New Year's Eve

I know this might sound a little nutty, but for me, New Year's Eve is going to be the hardest holiday to go through without Bobby. Some people might think it would be Christmas or my anniversary, but tonight, New Year's Eve, will be the hardest.

I know everyone's traditions and situations are different, but for me, on Christmas Eve and Christmas, I was missing him badly, but I was so busy and surrounded by my family and I was in constant movement...serve appetizers, serve dinner, clean up, open gifts, serve dinner, clean up again. Not a lot of time to think until everyone left, then cried and went to bed.

It so happens this year, on my anniversary, I had made plans for some home repair to be done, since it was a Saturday and I'd be home. And truthfully, we never really celebrated our anniversary on "the day" most of the time simply because if it fell on a weekday, we had to go to work that day and more than likely drive the kids somewhere that evening. So I got through that. (I'm not saying it was easy, but there were distractions).

But in my lifetime, New Years has always been all about midnight, couples, and the kiss. Every year, at midnight, no matter who we were spending it with, all the couples would stand next to their spouses, count down backwards, and at midnight, kiss each other, and then hug and kiss the kids. I kissed him for the last nineteen New Years Eve's and planned on kissing him for a lot more than that, but tonight I won't be able to do it.

So New Years has gone from "fun with friends and the kiss at midnight" to just another blaring opportunity for loneliness to rear it's ugly head. It is so hard to get my head around the fact that I will never again get a New Year's kiss. Maybe I'll just go to bed at 9:00.

Missing...

Well, it's Christmas evening, I'm home with my PJ's on, and the festivities are over. My boys are busying themselves around the house and I'm here with my laptop. I made it through my first Christmas Eve and Christmas Day without Bobby, although I had my moments where the loneliness was both physically painful and absolutely unbearable.

I put up the tree and decorated the house (sans mistletoe). I shopped at the mall. I managed to entertain yesterday, since I couldn't bear the thought of my house being empty. I watched my kids open their presents this morning; I even managed to take pictures. I went to my sister-in-law's today to have Christmas dinner, and celebrate my nine-year-old niece's Christmas birthday. I gave and received presents, and tried the vodka-spiked punch and had some cake. I even laughed with my four-year-old niece who can be very entertaining. But something was missing....

I'm not talking about the obvious...of course Bobby was missing, that is a given. But there was - is - something else missing...and that is joy. No matter what I do or where I go or who I am with, there is no longer any joy in my heart. I was one of those people who really enjoyed Christmas and the whole season...I never wanted or wished it to be over like some people do. But the joy of the season, even the every day joy that people experience, is gone. It's just gone, and there doesn't seem to be anything I can do about it.

Merry Christmas, Bobby, where ever you are. I miss you....

Black

OK, I guess at some point I had to address this issue.

Yes, I wear black. I’ve been wearing black since the day after Bobby died. I’ve been told its “creepy”. I’ve also been told I’m too old to be “goth” – that it is a “high school thing”. Recently, several friends, relatives and colleagues have asked me after the six month mark when I am going to stop. My answer? "When I open my drawer one day and I want to wear something else." It's intrinsic. The choice must come from within.

The tradition comes down from my ethnic heritage; my grandmother wore black for a year after my grandfather died. I wasn’t even born yet at the time, so I don’t know if she just stopped wearing black exactly one year and one day after it happened, or not. It’s just that it felt right when I started, and still feels right. The only time I don’t wear black is when I am wearing Bobby’s clothing around the house, which consists of his pajama pants, his t-shirts and his fuzzy bathrobe.

It’s not like I’m wearing a long black gown and a black lace veil to go with it. I still wear modern clothes (black jeans, corduroys, dress pants) and normal black blouses and sweaters with various embellishments – I even bought a black t-shirt for myself that says “Rock and Roll Hall of Fame” when I took my kids there over the summer. I don’t feel like I’m being creepy or goth. I’m just doing what I feel like doing. Wearing colors, right now, does not feel right. One of my colleagues recently told me that she cannot believe that someone can wear all black, every day, and still have the wide variety of outfits that I have.

Besides, there are a lot of good things about wearing all black. First and foremost, it was Bobby’s favorite color in clothing and he liked me in black. And you wouldn’t believe how incredibly easy it is to get dressed in the morning for work when all your clothes are the same color. Not to mention the slimming effect....

