Death of a Wife
How I laid the wedded title to rest and rediscovered my identity.
As the thirteenth anniversary of my husband’s passing nears, I find myself a bit befuddled. At what point did it cease to be a day of mourning? When, precisely, did I lay to rest my wifely title?
Love and marriage
Matt and I were high school sweethearts. He was the first man (boy) I had ever kissed. As we matured into adulthood, our identities grew intertwined until we were one organism. Paramours, spouses, parents, beloved.
I relished the title of wife. Matt would often use it as a term of endearment. “It is the most important word to me,” he would explain. “No one else can have the title. You are the one I cherish.”
Now I was a wife without her first mate. Who was I as a solo entity? Could I function? Would I survive as an individual?
A fish out of water
Sackcloth, ashes, and other public displays were never my thing. Still, in the early years, the day would bring floods of heartache. Gasping for air like a goldfish suddenly tossed from its bowl, my environment appeared completely foreign. I felt interrupted, dysfunctional — incomplete. Later years would feel like I was treading water — staying afloat but exhausted by the emotional exertion.
To the outside world, I was faring well — the picture of perseverance. Inside I was an unstable kaleidoscope of sorrow and fear, worry and loss. I could never predict what the day’s mosaic would be. I felt adrift, isolated by hopelessness. Anytime someone commented on my “strength” I wanted to shriek like a banshee. Tell them — warn them — they had no idea what they were talking about.
Instead, I would politely say “Thank you.”
Gradually, the waves ebbed and I found myself on solid ground. Depression evolved into melancholy. Still, grief fogged my brain like a weak narcotic. My thoughts were hazy with occasional bolts of pain, but I was persisting.
Rentering the world of the living
Meeting friends for an evening out could trigger paralyzing anxiety. I would either wait for them outside the establishment or text to make sure they were already inside before entering. Walking in by myself caused me to feel like I was in the proverbial dream of showing up for an exam completely naked — exposed, alone, and ashamed.
It wasn’t just insecurity that hindered me, but a general sensation of being unsafe. Suspecting that if I was left to my own devices, I would be devoured or, worse yet, melt into a puddle devoid of all humanity.
I had yet to trust in the potency of my own identity.
The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance. Alan Watts
The metamorphosis progressed almost imperceptibly. My widow’s shroud eventually began to wear thin, offering a filmy glimpse of the transformed creature — woman — I would come to be. I took longer than most to emerge from the refuge of my cocoon, reluctant to leave the sanctuary of my sorrow.
This was to be an agonizingly slow incarnation.
For some time, I allowed my maternal instinct to override almost all other aspects of my persona. I was desperate to make up for what they had lost — trying relentlessly to fulfill the roles of two parents. Nearly all my free time was devoted to aiding my two sons in their endeavors. Hours upon hours of volunteering at their school provided me with a sense of purpose and developed my self-confidence.
It also ensured there was no time left for dealing with such matters as grief.
When my sons left to pursue their paths to adulthood, they took my purpose with them. The silence in the house was deafening.
I knew I had to find my own trail to forge or risk stagnation.
Discovering my value
After a few false starts, I landed a job that perfectly fit my personality. It reinforced the expertise I had already developed and helped me to discover new talents. Completely confident in the role, I came to realize I was damn good at it.
I finally appreciated my skills had value.
For the first time, I was surrounded by people that never knew me as a married woman. The fact that I was a widow was only a footnote in my life’s resume. “Spouse” was not a term applicable to me anymore.
My identity was my own.
Realizing my worth
Now that I was somewhat comfortable with being a “single woman,” I decided to take the plunge and start dating.
Middle-aged dating is not for the faint of heart, especially for a widow. Most men are either intimidated by your deceased spouse or see you as an easy mark. And, I admit, it took me a while to stop seeking a Matt 2.0. I certainly was no longer the youthful 16-year-old that fell in love under the mistletoe. Why was I expecting to find the same type of man? Why would I want him?
What took the longest was recognizing that I didn’t need to settle for a less-than relationship. I, myself, an intelligent woman, was worthy of more.
Even more importantly, I began to be ok with being alone.
The classification of Matt’s wife is now defunct
I have often wondered if my husband would recognize the woman I have become. Now, I suppose, does it even matter? His legacy will always be in our memories, our hearts, and in the DNA of our sons, but to put it quite bluntly — he’s dead. He has no say in the matter.
Nevertheless, there is no doubt in my mind that he would be proud of me. Most of the time, I’m pretty proud of myself. He saw the resilience in me. He had an indomitable faith that I could raise our boys without him.
He knew, no matter how difficult, I could survive.
Post Mortem
I’m not sure which “deathiversary” it was that I didn’t feel any more yearning to lament — to pine for a future that couldn’t exist. The longing quietly receded to reveal the brightness of optimism. My insecurities have been washed away by self-assurance. Sure, there will be a touch of sadness to mark the occasion, but the best way to honor him is simply to be happy.
It’s time to celebrate life.
It’s time to be simply me.
If you would like to read more about my transformation, here are a few stories to get you started:
