Amusement Park

I have always had very weird dreams, ever since I was a child. They are not bad, just weird. Even when I've gone through the most horrible parts of my life, (especially this widow-part), I've never had nightmares...the kind where you wake up screaming.

I've had dreams that were happy, sad, exhilarating, annoying, mildly disturbing, frustrating, and off the wall. Sometimes I can remember them so clearly, that they stay with me for days, weeks, or years, and sometimes when I wake up, I feel them fading away very quickly. I could never find the significance in them, though, because more often than not, they are completely senseless. Someone recently told me that the emotion that you feel in the dream is what is significant, not the dream itself. I can accept that, but wouldn't one think that I would have a lot more bad dreams since Bobby's illness and death?

However, one dream stays with me, that I really liked. In the dream, I was at an amusement park with my children, my sister and my brother-in-law. They all decided to go on an upside-down roller coaster ride, which I will reluctantly not go on, because although I love roller coasters, I can no longer handle them physically. I watched them go up the ramp to the ride, then I turned around and saw Bobby standing next to the railing. I asked him why he was there, and he simply responded, "I'm here to keep you company since you can't go on the ride. You know I can't stay, though." I remember hugging him and him hugging me back. I felt so complete and overwhelmingly happy.

My grandmother once told me that when you dream of a loved one that has passed away, that the person is visiting you. There has to be something to what my grandmother said, no matter what your spiritual beliefs are (or aren't) because the feeling that I got hugging him stayed with me long after I woke up. And it felt so good.

The Sun is Shining, But It is Raining

It's been over a year now...almost 14 months since Bobby has died, and people still ask me, "How are you?" with the sympathetic head tilt (which I never noticed until I saw an episode of Friends that addressed it). It's hard to explain, and this is the best I can come up with:

I live my life. I go to work, I take care of my kids. I do fun things, I went to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I laugh. I laughed really hard one night at a comedy club with some good friends one night last January, that my cheeks literally hurt. I learned a new dance today from a colleague. I bought a new purse. I watched with pride as my son got his award for "Student of the Year" in his Freshman class (not bad...there are almost 800 kids in the Freshman class). I threw my other son a party for his Confirmation. I'm planning a vacation.

But despite all this, there is no joy in my heart. I don't feel that feeling of contentment that comes with being married to the one you love and the one that you know loves you. All these positive things that I am doing don't seem to be able to put that joy back where it belongs. People tell me that I will get it back, but I wonder if that is really true. I'm living my life...doing things...I'm not moping around or lying in bed all day, but it is still not coming back. And I wonder, what do I have to do to get it back? Is it possible that it may never come back, and this is my new normal? I never thought in a million years I could simutaneously laugh until my cheeks ached, and not feel joy.

It reminds me of the rare times when the sun is shining, but it is raining at the same time.

Sons, Weddings and Retirement

Oh, today was an information overload!

A good friend of mine is retiring at the end of this month. Today was the day that our department took her out to dinner and gave her a gift. While talking, one of the women in our group asked her, "What are you going to do all day?" I loved her answer. "I'm just going to be."

Retirement was one of those things that Bobby and I really looked forward to. We had so many plans...and they were good ones. Neither one of us thought for one second that we could get bored in retirement like some people think. But all those plans are now shot to hell. Now I have to make new plans. And I have no idea what to do.

Another subject that came up was the relationship between grown sons and their mothers. My friend, who is retiring, has two sons, both in their 30s. One is married, and one is getting married. She told us that being the mother of the groom, she has nothing to say about the wedding, and that she was going "shopping for the beige". I had no idea what that meant, and it was explained to me that the mother of the bride gets to wear a beautiful color, while the mother of the groom only fades into the background in beige.

Great. I look terrible in beige.

I'm the youngest one in the group, and my two boys are only teens. However, they all proceeded to discuss how sons identify with the wife's family, and leave behind their own family. One even talked about a friend who was very close to his family until he got married. While his wife was still only his girlfriend, she insisted he turn his back on his family since she did not want any influence from his family. They were not even invited to the wedding! The mother was broken hearted. Later on, they made "amends" (even though there was never an argument to begin with) and now every time they come to visit, the parents have to pay for the hotel for them to stay in or else they don't visit. And all this to see the grandchild that they only found out about through the grapevine.

