Thirty Years a Widow

Jeez, that's almost half my life. Today is the anniversary of the sudden death of my third and BEST husband, Tino Jansen.  Each year I torture myself by re-living anxious memories of waiting for him to pick me up at the bus stop in Portland, where we'd moved a mere 6 months earlier.  I feared he'd been picked up by immigration, for our former company transferred him from Ridderkerk to NYC without bothering with proper documentation, then letting him go after several months.  Despite his unusual name, Tino was Dutch and therefore unaccustomed to our harsh practices of indiscriminate firings, home foreclosures and countless people living on the streets.  He watched O.J. Simpson's infamous motorcade with astonishment.  How do you explain, let alone justify, life in America?

I can still vividly recall riding that second bus, anxiously staring out the window while imagining all sorts of scenarios, none of which included discovering a dead body.  I went into shock, of course; and despite trying to do myself in, I'm still ticking off the years.  I did have one 12-year roller-coaster ride with the Captain which was certainly interesting, but hardly emotionally fulfilling.  Other than that I've been on my own,except for BC, bless her.

Perhaps, as Kamala Harris claims, it's time to turn the page.  So what wisdom have I gleaned over three decades of sorrow?

3D painting of Mom's house

#1:  Don't make any major decisions for at least a year.  I was younger than any other widow I knew, but I did hear plenty of stories from those who made decisions they later regretted.  The one I heard more than any other was of women selling their homes and moving into something smaller or to a different place, usually to live with their grown children.  Mom briefly considered moving into a condo, easier to maintain, an idea Sis and I encouraged (we meant well); but fortunately she decided to stay put and never regretted her decision.  Tino and I were renting an apartment, but one of the first things I said to Mom over the phone was, "I guess I'll move back home (to N.J.)"  I didn't, after all, and I'm so glad.  Your head's just not screwed on tightly that first year.  On the flip side (as on a phonograph record),  widowers tend to re-marry quickly.

#2:  GET OUT!  I received that sage advice from a favorite aunt and promised I would, but I didn't.  Shortly after Tino's death, I visited his family in Holland, who I'd never met.  I also visited good friends in Hawaii and Germany, hoping to distract my senses and lessen my pain just a little.  The early months are filled with cards and supportive messages, some flower arrangements and maybe prepared food; but people have their own lives, and you're eventually alone again with your grief.

I gave in to my depression and could hardly function, so I quit my part time job.  I spent my days drinking bourbon beginning at 10am, working on this crazy-quilt of our short-lived time together, and watching the Simpson trial until I passed out.  I stockpiled prescription pills and bought Final Exit, a How to commit suicide book, at Powell's Books.  I botched the attempt and injured myself in the process, which is when I realized God's keeping me alive until I'm at least 100, just to piss me off.  Living that long is becoming less unlikely, but I don't want to even think about the age God has in store for me now.  Point is, don't make my mistake.

#3:  Don't beat yourself up for still living.  I had survivor's guilt for much too long, despite these words from gal-pal Rita, who worked at the CDC, "Even if (his heart exploded) at the hospital, there wasn't anything you could have done."  I felt guilty because Tino complained the night before of a slight pain in his chest, but we chalked it up to stress and/or the flu.  Rita relayed a story of a man in his 50s taking his physical and on a treadmill when his heart gave out.  Nothing anyone could do brought little comfort to me at the time.  Guilt is a common response to death but let it go.  (We) don't wield that much power.

#4:  Join a support group.  In 1994 there wasn't much more than the Yellow Pages, and in my search for Grief Counseling I found the one source with a wrong number, which belonged to a Body Shop in the Bahamas, that was a strange conversation.  I eventually joined a group held in a church basement complete with a hand-holding prayer at the end, but I went along to be polite.  I'll never forget how, during the first meeting, we explained our losses in-turn.  I heard, "My father died," "I'm newly divorced," and the like; no one lost a spouse.  I waited my turn, smugly thinking, They don't have it nearly as bad as me.

Until the young gal, around 20, both hands bandaged, spoke.  "My two daughters died in a house fire on Christmas morning."  She'd burned her hands trying to save them, we all listened open-mouthed.  How can you possibly compare your experience to that?  It was an interesting and worthwhile seminar, meeting with strangers in pain and learning about the stages of grief, originally five but expanded now to twelve, here's a good explanation of each.  The one thing which stood out to me is how differently people react to grief; particularly the time to recover.  Every individual has a distinct story.

# 5:  Ignore anyone who says, "It's been long enough!"  The people who say something along those lines haven't experienced a deep-felt loss, but they will.  The doctor who prescribed the different anti-depressants (which weren't working for me) angrily told me, "Get over it.  It's been 6 months," and handed me the near-fatal prescription for barbituates.  I asked hime if he'd ever lost someone close.

“No…but my wife lost her dog and I saw how upset she was.”

Anyone who says Time to move on really means I'm tired of listening.  Time to find a new ear; and in the meantime keep yourself busy.  Aunt Helen took up a number of new hobbies, I really should have listened; but this is the way my story went.

#6:  No one can answer WHY.  When I woke up following my botched attempt I asked the Priest in the hospital chapel that very question, which he undoubtedly heard countless times.  He offered kind words but none to my satisfaction.  The only words which helped came from lifelong friend Inga. She carefully prefaced her well-chosen words by admitting her inability to answer my impossible question; then attempted to explain her nonsectarian view of life and death:

(sic)  "It’s like plants.  You can have two identical side by side; same soil; same sunlight; same care.  One grows strong; the other weakens and dies.  No particular reason and there’s nothing you can do about it.  It’s just nature.”  

Not exactly what I wanted to hear, but her words still come to mind as too-young friends pass away.

Schipol Airport

#7:  Try not to feel hurt as people distance themselves.  Just like after a divorce, you're no longer a 'couple', and to many you've become a fifth wheel.  Or maye it's too painful to see you in pain, no one wants to think about dying.  Tino died intestate and I had a devil of a time with paperwork, public announcements and lawyers.  After listening to my difficulties, more than one of my married friends re-considered making their own wills.  Here I am with Tino's brother, sister and in-laws, who eventually severed ties after 15 years.  Tino did tell me a bit about his family's dynamics and so I tried not to blame myself for imagined slights; but still, it hurt terribly.

Perhaps this post is more of a What NOT To Do when it comes to grieving, and that's ok.  I can't go back and re-gain the time I wasted, but if you're newly widowed hopefully my experiences can help you get through a really difficult period.  In hindsight, I should have taken better care of my health; not to mention my appearance.

Yesterday I bought a huge outdoor planter and lots of plants I can't identify.  The worst they can do is die, and I've already learned that doesn't necessarily mean the end.  So as I approach my 69th birthday and after 30 years of grieving, I think it's time to stop indulging my pity-party.  After all, my best days are still ahead of me!

P.S.  One of Tino's paintings all-of-a-sudden fell off a shelf, it's never done that before.  I'll take that as a 'sign' that Tino agrees.  Ik hou von jou, Tinoja.  Until we meet again.