Journeys through Widowhood
Mourning
Acts of mourning are the actions we take to express our grief. Like everything else about widowing, much of mourning seems to be individual. (The exception is to individualized mourning are religious or cultural observances, such as wakes, funerals, or shiva.)
For me, mourning is not a religious practice, but a way of to honor and to remember Richard and our decades together. And (as Hafiz said), to be "in the pure atmosphere of gratitude for life."
Here are some of the ways I have mourned in the eight months since Richard died.
Memorial Services
There were two memorial services for Richard, one on each coast. I planned and led each one, even delivering the eulogy twice. They were glorious, and I was so happy to honor and remember him those days.
The Drive
Richard wanted to have some of his musical instruments, his college chair, and other treasures on display at each memorial service. So I loaded the pickup truck and drove 7,777 miles out and back. My stalwart friend Nancy drove with me more than 1,600 of those miles.
There was ample time to remember, mourn, and to consider my future.
Many people thought I was crazy to undertake such a trip, in wintertime, and mostly alone. I would do it again without hesitation.
Jewelry
I still wear my wedding ring on my left hand. Richard's wedding ring, a small gold nugget, and a pendant with a few of his ashes are on a gold chain around my neck.
It's not yet time to stop wearing any of this. Someday, but not yet.
Tears
Of course, there have been tears. They've been fewer than I expected and always in private. That works for me.
Journaling
I started journaling every few days before Richard died and have continued the practice. It helps focus me on what's happening, to find perspective and context.
Some journal entries are raw and unfiltered. That's ok --they're primarily for me and can be as painfully honest as I need them to be. It's a good technique for silently speaking about the unspeakable, to force me to weep.
This website is a somewhat sanitized outgrowth of the journaling.
Having Photographs
Photographs of Richard sometimes pop up as a screensaver on my phone. These photos don't make me the least bit sad. I'm happy to see him.
Of course, there are several images of him (or us) in the house. One of them is next to his urn, on a bookcase filled with cookbooks. His eyes bore into mine. "Hey, there," I say, "I'm OK. Your kids are OK."
His Clothes
An inescapable job of widowing is sorting though closets and dressers. It's a sad job, and parting with a few things was more than I could stand. So I kept them. But then I adopted a puppy...
The Sweater.
Bit by bit, almost all of Richard's clothing has made its way to local charity boxes. He had good taste in clothes, and I hope someone enjoys them.
There are a few pieces of clothing -- three in particular -- that I can't seem to relinquish. They certainly weren't his best clothes, but the ones he wore like a familiar embrace.
That L. L. Bean red plaid flannel shirt, with the fleece lining, warmed him. He had a series of those shirts, each identical to the one before, but in the next smaller size. The journey from XXL to S marked his declining health.
Of course, there were dozens of ball caps. Almost every day, though, he chose the dark blue Life is Good hat featuring the cartoon character known as Acoustic Jake grinning and playing the guitar. How old is that hat? Fifteen years? Twenty? It's quite disreputable, frayed and stained despite repeated attempts to clean it. That was the cap Richard took on vacations, so perhaps it reminded him of past adventures.
Bit by bit, almost all of Richard's clothing has made its way to local charity boxes. He had good taste in clothes, and I hope someone enjoys them.
There are a few pieces of clothing -- three in particular -- that I can't seem to relinquish. They certainly weren't his best clothes, but the ones he wore like a familiar embrace.
That L. L. Bean red plaid flannel shirt, with the fleece lining, warmed him. He had a series of those shirts, each identical to the one before, but in the next smaller size. The journey from XXL to S marked his declining health.
Of course, there were dozens of ball caps. Almost every day, though, he chose the dark blue Life is Good hat featuring the cartoon character known as Acoustic Jake grinning and playing the guitar. How old is that hat? Fifteen years? Twenty? It's quite disreputable, frayed and stained despite repeated attempts to clean it. That was the cap Richard took on vacations, so perhaps it reminded him of past adventures.
The red plaid shirt hangs in his empty side of the closet now, with the ball cap looped through the hanger. While choosing my clothes for the day, I sometimes hug the shirt or playfully swat at the brim of his cap. "Hello, there," I say.
Until recently, there was one other piece of clothing I just couldn't give away: a cinnamon brown Brooks Brothers cashmere sweater with a v-neck. It was a bit of a splurge at the time, but lasted for years. Richard loved its softness, especially to sleep in, even when the sweater became far too big for him.
It was cool one night, and I slept in that sweater myself. While I showered in the morning, my puppy Boone decided that the sweater's softness was the perfect puppy chew toy. I cried as I picked up the remnants, but had to chuckle at Boone's puzzlement about the tears.
Until recently, there was one other piece of clothing I just couldn't give away: a cinnamon brown Brooks Brothers cashmere sweater with a v-neck. It was a bit of a splurge at the time, but lasted for years. Richard loved its softness, especially to sleep in, even when the sweater became far too big for him.
It was cool one night, and I slept in that sweater myself. While I showered in the morning, my puppy Boone decided that the sweater's softness was the perfect puppy chew toy. I cried as I picked up the remnants, but had to chuckle at Boone's puzzlement about the tears.