Journeys through Widowhood
Home ~ Dread ~ Loss ~ Grief ~ Mourning ~ Time ~ Another Goodbye ~ Gratitude ~ Privacy for Richard's Family
Time
One Year Later
365 days.
365 mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights.
Sometimes, the day of Richard's death feels like yesterday. Sometimes, it feels like an event that happened before the world was born.
But it happened, forever changing my world -- and me -- in surprising ways.
I expected to grieve, but was surprised at the ferocity of grief.
I expected to mourn, but was surprised at the randomness of mourning.
I hoped to heal, but was surprised that healing happened on its own mysterious schedule. What does today feel like?
Of course, today feels like a quiet day to remember and celebrate Richard. And, perhaps selfishly, it also feels like a day to honor the year I've just completed.
You see, I thought I had experienced pain before, but had no idea how deep it could be. I thought I was alone, but found that I was supported. I thought I knew my own strength, but discovered that I had more in deep reserve. I thought I was done growing, only to learn that I was just getting started.
Today, it is ok to feel happy. It is ok to feel sad. It's even ok to feel proud of surviving the changes demanded by the last 365 days. Three Years Later Is this milestone even possible? It's been more than 1,000 days since Richard's release from his struggles.
That number leaves me breathless.
The dent that my wedding ring created on my left ring finger has grown so faint that only I can see it.
But I still find random notes, in his handwriting, in odd places.
Catalogs addressed to him still come in the mail.
His picture still appears out of nowhere in my Facebook feed.
I still smile when I see a really cool cloud or a geological formation that would delight him.
But so much has changed, mostly when I wasn't looking.
I move furniture and reorganize the cabinets, making myself more at ease in this echoing house.
I buy a car, on my own, for the first time in almost 50 years.
I learn to cook differently -- and for one. I experiment until I can make a single cup of coffee.
I log about 20,000 miles over a series of long solo road trips.
I discover who my friends are. And aren't.
I face some medical challenges of my own.
I refinance the house and adopt a puppy.
I spend that first Christmas alone, because I cannot face another human being. The next year, I start a new tradition.
I re-experience the comfort and discomfort, the tiny victories and large hurdles, of living alone. I embrace a new serenity, one that comes from believing I've survived the worst that life can throw at me. I change.
I cope.
I heal. A Candle So I light a candle in sweet memory of Richard on the anniversaries of his death. And to salute all of us who are widowing today.
365 mornings, afternoons, evenings, and nights.
Sometimes, the day of Richard's death feels like yesterday. Sometimes, it feels like an event that happened before the world was born.
But it happened, forever changing my world -- and me -- in surprising ways.
I expected to grieve, but was surprised at the ferocity of grief.
I expected to mourn, but was surprised at the randomness of mourning.
I hoped to heal, but was surprised that healing happened on its own mysterious schedule. What does today feel like?
Of course, today feels like a quiet day to remember and celebrate Richard. And, perhaps selfishly, it also feels like a day to honor the year I've just completed.
You see, I thought I had experienced pain before, but had no idea how deep it could be. I thought I was alone, but found that I was supported. I thought I knew my own strength, but discovered that I had more in deep reserve. I thought I was done growing, only to learn that I was just getting started.
Today, it is ok to feel happy. It is ok to feel sad. It's even ok to feel proud of surviving the changes demanded by the last 365 days. Three Years Later Is this milestone even possible? It's been more than 1,000 days since Richard's release from his struggles.
That number leaves me breathless.
The dent that my wedding ring created on my left ring finger has grown so faint that only I can see it.
But I still find random notes, in his handwriting, in odd places.
Catalogs addressed to him still come in the mail.
His picture still appears out of nowhere in my Facebook feed.
I still smile when I see a really cool cloud or a geological formation that would delight him.
But so much has changed, mostly when I wasn't looking.
I move furniture and reorganize the cabinets, making myself more at ease in this echoing house.
I buy a car, on my own, for the first time in almost 50 years.
I learn to cook differently -- and for one. I experiment until I can make a single cup of coffee.
I log about 20,000 miles over a series of long solo road trips.
I discover who my friends are. And aren't.
I face some medical challenges of my own.
I refinance the house and adopt a puppy.
I spend that first Christmas alone, because I cannot face another human being. The next year, I start a new tradition.
I re-experience the comfort and discomfort, the tiny victories and large hurdles, of living alone. I embrace a new serenity, one that comes from believing I've survived the worst that life can throw at me. I change.
I cope.
I heal. A Candle So I light a candle in sweet memory of Richard on the anniversaries of his death. And to salute all of us who are widowing today.
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