An "A-HA" Moment?

I was talking to a colleague of mine earlier this week, and I was telling her how I was really surprising myself. I told her that the holiday season was not turning out to be as hard as I thought it was going to be. It confused me, but I thought to myself, wow...maybe I’ll really be OK.

Well...today I had an "A-HA" moment...or should we call it a "DUH" moment instead?

Because it dawned on me tonight...of course the holiday season wasn’t bothering me....because I was ignoring it. I have not listened to any Christmas Carols, opting instead to stick to classic rock. Aerosmith’s Dude Looks Like a Lady is a lot more appealing to me than Celine Dion’s Oh Holy Night. (Well, let’s face it, even before Bobby passed away, we would both probably have made the same choice.) I have not decorated my house yet. Not one thing, except for the Lego Advent Calendar that the kids pulled out just so they could put together the Lego figures. And holiday shopping? I’ve been doing all my holiday shopping on-line. So of course it was not bothering me...because I was not bothering with it.

But that changed today. I dropped my son off at a friend’s house and my other son was at Boy Scouts, so I figured it was a good time to run to the store to pick up some gifts I hadn’t found online. So I went to Kohl’s. As soon as I walked in, I felt like I’d been hit by a truck. Holly and poinsettias and Christmas trees all around! Slow sappy Christmas songs over the PA. (Thank goodness they weren’t playing Elvis’s Blue Christmas). An inordinate amount of husbands and wives shopping together, and don’t even ask me about the men’s department. (All the shirts I saw that would have looked great on Bobby....)

So boy, was I ever wrong when I spoke to my colleague earlier this week. I’m not handling it well. Not at all. So like the rest of us who are experiencing our first holiday season without our beloved, I’m muddling through the best that I can. I’ll decorate the house for the kids, but I’ll stick to my Classic Rock on the radio. Small doses. That is all I can take right now.

What Silver Lining?

Every time I’ve ever had something crummy happen to me in my life, I’ve always managed to find the “silver lining”. Lost a job? Got a better one. Lost a friend? She wasn’t really a friend to begin with. Broke up with a boyfriend? Somebody better came along. Fight with Bobby? We learned something that made our relationship stronger. Bobby came up with the best one ever: he was divorced before he met me, and it was a horrible experience for him. One time I asked him if he wished he had not married his first wife and married someone else so that he would never have had to go through his horrible divorce. He said no, because if he had not married her, he would have never gotten divorced and married me. So even in his divorce was he able to find a “silver lining”.

Well, I’ve decided in widowhood, there is no silver lining. At least in my case, and most cases, I’m sure. (I did see a woman on a talk show once that told the host that she was actually glad her husband died because they had such a horrible relationship and she was finally free of him, but I’m sure this woman’s experience was the exception.) I can think of absolutely no silver linings that can come from his death.

I do not mean that I cannot have good experiences, good friends, good times. But there is nothing that I can think of that could happen to me where I would say to myself, “There is the silver lining.” Sure, some things have changed and become somewhat more “convenient” since he passed away. For example, I can now go down the shore during the week when there is no traffic; I do not have to wait for weekends when he is off. I’m not being woken up by snoring. I can set the thermostat to where I’m comfortable without worrying about him turning it up, resulting in me sweating in the middle of January.

But none of these qualifies as a silver lining.

Even if his death resulted in me getting zillions of dollars, a new love, or even the throne of England, I would never believe that any of those were worth his death.

Because even if “good” or “convenient” things could happen as an indirect result of his death, “better” things never will. Because I would take the weekend traffic, the snoring and the sweat back in a heart beat if I could have him back here with me. No amount of money or no other man, will ever cause me to say, let alone think, “Boy am I glad he died!”.

And I’ve never really had any interest in the throne of England since I was about twelve.

"The Day the Music Died"

I was on my way to work this morning and the song American Pie by Don McLean came on the radio. I’ve always liked that song, so I’m listening to it, and then he sings at the end of the first verse, "...the day...the music...died". It hit me like a ton of bricks.

