Category: 2020

We were so busy living, it was easy enough to ignore all the warning signs. There were so many. Few of us really believe that death could be at our door. So many times, we have all ignored symptoms, believing they held no significance. We did just that. Boy, were we wrong. After a nine-week battle, I was left the lone survivor on a spring Wednesday between Palm Sunday and Maundy Thursday.

Cholangiocarcinoma, a rare type of cancer that forms in the bile ducts, ravaged my husband, VST. It was aggressive, lethal, and quick, stealing his energy, strength, resolve, and finally, his brain. In the age of COVID, in my town anyway, medical treatments were being authorized by a panel of doctors at the hospital. Each test needed approval, wasting valuable days as VST grew sicker and sicker. Being the lone caretaker and hospice attendant, I found myself nursing my husband while trying to wrap my head around the fact that we wouldn’t share another Easter.

The idea of hospice service is romantic and wonderful. The company we used employed a group of earth angels, with a few limitations. It was a wonderful place to get all kinds of helpful drugs. Morphine, Lorazepam, Haldol, and others. Marvelous place to get supplies like diapers, wipes, syringes, gloves, and swabs for dry, cracked lips. Because we were living in a remote area, actual physical help wasn’t available. In reality, we didn’t want strangers interrupting our last and most intimate hours together. So, we went through it alone. VST didn’t make it until Easter, but left me shortly before. Bereft, Deprived. Cut off. Dispossessed. Forlorn. Wanting. Stripped. I began my grieving process.

VST died on a Wednesday morning at 10:30. His death certificate states he died at 11:15. It lies. I was there, alone. I was the one who watched him take his last breath and slowly slip away, while our beloved kids were out on some errands. I assure you, it was 10:30. The sounds my body made that morning were shocking to me. Rather like those that a woman might make during the last stages of labor. Primal and shriek-ish. Raw and from a place I didn’t know existed in me. I was so glad the kids were out of the house. Even in the middle of hospice, few are ready for the moment of death. At least, I wasn’t.

In our small county, sans coroner, the Sheriff needed to pronounce VST’S time of death. Moments after his death, I phoned their office to ask if the real Sheriff would come, instead of a deputy. VST had made friends with him during our six-year stay, and it would be a huge comfort to me. He was in a meeting, but a deputy would come. But, in eight minutes, the Sheriff arrived with hugs and a listening ear. He visited VST one last time and comforted me in my very first hour of grief, for which I was so grateful.

A long list of players filled out my first day as a widow. A hospice nurse to neutralize the drugs. The Sheriff. The Deputy Sheriff. The Mortuary Assistants. The kids. The medical equipment personnel. Until finally, evening arrived. The house was quiet. The kids and I were in shock. Our bedroom, where VST had requested his hospital bed be placed only seven days before, was returned to normal without any signs of the nightmare the last week had held. Without a trace of him, of us. Just a pretty room with all the furniture put back in perfect order.

In the cold void of death, the kids left the next morning, needing to return to their lives six hours away. I was alone on the first real day of widowhood. Alone at 6,200 feet, on Mt. Davidson, suspended above Virginia City, looking out into the nothingness of my 100-mile view. The vista, once magical and romantic, was now daunting for a wife who’d been so intertwined with the other half that she knew not where he stopped and she began.

Needing an immediate life raft, I turned to the one thing that had been with me my entire life. Words. I chose three to symbolize the first month.

Food. Shelter. Clothing.

Those words would help me stay focused through Month One. For if I focused on Food. Shelter. Clothing. I wouldn’t die in the cold, starving because I had forgotten to eat and gone out to get the mail naked. I took myself in my own arms and gave prayers for the woman I lost that day. I rocked the remaining shell and held her most gently, listening to the wails and sobs late into that first night of widowhood.

These words hold my story. Everyone reading here has lived a story just as grueling, exasperating, and horrifying. As widows, we enter a wilderness that no one has really explained or mapped for us. Each person sees the landscape differently and must find a way through that is hers and hers alone. I found that at first, I kept a daily planner to jot down the simplest things I did. I made sure to list three tasks a day and complete them. My journal helps me remember how strong I was in those early days. You are just as strong.

It’s a comfort to know I didn’t starve in the nighttime cold of Virginia City, while walking hungry and naked to get the mail. It’s only by the grace of God that I didn’t, I assure you.

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 that all thrift stores were shuttered, leaving 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.

April 10, the house woke me with its deafening silence. Every creak, moan, and spring wind comprised a cacophonous sound mourning VST’s passing. Our house had responded to his every touch, just as I had. Physical beauty surrounded me. His taste in domestic design and improvements was unsurpassed. Standing as a testament to his skills, the house and I grieved in unison while she surrounded me like a warm hug.

