Just Like a Baby

All of my life I've been a good sleeper. As a child I had a set bedtime and didn't fret when time came - although I liked it best when someone read me to sleep. When a teenager, if left to my own devises, I would have slept until noon everyday, even after having gone to bed at a decent hour the night before. As a young mother, I learned to nap when babies napped, and go to bed earlier at night so I could cut short those "stay in bed" hours in exchange for some peaceful, quiet, awake times before 3 sets of little feet hit the floor. Even as an adult, I've gone to sleep and stayed asleep (except for those occasional trips to the loo - what IS it about seniors and the bladder urge in the middle of the night?) At bedtime -usually before the late news - I'd climb into my side of the bed, scoot toward the middle, wiggle into that warm, snuggle spot and be asleep instantly. Then, retaining the habit of rising early, at 5:00AM sharp, without need for alarm, my eyes would pop open ready to begin another day. No tossing and turning. No deer eyed stares at the ceiling. No bad dreams. Just a good sleep.

Things aren't like that anymore. The awfulness of spending six months beside my husband's hospital bed, respirator wheezing, little red lights blinking, alarms beeping, and nurses constantly in and out of the room for blood pressure checks and meds, took it's toll on my good sleep habits. Sleep came in fits and starts - minute naps and not the power kind either. It was nearly three years after I became a woman who had outlived her husband for me to regain some of my former peaceful, restful sleep.

Today, I sleep some, read some, get up and use the loo some, read some more, sleep some more... My reading light is clipped to whatever book I'm reading. Off. On. Off. On. If the neighbors could see through the window blinds, they might think I was practicing Morse Code. On those rare occasions, when I go right to sleep and am oblivious for the next six or seven hours, I'm as proud of myself as though I'd lost 10 pounds - well, maybe just two pounds, but it truly does feel an accomplishment. Are you a good sleeper?

Sandy

Trick or Treat

Halloween is just around the corner - never my favorite holiday. I don't like masks, even those half ones that only cover the eyes and nose like the Lone Ranger wore in the Saturday matinee serials. I want to see animated faces, not flat, blank stares. While some of the costumes are clever, especially on the little folk dressed like bumble bees or ladybugs, there's something eerie about teenage boys (girls too) who are taller than I am, showing up in expressionless Scream masks or dressed as zombies and mummies. So, when the night arrives, I turn on the outside lights, turn off the inside lights, bolt the doors and head to my daughter's house. It feels safer there.

Before I became a woman who had outlived her husband, Trick or Treat night was fondly anticipated. Not because I liked masks any better then, but because my husband was the biggest kid on the block and he made it fun. We'd sit on the front porch, candy bowl in hand, and wait for the hoards of ghosties to arrive. He'd place handfuls of goodies into their bags, admire each and every outfit, even the blue jean overalls and straw hat of the "farmer", and he'd greet the parents standing on the sidewalk with a hearty "Happy Halloween". We gave out good candy like mini-Snickers and Hershey bars - not those awful Gummy Bears or Sweetarts. Have to admit, we didn't give out ALL the good candy. There was always a dish inside the house where our personal stash was kept.

This year, as I have for the past nine years, I'll leave my house before the "witching" hour (pun intended) and head to my daughter's. Her husband and brothers will accompany the grand kids around the neighborhood pulling a wagon just in case the littlest one gets weary before the evening's over. (The wagon is also a good spot for the required beer cooler.) Daughter and I will take turns minding the candy bowl on the front steps and stirring the chili on the stove top. We'll enjoy the evening because we have a chance to visit with each other between visits of witches and goblins and jack-o-lanterns too.

The men will come home with tales of the other guys they've met along their route with whom they may have shared a brewski. The kids will be wired from all the sweets they've already devoured. We adults will eat our bowls of chili while the munchkins empty their pillow cases of sugary treasures into piles on the floor and the trading will begin. Halloween night is not the same as it once was, but it's good... really good to be with family. I never have to worry about any of them wearing a mask.

Sandy

Someone else is driving

Normally I'm considered to be a relatively self-sufficient person, but in the first couple of years after I became a woman who had outlived her husband, I was mush. Couldn't make a decision, lost things I'd had in my hands only the minute before and even forgot the names of long time friends. Foggy. Unfocused. Looney tunes.

Thinking back, I'm fortunate not to have been robbed, or worse, attacked by some intruder. Can't count the number of times when I finally located my house keys, they were firmly installed in the lock - on the outside of the back door. Or, how often I'd awaken and look outside to see the detached garage door standing wide open. Bad enough the "people" door to the garage was never locked, but leaving that gaping hole of a garage door in the open position was an screaming invitation to "Come in, steal me blind." Apparently I didn't own anything worth stealing - or I had a guardian angel looking after me in my deranged state.