Bobby was a musician. He was innately talented, and self taught himself to play the guitar and the banjo, and damn, he was good. He never played professionally, and he didn’t like playing in front of crowds, so he never performed on a stage. In fact, the only time he played in front of a crowd was when he played at our church a couple of times. Other than that, he would usually play alone, with his brother, or with a friend. And in the past few years, before he was diagnosed, he would occasionally play along with our sons when they were practicing their instrument lessons. But my favorite time that he played was when he played for me. He took requests.

He would relax after a day at work by playing the banjo or guitar while watching television, which baffled me. I could never understand how he could successfully play a banjo while watching Diners Drive-ins and Dives. I was not a huge fan of banjo or blue grass music before I met Bobby, and really never had any interest in that type of music. But when it was him playing, I loved every note. Even when he played the tune from the movie Deliverance, which I watched with him and hated. He would play the tune just to get a reaction from me, which usually consisted of my eyes rolling, and a reiteration of how much I hated that movie. Then he would laugh. Once in a while, he even played tunes that he made up in his head, which I especially loved.

I remember shortly after he was diagnosed, I was making dinner and around the corner in the family room he was sitting on the couch playing his guitar. He wasn’t playing any song in particular, but it was the familiar finger-picking and strumming that I loved hearing. And I started to cry. I did not let him see me cry, because I didn’t want to upset him, but I couldn’t bear the thought of never hearing him play again. So I tried to memorize the sound in my head.

Unfortunately, there are no recordings that I know of in which he plays either the guitar or banjo. His banjos sit in our family room now, collecting dust. I bought myself a beginner’s banjo book, with the hopes of learning to play, but I have absolutely no musical talent whatsoever, so I’m wondering where that is going to go. My younger son, who is learning the guitar, will play his dad's guitars once in a while.

So in addition to the loss of my wonderful husband on that horrible day in April, for me, it is the day the music died.

This One's for Daddy

Well, today is Bobby's birthday. His first birthday we are experiencing without him. Truthfully, in "widow-time", it set me back quite a few months.

I cried on the way to work. Held in the tears all day, then cried on the way home. Cried when my youngest cried. Crying now. Will most likely cry when I go to bed later.

This may sound redundant, but I feel so bad because I feel so bad on his birthday. Know what I mean? His birthday is supposed to be happy. Not that we made a huge deal out of it when he was alive. The kids enjoyed his birthday more than he did, and that is the part he really enjoyed. He would watch them get all excited when he would open his presents, which I let them pick out. (You can only imagine what he got...stuffed animals, boxer shorts with Disney characters, you get the idea.) All he ever requested on his birthday was to "order a pizza".

So tonight, like I planned, we ordered a pizza. My younger son, who typically only eats once piece of pizza, ate two tonight. When he put the second piece on his plate, he said, "This one's for Daddy."

The First Week of November...

...in a word, sucks.

November 3? Our civil anniversary. November 6? Our church anniversary. November 9? His birthday. It didn't fall this way on purpose, but he was thankful it was all in the same week. First, it was easy for him to remember "3, 6, 9", which meant he would never forget either of our anniversaries. (He wasn't going to forget his birthday.) It also meant when we went to church, he didn't have to stand up in front of the congregation alone for the "special event blessing" that they do every month. I was always with him, celebrating our anniversary along with his birthday, and he didn't have to stand up there alone.

Now this week we looked forward to every year has become one of the banes of my existence. It's not the same fun week it used to be. This week will never be the same again.

Every year on our wedding anniversary, my husband would send me roses. And he would send them to work, so I would have the pleasure of getting the phone call that there was a delivery for me in the front office, and then I would get to walk the hall with the roses to put them on my desk and get all the comments from my colleagues about how lucky I was.

Well, it's not rocket science for you to figure out that I didn't get the roses this year. I already knew that I wouldn't be getting them, but the actual not getting them bothered me. However, I'm positive that he remembered, and sent me a sign. I was in a Wawa yesterday, (the 6th...my church anniversary) getting myself a cup of coffee, and on the sound system came that silly song, "Going to the chapel, and we're gonna get married." I never hear this song on the radio, so I feel like it was his way of telling me that he remembered, and that he was with me on our anniversary.