By the time I got my coffee that morning, VST would have been on the move, walking the streets of VC. His power walk always started the same. He suffered from crippling arthritis, which made it necessary for him to wear heavy knee braces. Those in place, next came his white cowboy hat, jacket, and cane. VST was known throughout the town as the guy with the braces, walking on through heat, bitter cold, rain, hail, or snow. The Bionic Cowboy of Virginia City.

VST held a demanding presence with his striking good looks, debonair southern drawl, deep voice, as smooth as a fine cognac, and dimpled smile. At 6’1″, he drew looks from the ladies wherever he went. But those looks were not returned, for I was his Forever Darlin. Plain and Simple. His friendly nature often made his walks down the C Street Boardwalk longer. His best days involved meeting the Sheriff, after which he would come home and remind me that if I had been with him, I would have been that lucky, too.

VST was legally disabled and had been declared so for the last three years of his life. Yet, he walked four miles each and every day until a few weeks before he died. At 65, I never could consider him disabled, because of all the activities he enjoyed. But X-ray images and doctors’ reports, and a paralyzed hand don’t lie. He powered on when others would have been on crutches recovering from knee surgery. He had no time for anything like that. He was already down the road. He was just like that. Stubborn. Tougher than nails. Tenacious. Weathered. Rock Solid. And now, gone.

The night before, I’d sat stunned in his worn, leather recliner, contemplating what my future would hold. Rather like a deer, startled while grazing, I sat motionless, listening to my own heartbeat. Feeling the oddity of tears streaming down my face, I silently grieved, staring at the wall rather than at our panoramic vista. A poster girl for all the symptoms of severe shock. It was then that one of many miracles took place. Huddled in my favorite blanket, embracing tears and feelings, I realized it had been some time since I checked my emails. My pad glowed to life, showing a list of mail I would rather not open after 5 pm. Medical test results from Monday, when I still had VST. Death-related questions from the Mortuary. Condolences from people just hearing the unthinkable. All those could wait until morning.

But, there in the queue, was one email that caught my eye. It was from my teacher-friends from so long ago, when I was a younger, vibrant person, loving a healthy career and farming. Our own children still years from adulthood. VST and I sharing all the intensity and love our relationship held from the first HELLO. There it was, begging to be opened. The email from my Old Friends. With my heart racing, I tried to digest what it said. “April 10th at 4 pm, join us for a ZOOM meeting. It’s been too long. We all need to touch base. Please come. Just like that, I reconnected with something concrete and all mine. They had no idea VST had passed. It had been at least ten years since we’d been together. A happy accident of the most serendipitous type.

The morning of the 10th was full of chores, big and small. Conquering the laundry. Emptying medicine cabinets. Packing boxes. Crying. Wiping tears. Driving back and forth to the storage area. Checking numerous emails from realtors on both sides of my life. The sale of the VC house, the purchase of the New House. Sending emails to those who didn’t know he had gone so quietly, and receiving emails from those who just found out he did. I just stayed the course. I wrote goals in my planner. Completed them. Chose three more and continued. I took time for a nap.

Finally, it was 4 pm. The computer screen slowly filled up with boxes holding images of cherished teaching buddies. One by one, they clicked to life. Everyone excited and chatting at once. All looking older, but just the same. Their shock and sadness reflected from the screen, for VST and I were the couple that had it all, often excluding others to get everything done. How many times I had to forego fun outings with these friends because I had to irrigate, fix dinner for seven, or shake raisins. They never knew how many days I came to school after a rain, having been up all night crying because our crop might have been ruined by the very rainstorms they were celebrating. They couldn’t know at what a price VST and I bartered for our privileged life. It didn’t matter anyway.

They were cyber beauties. For an hour, we laughed. We adjusted our cameras to the right angle and light, maximizing our best attributes. We laughed more. We shared moments of silence. It was magical. I had a glimpse of a regular Friday afternoon with friends that I’d known for decades of my adult life. How they sent that email at exactly the right time will be a puzzlement to me forever. Happenings like this I refer to as “God Things”.

“God Things” are around everyone. It depends on whether people choose to recognize them. For me, I know that God carried me through the fires of those first hours, days, weeks, and months, making sure I wasn’t burned. Not even. He gave me strength and protected my back from injury, even when I knew the boxes I hoisted were way too heavy under the state of exhaustion I was in. He kept those who would have taken advantage away from my door. He brought me those friends who were the best comfort to me. Through my faith in God, I became stronger than the Grief consuming me.

