Monday, July 21, 2025

It is the Worst of Clubs, It is the Best of Clubs

Shortly after Herb passed away, an acquaintance who had been widowed a number of years earlier gave me a hug and told me, "It's the shittiest club ever, but we're here for each other." That was my welcome to the (not-so-wonderful) world of widowhood. 

I'm not big on joining groups of strangers, especially at the most emotionally vulnerable period of my life, so I don't think I'll be signing up for "Parents Without Partners" or a grief support group or a formal widows' organization, but being a part of this quiet network has been reassuring. There are a number of women in my life that I knew had been widowed, but I have since been approached by a number of others that I had no idea had been through what I'm going through. Even without being ready yet to talk about it extensively, it is reassuring just seeing other women who have been through this ordeal and come out on the other side, if not exactly unscathed or unscarred, at least surviving and even thriving. 

It give me hope.

It gives me resources.

It gives me solidarity. 

It gives me a lifeline. 

As incredible as the support has been from family and friends, there's something special about support from someone who's been where you are, someone who gets it. No one goes through exactly the same grief journey, but there are commonalities that go beyond words. A hug from someone who can sympathize is wonderful, but a hug from someone who can empathize goes beyond words, beyond silence. It says, "Courage, sister." It says, "I have been where you are." It says, "I'm okay and you will be, too." It says, "I'll be here when you're ready." It says, "It's okay that you don't know what you need." It says, "It's okay to be not okay." It says, "You are not alone."

It is the shittiest club ever, but it is a sisterhood. 

Courage, sister. 


Bookmark and Share

Sunday, July 20, 2025

Technology is a Curse - But Also a Gift

My husband was always at the cutting edge of every kind of technology, so it is no surprise that we have a "Smart" house, one that is filled with all kinds of devices that do things for us. We have an Alexa in nearly every room that can tell us the time and date, set timers and alarms and reminders, look up trivia, give us a weather report, order items on line, compile grocery lists, play music, find recipes, and on and on. I can control the family room television with my voice. I can control many of the lights with my voice, not just on and off but dimmers and colors. Our pool has an "Intellicenter" control system which is supposed to make managing the pool chemistry simpler (spoiler alert: it does not). Our garage doors close automatically at 9pm if we accidentally leave them open. Our outside motion sensors send an alert to our phones if they go off in the middle of the night in case there's an intruder (spoiler alert: it's not; it's either a spider or a raccoon). Our thermostats are programmable. We have phone apps that can control the pool slide, the furnace, the Roomba vacuum, the garage lights, the outdoor lights, the irrigation system, our finances, our lives. 

He loved it. 

I do not. Because I don't get it. I never had to get it. I was happy to let him play with all his devices and controls. But now it's driving me crazy because I have no choice but to figure it all out. I have to access his online banking to make sure the bills are paid. I have to figure out the thermostats so we don't either swelter to death or pay a fortune in unneeded air conditioning. I have to master the pool controls so the pool stays safe. I have to figure out his Alexa programming so the alarm in my bedroom doesn't continue to go off (loudly) at 6:30 every morning. I have to figure out what bills are paid automatically and which ones I need to manage manually. I'd love to figure out how he made the outside speaker connect to the Alexa to play music by the pool. I'd love to know how to override the irrigation "skip because rain is predicted" when those thunderstorms pass us by yet again. It's like everything I need to do around the house involves mastering yet another piece of technology. 

It makes me want to curse technology. 

But then I think back to when my dad died, and my mom didn't change the outgoing message on their answering machine (remember those?) because that was the only record she had of Dad's voice. They didn't have any home movies where she could hear or watch him as she remembered him. Their photos were in scrapbooks or boxes - or, in many cases, in the carousel of a dusty slide projector - that she would have to dig out if she wanted to see his picture. 