It's only Sunday night right now, and I don't know what Tuesday, his birthday, will bring this year. We never really made a huge deal out of his birthday, he didn't like that. All he ever wanted was a pizza and some home-made cards from the kids.

So I'm thinking on Tuesday night, I might just order a pizza.

Day of the Dead, the Corduroy Jacket and a Big Hug

I don't know a lot about Spanish or Hispanic Heritage, but I do know that on November 1st, they celebrate something called "Day of the Dead". I've been thinking about this day for a while now, and I was thinking I might want to celebrate it, since I unfortunately have someone to celebrate. But since it was a regular work day, then I had plans after work to help my son study for a science test and take my other son for a hair cut, there wasn't much time for celebrating.

I was thinking, "What can I do today to celebrate my husband?" I wanted something simple and easy, but not something that would make me look like I was losing my mind, either. After all, I was going to work.

Then I remembered the corduroy jacket. My husband had (has) a corduroy jacket that he liked to wear basically all winter. He was always cold (even before he was sick), so he would wear this jacket day in and day out, until I got sick of looking at it. However, despite my feelings about the jacket, it became part of him, and now I really miss it. So I took it out of the closet for the first time since he passed away. I put it on and looked in the mirror. No, it did not look great on me. The sleeves were too long, and the jacket itself was too big, and the corduroy is fading, so it was a lighter shade of black than the pants I was wearing. But I folded up the sleeves and wore it anyway. It felt good.

I may not have been the most stylish person at work today, but I'm sure I was the only one walking around wearing a big hug.

Waffles

Let's face it...it was bound to happen sooner or later. I'm surprised it took this long.

I made waffles this morning for my sons for breakfast. I'm normally not a big "breakfast" person, I don't particularly enjoy pancakes, waffles, bacon, sausage and other traditional breakfast foods. I'd rather have a turkey sandwich for breakfast. But my husband LOVED breakfast. He was the one who would break out the Aunt Jemima's on Saturday morning, and make pancakes.

So this morning, I decided to splurge for the kids and make the big traditional breakfast. When I went to look for the pancake mix, there wasn't any. We didn't have any Bisquick, either. So I went to the computer and looked up a waffle recipe from scratch. I made the waffles, served the waffles, and after the kids took a few bites, they looked at me really sadly. "What's wrong?" I asked.

They looked terrible. They wanted to tell me something but they didn't want to say it. They kept giving each other looks, as if to say, "YOU tell her." "No, YOU tell her." But I already knew what it was. "I'm sorry Mommy. We like Daddy's waffles better."

Damn.

I assured them that it was OK, and explained that I had to make them from scratch this time, because we didn't have any pancake mix. They actually looked relieved, as if they were thinking, "Oh thank goodness it's not Mom's fault. We can dislike the waffles and not feel bad!"

I knew the feeling. After my own dad died, I really missed his French Toast. Mom's never tasted the same.

After the waffles were in the compost bin, my younger son took out some pizza rolls from the freezer and made them for breakfast. All three of us chowed down on them. No hard feelings.

But rest assured I will be buying pancake mix on my next trip to the grocery store.

Getting Real on TV

I was watching one of my favorite shows on TV the other day and there was a story about a widower getting married. He was having a conversation with his Godfather on the morning of the wedding, and he was talking about his first wife, Rebecca.

"Rebecca’s on my mind all the time now that I’m getting married again. And the longer she’s gone, the more perfect she becomes when I think about her. You know, but the truth is, she was beautifully human. Never hung up a damp towel in her life. Never filled up the car when the gauge was on “E”, and every once in a while she would use the word “impact” as a verb. And I would do anything to bring her back, but I can’t. And I don’t want to be alone."

First, I need to say kudos to the writers for this monologue. If that writer has not lost a spouse, I’d be very surprised because I could not believe the way he or she captured the feelings of a grieving spouse.

The monologue makes two points that really resonated with me. First, he admits that Rebecca was not perfect. I can definitely say that Bobby was not perfect. He left socks on the floor, toothpaste in the bathroom sink, dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, and for some unknown reason that I could never figure out, he would put his dirty clothes on top of the hamper instead of inside of it. But even though these are true, he does become more perfect as every day goes by that he is gone, and I would give anything to see those socks on the floor again.