As you are grieving, remember to look for the beauty and miracles that surround you, even in the darkest hours, asking God to carry you through the fire. He will. He will bring you peace and allow sleep to come, as he wraps you with the wings of millions of angels. I know he will, because he did this for me.

Writing is life. Period. A student of mine, only 10 years old, wrote that on an assignment. It was her opening paragraph. She got an “A”. Without kind words, life would be in chaos and ruin. Hearts would never find each other. Miscommunications would flare, and healing would never occur. How many new love stories are never written because one or the other involved couldn’t find the words to express their feelings? I am, of course, focusing on the positive aspects of words and writing, but anyone who has known me for more than five minutes knows optimism is a core character trait of mine.

When I found myself at the onset of my widowhood, there was nothing to hold onto anymore. Certainly not VST. COVID had robbed me of the chance to be with other newly widowed. All Grief support groups were canceled. Friends were sheltered in place, holding onto each other for dear life. I was on A Street, left to fend for myself, and so, I came up with a way words could help me heal. They became counselor, best friend, confidant, and voice, having been my life since I first learned to talk.

As a child, I raised myself. I have my own feelings about these things and how they happen. In some way, I chose that childhood because I was independent. Having farm freedoms let my brain develop in a little richer way as I spent long hours learning how to entertain myself. Learning how to soak into nature and communicate with the animals I loved so much. I learned what it is like to mud bathe in the middle of a 40-acre vineyard, the long tendrils surrounding me in the most heavenly way. When I was hungry, I could go out into the depths of the farm and find whatever snack I wanted. Nectarines, apples, grapes, bell peppers, cherry tomatoes, and plums were all ready for one “funny looking blondie”, as Dad called me, to pick. Dad was famous for his Elbow Peaches, so named because the juice would always run down our elbows as we slurped up every bite, fuzz and all, straight from the tree.

During those years of freedom, I found that no matter what happened around me, in words I found the ultimate comfort, and in that, my voice. When loneliness spiked, I could write about it and suddenly gain a better understand myself. That has never changed for me.

In this new phase of my life, it came to me that I needed a focal point, just as I had in my Lamaze birthing classes. When the pain became too intense, I needed a life raft to get me through, and so, The Word Method became mine. Not tested in any scientific lab, this one. I can only say, it helped me heal quicker than I might have. Without words, I surely would have faded away to nothing.

In this method, I decided that during each month, one word would be selected to represent our marriage. During that month, when Grief gripped my very core, I focused on that one word with a vengeance. Exactly as in the childbirth of my children, the waves of grief came in sets. Unexpected and intense. Treacherous seas. I could be packing, organizing, arranging, and BAM, there it was. Grief with a vengeance. As I willfully focused on the word, I’d start thinking of every way it represented us. Through tears, I found some smiles or sometimes even a little laughter. Comforted by the multitude of ways it represented us, I’d feel better. I never ran out of examples as there were thousands for each.

There was a second component. VST and I shared few traditions. As Christians, we considered Christmas a special time of year, but as a couple, we never exchanged gifts. We found that even as well as we knew each other, we’d choose the wrong things, and end up standing in frustrating return lines. On Christmas Eve, we would go together to select our presents. Secretly, I longed for VST to have a hidden present somewhere, wrapped the way a husband would, maybe in purple birthday wrap with a wonky bow. But that was never to be.

So, every month since his death, another Christmas present appears to me, wrapped with messages on the paper and, more importantly, representing the word of the month. Okay, for some of you, I need to spell this out. I haven’t lost my mind. Oc course, I purchased the presents for myself after VST’s death. Some are personalized, and I have yet to see them. They sit in my office, reminding me that I love myself. A notice that there will be a first Widow-ed Christmas that I’m dreading. I have now created the beginnings of a new tradition to honor our marriage.

Each month, along with the word and present, I’m creating an ornament for my tree representing the special word for that month. It doesn’t have to be museum quality. Just something that would be a message that 32 years of life with VST did happen. It was rich and wonderful, reflected by the relationship we created. Perfect???? No such thing. A perfect example of an honest union of the two of us? You betcha.

The ornaments have been a snag, because to me, they will be the tangible proof that I am ready to memorialize that month and put a period on those memories. Those days will always be cherished, but not dwelt upon. I have given myself until December 16, my birthday, to finish them. I will be creating a keepsake box for them, and plan to continue this personal tradition until I die, with notes to the kids of why each design was chosen. Because there are thousands of words and memories, I will never be at a loss for stories, smiles, and laughs for the most beautiful time in my life. And for that, I cherish VST even more.