I, on the other hand, am surrounded by many reminders of him. I can hear his voice in the beautiful tribute video posted by our friends at Reagle. I can pull up literally thousands of photos and videos of our many travel adventures in mere seconds in my Google photo albums, on Facebook, on my phone, and yes, on our Alexa devices. I don't have to just remember the time he taught Ryan how to saber champagne, I have a video of it. I don't have to just picture our honeymoon adventures in my mind's eye, I have an online album of photos. I don't have to just tell my kids how much their dad adored them, I have piles of visual evidence at my fingertips. 

And even beyond photos and videos, I can go into his email and search by keyword for information on bills, home maintenance resources, insurance, people I need to connect with. I might be able to complete some paperwork online that I would otherwise have to take care of in person at a remote office. I was able to look up a lot of the details that I'll need in the coming weeks to deal with his estate, details I would have a hard time finding in physical files and records. 

So as much as technology is complicating my life right now, it is also bringing me solace. And the complications will ease up at some point, but the solace will go on. For me, for my children, for our family, and for all those for whom Herb's memory brings a smile. Technology may bring me to tears, but I will be smiling through those tears. And at some point, the tears will fade, but the smile will always remain. 

Mine, and his. 







Bookmark and Share

Saturday, July 19, 2025

What I Mean When I Say, "I'm OK"

A question I get asked a lot these days is, "How are you doing?" It's a hard question to answer. And the answer changes not only day to day, but minute to minute. My usual answer is something like, "We're hanging in there," or "We're getting through." But more often than not, I'll just say, "I'm OK."

"I'm OK" can mean a lot of different things. It nearly always means, "I got out of bed this morning, I've showered and brushed my teeth within the last 36 hours or so, I've eaten something vaguely nutritious in the past 12 hours, everyone in the house has at least some clean clothes, I've been making an effort to get some sleep, the bathrooms are reasonably clean, I've paid all the bills that need to be paid, and the kids have been fed." But in addition to that, it can mean a lot of other things. 

It might mean that I saw two different people carrying bouquets of flowers in the parking lot of the grocery store and I realized that I will never again get flowers from my husband so I sat in the car and cried for 10 minutes, but then I pulled myself together and drove home to my kids. 

It might mean that I made a phone call I'd been dreading and I didn't have the right information so now I have to call back and I might need to go throw up before I do it, but I'll do it. 

It might mean that I just realized I'd gone 12 hours without crying and I was so proud of myself that I cried. Damn it. 

It might mean that I sucked it up and asked a friend for help even though I thought I should be able to do it myself. 

It might mean that I feel like I'm a hot mess but my kids seem to be doing okay and that makes me okay, too. 

It might mean that I won a small victory today, like mowing the lawn or backing the car into the garage or googling a home repair video or figuring out how to turn on the pool slide. 

It might mean that I had a hard day and put off doing the five important things I was supposed to do but the world did not come to an end. 

It might mean that a friend called or sent a note just when I needed it. 

It might mean that I didn't want to go to the grocery store, but I did anyway. 

It might mean that I didn't want to go to grocery store, so I didn't. And no one has starved yet. 

It might mean that I woke up this morning and thought, "I can't do this." And then I cried for a while. And then I got up, and I did it. 

It might mean that I'm feeling totally overwhelmed but I'm still putting one foot in front of the other, which is its own victory. 

It might mean that I'm totally not okay right now, but I have faith that I'll be okay at some point. 

It might mean that I'm totally not okay right now, but I'm not ready to admit it or ask for help, but I'm glad to know that you're there when I am ready. 

It always means, "I don't need an intervention right now, but thanks for checking."

Especially that last part. 

I'm OK. Thanks for checking. 


Bookmark and Share

Friday, July 18, 2025

Losing Your Other Half: The Practical Problems

Imagine that you are interviewing for a job for which there are two open positions. They offer the two jobs to you and another person, but instead of giving you each your own job and your own job description, they leave it up to the two of you to divvy up the responsibilities of both jobs however you like. So you go through everything that needs to be done, each of you choosing tasks that you have experience and expertise in, each task going to the stronger candidate for that particular aspect of the job. They, an extrovert, take the cold calling and the door knocking runs, which make your introvert heart quake with dread. You take on answering complaint letters, using your natural peacemaking bent and tactful way with words that works better than their natural brusqueness and practicality. They're a tech whiz, so they rewrite the code for the company intranet, while your Luddite but artistic self designs the new company logo and branded clothing line. You're both organized, so they take on setting up an inventory system and you work on updating the customer database. And so on. 

