Alone Again (Unnaturally): On Changes and Such

OK, so, several things here.

First off: The widowed thing, once again. Really?

THAT again? Haven’t you said enough about it already? asks one of my nine faithful readers.

Sorry to be so single-minded, but…well, you know, these days it’s kind of unavoidable.

As is a mandatory thing for the recently widdered, I’ve been delving into widdablogs and grieflit hither and yon, trying to make Sense Out Of The Thing That Maketh Not Sense. As with anything, the quality varies widely; there’s a lot of schlock out there (save me from all those awful country songs), but also much beauty. Because my mind functions oddly (always has), I especially appreciate blogs that find the humor in such a manifestly unfunny situation; this award-winning British blog is a shining example (the writer’s also done a book).

To take a leaf from the great Irish writer Myles na gCopaleen’s parody of the Catechism:

Q: What does one do when one’s spouse dies?

A: One reels.

(I input “reeling from his wife’s death” into Google, and came up with some 15,200 results. “Reeling from her husband’s death” is even more popular: 17,200 results. Clearly, reeling is the thing to do; it’s what all the cool bereaved kids are doing. Reeling in the years, then, reeling and listing and rocking and rolling and suchlike uncontrolled motion.)

It’s soon drummed into all fresh widderfolk (spousal-death toddlers?) that each loss is as unique as each individual life, and that even the same person’s death is felt differently by everyone close to them. As a corollary, I might add that although losing a spouse changes you irrevocably, it doesn’t change you into a totally different person. If you were basically good, kind and compassionate before being widowed, you will continue to be so afterwards, but certain character traits may be intensified or bent in unforeseen ways. One worldly literary acquaintance of mine writes elegantly of her increased empathy for victims of diverse tragedies resulting from terrorism and geopolitical chaos. On the other hand, if you were a son of a bitch before losing your wife, you’ll probably remain one afterwards.

So I wouldn’t say I’m better or worse, just somewhat different. A more honest person: yes. Less afraid to speak my mind: check. Less afraid to offend when it’s warranted (at least in my mind): uh huh. I’ve always been resistant to follow trends and crowds, more inclined to go my own stubborn way; now, even more so. I have no patience with the tired tropes of the widowed (so many of whom I find little common cause with, except for, you know, that one thing), the assumptions of how I’m supposed to be now, how I’m supposed to behave. If that makes me a worse person in your opinion, so be it — again, I care so much less what other people think of me, am so much less afraid to be myself. If not now, when? What else can they do to me?

In the end, I figure, how I am is between me and my late wife.

In my experience, liver disease is as bad as cancer both in terms of how it affects its victims and their families, and the way it turns lives upside down (and sometimes ends them), but it doesn’t have cancer’s press agent; it’s not as much in the public space. It’s still acceptable in some quarters to make cirrhosis jokes. (No, I hasten to explain when asked how she died, Donna wasn’t an alcoholic; no, she didn’t die from excessive drinking.) Although she had been ill for well over a year, I never expected her to actually die until the actual day; perhaps naive, but also, to my mind, unthinkable, but true. And although, unlike some widowed folk, I got to say goodbye in person, it was also the worst experience I’ve ever been through, nor will I ever get over it.

I know: that’s not very funny. But it can ultimately be emboldening, in a the-hell-with-it kind of way.

Recently I commented on a post made by an old friend on Facebook, someone I’d known in Boston in the ’80s. She was a writer of some talent and a traveler in the underground zine scene, making her way post-college scribbling various screeds. In the decades since she’d combined a straight day job with various underground zine-y pursuits. After she posted something about her latest endeavor, I reacted negatively, calling it uninteresting (I don’t want to get into specifics to maintain privacy). When a friend of hers asked what I meant, I responded with an expletive. She then messaged me and called my response “out of character, rude and unwarranted.” Which was true enough, but I messaged her back thusly:

“Don’t care anymore, will call bullshit for what it is. I’m actually very disappointed with your life and career. You could have been a writer of promise but chose to throw it away on stuff very few people care about. I’ve reached a point in my life where I will say what I think and don’t care if it ruffles feathers. You should be doing significant work, not stupid zine-y crap like this. Sorry to hurt feelings but someone should be the one to tell you that as far as I can see you’re wasting your life.”

For some reason she took offense to this, and de-friended and blocked me. I wasn’t surprised, but I also don’t regret it. The truth was, it was incredibly refreshing to, at last, tell someone what I really thought of them, or more specifically, their “artistic endeavors.”

And so I’ve realized, as have so many others before me: There is a whole lot of power and satisfaction in giving zero fucks. Some good may actually come from it, certainly in terms of self-actualization. (Thank you, Untimely Death Fairy. Thank you soooooo much.)

LWD (Life Without Donna) continues, as it has a tendency to do. So does my relationship with Donna, which remains the most important one in my life. I see no need to apologize for that. There’s a lot of bitterness, but also sweetness, and if memories are all I have to hold onto right now, that’s still a whole lot better than nothing.

I think of the famous opening line of the movie (originally a play by Robert Anderson) I Never Sang For My Father: “Death ends a life, but it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor’s mind toward some resolution which it may never find.”

Good night, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.

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