What Happened to my Social Life?

After a few years as president of an engineering firm, Ken made a push to expand and diversify his client base. In the course of those endeavors, he met someone in the steel fabrication end of the industry with whom he established not only a strong business relationship but also a close friendship. After months of phone and email exchanges we met Claudio in person at a conference in St. Louis in 2013, which was the first of many get-togethers in various places, including in Italy, where we witnessed his wedding to Jill. He eventually took over as president of his company, so he and Ken had a lot in common professionally. Before the pandemic and his illness kept Ken out of the office, he frequently spoke to Claudio on his commute home, sitting in the driveway long after his arrival, conversing about everything from important business matters to the amusing minutiae of life. Claudio and his wife made the drive to visit with Ken during his time in hospice and then returned a few weeks later for his memorial service. That was the last time I saw them before I received an invitation to attend the 100th anniversary party for Schenectady Steel this summer.

I felt like I should go; after all, had Ken been alive there was no question that we would’ve been there with bells on. But to attend without Ken? Without my husband and no longer an employee of LVTA, I wondered if I still belonged in this circle. And even though I longed to see Claudio and Jill, I knew they would have myriad other guests to host and wouldn’t be in a position to spend much time with me. Both Ken’s former business partner and the current president of LVTA were unable to attend, but Ken’s good friend and coworker Joe said he would be going, so I accepted the invitation knowing I’d at least have someone to sit through dinner with. And it seemed like a good idea, even with an 180 mile drive to get there, until I was just outside the city limits a few hours before the party and I thought “what am I doing here?”. Why am I inserting myself into a part of my life that was Ken’s purview, a part of my life that is undeniably in the past? It took some serious fortitude to keep from turning the car around and heading home.

A short time later I am pulling into the venue parking lot and have a text from Joe asking if I made it. While I am checking in, he comes over to greet me; it is a relief to see him in person after many months of communicating only via text. Ken’s friend since childhood and his faithful fishing buddy, I have known Joe almost as long as I knew Ken. We agree to meet at the bar for a little pregame, and are catching up there when Claudio walks by and sees us. He hugs me in greeting and then begins to cry and then to admonish himself, feeling guilty for having left so many months go by without more contact. I try to allay his concerns, because we have all been navigating new territory here, even though I have struggled with feeling neglected by friends we once considered close.

When my father-in-law died over a decade ago, I remember my mother-in-law telling me that all of their friends had dropped her. I dismissed this as exaggerated complaining; after all, I knew of some of their friends that continued to socialize with her. But now I see these changes myself, and although I won’t describe them so starkly, there is a sense of abandonment that is hard to shake, even if the situation is more complicated than that one-sided description.

After all, many of our friends were couples, and the dynamic of two pairs interacting is different than that of an individual with a pair. When the nights are lonely, I think that maybe they liked Ken better and I was just part of the deal, or maybe the wives don’t want me around their husbands now that I am single. But in the light of day I can appreciate both that everyone is just getting on with their lives, and that things are different now. It is impossible to recreate the same interplay between four people when one of those people is gone.

Let me emphasize that I am very grateful for all the support shown by many of our friends through this hell. But something about Ken’s death seems to have changed almost all of my relationships. My married girlfriends have been great, but they have their spouses and their natural complaints about same - what I wouldn’t give to be annoyed by Ken again - and their lives as part of a couple. We now exist in different worlds. Some of Ken’s friends have been attentive too: reaching out with offers to socialize or to help with tasks around the house and yard. But I don’t want anyone to feel obligated to maintain a connection just to honor Ken’s memory. Some of our couple friends continue to treat me largely the same, which has made me feel truly loved. Overall I generally don’t receive invitations to dinner unless someone’s husband is out of town, and no one has asked me to join them for a concert, once a common outing with our friends. Even though Ken provided the bulk of my companionship, my circle has shrunk by much more than him alone.

The evening in Schenectady is tough. When I see Joe in the lobby, I cry. When I see Claudio at the bar, I cry. When I see Jill in the banquet hall, I cry. These friends all carry reminders of Ken, and recognizing those living and breathing bits in them is overwhelming. There are more tears when I am reacquainted with some of Claudio’s colleagues who worked with Ken: when I introduce myself I see the sudden dawning of recognition on their faces, and they reflect for a moment and mumble into their drinks “He was a good guy”. Yes, he was. It is hard to repeatedly feel the loss, knowing that Ken should’ve been sitting there as an honored guest, celebrating the success of his friend’s business, and instead I am faced with mourning his absence throughout what is clearly a party, not a memorial service. Still there is a great comfort in being among friends who also loved him, who share in my sorrow and understand at least in part what I have lost.

Death makes our lives smaller in many ways, and I am finding that with the death of a spouse, there is this collateral damage: the alteration of our relationships. It is ironic that just when we most need our people, the ease we once shared is replaced by ambiguity: do we still fit together when we are missing a part? As much as I crave companionship, I still need time to den and lick my wounds, so initiating social exchanges can be hard. In the interest of full disclosure, I have turned down a few invitations, because some days facing those couples who are enjoying a recent retirement or a new grandchild - experiences that Ken was cheated out of and we will never enjoy together - is too much to handle. The difficulties of maintaining a social life right now are varied, and I recognize that I am part of the problem.

I’m glad I went to the anniversary party. The food was delicious, there was live music to enjoy, and they put on an impressive fireworks display. Most of all, it was great to be among old friends, and feel the camaraderie we once shared when Ken was in our midst. But on the long drive home, I came to the realization that it may have been the last time I ever see Claudio, Jill, or Joe again. I hope not, but after all, the geographical distance between us means that any in-person interaction is complicated, and then there is this psychological distance that exceeds even the physical miles. Ken was the bridge between us, and without him that gap seems pretty wide. While the ebb and flow of relationships over time is normal, right now it is one more adjustment I don’t have much capacity for. But hopefully we can all be patient and forgiving with each other while we make our way forward, whether that be together or not.