And it all works out great, until suddenly they get an offer they can't refuse for a permanent position in darkest Peru, with no access to the outside world, effective immediately, and you are left to fill both positions with minimal documentation or records. Not only are you suddenly in charge of twice the work, but the second half of your workload involves tasks that you a) aren't good at, b) don't have the technical background for, c) haven't done in years, d) have no records, documentation, or starting point for, and/or e) aren't even aware of. 

That's what the practical aspect of losing a spouse is like. 

When my dad passed away at the age of 64, my mom was suddenly on her own for the first time in her life. She had lived in her parents' house until she went to college, lived in a dormitory for four years, then came back home for a few months before getting married. Her dad managed all the practical aspects of her life before she got married, and my dad managed all of them afterwards. Suddenly she had to figure out how to pay bills, do routine home maintenance and repair, figure out her taxes, get the car inspected, mow the lawn, turn on the furnace. God bless my dad, who, as soon as he was diagnosed with cancer, wrote up a "home maintenance" notebook for her, including information like where the water and gas emergency shutoffs were; who to call for plumbing or electrical work; where the key to the safe deposit box was and what was in it; account numbers for the bank, credit union, phone, utilities; and on and on.

Dad and Mom had a few months of notice that Mom would soon be alone. 

I did not. 

We had planned ahead in some ways: Our finances were carefully and deliberately set up as "his, hers, and ours" so neither one of us would be completely cut off from accessible cash if the worst happened. We each had life insurance policies in place. We each kept a physical file of important documents, like marriage and birth certificates, passports, tax records, diplomas, pay stubs. But in other ways, we were not prepared: We had begun but never finished drawing up our wills. Although we each knew some of the other's passwords, we didn't have access to a complete list, including our phones and PCs. I had never learned how to manage the pool or who to call about the irrigation system or having the driveway plowed. I don't know where the water cutoff valve is or how to turn off the radiant floors during the off-season. He wasn't looped in on a bunch of information on the kids' activities, like signups for track and band and drama and church youth events and the bus app and school lunch accounts. We didn't need all that information, because we each did our parts and it was always a team effort.

Until it wasn't.

And I was left trying to figure everything out. Twice the workload, minimal documentation. But really, more than twice the workload, because my half is smooth sailing, I know what I'm doing, everything I need is accessible; and his half is unfamiliar, difficult, I'm in over my head, I don't even know what I'm looking for. And on top of that, the person I always knew I could go to for advice, support, cheerleading, and reassurance isn't there. 

No wonder I'm overwhelmed.   

The first week after he died was a blur where it was all I could do to make sure my children and I were fed, bathed, and got some sleep, and even that was more done by family and friends than me. After I got through the funeral, the next weeks were a desperate race to access his computer and phone so I could keep paying the bills. I was terrified of missing a mortgage payment, bouncing a check, overdrawing an account. What expenses could we do without for now, and how could I cancel them? Even figuring out what services I could manage myself (house cleaning, yes; lawn mowing and pool service, maybe; snowplowing and trash removal, absolutely not) was sometimes too much for my still-foggy brain. 

I cannot even count the number of people who have offered to help, and I have accepted when I could, but I still don't even know everything I need help with, and there are a lot of things that only I can do. Someone else can probably help me compile a list of everyone I need to notify of his death once I finally get the official paperwork, but only I can go to the bank, the Social Security Office, the Registry of Motor Vehicles, the life insurance company. 

And let's be honest: There are some things that I'm embarrassed to ask. Shouldn't a competent adult know how to reset a modem, backwash a pool filter, use the thermostat in their own house? Maybe, maybe not. And in my head, I know that my friends would not think less of me for not knowing, and many of them would be more than glad to show me what I don't know. But it isn't easy to ask. And I'm stubborn, and socially awkward, which makes it even more difficult. I feel like doing all these tasks myself will prove to my children - and myself - that I can be both Mom and Dad. That I can fill the hole that he left behind. 

