At 92, coping with the hard work of being a widow

Ward, my husband of 56 years, died unexpectedly three years ago, and I still burst into tears when something triggers a precious memory, like his jubilant maestro imitations. Or receiving the Kennedy Center’s seasonal ballet brochure, which Ward would have pounced on to check at least six dances he wanted us to see. Or standing at my kitchen table, sampling different yogurts. Ward and I would have treated it like a fine wine tasting, declaring we detected “alpine grass with a hint of cat pee!”

Silly. Ridiculous. But fun together.

How often I want to be folded into his hug so much that I ache with longing. It’s then that I feel all alone.

I never thought it would be possible to miss someone so much that you couldn’t bear the heaviness of it for one more second. What do you do when there is nothing you can do?

The fellow residents in my retirement community in Falls Church, Va., many of whom are widows or widowers, have tried to help me cope. Almost without exception, even those who lost their spouses 15 or 20 years ago tell me: Take it one day at a time; deal with each day’s problems as they come; don’t worry about the future; don’t expect things to change overnight.

It’s hard, but it’s the only thing we can do.

The night he died

At first, when my sadness was unbearable, I howled. Like the call of a loon. I let it out in a flood.

I muffled the cries in my husband’s pillow that still held the lingering scent of shaving lotion. This happened, without warning, two or three times a month after Ward died.

The first outburst was a delayed shock. It happened the night Ward died of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. I was with him, stroking his cheek. Even when his breath whispered away so gently that I was barely aware it had stopped, I remained dry-eyed. I didn’t weep even when his head slipped down, almost imperceptibly to the side. In fact, I remember smiling because his pose recalled the vulnerable, soft attitude of the Pietà, the sculpture by Michelangelo.

I didn’t cry when I left the hospital at midnight; I held my emotions in check, almost numb, as I forced myself to concentrate on my driving. I hadn’t driven at night in years.

I was trembling by the time I walked through the silent, shadowy halls of my retirement community. At the doorway of my apartment, my trembling increased. Suddenly my entire body shuddered violently. For a moment, I clung to the doorknob for support, then stumbled as fast as I could through the moonlit apartment to Ward’s bedroom. I flung myself face down onto his bed. I clenched his pillow, opening and closing my fingers as fiercely as I could, as if to squeeze his essence into the skin of my cheeks.

And then I howled. I howled and sobbed and cried out Ward’s name over and over until, torn with exhaustion, I fell asleep, feverish and sweaty, amid wads of ragged tissues soaked with tears and saliva.

The daunting task of widow work

The next morning, white and drained, I started the daunting task of widow work, a nasty term that I wish I hadn’t learned. I hate being called a widow. I detest the word. It’s harsh. It’s dark.

For the next few weeks, I moved in a suspended yet incredibly busy state. Days passed in a blur as I shuffled through scattered piles of legal paperwork that made my stomach clench with anxiety. At times, I simply slouched in a chair for long, dead minutes and stared sightlessly at the wall.

I did all that because I was not prepared. I wasn’t prepared for anything. Ward and I never reviewed his finances and insurance policies before he died. Fortunately, we had updated our wills a year earlier, and about 25 years ago we both filled out an advance directive, also known as a living will. We got ours from the Navy while Ward was on active duty. We spelled out such wishes as what hymns and Bible readings we wanted at our memorial services and how we would like to be remembered.

Friends had warned me that I’d be swamped by widow work, but I had no idea that I would work at it for eight to 10 hours a day for about six months before the workload was reduced to just a few hours a day.

I kept a notebook specifically for lists of survivor duties. There’s nothing more gratifying than drawing a line through a task that has been done. And slowly, I dug myself out of the paperwork, one DMV visit and one call to the Navy Mutual Aid Society at a time.

People told me I was “so strong.” They meant well, but it felt wrong to me.

Grieving — and carrying on

I’ve tried to keep my grieving as private as possible. But my fellow widows and widowers know about the howling, the crying into the pillow. They told me the loneliness never goes away completely.

One friend held back tears as he told me how he tried to tell his dying wife about a photography award he had won that week. She would have been delighted, he said to me.

I understood. While I was caring for Ward, I was also working on a novel based on our long-ago trip to Chichén Itzá in Mexico. I dedicated the book to him. He had planned every detail of the trip, and, as always with my work, read my manuscript and made valuable suggestions.

My first copy arrived in the mail the day before Ward died. Like the photographer who tried to show his award to his wife, I held up my book to Ward. His eyelids flickered, but I don’t think he understood.

Many people have told me of their need to communicate with loved ones who are dying and of the joy of getting a response no matter how small.

Ward didn’t respond to my book, but I’ll never forget how he mouthed my name when I took his hand, and I was warmed with love and gratitude when he tried to follow along as I murmured the Lord’s Prayer in his ear. I was comforted when our priest gave Ward last rites, which ushered him into God’s loving arms.

As a Christian, I feel that this rite offered a fulfillment to my life with Ward. For mourners of other faiths and beliefs, I hope there are equally comforting moments at this time of passage. I think of the people who have lost their loved ones to the coronavirus and did not have the blessing and comfort I had of being with my husband when he died.

I think of them often when I am grieving with indescribable loneliness. I’m sure that they, too, feel somehow “wrong” when people remark on how strong they are as they carry on the ordinary, necessary routines of life.

I hope they do carry on, as I try to — and howl a bit if it helps.