I am also happy with the way the writer of this show acknowledges that the widower would do anything to bring back Rebecca, even though he is marrying his fiancée that day, whom he does truly love. I don’t know any widow or widower, no matter how much in love they may be with their new partner, saying or even thinking, “Boy, am I glad so-and-so died, because if they didn’t, I wouldn’t have met so-and-so.” This might sound harsh, but it is how I feel. So it was refreshing to see a widower (albeit a fictional one) admit those feelings, even on his wedding day.

"If it's any consolation..."

I was at work today and ran into one of the maintenance guys, Vinnie, who knew my husband also through work, and they even shared a birthday. Bobby and Vinnie sort of got to be "work friends", although they never hung out outside of work.

Vinnie asked me how I was doing, and I said the usual, "I'm okay, doing the best that I can." He then went on to tell me how he missed seeing Bobby at work, and how he thought about him whenever he thought of his own birthday. Then he said, "I have another friend named Bob, who I talk to a lot, and whenever I go to call him on my cell phone, I see Bob's number right under his. If it's any consolation, I can't delete it. I just leave it there."

Well, you know what? It is a consolation. I like hearing people tell me that they can't or don't want to forget him. It doesn't take away any of the pain of missing him, but it does give me a sense of relief that someone else out there is still thinking about him. I really want, (or need?) for him to be remembered.

Another Ending

I decided on a whim this evening to take my younger son to The Lone Star Steakhouse for dinner. We hadn't been there in a while, in fact, the last time we were there was with Bobby. The place was packed, which I thought was a little unusual for a Sunday night, and we were told there was a 15-20 minute wait. So we waited.

When we were seated, the server introduced herself (Kelly) and told us immediately, "We are out of a lot of things on the menu. Tonight is our last night."

"Forever?" I asked, a little confused.

"Yes, forever. They just told us last week we are closing. They are tearing down the building to build a Buffalo Bill's Brewery,” she explained.

Under normal circumstances, this would not bother me. But under my abnormal circumstances, tonight it did. Not because I'm a big fan of the Lone Star Steakhouse, but because Bobby and I made a wonderful memory there about 13 years ago when our oldest was just a baby. We went to eat there, and my son had his first piece of pumpernickel bread. He gnawed on that bread forever, and it was so cute. We got such a kick out of it, and talked about it for years to come, entertaining our now-14-year-old with the story.

I remember where we sat in the restaurant that night. I remember looking at my son in the high-chair, which was pushed up against the booth. I remember that it was also our first time at the Lone Star, and how much we loved their pumpernickel bread that they served warm.

It made me realize something: the memories that Bobby and I made are finite. Now, I know we are all mortal and everything that we do is finite, but in my case, the end has already come and gone, and no more memories will be made, and I'm young enough for it to bother me. And now, one of the places that reminded me of a wonderful memory is going to be torn down. It made me realize another cold hard truth...that one by one, the memories are all going to be torn down, and no new ones will be made to take their places.

I never knew the Lone Star Steakhouse could make me so sad.

Let's Talk.....

...about my husband. Seriously. I do want to talk about him.

I went to a BBQ over Labor Day Weekend and my cousin, who is the sweetest person ever, was talking to me about any and everything but Bobby. At one point in the conversation, it was natural for me to mention him. I don’t remember what we were talking about...but his name came up. My cousin said, “I knew that, but I didn’t know if you wanted me to mention him. I didn’t want to remind you.”

“Remind me? I think about him 24-7,” I said.

She hugged me.

Last week, I met a new supervisor at work, who I know for a fact knew my husband through work (for new readers, we worked at the same place, only in different departments). We exchanged formalities and went on our way. I saw her again the next day in the hall, and we again exchanged formalities. No mention of Bobby whatsoever.

I felt like I’d been punched. It was like he did not exist. I wasn’t looking for a dissertation, but a simple, “I knew Bob. I’m sorry for your loss." Even something simpler like, "I knew Bob. He was a great person to work with." I would have even settled for, "I knew Bob. He drove me crazy."

I love when people remember my husband to me, and I feel badly when they don’t. They don’t even have to say his name. Now that school has started, and summer is over, I re-enrolled my son into a music program that he had enjoyed last year, and when we walked into the first session, the director of the program saw me and he asked, “How are you?”

