TALES FROM THE (Widow) HOOD

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 .

“Hi, Gorgeous!”  He often began notes that way. He thought I was beautiful. He made me feel beautiful. I miss that. His sweet comments as I came downstairs and into his view - dressed for a night out or a day in. His playful leers as I undressed for a shower. In his eyes I had no flaws. He was blind to all of the “soft, sagginess” of aging. I was always his lovely Paula Marie. He forever saw me as the 17-year-old girl who passed his desk as she timidly entered English class. And he always loved me just the way I was. He was my Mr. Rogers.

·    10 Months   ·    43 weeks   ·    306 Days   ·    7344 Hours   ·    440,640 Minutes Today marks 10 months since That Day.   I’ve rounded the corner, nearing the homestretch toward the finish line of painful “firsts”. And that last turn was a double whammy! George’s birthday last week led me (and Charlie, my goofy Golden and constant sidekick) on a 400+ mile, 24 hour road trip to some of our favorite places. It was just us, and it was exactly what we needed. My Kahuna was with us. We both felt his presence.  Paso Robles, CA. His favorite winery Moonstone Beach, Cambria, CA.  Charlie, my  sidekick Three days later, my Valentine’s Day broken heart was comforted by an extraordinary outpouring of love from my Village. Cards, gifts, messages and dozens of roses, including 50 red roses from Daughter – symbolic of her dad’s last Valentine’s gift to me - r...

My name is Paula, and I am a Widow. There, I said it. The “W-word”. Checking "that" marital status box is still a gut punch. I am a widow who lovingly slips my wedding rings on my hand each day, while George's rings stay close to my heart on a chain worn around my neck. Like Elvis, my Kahuna has left the building, but my heart still beats to the rhythm of the lifetime of music we made together. I am a widow disguised as a married woman. And I am just fine with that, thank you very much. I have worn my scarlet "W"  for nine months. Am I adjusting? Yes. Do I laugh, find joy, and practice self-care? I do. Have I “gotten over” my Kahuna’s death? Impossible...  Nine months ago in a hospital ICU, I held George’s hand for the last time. As the respirator was disconnected and he took his final breath, I felt his grasp tighten ever so gently around my fingers – his assurance that he would always be with me. I know he wants me to be happy again. But I miss the “me...