Confessions of a Mediocre Widow

by Catherine Tidd

  How could we not have known?

  Ironically, in the days before he died, I had taken a bunch of pictures of Brad’s head. I know that sounds funny but, being completely bald, he was getting ready to try a new shampoo I’d bought him that was supposed to help with hair loss (which at his stage of follicle deprivation would have taken an act of God). We wanted an accurate account of this miraculous hair growth so that he could fulfill his dream of being on a 3:00 a.m. infomercial. So, when I had to supply pictures of him, I was able to provide a series of every angle of his head.

  How handy.

  I downloaded them onto the Walgreens website so my mom could pick them up and bring them to the funeral home, where Steve would try and somehow make Brad look like the man I loved, which would be impossible. Because the man I loved was full of life, laughter, and the perfect amount of craziness. And there’s no way Steve could make an immobile shell look like the guy who could never sit still.

  Now that I think about it, since Brad was completely bald at the time of his death, I should have given Steve an earlier picture of him with hair. I would have loved to have seen how he would have worked that one out. And the looks on everyone’s faces passing by him at the visitation would have probably kept me entertained for hours.

  Oh well.

  Again, there’s always next time.

  6

  In the days immediately following Brad’s death, I got into the really weird habit of going into our closet and talking to his clothes.

  I don’t really know why, but I would just sit there and tell his clothes everything that was going on and then, every once in a while, I would stop and look to them for some sort of solution.

  Unfortunately, when I asked, “How could this have happened?” his pants really didn’t have a good answer for me.

  But it was oddly comforting to sit there on the floor and look up at all of his things just as he’d left them. I remembered all of the times that I made fun of his typical engineering mind that could put together a rocket but couldn’t coordinate an outfit (“Just because they’re both green doesn’t mean they match”) and how I asked him if I needed to put tags on his clothes like blind people do. I looked at the T-shirt that he’d worn as a joke the day he proposed to me, which said, “Sacrifices Must Be Made,” and the combat boots he no longer had to wear for work, but that came in handy one night when he had to dress up for an ’80s-themed party.

  Ah, yes. My husband in a neon tank top, camo shorts, and combat boots. Proud moment.

  I could smell his cologne and sweat, mixed with the comforting scent of dryer sheets. I could rub the sleeve of his favorite flannel shirt on my cheek, the one my parents had given him for Christmas one year, and pretend that his shoulder was absorbing my tears. I could hug his favorite sweatshirt, the one I’d tried to find a substitute for in recent years before finally coming to the conclusion that you can’t replace something like that.

  You know you’re missing someone when you start cuddling his shoes.

  The visitation and memorial, ironically enough, came at a good time for me when it came to my own wardrobe. Brad and I had gotten into watching TLC’s What Not to Wear, and in the months before he died, I had actually been trying to beef up my apparel because I’d started noticing that all of the clothes I was wearing had one thing in common.

  They were all sweats.

  Panicking that, at thirty-one, I was one bad wardrobe choice away from wearing a muumuu, I started hitting the discount stores, trying to find some things that Stacy and Clinton, the hosts of the show, would approve of.

  But I guess I’ll never really know if I got it right because I’ve never seen “What Not to Wear: The Funeral Episode.”

  Brad was very supportive of this change (as I’m sure he was tired of seeing me in clothing that always had an elastic waistband). In fact, for my Mother’s Day present, he had gotten me a hefty gift certificate to get fitted for bras, something that I desperately needed.

  As I opened the envelope from Nordstrom, he said, “Now, there’s a business card in there from a woman I talked to who will get you all fixed up. Every time we watch that show, the first thing they say is that the clothes aren’t fitting right because the woman doesn’t have the right bra. After nursing three kids, I think it’s time.”

  Surprised at his thoughtfulness, I said, “Wow. Nordstrom! I would have never thought to go there! I would have guessed Victoria’s Secret or something. How did you know?”

  “I called all of your friends and asked them where they bought their bras.”

  When I think back on it now, I sure as hell hope he told them all why he was asking that question.

  I dressed for the visitation in black pants and a flowy, flowered top. I don’t know why I bothered to put makeup on since all I had been doing for three days was crying it right back off again. But taking the time to get completely ready made me feel like I was doing something normal.

  When what I was getting ready for was so far out of range of “normal” that it didn’t even get reception.

  As probably anyone who has attended the visitation for their spouse will tell you, the entire night is a complete blur. I don’t remember how I got there. I really don’t remember how I got home. Feeling like a “viewing” was just too damn complicated to try and explain to three toddlers, I was grateful that the kids were still at the age when they could be easily distracted by an animated talking mouse. They stayed home with a couple of teenage babysitters who showed up looking completely shocked about the whole situation.

  The viewing was set up in the lobby of our large Methodist church. The lights were dim and the lobby seemed to be waiting for us in an eerie quiet. As I walked in, the first thing I saw were the enormous collages my friends had labored over, with pictures of Brad from child to adult. The guest book was lying open on a table, sitting in between the frames of photos with a basket for the sympathy cards that I would later cry over in disbelief. And as I turned to my left, I saw the casket settled in a corner next to a window and near the entrance from the outside, a spot I’ve never been able to look at the same way since.

