That was during the preteen years of my widowhood. When I needed them and they didn’t mind being needed. But then I hit adolescent widowhood. And everything changed.
After pulling them to me for months, I was ready to spread my widowed wings and fly. I wanted to start creating a new life. I wanted to assert my new and complete independence. I wanted to know I had it in me to exist without always calling my parents for help.
As with a lot of changes that come during widowhood, this need for independence seemed to happen overnight and caused frustration for all of us. They couldn’t understand why I wasn’t depending on them as much as I had been, and I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t understand it. I didn’t realize that the changes I was going through were happening at such a rapid pace that even I could barely keep up with them.
So how could I expect anyone else to?
“I want to start my own business.”
“No! I’m going to go back to school!”
“Maybe I should just work retail for a while.”
“Hey! That guy is cute!”
“Argh. I’m not ready to date.”
“Why isn’t anyone calling me? Am I that unlovable?”
You can see where it might have been hard for them to connect the dots some days.
It became necessary, after a while, to get into a pattern. I would come up with some off-the-wall idea, and then I would give them at least twenty-four hours to digest it before I came up with the next one. I started realizing that since one major thing in my life had changed so drastically, everything else was going to have to follow like a line of dominoes. Of course it was hard for me to keep up with what was going on, but I was living in my head and had some idea of my stream of consciousness.
They were living in their house and getting phone calls every time that stream decided to take a turn. Unnerving to say the least.
And it wasn’t just my life that had changed with Brad’s death. Suddenly my parents were also forced to think about the fact that I might not be the stay-at-home mom we all thought I would be. I might have to—or want to—go back to work. They had to come to grips with the fact that I didn’t want to be alone for the rest of my life, and that meant dating and taking their grandchildren along with me for the ride. It meant my life, the life of their daughter whom they loved deeply, would never be the same and would have to start down a new path.
And they were forced into trying to keep up.
I realized that while I was expecting everyone else to be patient with me as I worked through where my life was going to go, it was equally important that I be patient with them. We all needed support through this loss and this transition, and I couldn’t let myself become so immersed in my own life and story that I wouldn’t have the compassion to help them through theirs as well.
I discovered that being self-aware and paying attention to my journey was very different from being self-absorbed and not paying attention to anyone else’s. That while Brad was my husband, the loss had happened to us all and I didn’t want to be the person who didn’t recognize that. Sure, my life had been turned upside down in the most obvious way, but theirs had as well. And just as it would be wrong for someone else to not support me through the changes I was going through, it would be wrong for me to ignore that they were going through some fairly significant changes as well.
Being self-aware, I knew that being self-absorbed was not what I wanted to become.
• • •
Of course, in considering my relationship with family members, I had to think about more than just my parents when I started out on this journey. In many ways, the relationships that I had with my family and my in-laws after Brad died had to start all over again. I know that on paper, I should have still been Catherine, just without the “& Brad” attached. But I wasn’t. And that transformation made me nervous and probably caught them all completely by surprise.
When it comes to widowhood and in-laws, no matter what the situation, there is one question I think all widows ask ourselves at some point.
Now what?
I think I can count on one hand the number of friends I have who truly enjoy their spouse’s family. I remember Kristi telling me that one night she and her book club friends got on the subject of in-laws, and by the end of it, the one single girl in the group asked, “Does anyone have normal in-laws?”
To which Kristi replied, “Yes. Our husbands do.”
And since someone else in the group had just described how her father-in-law owned a Crocodile Dundee–style hat in which he had placed all of his own teeth around the band, that group would know.
Brad and I were no different than most people when it came to families. In fact, we were pretty much the poster children for opposites attracting. He was math; I was reading. He loved science; I was all about the arts. He was smart. I stood next to him. Our upbringings were completely different, something that our hormones ignored when we first met, but after a few years of marriage, the differences became glaringly obvious.
Brad loved his childhood in the rolling hills of the Pennsylvania countryside. Growing up, he rode four-wheelers and dirt bikes, went to the local racetrack, and caused as much trouble as he could possibly get away with…and still get commissioned as an Air Force officer. I have pictures in a little photo box of him covered in mud and grinning, sitting on his family’s ATV; standing over a bloody deer that he’d just shot with his own little preteen hands; and holding hands with his high-school girlfriend at his prom, proud of his ’80s hairdo and shiny blue bow tie. He played hard, worked hard, and loved hard, and one of the things he was the most grateful for was how close he was with his family growing up.
As far as families go, the close bond we each shared with our families was about all we had in common. My grandmother taught ballet and was a child-prodigy pianist. My side of the family was filled with dancers, painters, and performers. When I sat down to dinner at night, my mother would shoot me a dirty look if my elbows were on the table, and I was taught from an early age to cross my legs whether I was wearing a skirt or pants. Bodily noises were frowned upon; nights downtown at the theater usually happened at least twice a year; and all adults were addressed with a “Miss” or “Mr.” before their first name.