I'd put sugar water on to boil for the hummingbird feeder, get muddled-headed and leave the house, only to return an hour or so later to charred sugar in the bottom of a pan and a really smokey, smelly kitchen. The attention span of a ripe grapefruit! I'd go to the basement to transfer a load of clothes from the washer to the dryer and return upstairs with a screwdriver to tighten a screw on a receptacle cover. More than once I had to rewash laundry because I'd left it sit in the washer until it soured. To be honest, I STILL go from room to room with a mission in mind and when I get there, I wonder - "what in the hell am I doing in here?"

In talking with other widows, this Sister Mary Amnesia syndrome - nice house, nobody home - is commonplace. There's such a disconnection with reality, a feeling of disorientation. The worst part is we don't even react to our stupid attacks, just shrug them off or simply not acknowledge them and go on to repeat our foibles. We're heard saying, "I haven't lost my mind, I've only lost my husband." Only? Maybe not so much.

Sandy

My hat man

Some people are so comfortable in their own skin. They never get embarrassed if they fumble and stumble - just pick themselves up, dust themselves off and start all over again. That's how it was with my spouse. He often said, "I'm just me." That he was. Unique, different, his own person, special... My daughter's description was so apt. She said she had the brains of Albert Einstein, the looks of George Bush, Sr, and the personality of Barney Fife. Please, only one bullet!

He loved hats. A favorite was a Panama Jack hat that he donned once a year at a Festival where we had set up a craft booth. He'd stroll up one side of the street and down the other getting acquainted with the other vendors. They'd say, "Here comes the Colonel". Why the tag, Colonel, I still don't know. He'd stop and chat, and within minutes had learned where they'd came from, what wares they sold and how long they'd been participating in the festival. He made friends as quickly as gnats find ripe peaches. That same hat served him well at one of our themed Christmas parties when he dressed as an Aussie from the Outback, the hat festooned with corks dangling from string to shoo away the flies when he shook his head.

At another themed Christmas party called South of the Border, he latched onto a huge sombrero and drank one too many Margaritas. We found him slumped him in a corner, sombrero fallen forward to cover his face. Perfect rendition of siesta time in old Mexico. The dandiest of dandys was the "hat" given to one of my sons at a "let's see who can give him the raunchiest gift" birthday party. This hat was rubber and ordinarily worn on a another part of the anatomy, hopefully with complete privacy. You get the picture. No one else at the party would have dared, but when you're okay with who you are and you love hats...

Sandy

Percy, the concrete pig

Did you ever spout off some inane remark that came back to haunt you? I have a friend in Florida who is very fond of flamingos - no accounting for some people's taste. Anyway, she made the mistake of expressing this fondness in front of another friend of ours. The mutual friend's penchant for mischief got all riled up, and the next thing you know, first friend woke up to an entire front yard filled with plastic pink flamingos. A virtual forest of the long legged, sharp beaked beasties. A sea of pink. Hysterical laughter passed over the phone lines from neighbor to neighbor as word spread, reminiscent of the Norman Rockwell painting on a Post magazine. Cameras clicked. Some folks even got creative in the "arrangement" of the plastic pretties. More cameras clicked. Friend one and friend two remain friends to one another - no accounting...

I also remember when a neighbor of mine set out a cement goose as a yard ornament. As the seasons changed, so did the outfit on the goose. I thought it was kind of cute and said so to my younger son, who in return said he'd never visit my home again should one of those "cute" critters show up in my yard. So, the point is, I don't do lawn ornaments - not deer, or raccoons, or the Seven Dwarfs. I'm a dyed in the wool snob about the presence of petrified critters.

Except for... Percy, the concrete pig.

In relating my aversion to unnatural lawn decor to my husband-to-be, he teasingly remarked what he'd really like to have in his yard was a concrete pig. I was on a mission. I found the perfect pig at a roadside junk store (nearly ran off the road getting to it), tied a red kerchief around its neck, sat it in his backyard beside the tomato patch, and left this note, "I'm Percy, the concrete pig. My name comes from a word my mistress often uses in describing you - stubborn. Oh, excuse me, "Persi"stent. I hope you don't mind my being here. It's my job to remind you how happy you've made my mistress, with your stubborn, persistent... oh heck, pig-headed resolve to live and love again after your open heart surgery last year. Be nice to me. My mistress is rather fond of me and she doesn't take kindly to having anything bad happen to those she cares about." He called me at work, laughing so hard I could barely understand him. In a scrapbook, beside Percy's picture, I wrote, "Percy is symbolic of our concrete relationship."

Percy proudly joined us in the backyard of our home once we were married and when I moved, he joined me here... sans kerchief and note. One day I noticed an ear had broken off and it made me sad, but super glue worked its magic. After all, it's just a silly lawn ornament.

