up and not push down anything that you are feeling.

I also think there’s a lot of room for learning here. I’m learning to be patient with people who just are not in a place to understand—yet. And, they are in a position to learn, maybe, about how to comfort a friend. I can tell you for sure that up until Shane died, I had been the one who simply had no clue—sadly I had to learn by myself and so will they.

Yes, things that people say and do (or don’t say or do) are going to sting, make you sad, and trigger your grief. It’s all part of our learning process. If something bothers you, you need to speak up. Sometimes people don’t understand something they’ve said is inappropriate unless they are told. So let’s all be gentle with each other.