Hollow

The theme of this week has been people telling me I am doing very well. This is largely because I appear to be a fully functioning human being to the world at large. I am now able to dress myself (believe me in the first couple of weeks after Dave's death even this was a challenge), I am thankfully washing myself (and my clothes), I am managing to keep the house reasonably clean and I am feeding and looking after myself and my daughter. I am also getting myself out of the house and socialising with other people which means fighting, on a daily basis, the desire to be a fully fledged recluse. I dream of staying in my pyjamas all day with a pile of books and magazines, chocolate, wine and daytime tv, snivelling my way through a whole box of Kleenex and plumbing unknown depths of self indulgence. I didn't however count on the strength of character instilled in to me by my feisty mother (also widowed in her case at age 43) and the predominant message that the "show must go on" no matter what. The show of life that is. We Lewendons have standards and don't we know it! We are certainly made of very stern stuff, not like these other people who seem to keel over in a strong wind!

So what happens is every day I don the "mask" of a fully functioning human being. Put on a bit of make up and lippy and hope that one day I will actually start to feel like a fully functioning human being on the inside. Meanwhile, people (with the best of intentions) keep telling me I am doing very well, but this has a very hollow ring to me as I know in my heart that it is really a facade. The sadness is still overwhelming at times but I do my best to look as normal as possible for most of the time as it seems to make other people feel better! When Dave was alive and people told me I was inspirational and amazing, I could really take the compliment but now in this situation when people are saying the same things and marvelling at my ability to get on with life, it just doesn't ring true to me as I feel very empty inside. Hopefully over time this feeling will change.

The other thing that is strange is that occasionally people feel the need to tell me I will need to "adapt" to my new way of life. The word "adapt" suggests a gradual process that takes place over time. Becoming a widow is not really like that - you don't get any time to "adapt". I always used to say that childbirth was the most transformational experience because when having your first child you have lots of ideas about the kind of parent you will be, but the minute the child is born you just are a mother or a father. Something just happens to you in an instant. Becoming a widow is similar. From the moment that Dave drew his last breath I was a widow. My roles and responsibilities changed instantly. I became both a mother and a father to Emma, the breadwinner, the funeral organiser, the house maintainer, executor of the will etc etc. It was like being hit by a lightning bolt when you are already on your knees. So if you know any widows please give them credit for the fact that they take on all these changes overnight and adapt immediately at a time when they feel least able to do anything. I think there is later a process of adapting to a new life over time, but it is more perhaps about designing something for yourself in a situation that you wouldn't have chosen if you had been given a choice in the matter. You can take time over that but most of the other stuff has to be handled immediately with little time to prepare!

Recently, I was looking at a widows website (yes they do exist) and someone had reproduced the passage below. It is a suggested way of helping people who have been widowed. I sent this passage to a few friends who had asked how they could help and got a lot of positive feedback, many people found it very moving so thought I would publish it on the blog to give some food for thought. I can really relate to many of the points raised. I cannot acknowledge the author as no-one seems to know who wrote it!

HOW YOU CAN HELP ME

Please talk about my loved one, even though he is gone. It is more
comforting to cry than to pretend that he never existed. I need to talk
about him, and I need to do it over and over.

Be patient with my agitation. Nothing feels secure in my world. Get
comfortable with my crying. Sadness hits me in waves, and I never know
when my tears may flow. Just sit with me in silence and hold my hand.

Don't abandon me with the excuse that you don't want to upset me. You
can't catch my grief. My world is painful, and when you are too afraid
to call me or visit or say anything, you isolate me at a time when I
most need to be cared about. If you don't know what to say, just come
over, give me a hug or touch my arm, and gently say, "I'm sorry." You
can even say, "I just don't know what to say, but I care, and want you
to know that."

Just because I look good does not mean that I feel good. Ask me how I
feel only if you really have time to find out.

I am not strong. I'm just numb. When you tell me I am strong, I feel
that you don't see me.

I will not recover. This is not a cold or the flu. I'm not sick. I'm
grieving and that's different. My grieving may only begin 6 months after
my loved one's death. Don't think that I will be over it in a year. For
I am not only grieving his death, but also the person I was when I was
with him, the life that we shared, the plans we had for watching our
children and grandchildren grow, the places we will never get to go together, and the hopes and dreams that will never come true. My whole world has crumbled
and I will never be the same.

I will not always be grieving as intensely, but I will never forget my
loved one and rather than recover, I want to incorporate his life and
love into the rest of my life. He is a part of me and always will be,
and sometimes I will remember him with joy and other times with a tear.
Both are okay.

I don't have to accept the death. Yes, I have to understand that it has
happened and it is real, but there are some things in life that are just
not acceptable.

When you tell me what I should be doing, then I feel even more lost and
alone. I feel badly enough that my loved one is dead, so please don't
make it worse by telling me I'm not doing this right.

Please don't tell me I can find someone else or that I need to start
dating again. I'm not ready. And maybe I don't want to. And besides,
what makes you think people are replaceable? They aren't. Whoever comes
after will always be someone different.

I don't even understand what you mean when you say, "You've got to get
on with your life." My life is going on, I've been forced to take on
many new responsibilities and roles. It may not look the way you think
it should. This will take time and I will never be my old self again. So
please, just love me as I am today, and know that with your love and
support, the joy will slowly return to my life. But I will never forget
and there will always be times that I cry.

I need to know that you care about me. I need to feel your touch, your
hugs. I need you just to be with me, and I need to be with you. I need
to know you believe in me and in my ability to get through my grief in
my own way, and in my own time.

Please don't say, "Call me if you need anything." I'll never call you
because I have no idea what I need. Trying to figure out what you could
do for me takes more energy than I have. So, in advance, let me give you
some ideas.
(a) Bring food or a movie over to watch together.
(b) Send me a card on special holidays, his birthday, and the
anniversary of his death, and be sure to mention his name. You can't
make me cry. The tears are here and I will love you for giving me the
opportunity to shed them because someone cared enough about me to reach
out on this difficult day.
(c) Ask me more than once to join you at a movie or lunch or dinner. I
may so no at first or even for a while, but please don't give up on me
because somewhere down the line, I may be ready, and if you've given up
then I really will be alone.
(d) Understand how difficult it is for me to be surrounded by couples,
to walk into events alone, to go home alone, to feel out of place in the same situations where I used to feel so comfortable.

Please don't judge me now - or think that I'm behaving strangely.
Remember I'm grieving. I may even be in shock. I am afraid. I may feel
deep rage. I may even feel guilty. But above all, I hurt. I'm
experiencing a pain unlike any I've ever felt before and one that can't
be imagined by anyone who has not walked in my shoes.

Don't worry if you think I'm getting better and then suddenly I seem to
slip backward. Grief makes me behave this way at times. And please don't
tell me you know how I feel, or that it's time for me to get on with my
life. What I need now is time to grieve.

Most of all thank you for being my friend. Thank you for your patience.
Thank you for caring. Thank you for helping, for understanding. Thank
you for praying for me.

And remember in the days or years ahead, after your loss - when you need
me as I have needed you - I will understand. And then I will come and be
with you.