On being a widow

The funeral, the burial, the “after party” is history. The Sixties-style sleep-in — kids (adult, grand), in-laws (all sides) — is over. Repetitive runs to church, funeral home, your home, florist, airport, train station, cemetery, restaurant, toy/grocery/ liquor store have ceased. Phone calls, flower arrangements, sympathy cards, gift baskets are few and far between. The mothership — now eerily quiet — is down to one crew member. Her stalwart skipper. YOU.

Welcome to Widowhood 101: Introductory course where failure is not an option.

Where days are spent tackling bills, writing checks, running to banks, emailing foreign embassies, interviewing lawyers, filing insurance papers, meeting with financial advisers, selling cars, calling “800” numbers, shredding patient records, closing accounts, acknowledging (in writing) aforementioned cards/flowers/support. Visiting the grave. Decorating the grave. Pondering, pondering the words you want written in granite. Literally.

These are the days you find yourself 20 pounds lighter, staring at “couples,” leafing through wedding album, dialing his office, pumping gas, losing your keys/ your lunch/your mind. Growing old.

These are the days you check “widow” on employment applications. These are the days that stretch out like cheap polyester and rub you the wrong way. These are the days you’re referred to as “the bereaved,” the “surviving spouse,” the “executrix,” “other name on tombstone.” These are the days you awaken to a little night music! (The piggy bank music box plays “Twinkle, Twinkle,” all by itself, every now and again.)

These are the days you wanna walk the plank.

These are the days you hear “Sorry For Your Loss” a million times, with or without the requisite hug. SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS. “Sorry For Your Loss” is seconds later followed by “Have A Grrraaaaat Day!” Have a great day? Seriously?

These are the days you’re told “It was his time.” “He’s in a better place.” “He’s at peace now.” “You’re strong!” (Or words to that effect.)

These are the days you need pizza, doughnuts, ice cream, overpriced coffee, Angry Orchard, your CVS pharmacist. Your faith. Your friends.

These are the days you realize the following: Too many of us are in the same boat.