I look at the newly minted widow across from me on the weathered leather sofa. Her daughter and her granddaughter sit next to her both in shock themselves but hoping to shelter her from the pain. She is answering questions from the medical examiner at the hospital over the phone in a monotonic low voice. Long pauses after she speaks her syllables. “yes” “no” and silences.
In the kitchen nearby, the family has gathered with stacks of pizza boxes: her mother, her sisters, her son and his husband, and their dog. There is some nervous chatter about getting her to eat something. The chatter distracts her. She can’t hear her interlocuter, so she gets up and moves to their, now her, bedroom for privacy.
Time goes by and various family members tiptoe in to check on her. She is still on the phone with the hospital. Eventually, she emerges, the face of grief like Maria Magdelena’s post-crucifixion. A second daughter arrives from her home, an hour’s drive away. As we leave, she pulls up the driveway. The moon is full and dancing between large fluffy clouds. The night is cold but there is no wind. Coyotes howl in the hills beyond. She emerges from her car, and we hug her, the last child to arrive at the home where her father no longer lives. A Seguro cactus is shaped by green Christmas lights on the side of their driveway. He did that. He built the house. He put in the electric gate.
I cry for the widow. I say, “I am sorry for your loss,” and embrace her again as I leave. I mean it. Today she has lost herself as well as a mate.
The initial hubbub of relatives and friends, planning the funeral service and reception for attendees. Lots of food, but you stop eating. What do we want to say about the dead? How do we want him remembered? How do we brand him in survivors’ hearts? I always remember what Jackie did for Jack: Camelot. What music, readings, speakers? How religious? The calls to distant family and friends. Write the obituary. Deciding where gifts should go, tracking them, and thanking the givers. Taking stock of the assets and liabilities. Filing the paperwork with the government for the estate. Finding the will. Spreadsheets of a pro forma P&L and Balance Sheet.
Later, going through his possessions, choose items of his to bestow on family members and close friends. What to do with the rest? Sell, donate, and trash. Collapse on the floor, sobbing in paroxysms, smelling him in his sweaters, wearing his sweater to bed. Remembering the last time he wore that jacket. It was your 42nd anniversary at your favorite restaurant and you made plans for the summer to go back to Paris together.
Close down the social media, and electronic media. Shut down the phone account. Close down credit cards, bank accounts, subscriptions. Sell the extra car. Read The Year of Magical Thinking, On Grief & Grieving, A Widow for One Year.
Face his unopened birthday presents you chose for him. Face the unopened lingerie he hid in your closet for Valentine’s Day.
Lose your lover. Lose your best friend. Lose your partner in life. Lose your dinner. Lose your handbag. Lose yourself. Wander around as a torn-down-the-middle half a being oozing life substances. Less than a half. Don’t eat. Don’t sleep. Don’t laugh. Don’t sing. Don’t remember. But you do.
Take your children’s advice and get counseling. Talk about your feelings, but you don’t have any. Maybe you were the one who died? Have a car accident when you are leaving the body shop about a parking accident.
Now that you are not responsible for anyone, what do you want to do? Now that no one needs you, who are you? You do have feelings. You are angry. Your children are angry with you. You should have done more to keep him alive and healthy. You are sad. You are regretful.
Maybe this is just a dream and he’s on a long business trip in Europe. Maybe he will be back. Maybe you can meet up with him. Maybe he can’t be your life anymore. What can? Who can?