Start Here
My husband Ken and I raised three children together, and on the cusp of our empty nest in 2017, he was diagnosed with an auto-immune disorder that would in turn cause the cancer that would eventually kill him. So soon after I relinquished my day to day duties as a mother, there were additional caregiving tasks as I looked after his new medical concerns. Those efforts became more urgent at the cancer diagnosis two years later, and for the last year and a half or so of Ken’s life his care was essentially a full-time job for me, culminating in nearly a month of the 24/7 commitment of at-home hospice nursing. This all felt fairly natural as I was always taught to put the needs of others before my own, and for the course of our marriage I managed almost all aspects of our personal and familial lives, including maintaining friendships and volunteering in our community.
So caring for people comes pretty naturally to me at this point. Now that my children have lost their father and my mother-in-law has lost her son, they could all use some extra attention from me. The urge to connect with my entire circle, after the long stretch of relative isolation from caring for a cancer patient during a pandemic, is strong. But the death of my husband has broken enough of me that I don’t have much capacity for giving right now. The First Thing This Mourning is to remember that my grief is an injury that needs time and effort to heal. And that there are physical, mental, emotional and spiritual components to this injury which all need to be addressed. Not to “get over” the loss - I know I will never be the same person without Ken - but to ease the transition to this unfamiliar new world.
One of my favorite planning tasks for the family was arranging itineraries for vacations. We rarely repeated a destination, mostly because there were so many places we wanted to visit. Ken and I believed that almost everywhere has something to offer, something to teach us. Museums in major cities or historical markers in small towns, grand vistas in national parks or flora and fauna along obscure trails, we wanted to take it all in. I’m not thrilled to be in this particular wilderness, but I do wonder what I will learn from widowhood.
I offer two items of caution as we begin this exploration. First, I am generally an optimistic person who finds humor in many things, but in the last five months I’ve spent many hours wavering between discontent and desolation. Staying honest and open in my musings is the only way I know to fully process these feelings. Grief honors my husband and the love we shared, and I don’t intend to diminish that honor by sugarcoating the experience. I trust that we can all handle discussions of loss even if they make us uncomfortable.
And second, I will make references to things people say and do. You may recognize something akin to your words or actions in some of my observations. Because most of us, myself included, have said and done these things, the reference is likely an amalgamation of several interactions, so I ask you to avoid interpreting these descriptions as personal criticisms. My goal is only to show how differently some things may feel from the perspective of the bereaved, in the hope that together we gain a deeper understanding of this aspect of the human condition.
I am not an expert in grief. And parts of my experience as a widow will be different from the grief of a parent or of a child, or of a sibling, friend or colleague. It will be different from other left behind spouses too, since grief is influenced by myriad factors. But regardless of these differences, I hope that my descriptions of this mourning ring true to you. If I can help someone feel seen, or help one of their loved ones bear witness to their grief, then I’ll feel like I have been able to give again.
Looking forward to your companionship on this journey.