My husband died, and my friend Pat, also newly widowed, emailed me a list of grief books to read. I have yet to open her email.
The rector at my church gave me the name of a grief counselor. I haven’t called her.
My husband is gone, and for these past weeks I’ve pretty much kept that brutal fact at bay.
A Daughter at Work in Jon’s Office
Daughter Christina was here in the house with me for four of the first five weeks of this terrible new life of mine.
She has a full-time job, so she took her laptop upstairs to Jon’s office and reported for work Mondays through Fridays. If she cried up there at Jon’s desk, she kept it to herself.
Christina is an inventive cook, and a dear company. While she was here it seemed, most of the time, that Jon had just gone out of the house for a while. He’d be back.
But then she left.
Distracted by the Point Reyes Headlands
With that, my friends Jean and Nini took me on a hike out to the end of Chimney Rock, which juts gloriously and distractingly into the Pacific Ocean from the Point Reyes Headlands.
There was a breaching whale out on the water that day.
Also, elephant seal mothers and pups on the rocky beach down below. Hawks above. And wildflowers all over the place — mules ears, California poppy, yellow bush lupine, cow parsnip, checkerbloom,
But also: trailside poison oak — grim and luscious — poised to wipe itself on the legs of the careless passerby.
My Husband Died. The Poison Oak Lives
Unlike my friends and neighbors in recent weeks, the poison oak is mindless. It feels no compassion. It makes no exception for the grief-stricken. Its waxy leaves reach for my pant legs.
But I spot the poison oak. I outsmart it. I step aside. Later, when I arrive home, I throw my hiking pants and socks into the wash.
The next day my skin does not itch. There’s no rash on my ankles. I dodged that bullet. That’s one of nature’s cruelties outwitted.
Read about Jon at “Jonathan Newhall — My Husband of Forty-Four Years.”
Dear Barbara;
Just came across your post and I’m happy to have a chance to say hello and hope you are doing as well as can be hoped for. Beyond the phone call, sympathy card and contribution to Oakland public school libraries in Jon’s memory I wish you the best as time goes on.
Mary Ellen
Thank you, Mary Ellen. I am doing fine — most of the time! Notes and calls from people like you help a lot.
Barbie, I am glad Jean and Nini are there for you and you are able to take your walks with them. Your writings are at once beautiful and touching. Thank you for reaching out and sharing. I look forward to your new book. And being together in the future
Sue Watson
Sue, Ann and Elaine. Thanks for being there.
Barbara, you will know I am so glad to see that you are writing — sharing your pain and sharing the process you are going through with those of us who know and love you and feel your pain in our hearts. Healing comes in its own time, but what you are doing now is a positive step forward.
Ann
Your writing is beautiful as are the pictures, and yes Jon is missed by family, friends.
Barbara, I just happened upon this post, and my heart hurts for you. Your loss is a unique and terrible pain, and I join with others in sending you friendship.
Thank you for this moment of companionship, Suzette. It helps a lot!
Dear Ms Falconer Newhall,
In Ingmar Bergman’s *Fanny and Alexander* there is a scene early on after a character’s death, in which his children rise in the night, walk through several rooms, and finally peer through a pair of sliding pocket doors into the room where their father’s dead body rests in a bed… and where they discover their mother pacing, measuredly gathering her breath, and then intentionally shrieking, croaking, crying out her indescribable agony.
If such a moment comes to you, may you find that intentional shriek and exercise/exorcise your emotions. May you also find a safe place to collapse in a chair, and later – when/if *you* want – be consoled. May you have friends who keep silence before your grief, but say kaddish – or the equivalent – for your husband when the time is right.
I extend my sympathy to you – and to also your newly widowed friend Pat. May shared grief offer sturdy ground to stand on. It is an honor to read your post.
Yours, Brad Peterson (San Francisco)
Dear Mr. Peterson. Thank you for your kind thoughts. Though I have not seen that Bergman movie, I can picture the scene all too vividly. I’m counting on the company of friends and family and the thoughtfulness of people like you to get me through this.
I’ve been thinking about you, Christina & Peter a lot lately. I wish there was something I could say or do to help you feel better. Know that I love you & keep you in my prayers. ❤️
Knowing that you are there and you care is a *lot.* So is the thought that one of these days we’ll get to see each other in person.
Love this, Barbara. This is hard. I think your writing will be so helpful. Hugs.
Thanks for the hugs, Cheryl.
Sorry to hear of your loss. I remember your children all those years ago, at the Berkely Child Art Studio. Fingerpainting or drawing (scribbling) might help. Seriously.
Best,
Miriam de Uriarte
One of the paintings our son Peter made at your studio hangs in our bedroom. It’s as beautiful as ever.
Hmmm. Getting my hands into some paint? Very appealing at this moment.
Again, turning grief into beauty.
Thank you, Jan.
Barbara,
We miss him, too.
John
So glad we had our socially distanced lunch together. Your friendship meant a lot to Jon.
My condolence to you and your family. I feel terribly helpless to write words your death of your wonderful husband. My prayers and thoughts are with you.
God Bless,
Sincerely,
Jim Loarie
Thank you, Jim.