Sandy

Friends and fade aways

Couple friends are an odd lot even when you're still a couple. Most "couple friends" become so because one of you had something in common with one of them. My dearest friend and I met at a New Neighbors program about interior decorating. I remember asking the speaker, short of tearing out bathroom fixtures and starting over, how I could somehow make a pink toilet and bathtub surrounded by slate blue tile be at least a little bit palatable. I don't remember the suggestion, but my new best friend came up to me after the meeting to commiserate as she, too, had faced some interesting interior decorating challenges. We laughed, joined the same bowling league and couldn't wait to get our husbands together. For the next several years, the four of us, plus our combined seven kids, spent nearly every weekend together before career transfers moved us to opposite sides of the country. We cooked a lot of meals - I still use some of those recipes; played hours and hours of bridge, and the guys became golfing buddies. One time, when they were visiting us at our new home, each husband come from the shower wearing the identical outfit - tan slacks and bright yellow shirts - Frick and Frack. That was over 40 years ago and although she's on the west coast and I'm in the Midwest, she's still there for me whether I'm half of a couple, a single, a couple again, or a woman who has outlived her husband.

It's different when the one who introduces his best friend into a relationship is no longer living. No matter how welcomed I was or the fun times we had together, when I was the "left behind" part of the couple, the threads of connection were severed and the friendship unraveled. It simply faded away.

Despite the theory that new friends come about because one of you had something in common with one of them, there is that rare occurrence when both parts of a couple meet both parts of another couple and an instant bond is formed. The common denominator here, at least for me, is a place. I think of it as my Cheers place - where everybody knows my name. These friends stay friends - no fading away. They will value the memories no matter who outlived whom.

Today's friends mostly aren't part of a couple. Like me, they're single, coping with a couple's world. They understand the dirty little secrets of widowhood and they'll talk about ANYTHING! There's a whole 'nother world out there for those of us who've outlived our husbands. I don't wish the title on anyone, but know there's a sisterhood of genuine friendship among us - no fade outs.

Sandy

It's that time of year

It's that time of year when dust, pollen and mold spores (in my case from that miserable mountain of mulch in my driveway) is in the air; when sneezing, snorting, coughing and dripping define the season. It's also an I can feel it coming time. Autumn. The end of summer. The dying back of brilliant colored annuals, the dormancy and drying up of perennials.

I've never liked Autumn, and now that I've reluctantly joined the ranks of women who have outlived their husbands, I like it even less. When my husband was here to share my allergy to Fall, I was less vulnerable to the anxiety it created. Together we appreciated the riot of color at leaf peeping season. Our Indiana countryside rivals that of New England with it's spectacular artist's palette of bright yellows, vibrant reds and vivid oranges. The air can be crisp and clean and invigorating for its last hurrah. But...

Autumn makes me feel vague, on edge, a bit unsettled. I am not in control of this impending season change - not that I ever was, but my coping skills were better honed when my encourager was alive and well to shoo away negative thoughts. My well-being seems threatened. The days are too short. The dark is too long. Like a Blue jay with a bad attitude, I'm irritable, restless and down-right cranky. As the adage goes, "This too will pass". It just can't pass quickly enough for my liking. What is your emotional response to this time of year?

Sandy

I'll call you Pappy.

Grandchildren are the nicest things. When they're babies, they snuggle and gurgle and make your heart go all gooey. When a diaper gets pooey (sorry, couldn't help the poetry) you don't even mind changing it. As toddlers their antics are adorable. These are the same antics that weren't nearly as cute when their parents, as toddlers, performed them. My favorite antic was hand prints left on the glass storm door - P&B on the inside, mud on the outside. They're older now, come and visit awhile, check out the junk food drawer, explore the back yard, ask if I've any new DVD's to watch and go off with mom to an "event". With the boys, it's something to do with a ball - any ball. The girls are dancing queens and a wanna be black-belt in Karate. How he, the husband I've outlived, would have loved sharing this experience. How COULD he have missed it?

We didn't share biological grandchildren as ours was a second marriage, but it didn't matter who was whose. We loved them all. I remember one afternoon when my eldest granddaughter, who was then about eight years old, came to spend the day with us. She and my husband were in the garage. He using glazing compound and a putty knife to reseal the glass panes on the people-door window. She using glazing compound to create miniature snakes and tea cups. She said to him, "Your name is too long. Instead of Grandpa Warren, I'm going to call you Pappy". And so it was. I'm still Gramma Sandy, but Pappy stuck. He changed her name to Gilbert.

There were the times David and Tyler came to stay with us. They loved the "pond", our affectionate name for the spa on the back deck. Rubber duckies, squirt guns, splishes, splashes, love and laughter...

He missed so much. All those firsts of his and my lineage. First tooth, first step, first time out, first day of school, first touchdown or dance recital, first broken heart, first prom, first shave, first love... Maybe, just maybe, from far up above, he hasn't missed a single instance. I hope not.