As I'm listening to all these stories, I'm thinking, "What if this happens to me? What if my sons get involved with women who don't want anything to do with me?" All these women have their husbands to lean on during these times of abandonment by their sons. Who will I lean on? Bobby is gone, and his shoulder is no longer available for me to cry on.

The conversation made me feel so alone. Now I'm dreading my sons growing up and leaving the nest. But I know it will happen, due to the natural order of things. And I'm at a loss over what to do.

Alone-ness

One thing I never planned on is being alone. Sure, I’m not completely alone, I have my two teenage sons with me, but I don’t have Bobby here to make me part of a couple. So I’ve had to learn something that I never thought I would have to do: live alone.

This does not mean I’ve never lived alone before. I had my own apartment when I met him, and I was young, in my 20s and single, which was fun when I was that age. I met Bobby when I was 27. And as I've mentioned before...we were joined at the hip almost immediately.

So now I have something to learn. I recently read in a book of practical advice for widows that we need to learn to live alone and be comfortable with our alone-ness, no matter what we decide to do with our lives down the road. Some of the things she mentions in her book are going to museums, restaurants, shopping, comedy clubs, and the movies, and be comfortable with it. I thought about what I had read, and I decided that shopping or visiting a museum alone is not terrible. I’ve done both of these before, even when I was part of a couple. But dining alone? I cannot imagine dining alone!! And I’m not talking about getting a bite to eat at the food court in the mall...I’m sure we’ve all done that alone at one time or another. But she mentions in her book going to a nice restaurant and dining alone without a book or a newspaper! I wouldn’t know how to do that in a million years. A comedy club? I would be mortified to walk into a comedy club by myself. (Although I’m sure my alone-ness, if noticed, would be great fodder for the comedians). The movies? I could probably do that alone without any anxiety, although I don’t think it would be much fun to see a movie without having someone there with whom to make comments.

The author, though, was able to achieve this, so I’m thinking it’s probably a good idea to try. My sons would tell me, “Remember what Yoda said. There is no try, only do,” since I tend to pull this one on them from time to time when they say things like, “I’ll try to remember to pick wet towels up off the floor."

I’m not making any guarantees on the restaurant or comedy club, though.

New Song

I was lying in bed on Saturday night and I put the TV on, which I normally do when I want to fall asleep. I usually set the timer so that it would shut down while I'm asleep, but this time I forgot and I woke up to hear a song that I never heard before. I opened my eyes and a woman was singing a really great song.

It turns out it was an episode of Saturday Night Live, and they said the name of the singer, Ellie Goulding, who I had never heard of. I found a piece of scrap paper and a pen on my night stand and scribbled down her name because I didn't want to forget it, rolled over and went back to sleep.

This evening, I typed her name into a Google search, and found a video of her on YouTube singing the song that I heard the other night. I clicked on the link, and was enjoying the song, when all of a sudden it occurred to me...Bobby will never get to hear this song.

Frankly, I'm not even sure he would have liked the song - but the fact that he is not here to experience it with me sort of hit me like a ton of bricks. Throughout the past year, I've really taken notice of all the big things that we no longer can share - holidays, birthdays, the kids' milestones and accomplishments - but now this one little song makes me realize all the little things that he won't ever get to experience with me either.

Sucks.

Plan B...C...Z?

When I was in college, I used to wear a denim jacket with buttons all over it from various rock concerts I'd been to, along with my prominent "Born to Run" replica album cover button (yes, total Springsteen fan here) and various other buttons with clever sayings on them that I liked. One of those said, "I spend my life in Plan B."

I came across this button again in 90's, when Bobby and I were cleaning and purging, getting ready to move into our first house. He liked the button, too, and after that we often joked that we were living our lives in Plan B, while Plan A consisted of us being independently wealthy, perpetually thin (well, that was my Plan A...Bobby already was perpetually thin) and cruising the world on our yacht with servants, a cook and absolutely nothing to do all day but enjoy each other's company and a couple of margaritas every afternoon.

Well, becoming a widow was certainly not Plan B. It isn't Plan C, D or E, either. Truthfully, it's not even on the spectrum, but if I had to give it a letter, it would have to be Plan Z. I miss the life I had before, and in retrospect, it was much more Plan A then Plan B. I guess this is where that old Yiddish proverb comes from: Man makes plans, God laughs.

