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