The Joyful Widower

I’ve been absent from writing for quite a while now. It’s been difficult to do a lot of things that aren’t strictly necessary. I’ve kept my kids and myself fed, dressed, and housed, and I’ve gotten us to appointments and obligations, mostly on time. I’ve gotten myself to work. Apart from that, not much else.

One might assume that things get easier after the first year, but I find for me that is not at all the case. It wasn’t the case when Melinda died, and it certainly isn’t now. The second year is in many ways harder than the first. I’ve spoken to other widows and widowers, and have heard the same sentiment. When I shared that with my friend Dave the other night, and said that that was why I hadn’t written anything in quite some time but want to get back to it, he pointed out the obvious–that should be my next topic for writing.

So, here goes. My (not exhaustive) list of reasons for why the second year is harder than the first. Please feel free to comment with any other reasons that might be true from your own experience.

• During the first year, you’re operating a good bit out of shock. Reality starts creeping in bit by bit, but you have the benefit of numbness that buffers things for you and that helps to get through the “have to do’s.” By the time you’re into the second year, however, the shock has worn off and you’re facing reality head on. Your brain has had time to adjust to the fact that “they’re not coming back,” and so a good bit of the second year is just feeling that. It hurts. A lot. There are days where it’s so hard just to manage the “have to do’s.” Sometimes I get home from work, fix dinner, wash dishes, then head to bed because I’ve got nothing left to give (in spite of that I do check in with my kids to see if they need anything from me, because I can’t leave them hanging). A danger of this time would be to want a return to numbness, be it through drugs, alcohol, sex, over-indulgence in comfort eating, etc. But there’s no such thing as selective numbing. It’s all or nothing. You can kill the pain, but in so doing you also kill pretty much any other feeling. The narrower, but right, course of action, is to engage the pain (albeit in smart, healthy ways, like therapy and confession where needed, proper diet, exercise, and sleep) because only by allowing yourself to feel that pain can you also have the capacity to feel happiness and love, to be open to the people around you.
• There’s nothing like grief to kill physical desire, but with the second year and the wearing-off of numbness can come a return of physical desire with a vengeance. The catch is, however, that you have no outlet for those feelings. It feels like a very frustrating and unfair place to be, but it’s where I am. Lately I’ve been asking St. Mary of Egypt for her prayers and her assistance to deal with lust, and she is a strong intercessor. I also have a dear friend in St. Xenia of St. Petersburg, and value her prayers and aid. Y’all get it. No need to say anything more to anyone except Christ and my confessor. Moving on.
• In the immediate aftermath of death, many of us are blessed to have a strong support system in place. The kids and I experienced such an outpouring of love-in-action, through food, monetary gifts, listening hearts, shoulders to cry on, from friends, coworkers, fellow parishioners… That support was invaluable. I still chuckle when I think back to my phone call with Tracy’s best friends who said they’d be there for us, and I immediately shot back in a flippantly bossy tone (you can do that with true friends!) “I want you to come over here, clean my house, and fix my dinner!” They showed up with families in tow, and we had a joyous time together cleaning up, then sitting down to a meal together and telling Tracy stories. But crisis support doesn’t go on forever. A cast and crutches are appropriate immediately following a broken leg. Perhaps there’s a limp later, or a need for a cane; perhaps there’s no visible change in gait when much healing has taken place, but there is pain that is hidden. Regardless, there is a day where the cast must come off, the crutches must be retired, and walking resumes. The second year is rehabilitation after the initial healing. It is the process of learning to walk again, even if you’ll never walk quite the same way again.
• I’ve mentioned it in a prior post, but it bears repeating. The second year is when you look backwards and see that you’ve come through the first of everything (first birthdays of each member in the family, first wedding anniversary, first Christmas, etc.), but then you look forwards and see that there is now the second of everything… and then the third… and you don’t know how many more laps you’ll be running. The reality sinks in that this is not a sprint, but a marathon. I don’t know how many more years I’ll shoulder this load. But I’m not giving up, and I’ll carry it until I’m called to lay my burden down.

Not to leave on a down note, I will say that there are blessings in the second year that I couldn’t have realized in the first. I do have resourcefulness that needed tapping. I’m learning more about myself, and in spite of some things I don’t like, there are parts of me that I’m finding and rather do like. My relationship with my children is growing as they mature and become young adults, and not only do I love them, but I rather like them as well! I’m also finding some opportunities to transform grief into something of value for others, but that will be a topic (or two) for another day.

There. I’m committed. I have to come back for at least a post or two more in order not to add lying to my pile of sins!