Think of the words that hold meaning for you. You already know my first three were Food, Shelter, and Clothing from my first blog. Month 2 was FRIENDSHIP. Month 3 was LOVE-EVERLASTING. Month 4 was ADVENTURE. Month 5 was FAITH. And Month 6 is HAPPINESS. Find words that fit your love story. When Grief is overwhelming, take a break. Use your words. They are powerful and uplifting.

Today, spend time with memories in a different way. Choose happiness, a choice that only you can make. Take just a moment for one smile as you think about special moments that took your breath away. Soak in the loveliness that brought you excitement and tenderness. Be grateful for the love you shared. Use your words to stay afloat. Pretty soon, those same words will help you soar, if only for a moment at a time.

Navigating as a new widow, I find I am constantly being confronted with “Should/Shouldn’t” (S/S) information. The worst offender is my own brain. Having been the other half for so many years, decisions of the S/S kind were made together with thought and conversation. There were no judgmental rules for us to follow, but rather pragmatic discussions and decisions. In the last year of VST’s life, with cancer silently robbing me of him, “Maybe’s” were no longer considered. Many things that were are no longer. “Would n’ts” were the norm. Our life was a black-and-white landscape of the KNOWN SAFETY.

VST was a cautious man. Thankfully, he was, because that has left me in a safe situation now. Without his planning, willpower, and Stay-The-Course attitude, I may not have been financially solvent. I was always the one veering to the right or left, wanting to take the unmarked path to see what wonders were around the bend. VST, on the other hand, used Google maps and GPS to be sure he was following the Correct road to a Certain destination. Safe and sound, we’d arrive ahead of schedule, leaving me to dream of the really cool things we missed along the way.

Safety was always comforting to me. VST kept me safe through fires and my own medical issues. He always knew what we SHOULD do in any situation and why we Shouldn’t do anything other than that. He internalized his own conversations of WHY NOT, and I was left with the final answer of how things would be best handled. My input was always factored in, and the whimsical thoughts of a fantastical writer were an amusement, but in the end, the practical side always won out with him. He ALWAYS knew just what to do, or at the very least, did a fine job faking it until things worked out.

On April 8, my Garmin following Captain left on HIS new adventure, leaving me to stop and think about all the S/S decisions that faced me. In the middle of two complicated real estate transactions, while awaiting my husband’s cremation, I freaked out for a minute. The new home we had selected together was in another town, small and not much bigger than a truck stop. The town had no hospital. No major box stores except Walmart. It was on 1/2 acre with an RV barn. All more than I needed to think about in April. I began to question whether I SHOULD buy the house at all or choose another, more sensible one closer to services.

After a frantic call to my realtor and one more look at a golf-course home, small and safe on the fairway, I knew what I had to do. I had considered my first solo “Why Not/Maybe” and made a truly important decision for myself, on my own. The house we selected together would be mine. My roots were bound, waiting to sink into the lush green lawn and take hold. This little town was the right size for me to build a new life on the high desert. The Russian Sage and Rabbit Brush called my name, promising me their fragrance as I healed. The fruit trees would be in bloom soon, and I needed a season of growth and wonder more than I ever had in my entire life. I named my new home Winterpast, from the Song of Solomon 2:10-14.

“My beloved responded and said to me, Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, and come along. For behold, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers have already appeared on the land; the time has arrived for pruning the vines, and the voice of the turtledove has been heard in our land. The fig tree had ripened its figs, and the vines in blossom have given forth their fragrance. Arise, my darling, my beautiful one, And come along!”

In the last six months, this has been a comfort, because on more days than not, I am finding, indeed, my winter has passed.

A hard and fast, commonly accepted SHOULD NOT is that a newly widowed person should make NO big decisions in the first year. I blew that out of the water. With a major move involving the upheaval of my entire life to a new town, major financial decisions consolidating the estate, making choices of people that would become my new Old Friends, and making all this work while grieving became the WHY NOT? YES. I didn’t perish. In fact, I became the best version of myself that I have been in a very long time.

Grieving along the way, the S/S crowd weighed in on many issues, again, the inner me yelling the loudest. But, so far, I have listened to my rational side and relied on the stability of dear friends, who have helped guide me through the worst nightmare I could have imagined. They console me, laugh about funny memories, and are rock-solid in their support when I really need to investigate a situation more. Their opinions create a soft place in which I can retreat and accept their ideas as my own. However, as I heal, I need to forge many things and decide my own route, taking turns onto those unmarked paths to see what I missed along the way. They wait nervously, not unlike new parents watching children do things for the first time, as I take my first steps on this autumnal journey of mine.