Sandy

Favorite things - terrible treasures

When I joined the ranks of Women Who Have Outlived Their Husbands, "stuff" took on a whole new meaning. It didn't happen right away, but a year or so after I'd become a widow, I resurfaced into the real world and became aware of my surroundings. There was "stuff" everywhere that needed a decision made regarding it's future. Civil War memorabilia, which I had never shared his fondness for, hung on walls and filled drawers; floor to ceiling bookcases, the shelves sagging under the weight of 28 years worth of National Geographic magazines, gathered dust and got little, if any, other attention. Our collection of lighthouses had grown to ridiculous proportions. NEVER tell your friends and relatives you're a collector of anything! It will ALWAYS get out of hand. These are the terrible treasures. The "stuff" that has value simply because it was his. What would his children think if I disposed of it? What would he think. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.

Not everything left behind was a terrible treasure. There's the 3-D poster board caricature of his idol, Albert Einstein, created and constructed by his daughter while in a college design class. We called this special piece of "stuff", Big Al. I remember one of the grand kids standing across the room from Big Al, his back against the wall, side-stepping along its length, saying "Hoot, Hoot." Big Al. Big Owl.

Not every household boosts a helms wheel suspended from a ceiling. I can. A favorite thing. In the 50's, my husband's father actually built a paddle wheel boat that cruised upon the Green River in Kentucky. Over the years, the ownership of the boat changed hands several times and its whereabouts became vague, but through a long-lost cousin, the original helms wheel was located and it's become a prized possession - not "stuff" at all.

It's hard to draw the line between favorite things and terrible treasures. In the end, at least in my case, I made the hard decisions and found a good home for the items (stuff) that no longer held value for me, and clung to those things that added meaning and memory to my changed lifestyle. Do you still have a houseful of terrible treasures?

Sandy

Dot Com Dating

The only reason I was brave enough to even consider Dot Com Dating is that I met the husband I've outlived through a newspaper personals column. It read, "WPM, 50, 6', 165 lbs, exec, classy, attractive, humorous. Loves outdoors, music, arts. Seeks SWF 35-55, attractive, trim, zesty." In those olden days, you phoned the personals number, entered a code, and listened to a recorded voice on the other end of the line. I took notes. That deep baritone wished me a day filled with smiles and asked me to leave a name and he'd "most assuredly call me." Isn't that something?... "most assuredly..." I left a name. He called me back. We talked. We laughed. We made a date. We made a life together.

Silly, romantic me. I just supposed that once I was ready to move on with my life after having outlived this dear husband of mine, Cupid would simply aim his arrow and the magic of love would once again surround me. Ha! I overlooked the fact I'm now in my sixties and most men that age are looking for someone in their 40's. They want a size 2, not a size 10, and certainly not a size 18! Worse, there's a lot of players among the men out there. Some L.O.G.s - Lecherous Old Men who lie about their age by at least five years, and if that doesn't net them a young filly, the next time they update their profiles, they're yet another five years younger. Or they lie about their education, careers or financial situations. Occasionally, you'll meet someone special who really is who and what he says he is, and guess what - you never hear from him again after the first meeting.

Several of my widowed and divorced friends have met, and if not remarried, had lasting, long term relationships that began through Dot Com Dating. So, it can work. Besides, as a younger friend once told me, "Men are like buses. Another one will come around the corner any minute."

Sneaky Pete

According to my daughter-in-law, a Sneaky Pete is an alcoholic concoction that goes down oh so smoothly, just like an innocent milkshake, and then, when you least expect it, attacks your brain with a vengeance. Sneaky... Pete. That's not really what a Sneaky Pete is. Not if you are a woman who has outlived her husband. A real Sneaky Pete is that instant, right out of the blue, coming from nowhere, when the eyes overflow with crocodile tears and the lump in your throat threatens to cut off your breathing apparatus and you're afraid you might hyperventilate. It can be triggered by a song, a smell or a menu from a favorite restaurant. It's that omigod,"Not now!" feeling that overwhelms you. Sneaky Pete can be translated as "meltdown for widows".



When I first joined the ranks of widowdom, Sneaky Pete was everywhere - in the steam from the shower, in a paragraph from the book on my nightstand, in my morning yogurt, and especially in the catch-all drawer among the tangle of paperclips, rubber bands and batteries. Sneaky Pete was relentless. There was no peace. There was no escape. Something, or nothing, would happen, and there I'd be, melting into a puddle of sobs and hiccups. Out of control. Embarrassed. Pissed off.



Old Sneaky Pete doesn't torment me today like he did early on, but I count on his appearance once a year on Glorious 4th at Symphony on the Prairie. The moment the strains of "Off We Go Into The Wild Blue Yonder" begin, I'm in meltdown mode. I can still hear his rich baritone voice belting out the words. Never mind, no one else is singing. He'd stand there proudly at attention, saluting his flag and waiting to be thanked for serving his country by one of many Civil War Reenactors moving about the Prairie. The tears flow. The lump grows. Sneaky, sneaky Pete.



