A Widow's Awakening

  “I wouldn’t want to be you,” Ed says as I place pink carnations on her headstone.

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “It’s just that I know how much you loved Sam,” he explains, “so I can’t fathom what this last year has been like for you.”

  “It’s been the shits. And not a goddamn thing has changed either.”

  “What did you expect to change?”

  I shrug. “I dunno.”

  “Gandhi said you must be the change you wish to see in the world.”

  “And what about everyone else?”

  “Most people won’t change unless they absolutely have to,” he says, “and that’s usually not until the eleventh hour.”

  I sit down on the grass. “Ed, do you believe in fate?”

  He thinks a moment. “I believe destiny is waiting for you at the corner store—but if you don’t leave your house to go buy that carton of milk, you won’t meet it.”

  I smile. “I guess that answers my question about going to New York tomorrow.”

  “Why wouldn’t you go?”

  “Because I’m scared shitless.”

  “At this point,” he says. “Manhattan is probably the safest place on earth.”

  “But it sucks having to go alone.”

  “It also takes courage.” He nods toward my grandma’s headstone. “Luckily, you come from a long line of strong women.”

  At the age of 32, my grandmother left England for Canada with plans to marry a Saskatchewan farmer. But on the ship journey over, she fell in love with my grandfather, an engineer and army major from Ottawa. They married within the week and their daughter, my mother the lioness, arrived shortly thereafter with a birth weight of 3 pounds, 6 ounces. In 1925, it was a miracle she survived but a testament to her inner strength.

  “What if I don’t have a baby?” I blurt. “Will that line end with me?”

  Ed frowns. “Do you even want a child?”

  “I dunno.”

  “Then you better do some serious soul-searching to find out.”

  “I think I’m in love with Tom.”

  He smiles. “That’s certainly plausible.”

  “He’s not in love with me, though.”

  “Tom can’t be, Adri…at least not at this point. For lots of reasons.”

  I pick a dandelion, nodding.

  “And besides, he already has kids, doesn’t he?” Ed asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “So?”

  “So…as much as you don’t want to be alone, I strongly suggest you make wise use of this time. You need to figure out what you really want out of life and then slowly start working toward that. There are no shortcuts.”

  “That’s not the answer I wanted to hear,” I say.

  “Then you shouldn’t have asked the question.”

  I throw the dandelion at his head.

  With a laugh, he catches it. “Better than a cookie.”

  We walk together back to his car. He opens the rear door on the driver’s side, pulls out my knapsack and hands it to me. “You forgot this at the memorial service.”

  “YOU’RE GOING to the war-torn streets of Manhattan,” the US customs officer says to me the next day, “for a holiday?”

  “Yeah. I planned this trip before the World Trade Center, er…fell.”

  “That was only three weeks ago,” he says.

  “I realize that.”

  After scrutinizing my passport, he hands it back. “Well, have a good trip.”

  First stop is Yankee Stadium where dozens of police officers stand guard outside the building. Inside, I buy my Yankees ball cap, a hot dog and a beer then walk up the ramp to watch a ball game in a near-empty stadium.

  After a mammoth American breakfast the next morning, I walk from my hotel on Broadway all the way to the financial district. Past the jazz bars of Greenwich Village I stroll but there are no crowds of cheerful patrons singing. Nor do I see steam rising from manhole covers. The remains at Ground Zero, however, are still smoldering.

  I stop in front of a flower-laden shrine to fallen police officers and firefighters and bow my head. I say a prayer for the dead as well as a fanciful wish for the loved ones left behind: may their year ahead be less horrific than the past one has been for me.

  Walking toward Battery Park, I see a group of marines armed with machine guns, standing at a checkpoint. One of them stares out across the water. I turn my head to follow his gaze and there, through the barbed-wire fence, I see the real Statue of Liberty for the first time.

  “There she is,” I whisper.

  I close my eyes and I’m on the bridge again with Sam in the Venice of Vegas. I see the gondolier, in his cheerful red scarf, gently paddling his gondola through the canal as beautiful Italian music fills the air. I smell Sam’s cologne, now mixed with the scent of smoke and flowers, and feel the soft weight of his hand on my shoulder as we stand together, looking out over the…

  “Ma’am?”

  I open my eyes and turn around. The marine who had been staring at the Statue of Liberty is now standing behind me. The Empire State Building looms in the background. His hand drops to his side. “Are you all right?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Then I’m going to have to ask you to head back the way you came,” he says, “because this is a restricted area.”

  I begin the long walk back to my hotel, past the thousands of missing persons’ photographs flapping on telephone poles.

  THE FOLLOWING afternoon, I’m sitting on a park bench in Central Park, watching the ducks in the lagoon, when a teenager sits down beside me and asks how I’m doing.

  “Not bad, thanks.”

  “That was quite something, huh?” he says. “About those towers?”

  I nod. “No kidding. I…”

  “A group of us have come from Texas to see if we could help.” He shifts so he’s facing me. “Have you let Jesus into your heart?”

