Those of you who are regulars here know that Ross died this past September. After thirty years of marriage (and two years of
I'm a widow. Not rich and sexy like The Merry Widow or dangerous like The Black Widow or folksy like The Oldest Living Confederate Widow. I'm the dumpy, grumpy widow. Widowhood is an enormous club that no one wants to join. It's like waking up one day to discover you're taking part in an Amway conference with a thousand other people who didn't think they'd be selling overpriced protein powder and vitamins, either.
The only bright spot of the conference is that you get lunch. Death triggers an automatic response in many women - the overwhelming need to bake a casserole right now. The casseroles are then gifted to the widow, who has lost her appetite. Fortunately, there are swarms of family and friends around in the first couple of weeks, so nothing will go to waste. In my case, I discovered great grief does nothing to blunt the hunger of 25-, 24- and 17-year-old orphans. (To be honest, the evening of Ross's funeral, when I swore I'd never want to eat again, my oldest friend's husband came in with stacks of pizzas and suddenly I discovered the will to live, thanks to mozzarella cheese and marinara sauce.) Eight weeks on, I still don't feel like cooking, but I've got two daughters living with me, and if I didn't make dinner regularly the only thing any of us would eat would be spaghetti and canned sauce. (Note to self: teach girls to make a few dishes before they fly the nest for good.)
Having the girls around is good in another way. In the same way that having toddlers meant you had to get up in the morning and function despite illness/hangover/laziness, my grown children force me to haul out of bed and face each new day. Literally, since I'll be driving Youngest to her high school until she gets a license, or graduates, whichever comes first (graduation.) I can't lie about, moaning all day; not so much because I don't want to alarm them, but because the Smithie has a car and health insurance, and would drag me off to a doctor's in my pjs, if necessary.
So I get up and put on one of my spiffy black outfits, earrings and lipstick. (No matter how deranged you feel, lipstick makes you look pulled together. And it can't run, like eye makeup.) Yes, I'm wearing mourning, which seems shocking and intriguing to many folks. I thought maybe I would look a bit like our own Hank, dashing and urbane. Instead I've discovered I lose many more silver hairs in a day than I thought. Also, my bosom is a magnet for mysterious bits of fluff and crumbs. It's like having a cat shed on my clothing, except I've skipped the middleman. Or middle cat.
I can't say I recommend widowhood, or would encourage it as a lifestyle choice. You'll notice there are no glossy magazines devoted to the recently bereaved (and what would they be called? Town and Country and Death? Grief Illustrated? Maybe Better Graves and Gardens.) Social interactions become ritualistic: People will give you the tiny head tilt of concern and ask, "How are you?" even when you'd much rather discuss Beyonce getting cast in the new LION KING movie. So instead of dishing, your conversations wind up with you reassuring your friends that you are Fine, so they can go back and tell other friends that you're Being Very Brave, or perhaps, Carrying On For The Children.
So, dear readers, I beat on, boat against the current, borne back ceaselessly... sorry, wrong ending. No, I just keep putting one step in front of the other, hoping not to trip, a dues-paying member of the worst club in the world. Anyone want to buy a protein shake?