Field Advantage

I noticed the other day that my normally upbeat and happy 15-year-old was sullen and quiet. When we got to talking, he said that it really bothered him that his dad never got to see all the accomplishments he's achieved since attending High School. My son, like his father, is a gifted musician, and this year in school he joined Concert Band, and Marching Band. He also tried out, and was accepted to Competitive Jazz Band, as well as trying out and being accepted to a Rock Band Academy. But I think Marching Band bothers him the most, because he mentioned during this conversation that his dad never got to see him on the field, in his uniform, playing his sax, and being part of a winning band (I'm proud to say our local High School Marching Band has won the State Championship for the past five years in a row). These kids work hard and it is quite an accomplishment. I thought about it for a moment, and told him that I understood how he felt, because even when I first started coming to see his Marching Band shows, I was sad too because Bobby was not there next to me, watching our son doing something he loved. I think it actually took me four or five shows before I was able to get through one without crying. Two of my friends, who also have children in Marching Band would tell me at every show, "Bobby's here...he is here". So I told my son what they said and that I do believe that his dad goes to his shows.

At that very moment, something occurred to me, and I told him that actually his dad has a huge advantage over me at the shows. My son asked me what I meant, and I told him, "When I'm watching your show, all I can do is sit and watch from the bleachers. Where do you think Daddy is?"

He thought for a moment. "On the field, with me?"

"Absolutely.”

He smiled. And I know that he believes it as much as I do.

April

When I was a little girl, April was always my favorite month. April held the promise that spring was on it's way, and not far behind, summer. It was the beginning of the 4th Marking Period at school, and that meant school was almost over. But most important, at that time in my life, it was my birthday month. My birthday was always marked by a big party with my relatives on one day, a small party with my friends on another day, and going out to dinner with my family on "the actual day". So really, my birthday was usually celebrated three times during the month, not just once.

Of course, as I got older, April no longer held the magic that it once held when I was a child. My birthday was no longer over-celebrated as my mom had stopped the big parties when I was about twelve (except for my Sweet 16). Instead, my birthday celebration in my teens was hanging around with my friends, and dinner with my immediate family. In my early 20s, it was going out to a bar, dancing, and again, hanging with friends.

The year I turned 28, April was wonderful. I had already been with Bobby for nine months, and he spoiled me on my birthday. I no longer cared nor needed to be "out" on my birthday, cuddling with him on the couch in our apartment was more than enough. It was also my second year as a teacher, and once again, it meant the beginning of the end of the school year, and I looked forward to my summers off.

It was just the two of us until my mid thirties. April became "Mommy's Birthday Month" according to my children, and it was then celebrated with cake, cookies and gifts that Bobby let the children pick out. I got lots of plastic flowers and home-made gifts, and one year, the boys insisted on taking me to Build-A-Bear for my own birthday bear. They got joy out of my birthday, and I got my joy watching them.

The April that I turned 41 was difficult...Bobby suffered his heart attack, fell into a coma, had a triple bypass, but emerged feeling better and healthier than he had before the attack. So that April was really significant...it was the month he looked Death in the face and flipped it the bird. We grew even closer together that year as a couple, as well, which I thought was really impossible, because we were close to begin with!

For the years following the heart attack and my forty-first birthday, April became "no big deal". My birthday came and went without a large celebration, since my kids became teenagers. When you are in your forties, your birthday no longer holds the wonder of when you were a kid. Presents become obsolete, and, at least in my case, it becomes very difficult for me to even think of what I "want for my birthday", because materialistically speaking, I have everything I need or want. But despite all this, Bobby always found a way to make my birthday special, even if we were at work all day and driving the kids around all evening to various activities.

Then two years ago, April held horrible news...Bobby had cancer.

One year ago, April became the dreaded month of the year. Bobby passed away in April. It will always be the month he passed away, even as my own life goes on.

April is no longer my favorite month of the year. And while it still does hold the promise of spring, and the approach of summer, my favorite season, I just cannot get passed the fact that it is also the month he passed away. It will never again be the same.

Another Day

As the one-year anniversary of Bobby’s passing approached, my kids and I were on pins and needles. What would happen that day? How would we feel? Was it going to be horrible and would I not be able to make it through without crying on my bed all day? This went through my head, as similar thoughts went through my childrens’ heads, too.

We decided to make plans for the day, to remember him. I took the day off of work, and my younger son opted to stay home from school as well. My older son, who is in high school, wanted to go for half day. So we picked him up from school right before his lunch period, and headed to the cemetery. We spent some time with Bobby, then went to his favorite pizzeria and had his favorite pizza.

Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on your point of view), our little celebration of his life could not last all day because my older son was playing in a Jazz Band Competition that night and my younger son had a Boy Scout meeting. I also had a Physical Therapy appointment. “Life” took over, and did not allow any of us to flop on our beds and cry all day.

So the day came and went; we got through it; we survived. And I can honestly say that it is not the actual day that bothers me, but the fact that it signifies that my time away from him is getting longer and longer. It puts the image in my mind of two people on two different boats, holding hands, and as the boats drift away, the hands have to let go, and the outstretched hands get further and further apart as the boats drift in opposite directions.

I am no longer within that first year, which in some ways became sort of "comfort zone" for me. I’m now into the second year. What happens now? What does the second year mean? Does it mean anything at all? It’s so unsettling.

Sainthood?

When I was a kid, I was very aware of the "sainthood" bestowed on those relatives that had died. Coming from a big Italian family, whenever someone passed away, all of a sudden, they could do no wrong, and it was sacrilege to speak ill of the dead, even if you thought the person was a complete idiot when they were alive.

Now that I am an adult, and I'm in the situation of having a dead spouse, I, too, have bestowed "sainthood" on him, even though there were times when he really drove me up the wall. But in thinking about this "sainthood", it really isn't "sainthood" at all. I call it "putting things into perspective".

Bobby did quite a few things that would drive me crazy. He put his socks all over the floor, dirty clothes ON the hamper instead of IN the hamper, and one of his favorites...sitting his butt on the couch and watching yet another episode of How It's Made when there was something in or around the house that had to be moved, drilled, hammered, dug or mowed. When I would complain that I was doing something and he was doing nothing, he would pat the section of the couch next to him and say, "Then don't do it and come and sit next to me." Smooth talker.

I think the "sainthood" is just our way of realizing that old adage, "You don't know what you have until it is gone." We realize that all the things that our spouse did that drove us nuts weren't really horrible at all. And we realize all the good things that we may have overlooked or appreciated. He never once complained about not having anything to wear when I forgot to do laundry. He never once said anything about my fluctuating weight. Ever. When I came home from work, exhausted, he would either offer to cook (usually pancakes) or go and pick up a pizza. He never complained when I went to my writer's group or book club, even though I knew he would rather I was home with him. He would tell me I was beautiful, even when I was wearing sweats and a T-shirt with a stain on it.

I took these things for granted and boy do I miss them now! So when people question the sainthood that is bestowed on someone that was far from the dictionary definition of perfect, it makes me think twice; because to me, it's just putting it all into perspective.

Open Wound

About three Sundays ago, I was sitting in church waiting for the service to start when I realized I had forgotten to get a bulletin from the usher. So I went to the back of the church to get a bulletin when one of the parishioners, Joe, had just walked in. Joe greeted me with a smile, along with the ushers who were handing out the bulletins. I took my bulletin and went back to my seat.

I was there for about thirty seconds when I burst out in tears. I excused myself and went to the back of the church again, but this time, continuing out the door. One of my friends from church followed me out and gave me a hug. She asked me if I was OK, and "What happened?"

It was Joe. Joe is a very nice, approximately 80-year-old man who has been attending our church for years. Joe's wife had just passed away about a month before that, and that was the first time I had ran into him since his wife died. All I could think of was how lonely he must be, since I am going through the same thing. The pain was horrible, like I was losing Bobby again. My friend, who was comforting me said, "It must be like a wound with a scab on it, and the scab just got torn off again." What a great simile! I hadn't thought of it that way.

The following Friday, I was on Facebook and there was a post from a high school classmate of mine who is my age and had just lost her husband. From out of nowhere, I burst out in tears. I knew her pain, only too well, and even though I was crying for her, I felt that familiar hurt all over again. Again, that scab had been torn off, and here I was crying all over again, as if I had just lost Bobby - again.

My question is this...is that wound ever going to heal? Will it always have a scab on it, that can be torn off at any unexpected moment in a split second? And if it does heal, how big of a scar will it leave?

Word Play

Ever since Bobby passed away, I’ve gotten more sensitive to things that I hear people say, and things that I used to say. They just don’t seem appropriate anymore.