Sandy

Money matters

Today I wrapped coins. I don't have one of those fancy dividers for pennies, nickles, dimes and quarters. I've got a jar. It was full. There's a certain satisfaction of dumping the change out onto the desk and sorting the various denominations. Can't say it's the cleanest task and the odor is... well, it's an odor - a stinky one. But, it reminds me of times when. We always used to count coins together. He took the pennies, looking fervently for Indian head ones. I liked the quarters best, they were bigger and worth more (probably a woman thing?). Neither one of us were especially fond of the dimes - slick little rascals and way too tiny - more on the floor than in the sleeve. We paid bills together every other Thursday night before biweekly pay-days on Fridays and the checkbook always balanced to the penny. That's not quite true - it balanced to the penny when HE was watching like a hawk. It balanced "close" when I was in charge.

We'd take those heavy, rolled coins to the bank and exchange them for paper money. Amazing the household projects we paid for with our loose change. One time we'd accumulated some $600. It made for a nice transformation in the tiny bath off the guest bedroom.

Silly as it must seem, that stinky smell of coin is still appealing. It's a memory worth remembering. I keep the checkbook ALMOST accurately balanced and the bills are paid on time, however no longer by check, rather by online banking. Aren't I the modern one? And just think of the postage I'm saving. He would be so proud of my efforts.

Every household needs an adult. I declined the designation while I could, but I'm ever so grateful to have learned from a master. What do you do with your spare change?

Sandy

Nobody cares

Six months or so after I became a woman who had outlived her husband, my daughter and I took a road trip to Branson, Mo. She is such a trooper. Her Mom is hurting and daughter will do most anything to "fix it". Lots of folks really enjoy Branson. I don't. It fits in the same category as MCL cafeterias... old people destination. I'm pushing 60 years old at the time and I still felt too young for the Branson crowd. (Sorry if I've stepped on toes.) And, if I felt out of place, my daughter certainly did. But I digress...

We had reservations at a Travel Lodge into a "Sleepy Bear" room. The desk clerk asked, "Where are the children?" and I thought, "What children? My child, out there parking the van, was 36 years old. I said, "huh?" The man shrugged and showed us to our room. No wonder his question. The entire room was plastered in Sleepy Bears. Wallpaper border, pillow shams, curtains, bed sheets, child-size rocking chair, shower curtain - even the soap dish was a Sleepy Bear. I'd chosen the room because it had a mini refrig to chill a bottle of wine and the swimming pool was right outside the door!

We quickly stowed our belongings and before I returned from getting ice from the machine in the hall, daughter was on the phone. Calling home. Checking in. Announcing safe arrival. Ouch, that hurt. The aloneness consumed me. THERE WAS NO ONE AT HOME WHO CARED. There was no one at home, period. No one to ask if I'd had a good trip or if I'd decided what shows we might see. No one to say, "I love you. Stay safe."

I knew I'd face many firsts having outlived my husband, but this one blindsided me. It's the smallest incident that can surface to overwhelm you. Have you ever been on a Sleepy Bear trip?

Sandy

Eating disorders and other maladies

I came from the old school where families ate meals together at home. As a child, I could expect to come home from school and find mom in the kitchen prepping for dinner so we could sit down the minute dad hit the back door at 5:30. We had fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans and wilted lettuce salad; or maybe pork chops, baked beans, mac and cheese and cole slaw, or the home cookin' standards of ham and beans and roast beef with carrots. Only time pizza was served was every other Tuesday night when dad went to Lodge and mom and I would whip up a box of Chef Boy R Dee. We'd devour every morsel, then get out the Stanley product air freshener and spray like mad trying to mask our trail. Dad hated the smell of pizza. I hated the smell of that air freshener.

When raising my kids, we too, had dinner together (at least until they hit the HS years when you couldn't find a kid, let alone feed him on any kind of meaningful schedule). The meat, potatoes, 2 vegetables and a salad eventually gave way to pizza or fish sticks (chicken nuggets came with the grand kids). Many a night a Crock Pot meal would be in the making and I'd watch two of the three kids turn up their noses and fabricate an invitation to a friend's house.

In the next chapter of my life, I reverted to dinner-on-the-table the old fashioned way, just like mom; because just like mom, my man would be home promptly at 5:30 ready to have a sit-down-together meal. Didn't fry the chicken, but had lots of baked, broiled or grilled. We ate all variety of veggies and fancy salads with mixed greens, cranberries and walnuts. Ham and beans In The Crockpot was a favorite. That skinny man should have weighed a bazillion pounds! He'd eat anything I'd prepared and relish every bite. Cooking was effortless and even fun.

