Prone to decision weariness when overwhelmed, I find myself marveling at all I decided in those first six months of widowhood. There was no choice in the matter. From what I fed myself out of my Winter-Covid stocked cabinets and freezer, to whether I would live on a golf course or in a neighborhood, the decisions came at me relentlessly—life-altering, heart-wrenching, and far-reaching.
I grieved the absence of VST. Which funeral home? Cremation? An urn? A service? An obituary? Pictures chosen with care? A proper eulogy? How many death certificates? Where to begin financially? Who to call? Countless details swirled in that first week. Friends reminded me to practice self-care, but in truth, it was all I could do to keep my daily planner close—documenting even the smallest things like breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even then, ten pounds slipped away without notice. Mechanical and deliberate, I became an automaton, making decision after decision.
The move was one VST and I had chosen together before life shattered. Still, new decisions emerged. Which movers? What budget? Logistics? Should I rent the new house early? When should I clean the old one? Which internet service? Where do I return the AT&T equipment? Insurance changes? Who would drive the rig to the new RV barn? These would have been overwhelming as a couple. Now, it was just me, alone in the wilderness of grief during Covid silence, choosing as quickly as I could.
Our beautiful, strong, funny, grieving, blended adult children became my comrades. Just when my ability to make one more decision began to fade, they would call. How did they always know? Their voices were exactly what I needed. Always reminding me—we were in this together. In a blended family, I knew VST and I had chosen each other, but the children had not chosen us. And yet, over 32 years, we became something whole. In this moment, with me standing alone, they stood stronger than I ever imagined—together, for all of us.
My closest friends grew even closer. They came—six hours one way—again and again. To hold my hand. To find laughter. To celebrate VST’s 66th birthday when so many could not gather. They came with masks dropped and arms open, embracing an emotionally spent widow who needed them more than ever. They knew what to say… even when saying nothing at all.
And then, one simple decision carried me through the loneliest days.
I chose gratitude.
In the early morning darkness, before my feet touched the floor, I would pray. For VST and for me. For the kids. For Oliver. For small goodness to find its way into my life. I searched for something—anything—to be grateful for in each moment.
And then… I chose happiness.
At first, I faked it. Of course I did. But I made myself find one thing—morning, noon, and night—that brought even the smallest flicker of joy. Slowly, I began to turn on the radio. I sang a little. I turned off the draining pull of the news. I spoke to VST every day, sharing my moments of happiness as I rearranged my old life into the beginnings of something new.
It was a deliberate choice.
Because grief… grief has a way of knocking you to your knees over the smallest things. A pair of frayed jockey briefs. An empty pen. A photograph that pulls you instantly back to a moment in time—the conversation, the laughter, the love. Tools he once used to fix everything with a simple, “It’s nothing, darlin’. Fixed and done. What next?” An empty RV that once carried 50,000 miles of exploring, laughing, arguing, planning, and dreaming.
And yet, behind the grief… were those same 50,000 miles of joy.
As the months unfolded, it began to feel strange not to live in happiness. I found myself smiling—a lot—even when no one was looking. I sang when no one could hear. I danced in his shirt with my wonderfully awkward 70’s moves, knowing he was somewhere laughing at me. I laughed with Oliver and saw his relief—his old/new mom finding her way back. I found delight in my autumn garden. Memories returned, no longer bitter, but warm… comforting… welcome.
A dear friend gave me a housewarming gift that now hangs above my kitchen table:
“Choose Happiness.”
It became my mission statement.
Choose happiness in this moment. Feel it. Hold it. Let it fill you like a warm, rich, caramel sundae feeding your soul. Then call it back again… and again… until it becomes as natural as breathing.
Do people and events drain that happiness? Of course they do. Every day. But we can choose how we meet them. We can step back. We can protect that space. Because in the beginning, happiness felt foreign—almost like I was betraying VST.
How wrong that was.
A dear friend once reminded me that VST was one of the most joyful men he knew. After all, his theme song was always:
“Don’t Worry, Be Happy.”
Country music lover that he was, that song never left him—and now, it hasn’t left me either.
So today… do something small.
Smile.
Snicker.
Better yet—laugh out loud.
Dance in his shirt. Watch something silly. Let yourself feel even a moment of light.
Because in this wilderness of grief, we all need a North Star—hope, perseverance, gratitude…
…and just above it all,
a quiet, steady rainbow of happiness.