TALES FROM THE (Widow) HOOD

With apologies to  Gabriel García Márquez

In 2018 I became a reluctant learner at Widowhood University.  The business of George’s business became my business, along with all of the responsibilities I had happily let him oversee during our 43 "His and Hers" years. On top of the numbing grief and sadness that seemed to be burying me alive, I was faced with closing a law practice, navigating the intricacies of self-employment business taxes, notifying umpteen financial institutions, the State Bar, and numerous unsuspecting clients. Date of death property appraisals. Sales of real estate and my Kahuna’s car. I must say I surprised myself. It was a crash course in self-reliance, and I can proudly say I earned my degree! As it turns out. It’s the mundane, unspectacular tasks that continue to remind me how much I depended on George. Trudging the weekly trash, recycle, and garden waste barrels down our long driveway to the curb on time. Bringing them back up, donning the garden gloves that shield me from the...

Being sidelined with pneumonia has made me appreciate the gift of good health. And with it, the ease with which we are able to breathe in life. I am grateful for my village who always rallies, even when I am uncomfortable asking for help. It has also reminded me how dependent I was on my Kahuna when I was sick. He was a compassionate caregiver, hand holder and meal provider. I miss that. I also had time to think – and remember when I wasn’t flying solo in the widow-hood…  I’m approaching the two year mark since That Day . While so much has gone off-script in my fairy tale, “They lived happily ever after”, ending, the daily reminders of our story are everywhere. Same house. His chair. His beloved Golden Retriever, Charlie. Never far away... His wedding rings worn around my neck. An occasional email to his inbox from an unknowing former client, wishing him well and thanking him for his help during their most difficult times. His precious charcoal mountain in the garage,...

It’s early morning. I’m on my way to a designated location, midway between Son’s new home and mine. My mission? Pick up Grandson and get him dressed, fed and off to preschool, because Son has an early call time at work. The area is familiar enough, but suddenly I realize I have missed the off-ramp for our rendezvous. Darn! I’ve got to get my grandson, so I keep driving, unsure of where I am but determined to find my way. I take the next exit and suddenly nothing looks familiar. I make a turn onto what I realize is a winding, dead end street and stumble upon a crime in progress - and a gun pointed at me. Shots are fired. I await the shattering of my car’s windshield, the bullets penetrating my chest. But nothing happens. I am not dead. As the dream continues, I am in a ramshackle bedroom, begging to call my son, who is expecting me to pick up his little boy. The kidnapper is considering my request, and I wrack my brain, trying to come up with a message I can give him that will aler...

Welcome to my new series of Grieflections - taken from the pages (and pages) of notes, until now unpublished. Thought bubbles, of sorts, from my widow's fog of last year, to the widow's brain of today.  Mindfulness studies taught me to look at thoughts as "writing on water" - recognize them, and reflect on how they manifest as sensory feelings. Be Curious. Observant. Accepting. Loving. And come back to the breath. The now. Mindfulness and meditation has been a gift. Writing has been my salvation to process the thoughts. And let them go - to anyone who may be interested in Life in the Widow-hood. February Feels How is it possible? I still catch myself in painful disbelief. But the daily reminders of widowhood scream the reality of my unintended life. The empty "side" of our bed. The recently emptied closet and bureau drawers. His chair, still holding his "scent", yet devoid of his presence. Writing has been my therapy, along with mindfulnes...

TO READ MY LATEST POST CLICK HERE Something has happened.  A subtle shift in the wind direction that has been pushing me - a brittle, broken, fallen leaf - detached from my tree of life. No lightning bolt or fanfare announced it. But I know. And I feel George so strongly. For the first time in two years, a sense of peace is stronger than my shroud of sadness. I miss him as much as I have every single day, yet the weight I carry in my broken heart feels lighter. Something has changed... You can read this post in its entirely on my other Blog, Not My Mother's 60 .