Recently, while looking at some pictures with family, someone commented on a shirt that someone was wearing in one of the pictures that they thought my husband would have liked and worn. I looked at the shirt and knew right away that he would never have worn that shirt. So I just said non-chalantly, “He wouldn’t have been caught dead in that shirt.” As soon as it came out of my mouth, I was appalled at myself. Where did that come from? How could I say such a thing? What was I thinking? But it just slipped out.

I also remember a few years ago, when Bobby was still alive, we were with the kids visiting my mother and I wanted to use her computer. She still used dial-up to get on the internet. Anyone with a home network knows that dial-up is ridiculously slow. I clicked on her internet browser and waited for it to load in. And waited. And waited. And waited. While waiting, I remember leaning back in the chair, putting my arms out to my sides and saying to my mother, “This computer is so slow! I've been waiting so long for this to load that riga mortis is starting to set in.” At the time, I thought that was hilarious. In retrospect, I think it is a horrible thing to say! No wonder my mother didn't laugh. She's a widow, and I get it now.

Then there are the typical things that people say all the time. "My cell phone died." "The car battery died." "The refrigerator died." We don't think twice about using the word "died" when referring to things no longer working. I never even noticed these statements in conversation before, but now, every time I hear something like this, I think to myself that things cannot die, they just stop working. I decided to look up "die" in the dictionary, to prove my point, and there were several definitions, including those that refer to inanimate objects. So I guess in this case, I'm wrong.

Or maybe I'm just being too sensitive. Widows do that sometimes.

Miracle at the Mall

This incident happened to me two and a half months ago, right before Christmas. However, I did not blog about it right away because I thought anyone reading it might decide that I was out of my mind. However, after thinking about it, I've decided to blog it anyway. It's about my own personal miracle at the mall that combined my experience as a widow with the movie “Miracle on 34^th Street”.

About two years ago, Bobby and I decided that living in New Jersey, it was just plain stupid that neither one of us owned a pair of warm shoes. But we never got around to buying them that year, then the following winter he was sick, so shoes were the last thing on our mind.

So this past winter, I decided it was time to get warm shoes. I already had boots, but I wanted shoes. I’m a bit fussy about my shoes, so when I saw a pair I wanted, I would buy them, since it might take me a long time to find another pair that I really wanted.

On the Friday before Christmas, I headed over to the mall to buy the shoes. I went right to Lord & Taylor, because I knew they carried the brand & style I was looking for. I went into the store, and found a pair in brown on the display, so I brought them over to the salesman, and said, “I would like these in black, size six.”

He answered back, “I’m sorry, miss, but we only have brown, and we don’t even have brown in size six. All the size sixes are gone. However, we might be getting more in on Tuesday. I'm not sure.”

I told him I was hoping to have them for the weekend, so he looked around, then said in a low voice, “You can try Bloomingdales. Bloomingdales also carries this brand.”

My mouth dropped open. It was like Santa Claus in Macy’s telling the little boy’s mom to go get the fire truck at Gimbels.

So I headed over to Bloomingdales, and found the same brown shoe on the display. I walked up to a saleswoman, and asked her, “Do you have these in black, size 6?”

She took the shoe and said, “Oh, I don’t think so. I think we’re all out of black, and I’m sure we’re all out of size six. Sizes six and seven are the most popular sizes, and they tend to get sold out first.”

“Can you check anyway?” I asked.

She looked somewhere in between annoyed and feeling sorry for me, so she went in the back to look. She came out with a box and a very surprised look on her face. “Here you go. Size six, in black.” I took the shoes and tried them on. They fit perfect, so I went to the register.

The same saleswoman was at the resister. While she was ringing up the sale, I asked her if there were any more black shoes in the back. She shook her head and said, “No, not at all. These were the last pair of black. I cannot believe they are a size six.”

So that is my version of Miracle on 34^th Street. Bobby wanted me to have warm shoes, and I’m convinced that he had something to do with me finding the one and only black pair, in size six at the mall that night.

Somewhere Out There

Yesterday, while sitting in a diner with my kids and some friends, I heard the song “Somewhere Out There” by Linda Ronstadt and James Ingram on the radio. It reminded me of an experience that Bobby and I shared very shortly after we met.

Bobby and I had one of those "love at first sight" romances. I never in a million years thought that "love at first sight" was true, but from the first moment we met, we knew it was special and we knew we would be together always.....except for the three week period that I was on vacation.