  I stare at the ducks. “That’s an interesting question.”

  “We’re here to spread the word of God,” he says, patting his bible.

  I turn to him. “I see. And what is that, exactly?”

  He holds up the Bible. “This is the word of God.”

  “No,” I say, “that’s a book. What’s the word of God?”

  “Ma’am, are you a Christian?”

  I throw back my head and laugh. “I’d have to go with no.”

  He pats his bible again. “This is the truth. This is the word of God.”

  “You still haven’t told me what that word is.”

  The teen turns and stares at the ducks for a few minutes. “Love,” he says finally.

  I smile. “Bingo.”

  Clearly unimpressed with me, he wanders off. I head over to the Bronx Zoo and am standing in front of the bear enclosure, watching an old timer snoozing in the sun, when an older woman comes up to me.

  “He’s not too worried about world events,” she says.

  “No kidding.”

  The woman, a zoo volunteer, proceeds to enthusiastically tell me about the bear’s history, personality and daily habits. I’m inspired by her commitment. This is her tiny corner of the world and despite all that’s happened she still takes her job seriously.

  Then I go to the New York Public Library bookstore and buy The Metaphysical Club by Louis Menand. I sit on the front steps and am flipping through the book when a sentence catches my eye. It is about how organisms don’t struggle because they must evolve but rather how they evolve because they must struggle. Clunk. Because of my struggles this past year, I am evolving. I feel a faint stirring inside, as if that part of myself that fell alongside Sam is finally trying to get back up again.

  I head over to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where I find myself almost running from one exhibit to the next…from Greece to China, Mesopotamia to Peru. Then I hit the Natural History Museum and look for Lucy—the 3.5-million-year-old hominid I’d read about in university. When I find the exhibit, I wave at her through the glass. At long l
ast science is blooming again in the garden of my mind—alongside a few persistent religious weeds.

  At the space exhibit at the other end of the museum, where I’d heard complimentary snacks were being offered, I down a glass of wine and a few meatballs then catch the IMAX show, narrated by Tom Hanks. Inside the empty theatre, I gaze up at the replica night sky.

  “We are in the universe,” says Tom, “and the universe is in us.”

  I scan the sky for Orion’s Belt and when I spot the three stars in a row, I smile.

  In the gift store on the way out of the museum, I buy a pink dragonfly necklace and matching earrings to symbolize the year of transformation I’ve made it through.

  My final evening in New York is spent at a sold-out performance of La Boheme at the Met.

  “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I turn to my right and see a guy about my age sitting where Jodie—or Sam in an ideal world or Tom in a next-to-ideal one—should be.

  I smile. “Yeah it is.”

  ELEVEN DAYS later, home in Canada, I’m driving home from the dog park and come across a dead squirrel in the middle of the road. I stop the car, get out and am bending over to pick up its little body to put in a plastic bag, when the police helicopter flies overhead.

  I place the squirrel in the garbage can in my back alley then head inside the house. The phone rings. Another young police officer in our city has died in the line of duty—the eleventh one in the history of our city—this one in a training incident. I sit down in my big blue chair and cry.

  But this is not about me. I will not go off the deep end again. Yet, for the next few days, my phone rings relentlessly. The parallels to Sam’s death are uncanny: the same time of year, the result of an unbelievable sequence of events, a childless widow the same age as me left behind. The media interview me. How do I feel? What do I think? How is it similar to losing Sam? What advice can I offer the new widow? How have I coped over the past year?

  “Why the fuck didn’t you call me?” I scream at Tom over the phone, after two days pass with no word from him.

  Silence.

  “What’s your problem?” I ask.

  “I didn’t call you,” he says, “because I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

  “I thought we were friends,” I snap and hang up the phone.

  The next morning, he asks me for coffee at our usual place.

  “You were very upset yesterday,” he begins.

  “Yeah, well…”

  He leans across the table. “Adri, I don’t want to hurt you, but you need to understand that nothing is ever going to happen between us.”

  “But I feel something between us.”

  “You feel what you want to feel,” he says, “not what’s really there.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Maybe because you’re not ready to.”

  Neither of us says anything for a few minutes. Then he points to the necklace I bought in New York. “I’m surprised to see you wearing a cross.”

  “It’s not a cross. It’s a dragonfly.”

  Tom squints. “Oh. So it is.”

  I am about to stand up when he says, “By the way, I was thinking about your number eleven.”

  “And?”

  “And that is a good number to represent the concept of soul mates.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “Because,” he continues, “what is the number eleven but two ones, side by side… and one plus one equals two. I bet the key to a healthy relationship is that both individuals need to be happy on their own first.”

  I smile. Message received.

  IN THE afternoon, the police chief phones me, figuring I might have some sort of sage advice for the new widow.

  What am I supposed to tell her? The truth?