I responded with the customary, “Fine.”

He said, “No, really.” Then he hugged me.

Even though he didn’t mention Bobby, I knew he was thinking of him. I like when people remember him. I want to hear his name. I want people to know that it’s OK, even more than OK, to mention him. It actually makes me feel warm that he is not forgotten.

Hoarders - Widow Style

I don’t watch a lot of television, especially reality shows, so I’m not really up-to-date on what is out there. I recently learned, though, that there is a reality show called Hoarders, about people whose homes are covered wall to wall with junk that they can’t seem to let go of.

Well, lucky for me, I’m not going to be on that show. However, I am having trouble throwing things out. Bobby’s things. Not mine, not my kids’, only his.

The other day I was looking for my shoes that I had kicked under the bed the day before. Upon retrieving them, I also came across Bobby’s old sneakers. Not the pair he was currently using when he died, but the pair that came before. I thought he had thrown these away ages ago. (Shows you how much I look under my bed). So I went to throw them away, and got halfway to the garbage can, turned around, and put them right back under the bed where they were. I then looked up and said, “Why didn’t you throw these out when you got the new ones? Now I can’t!” I know he is laughing at me.

I’ve also spent the last few months slowly cleaning out my house, which had been somewhat neglected during my husband’s illness. I keep finding papers that he wrote on: notes, phone numbers, grocery lists and other assorted things. Every time I try to throw one out, I can’t do it. It got to the point where there were so many, that in the name of organization, I created a file in my filing cabinet where I can put all these pieces of paper.

Then there is his clothing. I cannot part with any of it. Luckily, I have two sons who would like his ties, dress socks and T-shirts. My older son even took some of my husbands “nice” shirts because according to my son they are “cool”. I’ve been wearing his bathrobes and T-shirts, too. But his suits, dress shirts and pants are still hanging in the closet, exactly where he left them. I have no intention to get rid of them right now. It’s just something I cannot do.

His deoderant is still under the sink in the bathroom. His toothbrush still hangs with the rest of ours. His wallet, with everything in it, is still in his top dresser drawer, along with his keys and his cellphone.

When he first passed away, I couldn’t even throw out the little cards that the doctors wrote his appointment times on. However, I was able to finally throw them away, because I reasoned with myself that one, he didn’t write on them, and two, he wasn’t going to be able to make those appointments anyway.

There is no rush for me to dispose of his things. They are not in my way, and if they make me feel just a teeny tiny bit better, then they are certainly worth holding onto. So while the hoarding that they show on TV is unhealthy and depressing, this hoarding – widow style – is OK in my book.

Looks Can Be Deceiving

If one more person tells me how well I am doing after the death of my husband, and how strong I’ve been, I’m going to scream.

Because along with this wrongly perceived strength and well being, comes the comments that are for the strong woman, the “cold hard truths” and frankly, I don’t want to hear the “cold hard truth”. I’m living it every day so I have no need to have it pointed out to me, especially if I am having one of those extremely rare moments when I am not thinking about it. A friend once said to me, “Well, the cold hard truth is he is gone, and you don’t have to worry about what he has to say about it.” I wanted to say, "Thank you for making me feel more crappy than I already do."

I’m not doing well. But when people ask me how I am doing, they expect to hear something like “I’m doing well”, or, at the very least “I’m doing OK...hanging in there”. Both of these answers must be accompanied by a smile, lest they think there is something seriously wrong with me. What I really want to tell them is that my world feels like it is falling apart at the seams and there are actually times where I want to throw myself in front of a moving bus. I would love to say to someone when asked how I am, “Well, I feel like crap. I walk around like there is a black cloud over my head, and even when I am laughing, I am crying inside. I’m almost positive that I’ll never be genuinely happy again and that I’ve been sentenced to a long life of loneliness without my soulmate, but I’m muddling through life with this fake smile plastered on my face because I have two kids that I love and I owe it to them to give them a good life, considering they no longer have a father.”

Society has this I-Am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar ideal that after any kind of tragedy, a woman is supposed to bounce back almost immediately or she is seen as weak, co-dependent and an embarrassment to the female species. According to that ideal, what I’m really “supposed” to do is put all his pictures away, get a makeover, sign up on eHarmony and tell everyone that I am doing well. HA! Never going to happen my friends. And now you know the truth, so you can stop asking me that ridiculous question, and expecting that even more ridiculous answer.