When I met Bobby, I had already planned a three-week trek in Europe with my friend Christina, which included a week long stay with another friend Jane who lives right outside of London. So ten days after Bobby and I met, I hopped a plane to Europe. I promised to write, and call when I could. He told me he would accept collect calls. I gave him Jane's phone number so he could call me while I was there.

One night while staying with Jane, he called me. It was about 5:00 am, London time, and midnight in New Jersey. At first, I was telling him all about the fun that Christina and I were having on our vacation, then the conversation turned to how much we missed each other. While we were talking, I looked out the window and saw the moon. Then I thought about the song, "Somewhere Out There". In the song, they sing:

And even though I know how very far apart we are,
it helps to think we might be wishing on the same bright star,
and when the north wind starts to sing a lonesome lullaby,
it helps to think we’re sleeping underneath the same big sky.

It gave me an idea. I asked him to take the phone outside and look at the sky. I asked if he could see the moon. He said yes. So I told him that I was looking at the moon also, and that it made me miss him a little bit less, because at that very moment, even though we were an ocean apart, we were both looking at the same thing at the same time. We could share something, even though we were physically so far apart. He said he thought that was "pretty cool", and said that every night while I was away, he would look at the moon, and know that I may be looking at it at the same time.

Yes, there are times when I feel connected to him, whether I am wearing his bathrobe, holding one of his guitars, or watching our kids. But I wonder if, and hope that he is there, too, sharing the moment, "looking at the moon" with me. I miss those shared moments. A lot.

Identity Crisis

One of my widow friends on Facebook posted something really interesting the other day. Her post said,

And my #1 tip for surviving winter.... STOP READING THIS. Read something that ISN'T about death, not by a widow, and NOT WRITTEN THIS TIME OF YEAR by someone who feels like you. Nothing current! Try fiction, or Scientific American, or something you can buy in the checkout line at the Supermarket! I'm doing this RIGHT after I log off for a bit, just like I do every year, because it's NECESSARY. What will you do?—Posted by SupaFreshWidow on Widowed Village (Widville) Facebook Page

I thought a lot about what she wrote, and at first I was surprised. She also has a blog that talked about her life as a widow, so why should she want to discourage people from reading it? Then I “got it.” It reminded me of an experience that a good friend of mine told me about that stayed with me since she said it, when I was about six months in...

My friend has an son who is autistic. He was born around the same time I had my son, and both boys are now 15 years old. I remember after she got the diagnosis of her son being autistic, that she went online and found tons of information about autism. For several years, she read blogs and message boards about autism, later contributing some of her own experiences to these. Being a writer, she even wrote some articles on living and thriving with an autistic child that were published in local newspapers and other periodicals. She also made local connections, and one of those connections turned into a lifelong friendship. She was the mom of an autistic son, and this was her life.

She then told me later on, that one day she had, like they say on Oprah, an “A-ha” moment. She stopped reading about autism. She stopped writing about it. She stopped going online and making the connections. She said that she realized that since she had totally immersed herself for several years into being the mom of an autistic son, that she stopped being who she was before. She had lost her hobbies, some friends, and did not do very much any longer with her husband or her other children.

Does she still take care of her autistic son? Of course! She makes sure that he has the best education for autistic children, and he has all the support at home that he needs to thrive to the best of his abilities. But she has shed the label “mom of an autistic child” and is just herself.

She told me this story because she thought I was immersing myself way too much into the world of widowhood. I thought about what she said, and told her that it was way too early for me to make such a decision. She understood. But later on that day, when I was alone, I started to question myself...was I labeling myself? Was I pigeon-holing myself, and concentrating too much on being “a widow” rather than just being “me”? I did not have an answer. And I’ve been struggling with this for a few months now.

But when I read the Facebook post, it made me realize that other widows might be struggling with the same issues. We can’t label ourselves, and we cannot immerse ourselves in “widow-stuff” 24/7! But we still need each other. And I realized that I am still me, even if I do frequent the widow pages on the internet and interact with other widows (and the occasional widower). It’s the same as working moms...they can be good employees AND good mothers. So I can still be a widow, while still being myself and doing other things, as well.

And now it is time for me to shut down my computer and watch a rented movie with my two sons.

My First Valentine's Day....Alone

Well, maybe not my first. Actually, I had a lot of Valentine’s Days alone, but they were easy to get through because I was young, single and had a lot of young, single friends who were more than willing to go out and have fun without men on Valentine’s Day. We even made fun of our friends who DID have Valentines!