But I never can. And I never should. My husband was a remarkable person, and to think that I can become him as well as myself is arrogant and frankly, insulting to his memory. The best thing I can do is to be myself, doing the best I can, setting an example for my children of how to deal with adversity with humility and grace. Some of that includes admitting that my best is sometimes not enough. Some of that includes calling on others to fill in the gaps and the parts of their dad that I am not, and cannot be. That is not an easy thing. But it is a necessary thing. 

Life without him will never be the same. But with help, it can be enough. 


Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up.
- Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

 Perfume and incense bring joy to the heart, and the pleasantness of a friend springs from their heartfelt advice.
- Proverbs 27:9

Carry each other's burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ.
- Galatians 6:2



Bookmark and Share

Tuesday, July 15, 2025

Human Again, Bloomin' Again


My life with Herb was always filled with Broadway references. If he drove me crazy, I'd quote, "You could die from such a man!" from Fiddler on the Roof. The first nice day in spring always made him sing, "Someone oughta open up a window," from 1776. And any time one of us did some hard work or got sweaty or dirty for whatever reason, the ensuing shower would be followed by a chorus of "Human again, I feel human again," from Beauty and the Beast

After a month of walking around in a kind of daze, I am finally having moments of feeling "human again." I feel like I am slowly regaining control of my life, or at least of tiny bits and pieces of it. One day, one small moment. A few days later, a few small moments. 

This morning as I was watching my birdfeeders and drinking a cup of coffee, I noticed my Rose of Sharon bush. (There's a connection here, I promise.) When we moved into the house, this bush was a gorgeous but somewhat overgrown accent next to the swimming pool. When we had to demolish and rebuild the pool, we had it dug up, wrapped the root ball in burlap, tucked it into the woods in the back yard, and hoped for the best. When the pool was finally finished, after nearly a year of not being in the ground, we replanted it and again, hoped for the best. Somewhat surprisingly, it recovered its greenery very quickly, but that first year we only got a single bloom, and quite late in the season. We had our landscapers prune it back and again hoped for the best. The next season it also bloomed quite late, but there were a few more blossoms. I got rid of some more dead wood and trimmed it back just a bit more, and this year it seemed to be following the same pattern of very late blooming and only a blossom or two. In fact, a month ago, when Herb passed away, there was not a single blossom or even bud to be seen. 

But just last week, I noticed that one huge blossom had appeared. And a few days ago I saw one or two more starting to open. Now, as of this morning, there are at least a dozen vivid pink blooms tucked among the lush green foliage. 


I feel like this is a parallel to where I am right now. It's only been in the past few days that I'm starting to see peeks of hope, a few "blossoms" of joy that my heart can accept. I can see a few more on the horizon, not quite here yet, but ready to open up soon. Maybe not in a week, maybe not in a month, maybe not in six months, maybe not even in a year. But after a few seasons, I'll bloom again. It's been a rough season, but my roots are deep. And I am being carefully tended. 


 I will bloom again. 


Bookmark and Share

Sunday, July 13, 2025

Grief: The Antithesis of the Scar

Shortly after my husband and I were married, one of his uncles passed away. I forget who said it, but at the funeral service, someone made a comment along the lines of, "Losing someone creates a hole in your heart, but over time that hole is filled with wonderful memories, until finally there is no hole. But there will always be a scar." 

Scars, to me, are signs of past pain, injury, or damage. They show that healing has happened, but they are a reminder of the hurt that created them. In a way, scars are the endpoint of both pain and healing: This is as good as it gets, as close to being returned to normal as is going to happen. Grief, on the other hand, is a sign of past love, of having loved and having been loved. It is the absence of joy, so there can be no grief without the joy that comes before it. The same way that healing leads to a scar, love and joy sometimes lead to grief. A scar shows healing that looks to the pain of the past; grief shows healing that looks to the joy of the past. But grief is not an endpoint, like a scar is. Grief is an ongoing process that leads away from the pain, and back to joy. A scar is always there as a reminder of the past, but there will come a point when the grief is gone but the joy remains. The focus is on the future, not the past.  