You can see where we might have had some differences.
I’ve often thought that there should be a class taught in every high school introducing the concept to the young female population that once you marry him, you marry his family.
Lesson One: If he takes you home to a double-wide and his dad looks a lot like Dog the Bounty Hunter, think twice about jumping into the backseat of that 1982 Camaro.
Lesson Two: If he said that his parents couldn’t pay for his college education because they’re still trying to pay off the tattoo artist in town, just walk away.
Lesson Three: If you’ve seen his sister on an episode of Bridezillas planning her wedding, give it some more thought.
This should then be followed by a slide show that fast-forwards about twenty years and shows the unfortunate girl saddled with four kids, sitting around a Christmas tree that blinks and spins to the tune of “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” with the people she is now forced to call family. I can guarantee that if this course could be offered early enough, teenage pregnancy statistics would take a dive and some girls may even start batting for the other team.
Like many people, when Brad and I got married, we repeated the phrase “till death do you part.” But during our counseling with the minister before the ceremony, he failed to tell us what happens after that. Does that mean everyone parts?
I can only speak from my own experience, but no. It doesn’t.
I can’t deny the love that Brad’s family had for him. His mother, Bonnie, cried every time he left home after a visit, and I don’t think she ever got over the fact that he abandoned his hometown to attend college at
the Air Force Academy. Oh, I know it was something she was incredibly proud of, but since I also have pictures in my photo box of every plane he took off in, the planes that he took on his way back to Colorado after spending a Christmas at home in Pennsylvania…I knew she had mixed feelings about it. And those feelings ran deep.
But it seemed like things changed after we got married. I think that secretly his family always thought Brad would come back home after he finished his commitment to the Air Force. And I think that there was a part of Brad that wanted to as well, but there was also a part of him that wanted something else. And as the years wore on, he talked to his family less and less, and we only made it back to Pennsylvania for a visit about once a year. He didn’t make much effort and, to be honest, neither did they. I’ve sometimes wondered what their relationship would have been like if I hadn’t been around because, when he was alive, I would ask him about once a month, “Have you called your mother?”
This question was usually met with a yawn and “Okay. I’ll call her tomorrow.”
When he died, I alternated between wanting to include them in all of the plans I was making and feeling territorial about my new life. I offered to have them take half of Brad’s ashes and consulted them on just about everything that had to do with the memorial because I felt it would have been wrong to take everything over myself. After all, he was their son.
But I had my limits. Just after the funeral, I was in our basement rec room with his brother, Jeremy, when he suddenly pointed to a large frame on the wall and said, “If you want, I could take that Jerome Bettis jersey off your hands.”
To which I snapped back, “I’m keeping that.”
I’d like to think that Jeremy was kidding, but there was probably a part of him that wasn’t. Brad was gone, and we were left with all of his “stuff,” and the big question was “who had the right to take it and who didn’t?” We all wanted things to remember him by and to keep the things that were special to us. I wanted to save some of his childhood things because I wanted my kids to have them some day. And I’m sure that his family wanted to keep his childhood things because they were actually around when he used them and therefore had the memories to go with them. The things he had acquired during adulthood were displayed around our house and I didn’t want them removed.
But was it all up to me to decide what stayed and what didn’t?
I really think that this is where divorcées have a leg up on us widowed. In most cases, the relationship has been severed and it’s up to the respective spouses to determine who takes what and when the two different sets of grandparents see the grandchildren. When talking about the in-laws, it’s okay to say “my former in-laws.” And I think (I don’t know because I’ve never been divorced) that it’s okay to back away entirely from the relationship.
Not so cut and dried in the widow department.
I wasn’t quite sure what do with that relationship when Brad was gone. I felt guilty if I didn’t keep in touch with them enough and then angry that I was left to deal with it. I felt sorry for what they had to deal with and then even sorrier for myself that I was dealing with it, too. It seemed like the only things we had in common anymore were the kids and Brad’s death.
“How are the kids doing?”
“They’re doing well. How are you guys doing?”
“Well…some days are better than others…”
And then we would dive into a conversation about our grief, our suffering, and how we never realized it could be possible to miss someone so much. Especially in the beginning, I knew when I saw their phone number come across my caller ID that I would probably be completely dehydrated the next day from crying so hard. I both loathed and craved those conversations because part of me hated to stick my toes in the abyss, but part of me needed to feel connected with people who were so connected to Brad.
And as time went on, we fell back into the routine we had been in before he died. Sometimes we would hear from them; sometimes we wouldn’t. And without Brad around for me to ask “Have you called your mother?” I didn’t know if I was supposed to take on his role of calling once a month…or just let it slide.
