Grief. Truly, I’d never given grieving a single thought before VST passed. Sure, I’d lost my parents, a sister, family, and friends throughout my life, but never did I consider the impact that Grief has on a spouse. Grieving during widowhood is different in every respect I can think of. At least, it has been for me.
VST and I had the kind of marriage that most would envy. We really liked each other, and for the last three years of retirement, we were inseparable. We’d purchased an investment property in Virginia City, Nevada, and spent 6 years renovating and decorating this 3,300 sq.ft. home. This involved time spent shopping for supplies, grabbing occasional meals while doing so, visiting in the car for the 30-minute ride each way, planning and executing plans, and collaborating, all while loving and respecting one another.
We met in 1970 in high school choir. He was the handsome football jock who would come in after his PE shower, his hair slightly curled and still damp. He had dimples of the most adorable kind and a bass voice required in musical vocals. Everyone loved VST. His teammates. The other students. And me, in a very innocent, friendly way. We were friends for over two years and then went our separate ways.
In 1987, we met again at our high school reunion (14 years for me, 15 years for him). Neither of us were anything other than irritated at being there. Divorced, we’d both chosen singlehood forever, owning our own homes and cars filled with five of our own children—no need to complicate anything. About three weeks after that meeting, he found himself proposing. I found myself saying yes, and from then on, VST&Joy was almost one word.
We had a beautiful life overflowing with blessings. It was a lovely marriage with the right balance you don’t often hear of. Maybe you were lucky enough to have had that, too. So, when I lost VST, the oxygen was sucked out of my world, shrouding the first two months with shock. Along with shock, I was extremely isolated due to COVID.
Covid. I missed all the impending doom provided by the daily news reports. The first 90 deaths were reported when VST first became ill. The day he died, the death toll had reached 20,000. I had missed all the information about COVID while caring for VST, and I still find it hard to believe that the pandemic hit, and I missed every major news story regarding those first horrifying days.
I hope that psychologists study Grief during COVID. I refer to mine as Grief on Steroids. As a retiree, I was already alone. Living in VC, away from the kids and old friends, I suddenly found myself living alone for the first time in my life. Truly alone. Grieving was a 24/7 ordeal, non-stop and brutal.
Another huge complication had been put into play some weeks before VST died. In January, he was still feeling okay. A little under the weather, but certainly nothing we considered shattering at the time. It had been getting tougher for him to navigate stairs, due to crippling arthritis, so we decided it was time to sell our home and buy something off the mountain. We had looked everywhere and found our new home 50 miles East. Buyers made an offer; we accepted it, and the Seller accepted ours. During the nine weeks VST was dying, we were in the middle of two very complicated real estate transactions. It had also become necessary to update our Family Trust, Wills, Power of Attorney docs, and Medical directives. We did all that while dealing with medical care during COVID.
Professionals advise against major decisions after a death. In my case, there was no choice. Weeks before, things had been put in motion by the two of us. Together. We chose the new place with us in mind. We were packing. I packed the day after he died. And the next day and the next. Not that I chose to. There was no choice.
As I cried-packed-cried-packed, I felt like I was in a foggy bubble. I knew people outside the bubble were carrying on with the new-normal lives during COVID. I, on the other hand, was suspended on the side of my mountain and cut off from the rest of the world. Casseroles weren’t delivered. No preacher came knocking. No neighbors to help walk the dog. No One At All. Just me. Covid removed all help I could have received. There were no Grief groups offered. The Senior Center and restaurants closed, leaving no quick nutrition. Impossible to get an appointment with a doctor for counseling or medication. Stores were shuttered. Even the kennel to help with Oliver, my sweet puppy, was closed. And there I was, alone and grieving.
The first problem was that I’d be moving in only fifteen days. I needed to make a tough decision. Would I pay for all clothing to be moved or not? I knew the answer. Anything that was not necessary wouldn’t make the cut. And, through tears and Grief, I needed to do what had to be done. New jeans, still tagged, new shoes still in boxes, favorite old, torn pajamas that should have been thrown away years before. Go-to clothes and things not worn too often were all reduced to weight and the number of extra boxes for the movers. Complicating this was the fact that all thrift stores were shuttered, which left only one option. Many excruciatingly sad trips to the landfill off the mountain and miles away.
In my Grief, during those days, I needed to handle and make decisions on every single object that signified our 32 years together. Even the tiniest item brought tears, memories, and pain. But, everything had to be boxed. And, I accomplished that. In those 15 days, I managed to pack and move the balance of 350 boxes. I moved them off the mountain to storage, which VST and I had rented in January before he got sick. Box after box went down the hill, while I cried each trip.
In my Grief, I began talking to VST—a little at first, and then non-stop. I told him the littlest things, and major things, too. I listened for his advice and help. He was there. Oliver knew this, too. Through my one-sided conversations, I felt relieved that even more of our lives were put right. Every marriage has rocky times. There are always things not owned or apologized for. Things one wishes they had one more chance to say. We were no different. I talked to him all day, every day. I asked him to tuck his angel wings around Ollie and me at night so we could sleep better. I know he was there to comfort me. Thanks to COVID, it was quiet enough for me to experience that.
People suggest one should journal. It was all I could do during that first month to jot things in my daily planner. People suggest one should sleep enough. It was a blessing to sleep well in the arms of God. People suggest one should learn the stages of Grief and embrace them. For me, it was more important that I listened to my inner self, which helped guide me in the ways I needed. I used my own wise voice after listening to my Grief. I acknowledged it and accepted it as my truth, then not a reality forever.
It also helped that I lived in the moment and felt everything that was happening to my body and soul right then. I prayed often. When I needed to cry, I did. When I needed to laugh, I did. Memories were a double-edged sword. Sometimes comforting. Sometimes cutting so deep that I thought my entrails would surely tumble onto the floor. I ate when I was the least bit hungry, and didn’t eat when my stomach was upset. All this in a Covid Shroud. For me, I preferred it that way, as no one had to see the carnage left by VST’s death—just Oliver, me, VST, and God.
In your Grief today, hug yourself. In quiet moments, reassure yourself that YOU are enough and okay. You’ve got this; it just SEEMS impossible. Hug yourself. Talk to your loved one. Smile, even if it is just a little, at first. Each day will be better than the last on this journey you are taking through Grief.
