young widowhood

A Thought


I’ve been thinking (again) about this life and loss stuff. There are those who believe with all their being that grief, whatever the cause, must be addressed until it can be wallowed in and analyzed and milked no more. There are those who are equally sure that it can be put away on a shelf like a book one has read and is done with forever. There are those who choose to deflect it with other activities – distractions. But does it have to be so all or nothing? So absolute? What about balance? What about moderation in all things? 

I know people who live their pain and can’t conceive of a life without it. I know people who run from it and embrace all manner of distraction and are confused when the distraction is gone and the pain is still there. I know people who shelve it. And I know, for myself – and not just because of having been widowed, that it is not that simple. There is room in our existence for all things – all the time. 

Life is woven like a tapestry, not a molded collection of synthetic fibers.

Paying it Forward



My blogging friend, Marsha, wrote a wonder piece yesterday about the idea of “paying it forward”. She feels, as I do, that one of the things that should come out of life’s challenges and tragedies is a sense that a person should put what they’ve learned from their experiences to use in helping others who are going through similar situations. It is something I did as a teacher. My life, and the lives of my family, friend and acquaintances, were examples from which my students could learn. Part of life is searching for the meaning and higher truths – enlightening one’s self, but the other part is taking that light and sharing it with others. The others are mainly family and friends and those you are in closest connection to on a daily basis, but some of us, I feel, are called upon to reach farther afield. For a while, I felt that the widow board was where I was supposed to be. I took note of those widows farther out than myself who talked about being called upon to be “widow-mentors”. I don’t think I am mentor material, but I had things to share. I tried to go back to the board recently. But I don’t feel overly inspired to read posts or reach out there anymore. Part of it is a left over resentment at the way I was driven from there. but more has to do with the fact that I am more interested in promoting growth and forward momentum than the idea that grief is a “do whatever feels best” and can “take as long as it takes” attitude. I do not believe either and much of what I have read in recent studies on bereavement is contrary to what is promoted at the site. 

I turned to blogging for myself initially and then as a way to share with others who might be experiencing transitions and on journeys of self-discovery. And I still like the idea of using the blog, and myself in the process, as an example. But, I was a teacher for twenty years, and I miss the face to face interaction and being able to see and talk with people. Writing and reading is good but the human component is distanced. The parents group at Pilgrim’s Hospice has proved a tiny outlet, but the process is so scripted and the grief is a one-size fits all as though everything about loss is equal, and like so much of life – there is no such thing as equal. Losing a parent as a child is different from a teen/young adult and much different from the experience of an adult who has a family of their own. They are not comparable experiences. Losing a spouse to death is not the same as divorcing one or being divorced. Losing a sibling is not the same as losing a life partner. Losing a child is the most horrendous grief of all but the age of the child and the circumstances of the death are factors. We like to ignore the reality that apples and oranges really are different types of fruit because we are afraid of marginalizing and even more afraid that someone may not like us – but how helpful is that really? So, the parents group has widowed people predominantly, a couple of parents who have lost small children and someone who lost a parent. Rob and I are by far the most “experienced” grievers in the group in terms of time out from the loss. It’s a 12 steppy thing. Aren’t they all? And it works on the premise that there should be a group facilitator prompting with open-ended topics or questions and that emotions and experiences of everyone present are going to be very similar. Even among younger widowed people are emotional responses and experiences can be quite dissimilar so you can imagine what a group of mixed grievers is like in terms of having a discussion rather than just one person venting and the next person do the same. It’s like parallel lines. After the last meeting I sent a email to the director suggesting tactfully, as I am capable of that, that we might break into smaller groups at different points so we can share with those whose experiences are most like our own. It is difficult to really articulate your thoughts and feelings when you are weighing them constantly in an effort not to make anyone feel bad. For example, the person who lost their parent, both Rob and I have a shocking lack of empathy for her and Rob has even lost a parent himself. I think it stems from the fact that we accept that as we age, so do our parents and as a matter of course, they will age, get sick perhaps, and die. It is a loss. It will/does effect one and there is grief, but it is part of life. Losing one’s spouse at a young age – not so on the scale of what is expected. Same goes for the death of a child. I just can’t muster the empathy for this person or the situation and so I am trying to participate in the group knowing that I need to keep this to myself.  The director liked my idea and will put it to the group to decide tonight. At the hospice group, I feel more like I am “paying forward” though perhaps it is more “paying up” in the sense that someone helped me along at different points in my journey and now I am called upon to repay the debt via others.

