Friday, May 23, 2014

Nobody Remembers

If you are widowed, and you are reading this, then you know that missing your person and the life you had together is as constant as breathing - it is a new fact in your new life that you didn't ask for, and it's just there, always and forever. The missing of what was never goes away.

But then, above and beyond that missing, is a whole other kind of missing that has nothing to do with missing having a partner or being part of a team or having intimacy or stability or love or family. No. The kind of missing that I am talking about today, is a very specific missing. It is specific to each of you, and totally different for each of you. It is the missing of the elements that made up the person we lost. The tiny and subtle things that made them who they are - the things that perhaps only you know, or the sides to them that only you saw, inside of that beautiful secret that was your relationship. Lately, I have found myself missing these types of things about my one-of-a-kind, never to be duplicated husband, and trying like hell to somehow recreate them in my mind or in my heart or memory. If I close my eyes just right and think about it just right and really focus and concentrate, maybe I can bring back that thing he used to do or those words he used to say. Maybe I can somehow feel them again. And even though this normally doesn't work for me, and I end up feeling nothing except frustration - I keep trying anyway.

But perhaps the only way to bring those pieces to life again, and keep them alive, is to talk about them and write about them and share them with other people. The problem though, is that the list of people I can share this with gets shorter and shorter as time goes on. Don didn't have much family. Both of his parents passed away before he did, and most of his remaining family can best be described as "dysfunctional." (and I'm being kind) He has many friends, and my family loved and loves him like a son, but all of those people have lives and families of their own, and  it's still a bit weird of a thought to strike up a conversation with any of them about the strange Elvis-like crinkle in my husband's crooked smile, or the way he would chase me around the apartment slurping his cereal, because he knew how much I HATE cereal slurpers. These types of things are just a bit too personal to want to share with anyone, except for the people who lived in our home. Anotherwords - me, and my husband.

This is one of the many things that truly sucks about not having the chance to start a family with your person. This is one of the many things that is so unfair and hurtful, about being childless and widowed. I have nobody to look at and say: "Do you remember when Daddy did this?" Nobody is coming home and saying: "Mom, guess what? I saw a guy napping on the train today, and he was lying down with the newspaper over his face, the same way that Dad used to do!"

 I remember being invited to have dinner at my fellow widow friend's house one week. She has two daughters, and when they sat down to eat dinner, the person they lost was there in the room. His presence was everywhere. In their choice of foods, in their words, in their memories, their stories, their laughter, their sharing of things that had happened. My heart was about to fall apart as I sat there, realizing that I don't have that, and that I will never have that. I don't have anyone to come home to and share a meal or cook a meal that reminds us of him, or to say: "Remember when?" with. When I am home, it is just me. Just me. No kids to share the grief or the love or the life with. No kids to be scared with or angry with or insane with, or feel alone and isolated with. No children to look at or watch or hear, and see fragments of my husband in.

Not only is this a very lonely feeling, but it also comes with great responsibility. It is up to me and me alone, as his wife, and as the sole person left on this earth that loved him to the degree that I loved him - to make damn sure that he is never forgotten. It is on my shoulders  and mine alone, that his legacy live on. If I don't do it, there is literally nobody else who will. Sometimes it feels as if I need to shout it from rooftops that our love and our life actually did happen, that we did in fact exist. Because all of the evidence lies inside my heart. My mind. My soul. It's a lot to carry around. I do it with equal amounts terror, and pride.

And when I ask: "Do you remember?", the only person who could possibly answer that, is gone. They are gone. There is no sadder of a feeling than being the only one left who remembers.

14 comments:

  1. Kelley, this is why I post on Widow's Voice. My weird life has always been one of secrecy. My "mother" used to make very tense sounds and wrinkle up her face as if she was in pain, and make "shut-UP!" gestures whenever I started my "Remember when...Remember how..." conversations. But only for some memories. As I have reached the Big Five-Oh, and want to sit back and reminisce, there is no one to confirm, no one who cares. So I talk to the walls, yak it up while I am in my car, and I journal and plan events. And I feel guilty for taking this energy away from my present relationship (which is destroying me); I feel insane, pathetic.

    Because I changed so totally when I was with various lost loves, this is an evaluation of myself- kind of like "how much gas is left in the tank"? Not like I can go back to who I was, but a reaffirmation of my core values: honesty, kindness, hard work and intellect. Each person I was with was changed by knowing me. So, WE had something valuable that I should be able to drag out on special occasions & holidays and teach the young 'uns (other people's children) a life lesson or six. You are right; it IS a great responsibility.