A Season of Firsts - It's Not Just the Holidays

When you become a widow, it is common knowledge that the first year is going to, in a nutshell, suck. The first Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Christmas or Hanukkah, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, anniversaries and birthdays, all fall into this category.

But then there are the firsts which are not as defined, but they hurt just as much or maybe even more depending on your family traditions. For example, I was in Cape May last week, and it was the first time I had been to Cape May as an adult without Bobby. I wasn’t even thinking about it or dreading going; instead I was focused on taking a friend of mine who had never been there. But once I got there, I got a horrible pain that hit me in the stomach the way a baseball hits you in the back of the head...very unexpected and extremely painful. I was in Cape May without Bobby. I was in the quaint little shopping district without Bobby. I was going to walk in the Five and Dime without Bobby. I was going to admire the town's beautiful architecture, which Bobby loved, without him. I became sad and introspective, and my poor friend was stuck with me. She gets lots of points for patience.

This experience stuck with me, and today while I was putting our family activities on the new school calendar, I realized that our annual apple-picking trip will no longer include Bobby. The annual hospital picnic that we attend every year will no longer include Bobby. Our holiday trips into NYC will no longer include Bobby. My first day back at church after the funeral was ridiculously tough, and even though I’ve been back to services several times since then, I cannot even get through a service without crying.

Even something as simple as buying concert tickets for a Beatles Tribute Band was sad...I only had to order three tickets instead of the normal four. When is three ever going to be normal? Four is normal for our family, dammit, not three!! I guess we have to use that new normal number for our family. God, how I hate that phrase, ‘new normal’.

I wonder now how many more unexpected firsts I’m going to be hit with over this next year. Maybe even the second year. Whether it is picking apples or Christmas Day, it’s going to be very tough. I hope I can get through it with grace, but if I can’t, I hope my friends and family will be patient with me and understand!

"Life on Mars"

I was watching DVD reruns of a show from 2008 called “Life on Mars”. In a nutshell, it’s about a cop named Sam from 2008 that ends up back in time, to 1973, working as a cop. He says in the beginning of the show, “...I don’t know how or why I’m here, but it’s like I’ve landed on a different planet...”

Like Sam, I don’t know why I’m here in Widowhood, but I do know how (damn cancer). And it really is like living on another planet.

It’s a whole other life. Sure, I have the same job, same house and the same kids, but it’s completely different. As I’ve said before, my husband and I worked at the same place, so my workplace is completely different. He is not there for me to bounce things off of, the one person I could trust completely, without reservation, to talk to about work openly, honestly, and humorously. I could say what was really on my mind without having to worry about being politically correct. He would also send me emails throughout the day, just to say he loved me. I miss that the most.

It goes without saying that my home life is completely different, too. From learning how to use a weed-whacker to worrying about car inspection...that was all part of his domain, and now they are in mine. I’m not very mechanical, so I find it somewhat difficult.

Then there is the single parenting. There is no longer anyone for me to discuss with what is best for the kids; are we doing this right? Should we let the 14-year-old do this, or the 12-year-old do that? What if I make a wrong decision? And how the heck am I supposed to teach a teenage boy how to shave his face? I’m guessing it’s a lot different than shaving my legs.

Lastly are the dreaded social situations. For the last nineteen years, I was part of a couple. Now I am a single. God, I hate being a single. I went from dropping my kids off at the water park and walking hand-in-hand with Bobby on the boardwalk to dropping my kids off at the water park and sitting on a bench reading a magazine. Feeling completely pathetic, even though one of my friends with four kids pointed out that if she saw a woman sitting on a bench peacefully reading a magazine she would be jealous. I see her point, but it doesn’t make me feel any better.

So yes, I am living on Mars as far as I am concerned. And it is a really lonely planet.