It's different today, now that I've outlived my husband. I eat whatever's handy. Breakfast is yogurt, some fruit, a glass of skim milk and sometimes a granola bar. And, where is this illusion of a meal taking place? Certainly not at the kitchen table. Nothing lonelier than sitting at a table by yourself. Nope, I've gotten quite handy at stuffing my face with my left hand, while my right fingers click the mouse button on the computer. Lunch might be out-with-the-girls - that's always enjoyable - or a microwaved Lean Cuisine in the staff lounge. Often as not, if I'm home, a handful of rolled up turkey breast while standing at the kitchen counter watching the noon news constitutes the menu. Dinner might be eaten either at point A or point B, or even in the Lazy Boy, but NEVER ALONE AT THE TABLE. Ever have popcorn for dinner?

Gal things and guy things

When do things go wrong at your house? Yeah, mine too. Always when company is coming, or you're running late for an appointment or when you've just experienced more month than money. It's a hateful situation at any time, but somehow feels worse if you're a member of the Women Who Have Outlived Their Husbands Club. Chores were once shared and life was easier.

I never mind shopping for food and doing the cooking when guests were coming for the weekend, but when the garbage disposal decides to clog and all that yukky stuff gurgles up into the sink in a mini whirlpool, it's a guy thing to take care of. I'm busy! Fix it! Ever have the flusher on the toilet break off? More yukky stuff whirling around. And your guests are where? If you're lucky, an hour or so away. More likely standing on the front porch, finger poised at the doorbell.

Light bulbs need changing, water softener salt needs emptied into the brine tank. The springy gizmo that lets the plunger in the lavatory go up and down just flew across the bathroom floor.

I've learned to do all these guy things, although not graciously. Any time I can bribe a son or neighbor with an adult beverage, I'm on it. One of my husband's favorite sayings was, "A job shared is half finished before it's begun." Lord, I miss that man!

King, Queen, Full or Twin?

I've just returned from a "girl's getaway" to Amish territory with good friends who, like me, have outlived their husbands. In this case, some of my traveling companions had outlived their marriage. We "survivors" travel somewhat differently now from what we might have on the same trip with our husbands. The size of the bed matters! Girlfriends will share a king size bed or sleep in a twin size in the same room with others, but a queen size is space invasion and a full size just ain't gonna happen. We had a King. Could hardly SEE our bed mate, let alone touch her.


Baths and showers are handled differently too. Our shared bath had a large, elegant shower with a seat at each end and two flexible shower heads, plus a separate garden tub with a half dozen jets. What a waste! Time was... And, we take turns. I'm an early riser, so once the coffee is brewing, I'm in and out of there. Oh, and women traveling together understand courtesy flushes. THAT sure is different from traveling with a husband!



We shopped at the Flea Market in Shipshawana -careful not to purchase anything too heavy or bulky as we knew we'd have to lug it around all day without benefit of "big, hulking man-types" to shoulder our burden. Of course, most men I know, including my beloved, would have been finding a bench to sit on and wait. Or even better, a spot for a cold beer, and we'd have had to tote all that stuff around anyway. We had Amish comfort food - fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, noodles, fresh corn and super size pie slices for dessert. Now I ask you, when was the last time your spouse got to eat like that without your stern warning of an impending heart attack? I'd sure like to see that tummy-full grin of satisfaction once more and I bet I'd keep my cholesterol jibes to myself. Then again, maybe not.

Mountains of mulch and other impulsive acts

Making quick decisions has always come easy to me - ofttimes much too easy. You'd think I'd learn after all these years. You'd think I'd bother to ask another's opinion since I've outlived my husband and he can't advise me. If nothing else, you'd think I'd at least remember some of the messes I've gotten myself into by my rash, impulsive behavior. Yesterday was an example.

I had hail damage in June and lost a couple of serious limbs from the backyard Maple tree. The tree service I called offered free mulch, and both loving a bargain and needing some fresh mulch, I asked when he might be able to deliver some to me. He showed up yesterday. I wasn't home. I've spread a lot of mulch in my time so I'm somewhat familiar with the amount that constitutes a yard - five yards works well for my purposes. Well, I got five yards all right, my yard, the neighbor's yards, practically the entire block's yards! It's a mountain!

My spouse was a thinker, while I'm a doer. We made a good team. In his own kind way, he'd coax me into considering the outcome of my decisions, gently taming my impetuousness. He would have asked the free-mulch-delivery-guy the right questions. "How large is your truck?" "Will it be full?" "Approximately how many yards will be in the load?" He'd say, "you've seen our need, is this the right amount to do the job?" I, on the other hand said, "Oh goody, free mulch! Bring it on!"

What about you? Got any mulch mountains in your yard?

