Reflections– One Year of Widowhood

Next week, while the world celebrates Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, our family will feel the stark pain of one year without Matt. While we’ll do our best, as we always do, to create a sense of normalcy out of the abnormal, the hard truth is that Christmas Eve is now a very complicated holiday for us. And while I pray that memories of years past and merriment in the present bring us more laughter than tears, I can’t even begin to mask the void. Last year, I felt like a zombie just rolling through the motions of Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and the holidays that followed over the coming weeks. It was hard to feel anything to be honest; I felt numb, like I was living amidst a bad dream and all I could do was ride it out until I awoke. I was drained of every possible emotion; physically, mentally, and emotionally. This year, I’m fully aware of all that has gone on; I’m at a point where I accept that it happened. I may never understand why, but that’s the rub of loss, I suppose.

In this blog post, I reflect on different subjects as they correlate to my experience this year. Please keep in mind that every griever, and every person for that matter, has a unique path. We manage, cope, and even think differently. My experience may be vastly different from your own. And that’s ok. I respect that we all have thoughts and views on circumstances. These are mine. 

On the shock factor

I’ve noticed, specifically in some of the widow groups I belong to, that people often relate the loss of someone suddenly to the loss of someone who passed from a chronic illness (like cancer) differently, as if it’s less shocking and subsequently easier to handle. While this varies tremendously from person to person, I wasn’t any more or less prepared for Matt’s death from cancer than I would have been for death by any other cause. I come from a long line of people who refuse to give up or give in. Who refuse to believe that miracles can’t happen. There always felt like there was even the smallest chance of hope. The night before Matt died, I went home, after spending nights in the hospital.  At the time, I was still breastfeeding Bryson and it had been awhile since I had been home to do so. My phone was in my purse, and feeling so drained from everything, I lacked the energy to even look at it.  When I finally pulled it out, I noticed I had missed calls from my father in law. When I called him back, he said “you need to get back to the hospital. Matt’s turning” (hospital lingo for it’s real bad). When I got off the phone with him, I yelled to my dad that we had to get back to the hospital because Matt was probably going to die. My mother in law was with us, doing her best to hold it together for me, but knowing deep down there was no way to hold back at this point. I couldn’t stop shaking and crying. I can’t even describe it. For the first time ever, I felt completely out of control of my body. Matt stabilized for a bit once we arrived, but at that point, we knew. He was mostly out of it. He asked me if he could go home; I told him yes. I don’t know if that was the right or wrong thing to say, but I don’t regret saying it. This is the first time I’m recounting this night; I didn’t even plan on writing this. It hurts more than you know, but it goes to show, that in my mind, you are never more or less prepared for the untimely death of your spouse or anyone else so integral to your life that thought of losing them never seems real. It’s honestly still mind numbing.

On The Holidays 

Each holiday feels a little different, but the pattern seems consistent for me. I tend to get anxious leading up to said day, but when the day arrives, it’s not as tough as I expect. As I see all of the happy families, eating, drinking, and celebrating together in their seemingly uncomplicated lives, it takes effort to not feel sadness, jealousy, and, quite honestly, “wronged.”  But, with the holidays and milestones, I have open support from so many. People check-in; people share fond memories. There exists a collective acknowledgement of something I experience every single day. I find the ordinary moments far more challenging. I miss Matt every day because he was part of my every day. For nine years, he was a staple in my life, from the moment I got out of bed until I shut my eyes at night. When you lose someone so integral to your daily existence, you lose more than that person. You lose the routines, the idiosyncrasies, the banter, the physical love, and, the future you dreamed about together. So, when someone asks me how I’m doing on a holiday, my response is in line with how I’m doing most of the time. I’m muddling through, figuring out how to avoid getting lost in a hole and learning to enjoy, or at least show up for, the moments in the present. 

On solo parenting

Never in a million years would I have dreamed of being a single mom. Being a mom in general was a little terrifying to me, let alone parenting on my own. Quite honestly, I’m not sure I’m any less terrified today, but I’m handling it. I think my status as a single mom hit me most the first time Bryson got sick. I stayed home from work and didn’t leave his side for five days. I worried constantly about the “what-ifs” because my brain automatically went to worst case scenario. I had no calm in my storm. What should I be doing? What should I be looking for? I spoke to the doctor more in those five days that I had in his entire life (not without annoyance from the doctor). It was literally just a cold virus, but what did I know? I’m a rookie mom with no gauge of “normal.” But, I handled it. 

