Here’s the truth about widows — we cry a lot.
You don’t see us do it. Partly because we don’t want to worry you with our tears.
But mostly because the best cries are the cries you have in solitude, in the privacy of the bedroom closet, when you cry into your husband’s old nightshirt, the plaid one he left hanging on the hook on his side of the closet, the one you bought him for Christmas one year, when you made a point of showing up at the store in October, before all the nice blue ones were gone from the rack.
The nightshirt makes you cry. The fact that he wore it to bed the night before he went into the hospital makes you cry. The the fact that he personally hung the shirt on that particular hook makes you cry. The fact that it is blue, the color of his eyes, makes you cry.
We Widows Cry a Lot
All these things make you cry. And there’s nothing to do but give in to it. Go for it. Which is why it’s better if no one is around. You’re free to go for it.
The package of chopped pecans you come across at the back of the snack cupboard brings on tears. They have turned rancid, which means they are old, which means Jon must have bought them.
The thought of Jon deciding to buy pecans, of having that intention, undoes you, because that’s what Jon is — was — a bundle of feelings and intentions, of packages of nuts opened, of pecans sprinkled onto a lunch-time yogurt, the half-empty package returned to the snack cupboard.
Realizing that it was Jon who tucked that package at the back of that shelf makes me cry.
A Blank Where He Was
We widows — we cry a lot. (And so do widowers, I imagine.) But sometimes, as the tears splash from my eyes onto my sweatshirt, I have the presence of mind to ask myself, why am I crying? Whose life am I mourning — Jon’s? Or mine?
There is a blankness to my life right now. I walk upstairs to bed at night and I note that I am alone. I am more than alone, I am unobserved. There is a blankness there, where an observer once was. And without that observer, am I even here? Am I really walking up these stairs? Is there any meaning, any point, to this trip up to bed?
I think about the plans I have — that I had — for myself, plans that held so much richness, so much promise: Time with the children and grandchildren. Manzanita and ceanothus to be planted in the backyard. Pacific irises for the side yard.
A book to finish. And another book to get started on, the one about the ancestors who migrated to Red Wing, Minnesota, from Michilimackinac, Michigan.
It’s a project I had been contemplating for years. It would require a trip to Michilimackinac, which does not exist any more, to find out what happened to my great-great grandparents’ lumber business, which does not exist any more. Or does it? I would find out.
Jon Finds Out About Michilimackinac
All those plans, pulled me forward. I anticipated things. I shared my plans with Jon. I talked about them, at length. And Jon would hear me out, dutifully, if not enthusiastically.
These were things my husband thought of as “very Barbara” — “very Barbara” because Jon knew me. He knew who “Barbara” was. I was known. And now, that knower is absent, and blankness accompanies me as I head up the stairs to bed.
Ready for some levity? Go to “Scrubbing the Kitchen Floor With My Daughter Cinderella.” Or, “Mad Man Exposes the Sixties Girdle — But Will She Get It Off in Time?”
Yes, I can tell you with certainty that we widowers cry in solitude as well. This paragraph in particular touched me because I felt something similar as I made the same dreaded walk upstairs into the same profound emptiness:
“I walk upstairs to bed at night and I note that I am alone. I am more than alone, I am unobserved. There is a blankness there, where an observer once was. And without that observer, am I even here? Am I really walking up these stairs? Is there any meaning, any point, to this trip up to bed?”
Dear Benny, And now I am crying for you. Thanks so much for confirming that. yes, widowers cry in solitude as well.
Yes, your pearl, “I am more than alone; I am unobserved,” and your friend Ann’s, “We mourn because we had the privilege of being loved. You loved (him) and he loved you,” both aid the understanding of this unwelcome time of lost partner/lost self. Lost partnership: a sadness that shadows every moment. Thank you.
Kathleen
Unwelcome, indeed.
I also prefer to show emotions, including the occasional cry, in solitude. Thank you, Barbara, for sharing these thoughts with us.
Thank you, Ken. I guess it’s not only the widows who cry.
Thanks Barbara…making sense of our life without our meaning.
Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Nancy. It means a lot.
❤️ I so enjoying your weekly notes to us all. I hope some day they get put all together for another book. You are teaching us all what it is to be a widow.
Yes, a book is a possibility. But I’m finding that my newspaper journalism habits of many years are serving me well. There’s nothing like a weekly deadline to get me to sit down and write what’s on my mind.
The gifted writer side of BFN colliding with your personal heart, emotions, and history. Painfully insightful. Prayers for you as you adjust and navigate.
John Budzynski – Youngest son of Phyllis.
Thank you, John. So nice to hear from you. Prayers are good!
Nice one Barb.
Thanks, Marlene.
Crying is one element of mourning. Someone pointed out to me that we mourn because we had the privilege of being loved. You loved Jon and he loved you back. Cry as much and as often as that love still lives.
Thank you, Ann. Yes, I was lucky to have Jon for as long as I did.
Wonderfully said
Thank you.
a pearl of great price here:
“I am more than alone; I am unobserved.”
Thank you for your observation!!!