I’m now living in the land of MAYBE/WHY NOT these days. I’m finding that I’m more cautious than I would have believed. But the inquisitive and curious woman is awakening. That part of me has been dormant for decades, and it is now time for me to play in the leaves while the breeze catches my hair just so. My days are shortening as morning retains its chill later and later. I need to live the best life of my own choosing. VST would expect no less from me, and I honor our life together by choosing happiness and life every day. I need this time to truly become the best version of myself. Freedom from the chains of SHOULD/SHOULDN’T will allow me to find the path just right for me.

Today, just for a little while, allow your mind to wander into the meadows of WHYNOT/MAYBE. Rest there for a time and dream of what might be around the corner. The new and untested experiences that await you. Although your spouse died, don’t let yourself become a casualty as well. No one really expects a widow in 2020 to sit under a black shroud for an eternity. If they do, it is only because they cannot fully understand our unique place called WIDOW’S GRIEF, which is entirely different for each of us. Merely rest here until you feel a need to grow, and then carry on, because God has amazing things planned for you just around the bend.

Hands connect us to one another in a unique and precious way. In VST’s last days, he chose to spend time on “the death couch” as he referred to it. He first recoiled at the thought of opening the hide-a-bed in the living room, but later, chose it often to rest next to me in the busy part of the house. He slept while I snapped this, or he would have protested that any part of our nightmare called cancer was documented in this way. Images have a way of returning us to captured moments. We were captured by the hell that is cancer.

My own hands are large, functional Germanic woman-hands. The kind that get things done. Size ten ring finger. Not a dainty, girly-girl digit in the bunch. They attempted to help me play piano when I was little, but constantly flew in directions not conducive to a beautiful melody. My mom was crushed. They also attempted to help me with guitar. They easily wrapped around the neck, depressing strings to make keys that hummed in a 1970’s kind of Glen Campbell way for a time.

Through the years, they held young lovers, wrote term papers, dialed phone numbers and twirled the cord late into the night. They pointed and shook at boys that needed to leave me alone, and beckoned those I wished didn’t. They raised Guide Dogs for the Blind, delivered brand new puppies into the world, trained dogs, and held their paws as they took their last breath. They irrigated grapes and helped shake them after they turned into raisins. They washed a squirmy grandson and splashed with him until we were showered with delightful fun in the bathroom. These days, they hold Oliver in the silent mornings when I wish VST was still here to share our morning coffee. They wipe my own tears and help me move on through this blog.

In the beginning of VST/Me, our hands were busy with life. Every aspect. Work, personal, spiritual, family, and educational growth. Through the years, VST used his massive mitts in the gentlest of ways. Holding a daughter’s precious hand at the country fair, leaving an imprint on her heart that warms her still today. His hands wielded wrenches, and twins, a boy and a girl, when he was 21. They held steering wheels, traveling millions of miles in his lifetime. They built houses, waterfalls, great walls, and our life together. They wrote his dissertation and earned him the loving title Doctor H. Later in life, they caused him intense and extreme pain with arthritis and paralysis.

When we were together, our hands were often intertwined. After decades of marriage, often on a trip to Lowe’s I would be in my own writer’s head. And there he would be, on a cold parking-lot morning at Lowe’s grabbing mine. People would smile at us in that way. How adorable, these two sage lovers. And that is what we were, even if we had just argued the whole way there about an insignificant topic of the day that found us at odds. I would feel his hand reach for mine, and I was home, wherever we found ourselves.

Hands held each other when he had no more strength to reach for me in the night. My hands helped him take morphine and other hideous drugs, less horrible than the cancer that robbed him from me. They wiped his brow when he was feverish. They helped him into the passenger side of the Jeep to travel to the doctor, when it was me that took the wheel while he slept. They put soft blankets around him when he suddenly found himself bone chillingly cold. And more than a few times, they shook at the heavens, questioning WHY.

Finally, in one last touch, it was my hand stroking his cheek that said Goodbye to him as he was making his final exit on that beautiful Virginia City morning. My hands cradled his urn and wondered how this all transpired in nine weeks.

Hands need to find each other and hold on. Touch is a precious sense that can speak louder than words at times. Caresses feed starved skin and comfort a bruised soul. Use your hands to produce acts of kindness. Wave. Open a door. Greet someone you haven’t seen for awhile in spite of Covid, or because of it. Clap for others. Journal your life. Connect with each other. Hold hands as you cross the street, and be so grateful that you have another’s hand, if only for a time.

Letting You Go

You saved me when I needed saving so badly.

You have been the one to hold me, to cheer me, to love me, to teach me.

You.

It was you from the first look.

It was you from the YES to your proposal.

And, it is you now.

I need to let you fly with the wind, with the angels, to the arms of God and our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Please wait for me. Please be my guardian angel and help me across when my day comes.