Sandy

Sundays, evenings, and the entire month of February

Sundays were once my favorite day of the week. It was the one day without the frantic, hectic schedules and obligations of work and school. There was Sunday School and church, but still, most of day was ours to do as we pleased. A nice sit-on-the-deck with a pot of coffee and the NY Times crossword puzzle was pure joy. He had his mother's 1940's crossword puzzle dictionary. It contained the word compute, but not computer. However, if three down was as obscure as, "how did Sitting Bull say O.K.?", you'd find your answer. (It was ugh, by the way.) We did projects. I'd trim the Holly bushes, he'd patch a hole in the concrete driveway. Every half hour or so, he'd holler "Break Time" and we'd have a mini rest. It wasn't what we accomplished, it was we accomplished what we wanted. We enjoyed each other's company and talked about anything or everything. Sometimes we were quiet - together.

Our evenings began with his familiar "Hi honey. I'm home". We had dinner. I did the cooking, he helped with clean up. Weather permitting, a sit-on-the-deck to share our days adventures, or lack of. At 9:00PM sharp, we tuned in Larry King Live and soon after, headed upstairs to bed - together.

Today, it'd be just peachy keen to do without Sundays and evenings altogether. And don't even get me started on that gawd-awful month of February! Those times are loooooooooooooong!! And lonely.

Membership in the Women Who Have Outlived Their Husbands club certainly isn't sought after, but once you've become a reluctant member, you have to deal with it. My coping strategy is to stay busy with employment. The schedules and obligations I was once so happy to be rid of are now a refuge. I'd rather "have to" be at work on Sunday, or in the evenings than be at home - alone. And, as I said before, don't even get me started on February! Can you identify?

Sandy

Diamonds are forever and other myths

At our small, family only, outdoor wedding, we exchanged wide gold bands inscribed with the words "given in love to each other ". I adore that ring. It felt true and safe and perfect on my finger. This was a second marriage for both of us and it was a mutual decision to forgo an engagement ring, or a wedding band with any gem adornment. We wanted something simple, just an unending circle.

I buried my husband with his ring firmly attached to his finger and my matching one remained on mine. I read a story about a woman whose husband was cremated with his diamond ring still on. Since diamonds don't burn, her friends suggested she sift through his ashes to find the diamond. She never did. Like me, she was afraid to learn that perhaps the morticians might have removed it. How terribly gruesome! Some things are best left unthought.

A time came a year or so after outliving my husband when I began to wonder about my "state". I wasn't really married anymore. It takes two living people for that. Should I continue to wear that symbolic wide gold band on the third finger of my left hand? Should I wear it on a chain? Should I wear in an another hand or finger? Should I melt it down for a pendant? Should I not wear it at all? There isn't a proper etiquette book on the subject. And, it's not the same as deciding what to do with wedding rings as a divorcee - that gold is valuable, you sell it!

My decision was to remove my adored ring during the day and leave it on my night stand. Then, at bedtime, I could easily slip it onto my finger like a miniature security blanket. How did you cope with this dilemma shared only by those of us who've outlived their husbands?

Role reversal

One of the phenomenons of outliving one's husband is dealing with the role reversal that occurs with our adult children. I didn't understand how I'd gone from being the family matriarch, who was sought out for advise and mom-type words of wisdom, to a blathering idiot who suddenly needed constant supervision and coaching just to get though a day. I realize now I probably WAS a blathering idiot who couldn't think straight, but then, it was an irritating interference and I didn't appreciate it one bit. I'd lost my husband, not my mind - or so I thought.

Some of my widowed friends are okay with this role reversal thingy. The more decisions their adult children make for them, the less they have to make for themselves. I, personally, am much too independent (I know, dear children - to a fault) for imposed opinions. If I want something, I go after it. I don't have to need it. It doesn't have to make sense. It doesn't have to be on my list of priorities. Maybe not the most solid thinking, but it works for me. Other widow friends are much kinder than I. In spite of their wishing their adult kids would "butt out", they graciously (or at least not tactlessly) accept the input. Acceptance would be a good trait for me to mimic.

All this independence was fairly invisible before I outlived my husband. He was my sounding board, and because he had the innate ability and the kindest way of saying "whoa", I was often detoured before I really went out on a limb. Ever had that up-in-a-tree-reaching-for-a-weak-branch problem?

Sandy

May I have this dance?

One of the very worst experiences I suffered as a "woman who'd outlived her husband" was to accept an invitation to a Christmastime birthday party. Actually I wasn't exactly invited to this party, but since I was visiting my sister and her husband when the party was being held, and I knew the hostess, I was graciously included as a guest. I knew several of the other invitees, long time friends of my sister, and looked forward to dressing up for a gala evening.

And it was gala, with a capital G! When birthday girl, Marie, gives herself a party, she throws a whopper. There were cocktails and hors d'oeuvres, an exquisite sit-down dinner (for maybe eighty of Marie's closest friends), a live band, and oh my God, what was I thinking?? A dance!!

