L
ife couldn’t have been any better.
My husband Charlie and I were retired, so we sold our big house and the extra car and moved into a cottage, with an office in back for me and a workshop for Charlie.
Side by side, Charlie and I puttered at our work in blissful contentment.
Nineteen months later Charlie died of a massive heart attack.
I was completely unprepared for singleness. Why, Lord, why? I half-prayed, half-cursed. This happens to other people. It isn’t supposed to happen to me.
Suddenly I felt totally unloved, unprotected, unwanted. “It’s a couples’ world,” I muttered, angrily. “I’m like a fifth wheel.” I raged with jealousy when I saw couples in the mall holding hands. I wore my anger like chicken pox.
I took in a stranger who needed temporary housing. We cried together, prayed together, and when she finally left, we were lasting friends.
And the loneliness returned with a rage.
Work was always good for what ails me, but working around Charlie’s shop only stimulated painful memories - every nook and cranny held his ghost.
I tried shopping, every woman’s painkiller. Everything I did was impulsive. I lacked common sense and self-control, as if I were being knocked around by an invisible force.
I took trips to change the scenery. When I got home, I sat on the deck, crying in the rain and staring at the lawn as overrun with crabgrass as my heart was overrun with bitterness.
People who live alone have too much time to think, and introspection is like a sweet but poisonous candy to a widow. One day, tired of myself, I got angry at my grief and decided to go to work on my future.
This yard is too big, and this house is too small, I decided, reaching for the phone book.
Flipping to the real estate section, I stabbed a bright ad with my finger and dialed the number.
A female answered the phone, and I thought, My life is full of females.... Then I stopped myself. There I go again, with introspection.
“What do you have in the way of condominiums?” I asked.
On a rainy Saturday we drove to a condo high in the mountains, but it was as dark as my soul. The second condo was in the middle of a town, and the neighbors were quarreling. It made me uneasy. I began to doubt the whole idea and whether I would ever be happy again.
The third condominium was older but recently renovated. It was cheerful, bright, clean. There were built-in bookcases for my books, and I could see my doll collection sitting on those shelves nicely.
I sold my house to my newly-wed grandson and began the horrendous task of sorting through my husband’s things. As I sorted through his tools, I could hear him whistling. His gloves on the workbench reminded me of his strong and talented hands. Handwritten notes on his bulletin board brought moisture to my eyes, and a half-empty Coke bottle reminded me how quickly he departed.
I wanted to let go of these memories, but I also wanted to keep them. I was torn, like a child who has to throw away her favorite but worn-out rag doll.
Finished, I was emotionally exhausted, but it was a turning point. Working through these visible reminders enabled me to loosen my grip on the past.
Mourning is hard work, I discovered, and making changes is even harder. But working at it gave me a feeling of control, something I had not felt in a long time.
In my new condominium I have made friends with five widows, like me. Comparing notes, I learned that we had all traveled the same lonely road, and loneliness isn’t so bad when you have someone to share it with. Once a month we get together on a Saturday morning for breakfast, where we talk and laugh like schoolgirls.
Recently I sat at the window of my condominium, admiring the mountains and forests, the flowers, and the winding Columbia River below. I spoke to God in a friendly way. “Lord, thank you for this beautiful garden you have planted outside my window.” I felt a little silly for being angry at someone who was there all the time.
I found happiness in a good marriage.
Now I have found happiness in being alone.
- Shirley Pease