  I don’t know who wanted the open casket…all I know is that it wasn’t me. I tried to stay as far away from Brad’s body, dressed in his best suit complete with Pittsburgh Steelers tie, as I could. Brad’s mother stood vigil near him, waiting for people to come to her, while I circulated and marveled at how, if we weren’t here for such a tragic reason, I would really want to catch up with all of these people. Doing what I could to be the best hostess possible, I tried to put everyone at ease…which actually probably made them feel more uncomfortable than if I would have just broken down like they were all expecting.

  People kept offering me their seats, which I didn’t want because that would mean that I would have to sit still and then it might really sink in why I was there.

  “We’re so sorry,” puffy faces said to me. “How are you holding up?”

  “Who, me?” I would say brightly. “I’m fine! Why shouldn’t I be? And how was your trip to Denver? I hope the weather was good!”

  After a few hours of hanging around with a dead body (never my favorite pastime), I will admit I was relieved to get home. My babysitters for the evening had gotten the kids safely tucked away in their beds, completely unaware of what they were going to have to experience the next day with the first and probably most significant funeral of their lives.

  I went upstairs to my room, shed my uncomfortable clothes, and pulled on a trusty pair of sweats. When I made my way back down, my parents were sitting in my family room with Cindy and the rest of her family, who had made their way to Denver from various parts of the country. After putting on a brave face for so long that day and trying to make pleasant conversation while standing in a room with my husband’s body, it was comforting to just sit and listen to them talk without feeling like I had to make any contributions of my o
wn. But just as I had gotten settled into Brad’s favorite chair, I heard my front door open.

  And there were my in-laws.

  When we were at the hospital a few days earlier, I had offered to let Bonnie and Jim stay at the house until the funeral was finished and it was time for them to go back home. They’d assured me that they would be comfortable in a hotel so my sister’s husband, Sean, had made reservations for everyone nearby. And I thought that was that.

  Until 9:30 p.m. the night before Brad’s funeral when they showed up at my front door.

  Pulling me aside, my sister-in-law, Brenda, quietly said, “The hotel was too expensive. We just couldn’t afford to keep staying there.”

  Well, sure. I could understand that. Which was why I had offered to have them stay at the house three days earlier.

  What I couldn’t understand was why, since I had just been hanging out with them for the entire evening at the church, they hadn’t mentioned that they might be stopping by.

  Indefinitely.

  When my in-laws made their surprise entrance that night, I will admit I was not prepared. To take a piece from the Bible: the inn was full. I had my mother staying there, as well as myself and my own three kids. Adding more adults, plus my two-year-old niece, was really stretching the square footage of my house. And to be quite honest, I was not about to displace my kids and move them out of their rooms. Even though they seemed to be handling everything really well (and part of me wondered if they understood what was happening at all), I was worried that one more little bump might really upset the apple cart.

  And frankly…I just couldn’t deal with that yet.

  So, with my exhaustion accompanying me, I set about trying to find sheets, air mattresses, a playpen, and extra towels so that Brad’s family could take over the basement, while my parents and their friends sat in the TV room somewhat shocked about what was going on. We dragged out the extra mattress under Michael’s bed so that my mom could move from the guest bedroom and sleep on the floor in his room (and as the week wore on, move from room to room because all of the kids wanted to share Nana).

  As I scurried around, trying to figure out how all of this was going to be logistically possible, Brenda followed me and asked, “Can’t we just put an air mattress in the dining room?”

  Count to ten.

  “I’m going to have over a hundred people at my house tomorrow morning after the funeral,” I replied as calmly as I could. “I can’t have a bedroom set up in the middle of where everyone is going to be.”

  And so, at around midnight that night, after the in-laws had been fed and tucked away in the basement, I finally retreated to the quiet of my own bedroom. With Cindy’s family in tow, my dad had returned to my parents’ house to get a little rest before the next day. My mom was uncomfortably situated on the mattress on the floor in Michael’s room. Sarah was sleeping peacefully in her crib, while Haley snored softly under a mound of blankets in her room.

  And I climbed into my bed.

  Alone.

  7

  In the end, I knew in my heart that the funeral had not been a raging success. My suspicions were confirmed when, years later, I was talking to my babysitter about it. A girl with a heart of gold, Catie had been babysitting for me since before Sarah was even born, and she had been to Brad’s funeral.

  I don’t think I’d ever heard anything negative cross her lips, but when she was home from college and we were talking about times past, I mentioned the service to her, saying that in hindsight I wasn’t sure it had gone all that well. Catie looked a little nervous when I started talking about it. “My mother told me I was never to bring up the funeral with you,” she said.

  Now, that’s a bad party.

  Before I could even get to the event that I had been dreading for days, I had to tackle something rather important.

  Talking to the kids about what they were about to see.

