The Other Side of the Moon

It has been several months since I published a post here and I’m not altogether sure that I’m ready to begin writing regularly again, but for today I am inspired to share, so here goes.

I look back to the first post in this blog: a discussion of its title, Transilience. Transilience means abrupt change coupled with resilience. Little did I know when I chose it, that the title would be prophetic. It had been my intention to write about my thoughts and observations on being a woman “of a certain age,” and on topics that might interest and inspire other women in the last third of life. Now, the name Transilience seems to perfectly describe this time in my life and an experience that many share.

Twelve weeks ago I said goodbye to my husband. He was my best friend, my sweetheart, my everything. We were alone in his hospice room that morning as he drew his final breath. I had been terrified of being there alone with him when he died, but when that moment came I was so glad there was no one to intrude. It was private, beautiful, and as peaceful an ending as could ever be.

In 2017, there were 11.64 million women who were widows in the US and 3.28 million men. While these numbers include widows of all ages, obviously the vast majority are older. And for a variety of reasons I won’t get into here, most of the women who are widowed will never remarry. This means that millions of women are living a life they didn’t choose and didn’t want, that of being an older, single woman. Now I am one of them.

Since Will died, I’ve had many conversations about grief, mostly with people who relate it to the loss of a parent, sibling or friend. Grief is grief, right? We’ve all heard of the stages of grief we must traverse, and I’m given the repeated advice to take my time and be kind to myself. Dear friends have stayed with me, brought me food, mowed my yard, and regularly call or text to check on me and let me know I’m in their thoughts. I have been humbled by their thoughtfulness and attention. What few of them can know is how utterly and completely widowhood devastates your life. And how grief is far from being your only challenge.

When I was a kid, a popular plot theme in television shows and movies was that of a character with amnesia. Said character would awaken from some trauma unable to recall their own past or identity. The effort to build a new life from this nothingness would follow. This is very much the way it is when one is widowed. Though you recall the past in vivid, heart wrenching detail, you don’t know who you are anymore and the life you’ve led has been swept away as surely as ashes are scattered in a breeze at sea.

We knew for several weeks that Will was dying. In his final days he was never fully awake or coherent and I sat watching him slip away by excruciating degrees. Impending widowhood was in my peripheral vision, but I chose not to look too closely, knowing there would be an interminable eon in which to face it.

The first few days following his death were blessedly hazy. I had the warm comfort of my daughter and her family wrapped around me in a protective blanket of love. They fed me, hugged me a lot, let me sleep for many healing hours, and expected nothing of me. Plans for a celebration of Will’s life consumed the next couple of weeks, and were followed by a lengthy visit from an old school chum. But when the inevitable reality of my aloneness hit, it was as though a tsunami had swept away everything stable or secure I had ever known. Every single aspect of my daily life was different. Every single one.

It is hard to describe the changes, because where does one begin? With the morning coffee made for one? With the unslept-on side of the bed? With the single toothbrush in the holder? Or maybe with the discarding of “his” food items, the breakfast cereal and the jar of hot peppers that he loved. The rearranging of the closet and the dresser drawers. The sale of his vehicle. His mail, now addressed to “The Estate of.”

I’m struggling to learn to shop for and cook for only myself. I make notes on my calendar to check the oil in the car weekly and to take the garbage bin to the road, tasks I was able to ignore before. When the dogs must be walked while it’s dark or sweltering or rainy, it is up to me. When there is the bump in the night, I must gather my courage and investigate.

I frequently go for several days at a time without speaking with another human being. My dogs have become the recipients of my wandering thoughts and are the only witnesses to my tears and wails. The wailing that seemingly appears randomly, comes from deep, deep in my belly, and is unlike any expression I’ve ever made before.

The future is like a mirage. Sometimes it is a thing of beauty, shimmering and beckoning in the distance. Other times, it is elusive and shadowy, ominous in its brooding darkness. The past is equally treacherous, filled with holes of regret and the painful perfection of best memories. I am trapped on this small floating island of “today,” untethered and at the mercy of the tides which shift on a schedule not of my making.

I am striving to establish some sort of routine that will build structure in my new life. It feels a bit like construction made of straw, weak and tending to topple over with the slightest pressure. I’ve noticed that my tears have become less frequent since a recent week when I cried for days, the numbness worn off and self-pity taking its place. I see that my calendar has a half-dozen days filled with events to enjoy with family and friends. I seem to be better able to make decisions about the decluttering necessary for a future downsizing move, and the clearing of excess things in my home no longer feel like a loss.

But though I’m clearly moving forward, with the proverbial two steps forward and one step back, Will is still very real to me. My longing for him is endless and his absence is still a very raw wound. I talk to his picture, and each night I go out before bedtime and talk to him while gazing at the moon. Before he died, I promised him that each time I looked at the moon, I would assume he was on the other side looking back. “I hope that’s how it works,” was his tearful reply.

Though it still feels like my world is a shambles, I am slowly inching toward clearing the debris and finding those pieces that can be dusted off and put to use in my new life. A vision is gradually taking shape of what I want that new life to look like, and I’m learning to appreciate the freedom of selfishness with no one’s needs to consider but my own. I watch my widowed friends who are leading active meaningful lives and know that I will be there again one day.

Transilience has new meaning for me as I absorb this abrupt and profound change and I search for the resilience that will be my saving grace. There will come a time when my identity is intact and built on who I am rather than what has happened to me. I will again live in a cozy world filled with my loved ones, my treasures, and activities of purpose. These things I know. The healing will come, and the joy will return. Gratitude will fill the spaces where pain currently dwells, and the beauty of Will, watching over me from his side of the moon, will make my heart sing again.

3 thoughts on “The Other Side of the Moon

  1. You are indeed transilient, dear friend. Steadfast, brave, resilient, agile, open-minded, and caring enough to post this for your admirers and followers to learn from and tear up while reading. Thank you for sharing these observations, experiences, and parts of your life with all of us. We cherish your well-being and cheer for a journey in the very near future, peppered with a few smiles, laughs and warm memory makings along the way. Hugs.

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  2. Carolyn, I don’t check Instagram very often, so I’m just now seeing this. Thank you for sharing your experience. It’s one that isn’t often spoken of in our culture. You lost a partner, best friend, lovely spouse. The beauty and Grace you share as you navigate this experience will be something that stays with me and becomes part of the knowledge I internalize for how I want to be when I reach a similar phase in life. Much love to you.

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