"...I Want to Marvel at Something"

I went to see the movie “Eat Pray Love” last night. I read the book a few years ago, and really enjoyed it, so I figured I might as well see the movie. I really like Julia Roberts, and the movie was good, but not as good as the book. For those of you not familiar with the story, it is the memoir of Liz Gilbert, who after a string of unsatisfying and bad relationships, decides to go on a journey around the world to learn to live with just herself, without a man. (She does find love in the end, even though she is not looking for it. Luckily for her, it is the healthy love that everybody really wants, not a dependent dysfunctional love. But that is not my point.)

I think Liz’s idea could really work for widows, too. Of course, I can’t imagine a jaunt around the world with my two boys in tow. I’m sure they would be all for the eating part in Italy, but ripping them away from their friends and activities for praying at an ashram in India and meditating with an old guy that looks like Yoda in Bali would not be their first choice of fun things to do. I’m sure it is not even in their top hundred. Given the choice, I’m sure they’d rather watch paint dry on a wall.

In the story, Liz loses her ability to savor life. Her line, “I used to have this appetite for food, for my life. And it’s just gone. I wanna go someplace where I can marvel at something” really resonates with me. But just like she lost her appetite from being in bad relationships, I’ve lost my appetite because I’ve lost my great relationship. My life is very empty; except for the shuffling around that I do to get my kids to and from activities and friends’ houses in order to keep their lives normal. My appetite for MY life is gone. There is really nothing that I WANT to do with it anymore.

My husband and I had plans. We were going to travel. We were going to live on a houseboat. We were going to get a dog. Hell, we were even going to watch all the reruns of The Sopranos together, since we hadn’t seen every episode. And now my appetite for doing these things is gone.

Like Liz, I want to marvel at something, like I used to. No, I never got to marvel at the Taj Mahal or the Great Wall of China, but together, we marveled at simple things, like a rainbow or a beautiful flower, even something simple as a joke, each other’s laughter, or our house after just cleaning it. But all this has been taken away from me along with my husband. My son pointed out a rainbow the other day and I found it so hard to really care, even though I was able to fake it for him. (And I used to really like rainbows.) Now I go from day to day, doing the things that have to be done, and not getting any real enjoyment out of anything. I may laugh and smile at times, but there is always a black cloud looming over my head, ready to envelop me at any given time without warning.

So what can I do about it? Taking a trip around the world to find myself like Liz did is out of the question, given my job and my kids. So where is a widow to go to marvel at something again?

I'm Not a Marine Biologist

Disclaimer: It is not my intention to offend anyone with this post, and I want to apologize in advance if I do. I certainly mean NO lack of respect to anyone, but I feel the need to be honest while posting in order for this blog to remain genuine.

Due to my recent widowhood, I’ve recently joined the ranks as a single mom. I’m just getting used to having mail come from the school, addressed only to me (not Mr. & Mrs.), and having all the bills only in my name now.

However, I do not feel very comfortable with this label because most people who didn’t know me before will automatically assume that I am divorced. I mean no disrespect to women who are divorced. I know many divorced women who I consider friends. However, I want there to be a way to distinguish myself as a widow and not a divorcée.

This is not because I think divorcées are failures or less of a person. But now, just like I don’t want anyone to think I am a divorcée, I don’t want anyone to think I am a Marine Biologist, either. When I present myself, I want to present myself as who I am...in my case, a widow who was in a wonderful marriage and misses her husband immensely, not someone who kicked their loser ex-husband to the curb (and we all know that some husbands do deserve to be kicked to the curb).

It is just that my husband was not one of them.

My mom told me many years ago that widows traditionally removed their wedding bands and moved their engagement rings to their right finger to signify that they are a widow. That is fine, but my problem with that is two-fold – first, I haven’t yet removed my wedding band. I just do not feel comfortable without it. (Let’s save that tidbit for whole other post). Second, it is such an old custom, I’m sure most people in my age group (and younger) wouldn’t have any clue what the engagement ring on the right hand even meant. Truthfully, I feel most people would just think that I got my right and left confused.

Introducing myself to people as a widow just doesn’t sit right, either. It would just make me look as though I am looking for sympathy. And a scarlet “W” just doesn’t match with all my clothing. So how do I distinguish myself from the divorcees? There doesn’t seem to be a clear answer to that question. Luckily, it isn’t pressing either, since as far as I’m concerned, my wedding band is still where it belongs – on my left ring finger where he placed it on our wedding day many years ago.