  Now, please keep in mind that I’d pretty much been running on no sleep and no food for the week prior, so I wasn’t completely with it. But I came up with the best explanation I could think of that three children under six might understand. I sat them down on my bed, all dressed up and ready for church…and looked straight into their little faces.

  “Now you guys know that Dad is dead, right?” I started out, watching their little heads bob up and down uncertainly. “Do you know what that means?” Another solemn nod.

  “Well, today you’re going to be able to see him. But it’s not really him. You’ll see his body, but he’s not in his body anymore.”

  And then suddenly I had an inspiration.

  “Dad is like a turtle. You’re going to see his shell, but he’s really not living in his shell anymore.”

  Hey. It was the best I could do on short notice. When you have an accident, death, wake, and funeral all packed into five days, that doesn’t leave a whole lot of time to run to Barnes & Noble to pick up a book on how to explain death and dying to your children without scarring them for life. And when I tell most people my little analogy, they find it creative and endearing.

  However, when I later told my father how I had explained it, he couldn’t stop laughing. “I can’t wait until your kids are teenagers and they tell their friends, ‘You won’t believe the story my mom laid on me when my dad died,’” he said.

  But the kids seemed to understand it, and what the heck does he know anyway?

  As we all trooped downstairs after our little discussion, I asked them, “Now…what are we going to see?”

  “Dad’s turtle shell!” they said in unison with misfired enthusiasm.

  “And what does that mean?”

  “It means that Daddy’s shell is there, but he’s not living in it anymore,” said Haley in her wisest five-year-old voice.

  Deep breath.

  “Exactly.”

  The kids and I all piled ourselves into the minivan and, with my mother at the wheel, headed toward the church a little earlier than everyone else. A family friend had suggested that viewing the body might give the kids closure, or so the experts said. That seeing the body of their father might give them a sense of finality and that I might be able to reference that later when their young minds got confused and they asked where he was. And I could see how that might be valuable as they tried to deal with what has happened and move forward.

  But I’ll tell you this: I’ll bet you that in about ten years the “experts” will have changed their minds and decided that nothing scars a young child more than hanging out in a room with a dead parent.

  And that will really piss me off.

  Deciding that Sarah, at eighteen months old, was too young to really understand what she would be looking at, my dad stayed outside with her as she ran around in her Sunday best. As the other two kids and I entered the church, my stomach was in a knot that seemed to be twisted around all of my vital organs. I took both of their little hands in mine and steered them over toward where Steve had placed Brad in the lobby.

  Haley took one look at him and decided that she’d rather walk around the church with Nana, away from her dad’s “shell.” Michael, however, focused his little three-year-old eyes on his dad and then said, “I want to go look at Dad’s pictures.”

  So we walked over to the collages that had been set up on stands near the entrance and he looked at the pictures, trying to find himself in scenes with his dad.

  Then he walked back over to the casket and looked at Brad again.

  And then took another trip over the collages.

  I knew that little boy’s mind, even at three. So much like his father, he was literally trying to piece together what was happening, trying to figure out how the man in the pictures could possibly be the man who was lying there lifeless. Seeing himself in the photographs, some of which were taken so recently, and attempting to understand that those arms that were holding him as he blew out t
he candles on this birthday cake were now crossed over his father’s body holding four yellow roses was, I’m sure, confusing.

  Hell…I was confused about it, too.

  As I watched his wheels turning, the “guests” (is that what you call people at a funeral? The audience? Attendees? ) began to arrive. As they trickled in, so did the kids’ friends, which seemed to make the event a little more normal to them. Michael’s concentration on his dad was broken by a swift almost-tackle from another little boy. Sarah came in with my mom and dad, and Haley started running circles around the lobby with her friends.

  Before things got really crazy, I pulled them aside and said, “The church nursery will be open so I’m going to give you a choice. You can either come into the sanctuary with me for the service or go into the nursery with the other kids.”

  Uh. That’s a no-brainer.

  I watched Haley and Michael race to the play area with Sarah toddling behind them as quickly as she could. They all peered over the half door and waited to be let in with the rest of their friends. Judging by the one scared-looking girl the church had working in the nursery that day, I don’t think they were prepared for how many young children would be attending. Actually, I don’t think anyone was prepared for that. One of the saddest moments for me during that service was watching all of those toddlers run into the nursery while the adults walked into the sanctuary.

  God…we were all so young.

  Knowing that my kids were in good hands and delightfully distracted, I turned around and made my way back to the lobby. On the way, I was greeted by everyone I knew (and some that I didn’t). One of the strangest things about funerals is seeing everyone from your past and present, all gathered together. I wanted to visit. I wanted to go out for a beer. I wanted to do something, anything, with all of these people, other than what we were doing.

  Everyone hugged me, kissed me, and tried not to show me their damp eyes. The most memorable people were the people I didn’t expect to see there. Women from the young mothers’ group that I had belonged to when Haley was a toddler but hadn’t had the time to do much with in the last few years. The director of the preschool that Haley and Michael had attended who walked right up to me and said, “Your tuition is free from now on. And any time you need to drop the kids off and take a little time…you don’t even have to call.”