Now, my fear surrounds making the “right” decisions for us. Matt was my confidante; we made all decisions together. We didn’t always agree on the appropriate path, but we could talk it out and reason with each other. Now, it’s just me. I have to make the right decisions for us. In a pretty intense coaching discussion that started with a seemingly unrelated circumstance, my “am I enough?” self- questioning habit came up. I struggle fully believing that I can do this; that I can be a stellar solo parent, caretaker of our home, working professional, advocate, and a human with healthy relationships outside my home. My coach asked me what I’m objectively ranking myself against. What is “enough?” My answer back to her was “I don’t think there is an objective answer to that.”  Realizing the scale is subjective, I control it. If success metrics take into account the number of purely amazing Bryson hugs (oopas), I’d say I’m doing pretty well.

On the move

Frankly, I struggle feeling fully confident that I made the “right” decision, even in regards to our move. Selfishly, I really miss my friends; I miss my neighborhood; I even miss the reminders of Matt that permeated through our former city. Today, I miss covered parking, warmer temperatures, and less snow. But, it’s not just about me. As humans, I think it’s natural to look at the other side of things and find reasons why we “made the wrong choice.” It’s easy to get caught up in negative self talk and the “should have.” If I had done this, then this would be different. “If I hadn’t moved, maybe I wouldn’t feel super lonely right now.” On the opposite side, there is a tendency to try to change circumstances to feel different. When I moved, I went into this knowing that it wasn’t going to change any of my feelings; it wasn’t going to be my saving grace to pain. It wasn’t going to implicitly make me any more or less ready to “move forward.” It was a move made with the main intent of providing more support to Bryson, making it easier for his grandparents to play a bigger role in his life, and giving me the support (and time) to move forward. Reiterating that to myself helps me to calm Gertrude (my inner critic) down a bit and find peace in my decision. 

But just as circumstances don’t cause our feelings, I’m not going to get anywhere without taking actionable steps to feel less socially isolated.  Matt and I used to joke around that we didn’t need more friends; we maxed out on the number of people we could properly provide attention to on the friendship level. If you saw our wedding party of over 20 people, you know. Now, I find myself in a weird position of having to intentionally make friends again. How does one do this as a 34 year old single mom? During Covid and working remotely? If there are answers out there, I am all ears. 

What grief “looks” like today

Grief looks just as complicated as it was last December,  and, for that matter, back in January of 2019. But it’s a different type of complicated. Blogging and writing about this process of grieving  has helped me significantly when it comes to coping. Listening to other grief journeys  and hearing about many of your own paths has helped me tremendously. I’m at a point now where the grief isn’t consistently acute. I still have frequent encounters with painful memories, stinging reminders of Matt’s absence, and difficulty engaging in a lot of our “things” (I can’t watch The Office to this day). I still experience sadness and even anger. But, instead of looking at this as something I want to suppress or fix, I’m accepting it as part of my book. As part of who I am, but not my entire being. The grief of losing Matt isn’t something that will ever go away; just like the love that we shared won’t ever be lost. I can still love Matt with all my heart and make space for someone else in my heart. I believe these things can happen.  But…how? TBD.

When A Matter of Hope ended in August,  I was terrified. I had used A Matter of Hope to cope with everything; to me, A Matter of Hope kept Matt alive. It kept people talking about Matt; it felt like I was doing something valuable to continue fighting for him. As we approached the event, I felt a wave of anxiety rush over me. A Matter of Hope is an event we hope to continue for a long time; I knew that I needed to put in some work to not repeat the cycle next year. Enter, my life coach. I hired a coach who specifically works with widowed moms because she is a widowed mom herself. This investment has been a saving grace, especially as we move through a particularly challenging time. It’s a space of open discussion, curiosity, and growth.  As I’ve mentioned in many posts, I tend to “numb” with things to do.  This isn’t unique to my current situation. I remember I went through an emotionally challenging second semester of my senior year in high school. So what did I do? I picked up a second job on top of everything else I had on my plate. I figured that less time in my days meant less time to wallow, less time to sit with any pain or feelings of inadequacy I felt. While my motives are different now, I saw these patterns happening once again. I knew I had to work through these emotions; I needed to start healing.

As I learn to manage my own grief, and to make space for all of the feelings that come with it, I grieve for Bryson. I grieve for Matt. I grieve for the relationship that was so unjustly taken from them. I worry about what implications all of this will have on Bryson’s future. Just as I find my path, Bryson will find his. 

So where do we go from here? I wish I knew the answer. But then again, maybe I don’t? Maybe there’s promise and value in letting things unfold as they should. Life is a crazy, unpredictable mess. I can relate. I have a special blog post heading your way next week.

Until next time,

Xtina