This year was completely different. Since I spent the past 19 years thinking that I had a Valentine for life, this one just plain sucked because my special guy was not there.

Not that we made a big deal out of Valentine’s Day. Every year, I would buy him a box of Queen Anne Chocolate Covered Cherries. And, in the beginning, he used to send me roses and big cards from the Hallmark Store, but after two kids and a mortgage, I would get the little card and the single red rose (and he still got the chocolates). All this meant so much to me....I didn't need the huge bouquet. Just the fact that I got a hug and a kiss and a “Happy Valentine’s Day” in the morning was special. Then we would go to work, come home, drive the kids to some activity, have dinner and go to bed. Dinner was usually pizza because he would say every year, “You shouldn't have to cook on Valentine’s Day”. That was sweet. That was all I needed.

This year, I got wrapped up in my son’s love life instead. He wanted to have dinner with his girlfriend, so I arranged with her mother (who is divorced AND happens to work in the same building as me!) for them to have dinner at a local nice Italian place. But of course, we had to eat, too, and our younger children had to eat, too, so the six of us had a nice dinner together. I’m sure that was not exactly my son’s idea of a romantic dinner with his girlfriend, but it had to do. We did let them sit next to each other.

The funny part was the strange looks we got the next day when we told our colleagues that we had Valentine’s dinner together the night before.

Who ARE These People?

I've often thought that there is nothing funny about losing my husband. They say that humor and laughter are great healers, and don't get me wrong, I have laughed during the past nine and a half months, but never at anything directly related to his death.

Until yesterday.

In my effort to tie up "loose ends", I've been signing into Bobby's personal email accounts. I already read his Verizon & Hotmail, but I hadn't gotten around to his Gmail yet. (As I've said before, my beloved, Mr. Computer Geek, had to have several email accounts. Don't ask...must be a computer thing.)

I signed into his email, to find emails from all sorts of people that I didn't know he knew! It puzzled me as to why he had dozens of emails from AT&T Wireless (his phone was Verizon), a Baptist church in another state (we're Episcopalians), countless jokes from his brother-in-law, Bill (he doesn't have a brother-in-law named Bill), emails from Peter, his accountant (our accountant's name is Mike), and lots of emails from MLB.com (he never once watched a baseball game on TV in the 19 years we were together). Who were these people, and why would they be emailing Bobby?

So I started to click on the emails. Bill's jokes were funny, and the emails from the Baptist church were inspiring. But it didn't give me any clue why he would be getting these emails. They were clearly not spam, but email that was subscribed to.

Finally, I clicked on one from AT&T wireless. It said, "Dear Ron". And it all became clear.

Bobby's name, of course, is Robert, and our last name is very common, like "Smith". So many people must have assumed that, using "Smith" as my example, "rsmith@gmail.com" was Ron, not Robert. Poor Ron is probably trying to figure out why he is not getting his email.

I laughed. Not a lot, maybe just a chuckle. But Bobby would have gotten a big laugh out of this, and knowing him, he probably would have emailed all these people to tell them about the mistake, and so Ron would get his email. He was that kind of guy.

Maybe I'll do it for him. Maybe not. After all, Bill's jokes are funny.

Never Assume....

I knew this would happen at some point, and it has. I've been mistaken for a divorcee, and it was not in a very nice way. (I have nothing against divorcees, see my previous post for more explanation.)

Yesterday a friend of mine posted on Facebook an amusing account of trying to get her 16 year old son to shovel the snow. It was light-hearted and funny, and some of her other friends posted other humorous anecdotes about getting their own children to help with the snow, so I joined in the banter and commented that since we bought our new snow-blower, I was careful NOT to learn how to run it, and only my 15 year old son knows how, thus I don't have to do it. It was all in good fun.

The next commenter, somebody I do not know personally, but is friends on Facebook with my friend, then posted underneath "That is what husbands are for...."

I took this as quite a blow. It was if she was saying to me, "How dare you make your poor teen use the snowblower when you should have a husband to do it. But you're obviously not responsible or mature enough to have a husband even though you have children." Maybe I'm being too sensitive, but I am very sensitive about this issue. I do not want to be mistaken for something I am not.