Under the best of circumstances, attending a dance as a lone female, even a lone female with familiar folks at her side, is a miserable experience. But this was clearly the ass end of Utopia. It was Christmas. It was COUPLES! It was bile-in-the-pit-of-the-stomach heart wrenching. And the evening was endless. How I got through it without scratching out the eyes of every woman there who had the audacity to have a living husband remains a mystery.

I don't do dances any more. Now I'm content to watch "Dancing with the Stars" on TV where no participation is required. Have you ever been in these dancin' shoes?

Sandy

Cover toss

Used to be, when bedtime came, I'd fold down the bedspread neatly to the foot of the bed and we'd climb in our respective sides to meet in the middle. We always went to bed at the same time and shared the thought the bedroom was for two things only - making love and sleeping. We did both very well. There was never a TV in our room and we didn't read. Oh, how I miss the snuggling and spooning!

I remember pillow talk conversations about how "smug" we both felt having found this beautiful relationship. I wish now we'd used the word "blessed" instead of smug to express this wonderful closeness. Sometimes he said nightly prayers out loud, almost as simple and childlike as "Now I lay me down to sleep". My prayers were silent. I only said Amen aloud.

Today, it's toss the covers to one side. It makes a nice lump where a husband used to be. I roll way far to the side, near the night table where there's always a book needing to be read. Shameful to say, but I've been known to rotate sides - one week right, one week left. Don't have to change the sheets as often any more. Have you too fallen into some less than desirable habits since you've outlived your husband?

PS I still only say the Amen part aloud.

Sandy

On lawn mowers and trash cans

To this day, on Monday mornings, when I wheel that unwieldy monster trash can to the curb, I look up, give "the look", and say under my breathe, "Not my job!" Then, for good measure, I give the trash can a swift kick. What do you bet, he's looking down at me with that quirky grin on his face saying "Atta girl! Give 'em hell!" Do you ever have Monday morning temper tantrums? You, who has outlived her husband?

One of my worst temper fits happened when I was mowing the lawn shortly after my husband died. We had a very small lot. Using the bagger, it was only "one bag full". Zip. Zip. All done. Except this day, as I was making a finally swatch across the front yard, a wheel fell off. Mowing had always been my job, but fixing broken stuff was not. I found the escaped bolt, reinserted it through the wheel and the whatever-it's-called part of the mower, then realized the nut was still missing. The yard is small, but the grass is high. I'm on my hands and knees separating blades of grass, looking for all the world like a mama monkey searching though her baby's fur for bugs, when my neighbor arrives home for lunch.

Bob, my young neighbor, is a big guy - 6' 3" at least. While we never socialized much, we were on friendly terms. Seeing me there, with my nose to the ground and my butt in the air, he walked over to check things out. Immediately assessing my dilema, and sympathically offering to "fix things" was all I needed to unleash a flurry of expletives I didn't even know I knew, then collapse into uncontrollable sobs. Bob was way out of his comfort zone with this scary woman who had outlived her husband. He gave me a little pat, then hurried back to his house to scrounge up a nut. I noticed after that day, Bob seemed to avoid being anywhere near when that mower came out of the garage. Did you ever put the fear of God in a neighbor by your WIDOW behavior?

Sandy

Widowspeak

According to Wikipedia a Widow's Peak is a descending V-shaped point in the middle of the hairline (above the forehead). It is an example of a dominant inherited trait. The term comes from English Folklore, where it is believed that this hair formation was a sign of a woman who would outlive her husband.

This Widow Speak has nothing to do with hairlines and everything to do with women who outlive their husbands. I'm one. Many of my friends are. It's not the most popular club to belong to. We often get a bad rap.

I think some of my couple friends are afraid my state of being will rub off on them. The knowledge of mortality is fearsome - if it happened to me, it could happen to them. And, single men, who might otherwise be eligible bachelors, are leery they'll have to compete with a deceased saint should they dare to tread in WIDOW territory. See what I mean... bad rap. It makes for a no man's land - in this case, no Woman's land.

Maybe this blog site can become a place of expression for us beleaguered widows. A sisterhood of survivors. A place to share our stories, emotional mountains (Peaks, if you will ) and valleys, memories and plans for the future. We've shared a traumatic, and ofttimes dramatic, experience; have gone through, or, are still wading through the Seven Stages of Grief. We're kinfolk to loss and loneliness. We've known anger to the point of rage. We understand depression, live with guilt, and worry about additive behavior. And we are oh so good at pretending "all is well".

I have now outlived my husband by nine years. Maybe only seven. The first two years after his death, I didn't live, only existed. Everything I did was in a fog, surreal, slow motion. I couldn't remember appointments, didn't return phone calls, avoided my friends and couldn't see anything beyond the elephant in the room. Sound familiar?

Sandy