Thank you, My Golden Friend, My Bold Lover.

My heart will beat to remind me I need to stay here a little while longer.

I will remember our sweet story, smile, and share it often.

Because you and I are, and always will be pure love. Period.

I say these things not knowing HOW I can let you go.

But

Knowing I must.

Take my love with you, and find me when I finish my time on earth.

I love you most…

Even though I know you love me more.

Your Darlin Forever, Mrs. H

JH April 6, 2020

Looking back at my planner for the week of April 20, I still marvel at how many loose ends needed tying—selling, buying, packing, moving. Life didn’t pause for grief. And with Covid weighing heavily on everyone’s mind, there were no casseroles left quietly on the porch, no flowers behind a ringing doorbell. There was just me—a brand new widow, pulling on her boots every morning and doing what had to be done. And that’s exactly what I did.

VST and I had a standing joke—more mine than his. I always believed I would go first. During miles in the RV debating it, we turned it into competitive banter. I had my reasons—those inconvenient vaso vagal episodes that sent me to the emergency room at the worst times. VST, on the other hand, had quieter struggles, like the slow creep of arthritis. In my mind, he would be the widower.

So naturally, I counseled him—not about Grief, but about casseroles.

My first bit of advice was simple: watch the container. Some casseroles arrive in disposable pans—bless those people. Practical, thoughtful souls who know you won’t have the energy to wash and return anything. These are the friends who truly understand.

Then there are the others—the ones who arrive with their finest stoneware. Now that’s a different story. I told him to take note. How are they dressed? How are they speaking? Are they brushing lint off your three-day-old shirt? Is there… cleavage involved? Because that dish isn’t just a dish. It’s a placeholder. A reason to come back. And if there’s a phone number written on the bottom—with a heart—well… that should not go unnoticed.

We would laugh, always circling back to the same name. “Don’t answer the door, VST,” I’d say. “Please. Pretend you’ve come down with something highly contagious. Hide.” Because once that door opens… It’s like bedbugs. Hard to undo.

Twelve days after VST passed, his urn—chosen so carefully, the perfect shade of blue with pewter accents—sat quietly in the bookcase. My days were packed with appointments, my mind spinning, when the phone rang.

On the other end were friends of the very best kind—gentle, thoughtful, and extraordinary cooks. “What’s your favorite meal?” they asked. “What can we bring you?”

I had been running up and down the mountain, every errand costing an hour round trip. COVID had shuttered restaurants and emptied shelves. I had food—but not that kind of food. Not the kind made with love.

“Spaghetti and meatballs,” I said.

Not even my favorite meal. But that morning, it was the one thing I wanted most.

Oliver had a noon vet appointment, so down the hill we went. Two hours later, I returned to find something waiting at my door. Next to a vase of pink tulips sat a worn, brown metal container—scuffed, vintage, and familiar, like something from childhood camping trips. My friends had come.

Inside was everything. Homemade sauce and meatballs. Spaghetti cooked just right. A crisp green salad. A soft ciabatta roll. Garlic butter, carefully wrapped. Fresh Parmesan.

It was more than a meal.

It was love, packed carefully and delivered quietly.

I stood in my kitchen and cried—one of those deep, unguarded cries—because I knew exactly what I was holding. This wasn’t just food. This was care. This was friendship. This was love in its most tangible form, given by people whose hearts were breaking right alongside mine.

With every bite, memories came flooding back—Italian dinners with kids and without, candlelight meals and paper plates, a busy ranch kitchen with five hungry children asking for seconds. I could almost hear him singing O Sole Mio in that booming bass voice of his.

To anyone watching, I was just a woman eating spaghetti through her tears.

But to me, it was a feast of memory.

Today, take inventory of those casserole dishes waiting to be returned. Think about the love that filled them when you needed it most—when even remembering to breathe felt like enough for one day. Look at the names written on the bottom. Call them.

The best ones will come, collect their dish, and sit with you awhile—long enough to remind you that you are not alone.

To my spaghetti-toting friends—you know who you are. Your kindness that day helped me stay afloat. Your friendship today is golden.

I love you both.

---

Dear readers,
However you found your way here—from across the world or just down the road—thank you.
This little life at Winterpast is richer because you’re part of it.
I’ll be here next week, with more to share.
—Joy

Bull riding is my favorite sport. There is nothing feminine about it—snorting, slobbering bulls, fearless cowboys, and animals at the height of their power. There’s danger, suspense, twists and turns, and breathtaking moments where everything hangs in the balance. Dealing with two complicated real estate transactions closing hours apart felt just like that. I just wish the ride had lasted eight seconds.