In the spirit of helping then, I went to a planning session sponsored by the city last evening. There is a need for grief services in our little town and I thought I could at least input a bit, if not volunteer at some point. It turned out that the model for the group was predetermined and it was more of a finite workshop than an actual support group. The group of women who attended last evening were the same type of mixed fruit bowl you get at most grief groups that are sponsored by social service agencies. The need to separate people in a more constructive way is not universally acknowledged. I left the meeting when it became clear to me that they were not soliciting ideas as much as participants. I was even a bit insulted by the leader of the group who made the comment to me, and another widow of my vintage, that perhaps the reason we didn’t want to participate was that we were in denial and were stuffing or blocking our feelings. Today I can chuckle a bit about that. Me? Stuffing? She needs to read my blog. But the thing that irked me the most was the fact that she was yet another one of those time-line people (four years to all better now) who believe that if one works hard and grieves according to the rules as laid down, they will one day be ready to resume life and live again. Nonsense. Life does not stop and wait for us to by ready and interested. If you wait for perfect or nearly so to live, you won’t. Live. Life happens all the time and whether we feel like it or not, we are living. We can choose to not participate and let moments/opportunities go by – and many people do this for may different reasons – but I believe we can live and grieve and that this is normal and healthy. And, I have to confess that her snide aside about my being married already colored my opinion of her and her ideas a bit.

My dilemma then is how to go about giving back/paying forward. If we stay here in this area (a possibility now as Texas has become an “if”), there is the possibility of becoming a hospice volunteer at the Pilgrim house. and there is also the idea of writing articles and freelancing a bit in the area of grief. 

If you are still with me after all this rambling, perhaps you have ideas or suggestions. I rarely hear from any of you aside from Marsha and Sally and TGLB – and of course my darling Rob, and that’s okay, but I’d like to know what thoughts there might be out there.

Oh, and my 10,000 blog view is fast approaching. If you happen to be the one to log on here and notice that you have tipped the counter to that big ole number – let me know it was you. ‘K?

Starbucks at the Safeway


Olivia and Wendy are usually the baristas on duty at the Starbucks when I am in Safeway during the week. Because I see them more than any of the others who work there, I asked them to pose for the photo I took when I decided to write about Starbucks. You might wonder, why write about Starbucks? It’s a completely commercial coffee house that is as responsible for the decline of civilization as Wal-mart, strip-malls and mega-plex theatre chains. They sit in nearly every grocery chain and mall and sometimes on multiple street-corners on the same city block. Starbucks is not the real deal but a pretense and so is not unique or special. But that is precisely why I want to write about it. Because they are everywhere. And for that reason, to me, they are special.

My step-daughter, Jordan, refuses to step foot in Starbucks (or its Canadian equivalent Second Cup) because she believe that the company is immoral and exploits poor coffee growers in the third world countries, although this isn’t true of Starbucks – according to what I have read (I don’t know about Second Cup) – I acknowledge that a cup of just about anything at Starbucks’ is priced well over it’s actual value and that what one is really paying for when one does stop and go with the logo cup in had is the stamp of privilege because only those with the time to burn and the cash as well, run into the nearest Starbucks for their morning latte fix. People who are press for time and money, or are too sensible to pay too much money for hot flavored water, stop at the corner gas-mart for the paper (those who are sensible because they read) and a cup of whatever is brewing. I began my chai days with occasional trips to a mom and pop coffee house at the Valley West Mall in West Des Moines. Will loved the mochas and he could talk football with the owner who was a Bears fan but that was okay with Will, at least the guy was devoted and knew his NFL. The little trips made shopping and running errands more palatable for Will and I can’t remember when he got me the first chai latte but I don’t remember taking an instant liking to it. It was too hot. I have never been a fan of anything I had to swallow quickly in order to avoid burning my tongue. I am like that about most foods and beverages really and Will’s standard question during a meal would be “Is that cold enough for you yet, babe?”

The coffee shop eventually moved out of the mall to a strip mall not far from where we lived and it became a Sunday ritual for us that continued until Will went into the nursing home in October of ’04. After that Katy and I would stop there to pick up a mocha to take to him when we went to visit and eventually help with feeding him on weekend mornings and whenever I was on vacation from school. After Will died, I couldn’t bring myself to go there anymore. The couple that ran the place had been so kind to Will when he was still able to go there himself which was a rarity. So many people would pretend he wasn’t present because the didn’t realize he had dementia and his behavior was so odd, or they would give him rude looks and when he failed to notice they would direct them at me. I stopped trying to explain early on. It did no good. I can remember a police officer who overreacted to Will’s agitation once and when I explained what the real matter was, he told me that he didn’t care – just keep my husband back. Will could barely see or walk without assistance at the time.

So, when I moved up to Fort Saskatchewan, I was quite happy to discover that the local grocery, Safeway, had a Starbucks. Just like the Hy-Vee grocery back in Iowa. It was comforting because despite the Canadian version of service (slow) it was the same. The same menu. The same baked goods. The same tastes and smells. The same rotating holiday items for sale. And, if you went often enough, the people would start to know your usual order and eventually ask after you as though they knew you. Amid all the unfamiliar, here was Starbucks – predictable and known. Kind of like the Catholic mass. You go anywhere in the world, walk into a Catholic church and the mass will be pretty much the same everywhere. The same holds true with a non-fat chai latte.