“What am I supposed to do?” I asked a counselor midway through my second year. “Sometimes they send presents to the kids. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they call, and then sometimes I don’t hear from them for months. Am I supposed to be keeping this relationship going? Or do I just let it all go?”
And on that day, she gave me the most helpful advice I’ve ever gotten.
“Put in as much effort as they do.”
This completely changed how I thought about the relationship, but it actually didn’t change the relationship that much. I would still talk to them about the same amount, but I was less stressed out about it. When they sent gifts, I would reciprocate, but I wouldn’t rush to the post office in the middle of the holidays so that I could get them there on time, knowing that their presents would be coming about two months late, if at all. That one phrase absolved me of all the guilt and anger I had bottled up inside me for years, and I was able to just take the relationship one day at a time.
Genius.
13
During the first year of widowhood, all of the experts say that you’re really not supposed to answer any deep questions about life and where you’re going. Sure, there are some things you have to decide and that you may not have a choice about—like moving, getting a new job, or selling your kids to the highest bidder. But as far as digging deeper into life and where you’re going, it’s pretty much a waste of time to try and answer that within the first twelve months of losing a spouse.
At that stage you’re still trying to put the pieces of your life back together again. You haven’t realized that since the pieces aren’t the same, they just won’t fit the way you want them to.
Yet.
As the fog started to lift a little and I began to question everything, I found it hard to wrestle with the new issues I was facing at a time when I felt so utterly alone. I remember desperately trying to find the answers to the puzzle that was my new life. I wanted to know why, what came next, was I really alone, and what the future held ten years down the line. And I started looking everywhere to find those answers.
I was constantly watching for signs from Brad, wondering what he thought about what I was doing and always somewhat worried that he hated the decisions I was making. I felt sure that he was looking down at me, angry that I had given away that sixty-inch TV or disappointed every time I told my daughter I didn’t understand her first-grade math problems and, therefore, couldn’t help her.
And knowing that the fear of his disappointment in me from the Great Beyond was something that most people probably wouldn’t understand, I kept it to myself.
I’ve always believed in signs and have been somewhat superstitious. I’ve always thought that certain pj’s, when worn the night before, will give me luck the following day. I’ve always made a wish when the clock says 4:44, crossed my fingers for luck, and wished on shooting stars. But right after Brad died, my superstitious nature went into hyper-drive and I started looking for signs from him everywhere. I was fairly quiet about my convictions, afraid that if I told people that Brad’s spirit had stopped up my toilet as a joke, Social Services would be at my door, removing my children from the crazy lady who believed that her dead husband spoke to her through her plumbing.
Now, I think most widows believe in some sort of spiritual afterlife, and I’m betting that a lot of them really didn’t feel either way about it before their husbands died. And you just can’t explain it until it’s happened to you.
Actually, it can be pretty hard to explain even then.
One of my first experiences from the Great Beyond came about six months after Brad died. I was with my friend, Tiffany, attending a fundraiser with a Mardi Gras theme in February 2008 at an art gallery in downtown Denver. The weather was horrib
le that night, icy and cold, and I remember thinking as we slid down the highway that we should have just stayed home.
When we walked into the brightly lit gallery we, of course, immediately made our way to one of the bars that had been set up. The bartender handed us our drinks and a couple of cheap, feathered Mardi Gras masks, which we immediately snapped on, and we made our way through the rooms, looking at art and picking up the rich appetizers being passed around by waiters in white shirts and black ties. And when I looked up at the second-floor balcony, I noticed people mingling around booths and card tables.
“What’s going on up there?” I asked Tiffany, pointing to a blond woman who was sitting alone at a table, apparently waiting for a customer of some sort.
“They’ve provided complimentary tarot-card readings for the night,” she said.
“Really?” I said, my ears perking up. “I’ve always wanted to do that! Let’s go check it out.”
Once we made it up the modern-looking glass and metal staircase (that I looked down at in terror, wondering how I would make it back to the first floor in the heels I was wearing), we approached the blond woman and suddenly…we seemed to turn into two thirteen-year-olds.
“You go first,” I said to Tiffany, pushing her forward.
“No, you go first,” she said, pushing me in front of her.
“No, you.”
“For crying out loud, Catherine,” Tiffany said, mock exasperation in her voice. “Just sit down.”
I sat down with a thump and shyly looked at the woman sitting across from me. She looked incredibly ordinary for a “reader.” No tattoos of Zeus across her forehead. No piercings in places they shouldn’t be. Just a sweater, nice pants, and an open smile that made me think she should be teaching preschoolers how to perfect their uppercase letters.
Confessions of a Mediocre Widow Page 14