VST and I decided in early January 2020 that it was time to sell our Virginia City home—3,300 square feet of something we had lovingly restored. When we bought it, it had been an abused repossession, purchased at a bargain price with a vision to bring it back to life. Over six years, we did exactly that. Every detail in the house had been perfected for us—really, for anyone. By the time we decided to sell, only two projects remained: a proper laundry room and a bedroom closet. In January, VST completed both in just two weeks. They were flawless, just like everything he touched. If you hadn’t been told, you would have believed they were original to the home. He was that good.

The house was barely listed before it sold. In fact, we had only just decided to sell while driving home from lunch after looking at a few properties with a realtor. We had found two homes we liked, and on the drive home, we talked through the pros and cons of leaving the mountain. By the time we reached home, we had made the decision—it was time. The realtor we had been with that morning would be our agent. Within five minutes, my phone rang. Another realtor we knew had buyers who loved our home. Could they come see it the next day? We listed. They came. They fell in love. They offered. We accepted. All within hours of deciding to leave. Just like that.

At the same time, life continued as it always had. VST was driving, worrying about taxes, fixing things, calling me Darlin, and kissing me goodnight. We hadn’t yet found a new home, and at the end of January, we even took the RV on a seven-hour trip to explore options. We spent an entire day walking through ten homes. He was himself, just tired and noticeably swollen by the end of the day. He still drove the rig there and back, enjoying Willie’s Roadhouse and the open road. He promised we would see the doctor about the swelling when we got home.

Eventually, we found the house. One hour from Virginia City, a single-story ranch on half an acre of beauty. The property was fully landscaped with paths winding through mature fruit and shade trees. There was a lush green lawn outside my kitchen window, birdhouses scattered throughout, and birds already raising families. There was an RV barn with finished interior walls, a four-car garage, and a home that promised simpler maintenance and more freedom to travel. Three bedrooms, two baths, 1,907 square feet—it felt like peace. We both knew immediately. We made an offer. It was accepted.

That’s when everything began to spin.

We now had two realtors, a buyer, a seller, ourselves, and more paperwork than seemed possible. Our Virginia City home had never been placed into our family trust, which needed to be domesticated in Nevada. That added an attorney and another stack of documents to the growing pile. And so, the ride began. Two weeks in, cancer entered the arena. We held on with both hands as life began to buck beneath us.

There were inspections, repairs, re-inspections, and endless requests from title companies, realtors, buyers, sellers, and escrow officers. There were attorney appointments, document signings that seemed to multiply endlessly, cleaning, walk-throughs, moving plans, canceling old services, and starting new ones. We hired movers and chose a closing date.

All while VST grew sicker.

And sicker.

And sicker.

Until, in nine short weeks, he was gone—from a word I could barely pronounce when it first entered our lives: cholangiocarcinoma. Cancer of the bile ducts.

We entered those transactions as husband and wife—joint tenancy, partners in everything. I completed them as a single woman. That reality carried its own weight.

My realtors, both experienced and steady, had never encountered anything like it. A healthy man overtaken so quickly. A client lost in the middle of a closing. We all walked through those two months together, holding each other—and our breath. There were constant twists, changes in direction, and moments where everything felt like it might collapse. COVID added uncertainty to an already impossible situation.

They carried more than contracts. They helped when my computer refused to cooperate. They handled details I am sure I am better off not knowing. They made the impossible happen. They talked me down on days when I was ready to walk away from everything. They listened, advised, and somehow gave me both space and support at exactly the right moments. In the early days of COVID, they risked their own health to show our home to buyers and to help me into my new one. They stayed on that ride with me and made sure both transactions closed within 24 hours of each other.

When VST died, I was alone. I had just checked on him—he was still there, quiet and comfortable. I stepped out of the room for five minutes. When I came back, he was gone.

The phone rang. I answered in a way I can only describe as broken—words tumbling, Grief pouring out, nothing making sense. On the other end was my sweet realtor, the first voice to reach me in that moment.

“Calm down,” she said gently. “I am so sorry. How can I help?”

There was no help.

We had lost our balance.

The bull had won.

Later, I began to notice something. In the smallest, most unexpected places, there were people—angels in ordinary clothing—who said those same words. At the post office. At the doctor’s office. A neighbor. Even the man making my sandwich at Subway. They had no idea what they were offering, but it mattered more than they could know.

I made a list of those moments and wrote thank-you notes. Not for grand gestures, but for simple kindness—for showing up, for steadying me, even for a moment. It became part of my healing.

Do the same.

Take time to acknowledge those who stand quietly in the background, cheering, holding their breath, helping you rise again. They are part of your story, too.

