Being a widower has made me crazy in unexpected ways. For one, I don’t really worry like normal people worry anymore. Things that used to be a big deal (and still are to most sane people) don’t even hit my radar. My perspective has changed. I know what a bad day REALLY looks like now and, frankly, no amount of spilt milk, flat tires, or cat puke is going to come close. Hell, it’s unlikely that even if the car or the cat caught on fire I’d be that affected.
But life is balance. So while many things don’t bother me, the most ridiculous things do, like hearing the words “in sickness and in health” repeated just because the minister said, “repeat after me.” That bothered me quite a bit. But I truly hope that the worst test of that statement the bride and groom ever celebrate is over cute winter sniffles.
I think most of my friends would understand my crazy, but there’s only so far they can walk down this path with me; they are just visitors. Fortunately, there’s another group of friends I’ve come to know. It’s a group of folks I’ve met since I’ve been writing for Widow’s Voice. I met many of them last year for the first time at Camp Widow. And this year, here at Camp Widow East, I am overjoyed to see them again for this short weekend. They really, truly understand what those marriage commitments mean. They understand the crazy that follows the crash. Every single person here will take my crazy, and add to it a little bit of their own. They’ve lived through the worst, like me, and have come out the other side changed.
It’s so nice to be here back in the asylum.