Right now, looking to the future is full of grief, full of loss, full of profound sadness. And yet, I have hope that every day brings me closer to a future that is full of the joy and thankfulness of having been so well-loved, and loving so well. 

Psalm 30 reminds me: "O Lord my God, I cried to you for help and you have healed me...Weeping may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning. "

Tonight, I am weeping. But morning is coming, and with it, joy. And morning always comes. 




Bookmark and Share

Saturday, July 12, 2025

100 Things That Make It Better

100 things that ease the pain and make life a little more bearable, no matter what the issue is. Some of these are within your control; some of them are just happy happenstance. But in either case, if you look for them, you'll find them. You just have to remember to look. 

1. Freshly baked cookies

2. A hug from a friend

3. Listening to your favorite song

4. Communing with nature

5. Baby snuggles

6. A bubble bath

7. A phone call with a friend

8. Clean sheets

9. Going for a walk

10. A glass of good wine

11. Someone washing your hair

12. Sitting by a campfire

13. Petting a cat

14. Blowing bubbles (soap or gum)

15. A bowl of ice cream, preferably with hot fudge

16. Comfortable jeans

17. Binge-watching a classic TV show

18. Finishing the NY Times Crossword without cheating

19. A good cup of coffee

20. A fluffernutter

21. Hitting all the green lights

22. Sand between your toes

23. A good hair day

24. Finding a pretty rock

25. Thunderstorms

26. The smell after it rains (it's called "petrichor")

27. The smell in your kitchen when you make Italian food

28. A cozy blanket

29. A friendly smile from a stranger

30. A scented candle

31. Watching a classic movie

32. Organizing the junk drawer

33. Watching the sun rise

34. Losing yourself in a book

35. Chocolate

36. Breakfast at a diner

37. Going to the beach

38. Light filtered through the trees

39. Naps

40. Stargazing

41. Cooking for those you love

42. Planning a vacation

43. Hitting the snooze button

44. Walking barefoot in the grass

45. Finding a 4-leaf clover

46. Sun sparkling on the water

47. A good, satisfying sneeze

48. When your team wins

49. Seeing a rainbow

50. The way your teeth feel after a dental cleaning

51. Spending the whole day in your pajamas

52. A long, hot shower

53. Finding a good parking space

54. When your eyeliner goes on perfectly symmetrically

55. Getting a really good haircut

56. Finding money in your pocket

57. Great shoes

58. Fireworks

59. Cinnamon toast

60. Dancing with someone

61. Going on a Ferris wheel

62. Popping bubble wrap

63. The smell of roses

64. Dinner by candlelight

65. A warm towel fresh from the dryer

66. An owl hooting in the middle of the night

67. Driving with the windows down

68. A child reaching for your hand

69. Finishing your to-do list

70. Looking through an old photo album

71. Freshly baked bread

72. Dinner with friends

73. A good stretch

74. A really good night's sleep

75. Fireflies

76. Making someone laugh

77. Running through a sprinkler

78. A DIY home repair that comes out the way it's supposed to

79. An unexpected sale on something you were going to buy anyway

80. Running into an old friend

81. Floating in a pool

82. Eating something you grew in your own garden

83. Wildflowers

84. A waterfall

85. Outdoor summer band concerts

86. Seeing birds feeding their babies

87. A perfectly clear blue sky

88. Finding something you thought was lost for good

89. Birthday parties (not necessarily your own)

90. Warm socks

91. Wearing your favorite perfume

92. Painting your toenails

93. Finding a pretty feather

94. Homemade soup

95. A foggy morning

96. Watching the ocean

97. Figuring out whodunnit

98. Making something beautiful

99. Getting your hands dirty

100. Comforting someone else


Make them happen, let them happen, look for them. They're there. And when you see them, share them with others. They might need to see them, too.  


Bookmark and Share