And when the ride feels too wild, too unpredictable—hold on.

Use both hands.

This is a tough bull to ride.

---

Dear readers,
However you found your way here—from across the world or just down the road—thank you.
This little life at Winterpast is richer because you’re part of it.
I’ll be here, with more to share.
—J

Willie’s Roadhouse was all new to me in the summer of 2017. While RVing with VST, I became a new fan of country western music. He’d grown up at Grandpa Arch Dell’s knee listening to Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys. With satellite radio in our rig, the driver could choose from stations. Willie’s Roadhouse would play for long stretches through plains and prairies. I learned to love the songs. A lot. When the driving was treacherous, we would both belt out “Big Balls in Cowtown” in unison, laughing until we almost cried, because some places VST drove us took big balls, and not of the dancing kind.

Recently, I was unpacking boxes and listening to a country western station when I heard, for the first time, “You Can’t Make Old Friends”, a duet by Dolly and Kenny. A trip to Dollywood had been on our list of destinations before it might be too late to see her perform live. We were quite sure the problem would be on Dolly’s end, not ours. Boy, were we wrong. The song was about their special friendship over the years, being the OLD FRIENDS they sang about.

Stopping to reflect on the message in the lyrics, I thought of the experiences I was having in an unfamiliar town while meeting new friends. Neighbors on my block were still strangers. Their houses stood like unopened presents on Christmas morning. Some were going to be just what you wanted more than anything else in the world, and others were going to hold no fascination. New connections? No connections? New service providers. The Mail Lady. Gardener. All mysterious.

Having lost VST, who would now set me straight when I needed it the most? Who would share truths a best friend would spit like darts, because they would know just what you needed to hear. Who would interrupt my crazy stories if embellished just a little too much? Who would add the tiniest detail forgotten that would make the whole story so much better? Who would drive me nuts finishing my sentences, or in later years, color my thoughts? I have lost the best friend I relied on through my adult years. The one that saved my butt so many times. VST.

Beginning a new song, my men friends would appear at the appropriate time for me. Ready to take me to coffee? Ice cream? Dinner? Each situation ripe with the appropriate expectations of conversation while prospecting for possible links, not yet knowing about the core belief and value parts of me that needed knowing for an OLD FRIENDSHIP to thrive.

I meet new friends every day. I say “HI” in a hopeful, upbeat way. I flash a smile and try to sneak a furtive peek into their eyes. Their gaze usually shifts quickly when mine is spotted. I am left to wait, hoping real friendship will develop slowly, while looking for validation that doesn’t come in ways comfortable and shared for decades.

The song goes on to discuss harmonizing with someone. My initial thoughts race back to high school choir, when VST and I would join others on key. Our voices, soprano and bass, would blend together back then to form a recognizable and enjoyable song. Two YOUNG FRIENDS. Little did we know our voices would create so many harmonies throughout the years. Hello’s. Promises. Vows. Dreams. Songs. Agreements. Arguments. Apologies. Sweet night sounds. Support. Defense against enemies. Coos to grandchildren. Prayers to God. Defeat cancer. In the end, our harmony was silenced. I miss that we could pick up a tune in the middle and go with it. Or that we always knew what to say at the right time, in the right way, even when that was really hard to do.

The stage is mine for now, and I find I’m fumbling with the words and tune. Finding the right pitch of a person who could be an Old Friend, who might know just a little of the song and join in. So far, I find myself humming alone. Everything needs explanation. The tempo, timbre, texture, and structure of my wants and needs in life. I, too, need to listen carefully for the notes and rhythm of theirs. Exhausting. Without VST, the silence helps me appreciate how blessed I was to have enjoyed my Old Friend for the lifetime we shared. It also makes me want that experience one more time in my life, because having Old Friends like that makes life rich and worth living.

I pray each day that somewhere out there, there is an Old Friend having the same longings. That a duet waits. Hearts can indeed learn new musical genres and songs. VST always reminded me, “You can’t go nowhere on yesterday’s train”. Our song ended. Abruptly. Final notes harsh. Shrill. Quite final. New Old Friends will come around, maybe just to listen to the music for a while.

God has me in the palm of his hand now, and someday, sooner than I would expect, I will be on my way to heaven’s gate. I know all my Old Friends will be waiting there for me. But, in my prayers, I ask that VST will be front and center, because he is the Old Friend lost that I miss the most. We will be young again, not the way we had recently been, but the same Old Friends.

Today, call an Old Friend of yours. Really appreciate what an amazing thing friendship is. Tell them how much you love and cherish them in your life. Because, your voice is just what they long to hear more than anything else.

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.