Widow

"Happy" wedding anniversary to me

Me : googling the word “Widow” on the first morning of my life that I woke up as one. Google : telling me that the origin of the word is  “Old English widewe, from an Indo-European root meaning ‘be empty” 

My husband, Jeremy, died *this weekend. I am broken, I am anchorless in this world, and I am sure I will see him again. Being that we did not share our relationship on the internet, ever, I know he is amused/annoyed that I am writing about him now. 

Today is our wedding anniversary. As I am writing this it has been roughly 60 hours since he died, and I am waking up on our wedding anniversary alone in Australia, instead of by his side in Tuscany, where we were meant to be celebrating. My phone’s been a beautiful flood of text messages, my friends are showing up in miraculous ways, my family is loving me from all the corners of the world. But I am left homeless. I have a roof over my head thankfully, but my home, my husband, is gone. And it’s my duty now to return home to myself. To find that sense of home within my own heart and body. As uncomfortable as I am, as badly as I want to run out of my skin, I truly have no choice. 

I could sit here and write pages upon pages of how wonderful my husband is/was/is but all who knew him, knew it deeply and I can never do him justice through my words. Instead, I want to offer some practical advice. In honor of my very pragmatic and practical husband. 

If you are ever faced with a moment of knowing you are leaving this earth or losing someone you love, the bravest and best thing you can do is to practice radical acceptance of the moment and leave nothing unplanned and unsaid. When we found out the moment was coming, I had to look my husband in the eye and say, we have to have some hard, hard conversations. 

I remember sitting in a hospital bed one night a few weeks ago and Jeremy wanted to share with me what his hopes were for my future. I pressed record on the voice memo app in my phone. Thank god I did. I will always cherish those words.

I also got to learn what he wanted for his body, how he wanted to be celebrated, where he wanted to die, who he wanted to be with. We cried through all these questions and conversations. We took exhausted breaks, our minds were bending in disbelief, we were in denial, we wanted to avoid it all, the words felt wrong coming out of our mouths, but we said them all anyway. And what I didn’t know then, is that they would offer me a sliver of peace to hold on to now. Because I am not left questioning. Because I know what he wants, what he wanted, and how he wanted it done. Because I get to honor his wishes instead of guessing through these heavy days. Because there was never enough time, but we did the brave things and had the hard conversations during the time we had.  

There are a lot of hard things things you have to deal with when someone dies and you are responsible for them. Like signing a permission slip to have them cremated (if that is their wish) and going through their bills, and planning a celebration of life etc. Make sure you pour into your friends, make sure you choose the right ones in this life. Because I will never be able to express how lucky we are when it comes to what our friends (and family) have and are doing for us in this time.

From helping me fly my dying husband back to his homeland in Australia, to helping me deal with finances, communicating with everyone, making sure I am fed, making sure my husband had a medical team waiting for him on the other side of that flight home, helping take care of him in turns for weeks on end when he first got sick. Setting up a lawyer for a will, texting me over and over to make sure I had all the passwords so I could handle things properly. These are all just a fraction of things our friends and family did, and ways they showed up and I will forever be in gratitude. Our people walked the hardest walk with us, by our side with no hesitation. Faced this big beast we didn’t stand a chance against, with us. 

Write a will. Yes, even if you are young (like us). Say what you want, what you truly want, in the event of your passing. Leave no stone unturned. Leave no I love you unsaid. If you have a question, ask it. If there is somewhere you want to go, someone you want to see, something you want to do, don’t put it off if possible.

This is a big one: If you know someone going through something monumentally impossible, I am talking so hard that you cannot relate to it and you just don’t know what to do, or how to show up, or what to say, show up anyway. It means the whole world. It is how I am left standing. It is not just my strength I am using, it is the strength I have been given by those who love me, who love us. 

Which brings me back to the origin of  “Widow” : Old English widewe, from an Indo-European root meaning ‘be empty” I am not joining that fucking club, I can tell you that much. There is no version of this in which I could ever be truly empty. I may have days and weeks and moments where I think I feel empty but the truth is, no one who has received as much love and who has been left behind by someone who was so all accepting, loving, loyal, and life giving could ever be left behind empty. If I ever forget, let my tears be a reminder of the ocean of love left behind with a tide so high it spills over my eyes and down my cheeks in memory of what I once had. Let me not become a widow, because I cannot “be empty” when I am full of sorrow, desperation, discomfort, humor, anger, gratitude, frustration, joy, confusion, loneliness, and love. Not Empty, full. Not a Widow, just someone different now. X 

*I wrote this post on August 27th