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