  Dear Widow,

  Hello and welcome to hell. I’ve just finished my one-year contract and now it’s your turn to give it a go. Regardless of the path you choose, you’ve just entered what will undoubtedly be the shittiest journey of your life. But for what it’s worth, here are a few pointers on how not to grieve:

  Don’t underestimate the immense power of love and its unexplainable mysteries. Yet do not lie to yourself about the fact of death, choosing instead to become consumed by the psychological reaction to it—what we call grief. Do not deny yourself the experience of feeling the pain. Don’t pretend you’re OK, when it feels as if your heart has been ripped from your body but you’re not lucky enough to die along with it.

  Don’t be angry with the idiots who whisper in your ear to “be strong” and not worry because “you’re young.” Or that it’s a good thing you didn’t have children together—or that your loss couldn’t possibly be as bad as losing a child. And try not to dwell on the fact that you’re thirty-three and might not get the chance to have a child now.

  Don’t take it too personally when those around you move forward with their own lives while you’re left sitting at home, staring at the walls, kissing photos of your dead husband and wondering what the hell just happened. And do not fool yourself into thinking that it’s your job, and your job only, to ensure your husband’s memory is honoured.

  Do not twist a religious belief to fit your desires. If and when the suicidal thoughts come, do not give in to the self-pity monster. Be careful about fantasizing about another guy because doing so makes you temporarily feel better about the great one you’ve just lost. Yet if a new relationship feels right with all your heart, don’t let guilt stop you from being happy again.

  And don’t let anyone tell you how long it will take for you to heal—but be aware that time is passing, whether you’re healing or not. Don’t search for meaning in every greeting card and graffiti message. Don’t look to external belief systems to give you the answers—because the only truth that matters is within you and the relationship you shared with your husband.

  Love from a former widow

  P.S. Don’t eat too many cookies.

  P.P.S. When you’re ready, you can legally remarry and still receive compensation.

  P.P.P.S. The national memorial service for fallen officers, which you’ll be attending next year in Ottawa, is about as much fun as poking a knitting needle in your eye.

  Of course, I don’t give her the letter. When I do meet her, I simply say, “I’m sorry,” then shut up and listen. For I know the only right way to grieve will be her way.

  On the day of her husband’s funeral, there’s an unexpected October snowstorm to complete the parallels to Sam’s funeral. When Louie B. Armstrong’s “It’s a Wonderful World” is played during the service, I can’t stop crying, thinking it’s not one whatsoever.

  In the procession afterward, I walk along in my brown swing coat—worn again at a police funeral instead of lunch with a New York publisher—past the hundreds of saluting emergency services personnel from across North America. When I hear the familiar chopping sound, I look up and watch the police helicopter doing the fly-over.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Hey.”

  I turn to see Mark beside me.

  Nodding toward the helicopter, I say, “Sometimes I wonder if the big guy’s up there, watching us.”

  “And if he is, what would he be saying?”

  “Are you learning anything down there?” is my reply.

  The sun’s coming out again, so I put on my Jackie O sunglasses. “We’ve got so much work ahead of us,” I add. “With the workplace safety stuff, I mean.”

  “It’ll get done,” Charlie says, joining me on the other side.

  The three of us break away from the dwindling procession to take a shortcut back to the church, where there will inevitably be an array of baked goods at the reception. As we walk through the parking lot, Mark asks me how my book is coming.

  “It’s in pretty rough shape,” I reply. “I reckon it’ll be awhile yet.”

  He smiles. Funny…I’ve never noticed before how nice his teeth are.

&
nbsp; “I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait,” he says, opening the church door for me.

  Plan M.

  JULY 2002

  A FARMHOUSE IN CENTRAL ALBERTA

  I DARE say I found your road.

  That you did.

  It wasn’t in the middle of an Iowa cornfield.

  I told ya it wouldn’t matter where it was.

  Well, you were right about the feeling free part.

  I know.

  Now can you see what’s beyond the field…the bigger picture?

  I can see more of it than you can, put it that way.

  And am I on the right track?

  Are you happy?

  I’m getting there.

  Then you’re on your way. You’ve certainly got quite the imagination.

  You’re one to talk! You don’t get much cornier than Pucdeuos.

  If you’d left me alone once in awhile, I coulda come up with something better.

  You can go now, I say with a giggle.

  A Widow’s Awakening was self-published as a creative non-fiction book in 2008. Over the next decade, we sold two thousand copies. However, based on the heartfelt testimonials I have received from readers over the years, I got the sense that we could reach significantly more readers by partnering with the right publisher. As such, I was thrilled when A Widow’s Awakening was picked up for publication by BHC Press.

  Now that ten years have passed since the book was self-published—and nearly twenty years since John’s death—I have a few comments pertaining to some of the topics raised in the book, which may explain why I am hoping for a larger readership.

  First, from an occupational health & safety perspective, since John died as the result of a preventable fall at an unsafe workplace in 2000, thousands and thousands of people have died at work, been seriously injured, or are suffering from (or succumbed to) an illness as the result of their job.