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  2. Yes. 100% Yes. I feel it every day. xo

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  3. This really hit home for me Kelley. I'm so worried I'm going to start forgetting all those little things and no one will be there to remind me. Yesterday I went to see a physiotherapist after putting my back out while loading cutlery in the dishwasher (I know, right?!). She told me I needed lots of bed rest while the swelling went down and asked if my husband was home to look after me (I still wear my rings) and I had to explain that he passed away ten months ago. She then proceeded to ask a lot of awkward and insensitive questions around how and why - ending with 'at least you didn't have children'. I told her that I actually wish we did, and it was one of the most difficult parts for me and she replied that she was a big believer in things happening for a reason and I wasn't meant to have the extra burden of raising a child who's father had committed suicide on top of everything else. If I wasn't laying on the bed with my back seized up I may have hit her!

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  4. OH MY GOD Rebecca!!! I cannot believe someone who is a professional and who is supposed to be treating you, would say so many horriblly insensitive things !!! That is beyond awful and Im angry FOR you right now! Telling us "at least you didnt have children" is so freakin hurtful - I have gotten that comment more times than I can count, and they say it as if its a huge sigh of relief, like - oh, well you didnt have kids, so your pain doesnt really count. Youre not a REAL widow, youre not a REAL family. Thats how it makes me feel everytime someone says that. Im so sorry you had to go through that awful appointment, and I hope your back gets better soon. xoxo...

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    1. The more I think about her, the angrier I get. I am supposed to go back and see her on Monday and have half a mind to give her some 'advice' on things you SHOULDN'T say to widows!!! Thanks for being angry on my behalf :)

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    2. Get a new doc if you can, Rebecca, or feel free to let her have it! What an absolutely insensitive thing for her to say. I don't know if she works for a big hospital but if you get a "rate your physician" after visit survey, be sure to say exactly what you wrote.
      Hope your back feels better soon and I hope you have some friends to help you while you recover.
      Ooh, I just thought of something snarky you can say: "If you're going to walk all over my grief, the least you can do is take off your shoes." Yep, I stole that from a blues song but it's a little more PC than dropping F-bombs, C-bombs and whatever other colorful metaphors you want to use.

      --Marissa

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  5. Hi Kelly,

    Having someone to share them with hurts just as much and sometimes more I think. My daughter is 13 and it breaks my heart when she remembers how much she lost. He was the most amazing father to her and she has lost so much......it literally kills me every time I think about it.....tears are pouring down my face as I write this......so there is no better or worse of having had kids.......it's just as painful this way to....
    Maureen(Nyack, new York)

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  6. I meant to add that I feel that heavy burden of making sure his memory lives on but I'm finding it t hard to do......can't it be enough that we just remember..........no one else really understands anyway.......maureen

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  7. Kelley, I think we all struggle with the not wanting the world to forget our lost love, I know I do. I also find it harder and harder to find those that want to let me talk about him. I do however have kids and grandkids that I can remember when with and you just made me realize how hard it would be to not have that. We get lost in our own pain and forget to reach out and think about the different types of struggles our fellow widows are enduring. God bless you Kelley, sending hugs to you!

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    1. Thank you so much Anon. I appreciate you saying that. Hugs back atcha!!!! xo

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  8. Kelley, you've done it again. Thank you so much for sharing your incredible talent with us. You described perfectly how I feel. I cried reading your post. My husband was a fighter pilot and very Type A. No one but me knew the other side of my hero. Rich was sensitive and mush inside. I was the only one who was allowed into that secret part of him. The intimacy and the closeness that we shared was ours and ours alone. I was blessed that this special man chose me to love; chose me to give his heart to; chose me to share his life with. God, how lucky I was. I just wanted more time with the other half of me.

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    1. Yes!!! Yes yes yes .... it is ours and ours alone. So beautiful, yet so lonely too, when that other person is gone.

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  9. Kelley, great post. I am also a guardian griever of my hubby's memory. No children here either, and many, many times I truly wish we had not made the decision not to have a family (besides our precious fur babies). I so long for a son who would have the same reflection in his voice, and also to share some of the same characteristics that he was as to his core being. This widowed life comes with so many losses, but I try to find courage through Maya Angelou words, "You alone are enough...You have nothing to prove to anybody." Hugs to you Kelley.

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  10. HI everyone, it has been 9 years since my husband died of a heart attack in our back yard. the first year after he passed away, I can remember one time I was listening to Christmas music on my way to work. I was listening and enjoying the music, then from nowhere came the tears. There was times at my job, that my crying jags just came. I was actually let go from my job because I was too emotional. They just didn't get it.

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