These days, life here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada is great. I begin every day telling myself that very thing, repeating it often. I practice smiling a lot and try to avoid triggering things like unnecessary dosses of the news. I focus on positive plans, like my date with MM to the upcoming Cantaloupe Festival, or watching the weird Burners as they roll through town.
I don’t talk about the loss of VST in April of 2020 all that often anymore. Most days, I’m a gardener that grieves, not a griever that gardens. New friends don’t know my story, and I really like it that way. Revealing it to newbies opens the wound all over again. I’ve been traveling this road for more than 1200 days now, and some days still, putting one foot in front of the other is the best I can do.
In the beginning of this journey, I convinced myself that I should write a book about my personal experiences. As the years have gone on, I now see the arrogance of that thought. My story isn’t any different than the innumerable heartbreaks suffered from time’s beginning. Looking back, I told myself a thousand little lies just to get from one day to the next, always assuring myself that grief had vanished out the back door. But, a little grief hides in every memory, waiting for an ambush. You just never know when.
Writing the days away has given me new fulfillment in my life. I’ve become one of the bravest women I know. Not by choice, but by fire. Sure. I’ve coped. Poorly at times. Marvelously at others. Life has been a rollercoaster in which I’ve held on for dear life while concealing screams of terror under the laughter of exhilaration. Even after all the days since the biggest loss of my life, more healing is still needed.
The days, weeks, months, and years have aged me considerably. The outer wrinkles are quite obvious. Other’s are hidden deep inside my heart. Grief puts on the years.
I remember my silent celebration when reaching the two year milestone. I’d read that it’s very common for widowed spouses to develop serious illnesses during the first two years after their loss. It was also two years since I’d retired. Double whammy. I did live through those two anniversaries, a little wiser, but definitely older.
I’ve always been great at writing about the gardens of Winterpast or the latest hurricane in the desert. What I’m not so great at sharing is that widowhood is the most wicked thing I’ve ever gone through in my entire life.
Don’t take that the wrong way.
I don’t want pity.
What I do want is to be remembered.
Some days, I’m truly invisible. Like a gecko on a leaf. There in plain sight but totally camouflaged. Living in a new town, there aren’t old friends around to let me know they still remember VST. Old farmers to share a story about the year we almost lost our entire crop to rain. High school buddies remembering the athlete extraordinaire, VST. Moving to a new town erased those chance meetings with old friends. Out of sight. Out of mind. Countless things have ended. After all these years, ashes are ashes and dust is dust.
As my fourth widowed summer is coming to a close, I’ve learned a few important things.
I cherish new connections with neighbors. Winterpast is smack dab in the middle of great people. Ninja Neighbor, Miss Rose, Little Man, Great Grandparents. People in this neighborhood leave their garage doors up and wave with big smiles. Only strangers until the first “Hello.”
I’m so lucky my dear friends listen when I need to talk. They are also great at talking when I need to listen. They accept that I spend more time than I may realize remembering a wonderful life spent with VST. They notice when grief is knocking at the back door. They are there to celebrate new life with me as I heal and to give me space to grieve alone when needed.
I’m so thankful MM is always ready to share a meal or just hold my hand. I’m blessed when the Angel of the Aluminum Cloud asks me to join her on a morning trip west, or when Louise (to my Thelma) offers to go shopping with me for the 28th. All my beautiful friends are fully alive and present, anchoring me in the here and now. They are true blessings in my life.
Whatever you do today, try to think past the “I’m fine” statement. As a widow, there are many times we’re the exact opposite of “fine”. That’s called “NORMAL”. Healing takes time. No one ever mentions that the TIME it takes continues forever.
Stay busy.
Stay Calm.
Carry On.
More tomorrow.