I was insulted that this woman had the audacity to judge me when she doesn't even know me. I had to strike back. A million nasty things went through my head that I wanted to post to this woman, but I also did not want to upset my friend, who started the conversation in the first place. So I simply commented, "My husband passed away." There were no more comments after that. I was probably a real downer at that point to everyone who participated in the conversation, but I didn't care. I was angry at the woman for her insensitive comment.

So in the words of Felix Unger, "Never assume...."

On the Radio

I’ve always been a Classic Rock sort of gal...I like listening to Springsteen, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, you know the type. I always thought that my favorite Classic Rock station was a safe place to listen to the radio because I didn’t have to worry about running into Celine Dion or Air Supply singing a sappy love song that would send me into tears. The only love song I want to hear these days is Shook Me All Night Long by AC/DC.

Well, when you’re grieving, there is no safe place. I know I’ve blogged in the past about being in Shop Rite or in my cousin’s pool, and remembering something about Bobby. But today, on my way to work, I was doomed.

I have a very short commute to work – ten minutes at the most – so I don’t get to hear a lot of music on my way in. So this morning, as I was pulling out of the driveway, I turned on the radio to find we are in the middle of Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. Just the title was killing me. (Boy do I wish he was here...Bobby I mean, not Roger Waters.) But I decided to brave out the rest of the song, since there are no other good radio stations that come in well in my town, and I haven’t yet sprung for satellite radio. Finally the song was over and I was hoping for something along the lines of Jumping Jack Flash when the DJ put on Landslide by Fleetwood Mac.

Really? Did you ever listen to the words? "Well I’ve been afraid of changin’ since I built my life around you. But time makes you bolder and children get older. And I’m gettin’ older, too."

Seriously???

But I like that song, so I braved it out. I found myself actually gritting my teeth. As I made the last turn to get on the road that leads to my place of work, Landslide ended, and who comes on? Eric Clapton’s Tears in Heaven.

I was done. I had to sit in the car, have a good cry, then fix my mascara before going in.

So no, I've discovered that no place seems to be safe.

The up side? At least they didn’t play Blue Oyster Cult’s Don’t Fear the Reaper. I probably would have turned around and gone home.

New Year's Day

1/1/11 – A new year. No longer 2010, the year I lost Bobby. It’s supposed to be a time of new beginnings, new starts, and new resolutions.

But I feel exactly the same. Sorry folks, but I just can’t get on board with the whole “new beginnings” thing. I feel pretty much the same today that I felt yesterday. Really, if you think about it, there is not much difference between 12/31/10 – 11:59:59pm and 1/1/11 – 12:00:00am.

Maybe I didn’t want 2010 to end. 2011 is just another piece of evidence that I am moving farther and farther away from the last touch, the last word, the last kiss and the last cuddle. The last time we held hands. So 2010 ending wasn’t necessarily a good thing in my mind.

I woke up this morning in the same bed, in the same house, in the same town, and still the same widow that I was last night. But the “new beginnings” thing that everyone talks about is putting me under too much pressure. So I guess that is what my “new beginning” will be...new pressure.

When I was in my late teens and 20s, I felt a lot of pressure to “have a date” for New Year’s Eve, or, at the very least, “have plans”. Back then, sitting home on New Year’s Eve was like having the word “Loser” written across your forehead in red magic marker. Luckily, when you finally meet the one you want to share your life with, the pressure is gone and you’re happy to eat M&M’s in bed together with your sweatpants on and watch a Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives marathon on New Year’s Eve. But here in “Widow World”, the pressure is no longer on New Year’s Eve; it is on New Year’s Day. There is a tremendous amount of pressure for me to make a “new start,” and New Year’s Day only magnifies it. It’s as though I’m supposed to discover something wonderful about myself in 2011 and if I don’t, I’m just a big fat failure. I’m supposed to “change” and “evolve”. The pressure is daunting, and that red magic marker is quickly approaching my forehead....

Truthfully, I really don’t feel this need to find out anything wonderful about myself. I’m content with who I am, really. (Any woman who can raise two teenage boys alone without them getting in trouble rates pretty high in my book.) I love being the person that Bobby loved, warts and all. I don’t feel a need to make all these changes that I’m “supposed” to make with the New Year. I don’t want to change into someone that he would not love, let alone recognize.

Do I want some things to change? Sure I do. I want to stop being sad. I want to feel joy in my heart once again. I probably should learn how to change a flat. But just because the year changed, it doesn’t mean my grieving has changed. It’s still there, and the flip of a calendar page doesn’t make a difference.