Through the Eyes of an Elder: Widowhood, an allegory of mortality

I anticipated with dread the day the snag would fall. During COVID, it was a constant thing that I could observe many times a day. But now my view has changed in a surprisingly pleasant way. What was hidden — pines and firs and the East Hills — has appeared and offers new perspectives.

My journey into widowhood is a common one. I have so many friends and acquaintances who have lost their partners. Each has unique and experiences and stories. And I reflect, too, on the many people who have experienced other sorts of losses or are living alone.

I anticipated with dread the day my spouse would die. At nearly the five-year marker now, the fall of the snag and the survival of the squirrel seem allegorical.

Initially after Jim’s death, the “squirrel me” functioned in a tremulous twilight. I felt anxious about getting everything done, handling all the changes to insurance, bills, finances, and details of closing out his work. Preparations for a memorial service. Selling my (our) house. Moving. Starting the journey from “we” to “me.”

When asked, “How are you?” I was hard pressed to answer. In transformation? Grief just keeps changing. Sometimes, when others grieved, I felt pulled back into a place I had moved through. When feeling strong, there was guilt that I wasn’t sad enough.

There are times of anger and times of sorrow. Not having a partner to discuss big decisions with is lonely. Going to family events and celebrations can be simultaneously joyful excruciating. Anniversaries, holidays, even ordinary days are unpredictable. I know I will take the periodic dive into grief, and I am always grateful to surface anew.

The relationship is ongoing. I am touched every day by memories of Jim. His influence is felt and intuited. I talk about him with the kids and grandkids. He inhabits many of my dreams. There are inexplicable mystical moments.

Sometimes I’m not sure how to describe an experience Jim and I had together. Do I say “we” or “I”? To keep it simple, I usually keep the story to the singular. It is complicated to say, “When my husband was alive, we …”

Talking about loss is almost always uncomfortable, almost taboo. We don’t want to face it, yet we will all encounter it. My family’s preparation for living without Jim was not sudden, but it was short. His bladder cancer progressed aggressively, and once discovered, gave him only about five weeks. There wasn’t time to talk about his wishes, as pain or medications prevented those conversations. But now my kids and I hold open conversations about my own Advance Directive and wishes.

My life today has very little in common with the life I had as a married person. Jim’s death was tragic. It changed everything. Though I lost a piece of my identity — that of a woman living in the shadow of a man with a big personality — I forged a new one, taking inspiration from Glinda the Good Witch, who said, “You’ve always had the power, my dear. You just had to learn it for yourself.” I changed my informal name from Debra to Daera, to reflect that power in a concrete way. Though there was an adjustment period, my family and close friends have acknowledged and rarely judged my transformation. It’s hardest for my brothers and cousins, who always knew me as Debbie or Debra; yet I can easily answer to all those names. I don’t expect others to understand my journey. We are each on our own, after all.

That squirrel, though momentarily stunned by the unimaginable turn his life took, found its way out of the tangled branches. I like to think of her enjoying the view from her new vantage point.