Although I prepared for three long years, it was not a school I wanted to attend. The admission cost was far too high though I attended locally. It was a school that could mend or tear a family apart.
Some days learning proved impossible. On others knowledge weighed on my shoulders to the point of crushing my sanity.
Though there was no rushing from class to class, this school brought with it an unshakable weariness. On good days taking the time to laugh swamped me with guilt. Anger became my constant companion as each lesson proved harder than the last.
The School of Widows began after years of trying to save my husband’s life and knowing failure when he took his final breath.
The first scheduled class was seeing his body wrapped in a black bag and removed from the house. I turned to find the source of the eerie wailing only to catch sight of my own distorted features screaming from a mirror. How to Handle Loss 101 – no amount of preparation stopped the hole in my heart from spreading to encompass what was once a full life.
I thought Sleeping Alone would be the toughest of a full curriculum. Loss of Conversation Partner made it pale in comparison. Even today, five months later, I turn to share the day’s events, our children’s triumphs, some silly occurrence. He’s not there, never there and the heartbreak begins anew.
Cooking for One brings a whole new list of things to learn. How do I shop for one when I’ve always shopped with him in mind? Items are picked up and returned to the shelf. Lean Cuisine is a staple in a refrigerator that once held steaks, ham, and chicken.
Breakfast is a bagel with peanut butter. No thought required.
Insurance money came in. We moved from the site of his death to where he once felt most alive. I paid cash for the house – the house Bru always promised. For two months I’ve remodeled every room. Staying busy stops the need to think. The remodeling is done and now the music of his death must be faced.
That brings me to the final class, Grieving In Spite Of All Efforts to Avoid It. A dried flower from the last bouquet he gave me falls from a book’s pages. I catch a whiff of Old Spice cologne while shopping. A chance remark from my son sounds so like his father. Each of these slams into me with the weight of a fist to the stomach. Breathing becomes difficult. The tears come. Tears that have refused to fall rush in torrents down my cheeks. I bury my face to silence the screams of loss.
Time heals. That’s what friends and relatives say. What they can’t tell me is when. How long does the pain rip a widow asunder at unexpected moments? That no family member, no friend, nor any professor can say.
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