I don’t know about you, but the first time someone referred to me as a “widow”, it truly ticked me off. I was outraged to be referred to as anything but who I knew myself to be…or, who I thought myself to be. A wife. Now, here was someone pushing me into a demographic I had no desire to be counted in. I hated it. I resisted it. And…finally, eventually…I accepted it. But on MY terms…not theirs. The term ‘widow” conjured up images of “sad”, “old”, “crazy”. And, while I did identify with those feelings, they weren’t WHO I was…who I wanted to be. As I am wont to do, I wanted to push the agenda and “get back to normal” as soon as possible. Little did I know at the time, there is no such thing…not after the devastating loss of someone you love more than your breath. And there’s certainly no hurrying it along.
I had to start embracing change, no matter how much I resisted. Everywhere I turned, change glared at me. There was no one on the other side of my bed. The other sink stayed clean. The toilet seat was always down. There were half the dishes, half the laundry, and way less than half the income. I had entered into the Twilight Zone of the “New Normal”…and I didn’t like it, not one little bit. I tried reading books about grief but I couldn’t relate to them…I couldn’t concentrate on them…I didn’t want to have anything to do with them because it meant I had to admit Mr. Virgo was gone and I wasn’t prepared to do that at the time.
In the wee, dark hours of the fourth night without him…when I felt the most alone even though my daughter was in the bed beside me…it hit me. I was quite literally standing on the edge of a precipice. I did not want to breathe anymore. I did not want to feel anymore. And I certainly did not want to go to my husband’s funeral the next day. I cried out to God in my heart and begged Him to take me, too. “Please!” I begged. “Please bring me home so I can be with him!” God whispered into my heart. “No, my child…it is not your time.” I knew in that moment I was going to have to put something in front of me. Something to look forward to. Something that had the potential of bringing me joy. It was either that or I was done. And…I wasn’t done.
For those of you who are relatively new here and may not know…a couple of weeks after the funeral, I bought a little camper and planned my escape. I needed space…to breathe, to cry, to scream, to mourn. As soon as the snow melted, I took off for a three month journey into the wilderness and backroads of Colorado…alone. It was there that I began to embrace the “New Normal”. “Normal” it is not. “Normal” is when things are the way they’ve always been. We want it all back. Just the other day, I was walking through a furniture store with a friend looking for…something. A comfortable chair, perhaps? A sofa for the farmhouse? I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. I rejected everything.
My friend said, “Well, what IS it you want?” How could I describe it? I wanted all my old furniture back…the stuff I sold and gave away when I sold my house. For a moment, I wanted it all back more than I ever wanted anything in the world. I have made peace with the finality of death. I don’t wish Mr. Virgo back anymore because A) I would never want him to come back into this fallen world after experiencing the glory of heaven and B) it isn’t healthy for me to think that way. But the house, the furniture, the things I got rid of? The things we shared? The things that remind me of him? Yeah…sometimes, not often, but sometimes I wish them back. This new normal…isn’t.
“I want my old furniture.”, I said.
My friend said, “I can’t help you with that.”
And that’s the truth. No one can help you with that. You either create a “New Normal” or you stay forever in what Christine Rasmussen refers to as “the waiting room”…the place you sit in till you decide to get up and make a life for yourself. There’s no timetable to go by…no expiration date on grief. This “New Normal” isn’t what we wanted, but it’s what we’ve got. I can either live it…or not. I can either create it…or not. I can be joyful in it…or not. I can embrace change…or not. My choice. ❤️
“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”
Isaiah 43:19 NIV
I spend time in another waiting room. The Empty Nest one. I catch myself “waiting for my family to need me.” I could be painting, writing, exploring life yet I sit reading fiction or on Facebook waiting for my daughter to need me. She’s all grown up now. My husband is still alive but off working & doing his thing. It’s really past time to get back on my own “schedule.” No one stops me but myself. *sigh*
That is so relatable, Marion. I was a stay-at-home mom and felt “parked” in the space labeled “Mom” and “Wife”. I hung my identity at the door and didn’t find myself for a long time. Death is not the only thing we grieve…not by a long shot. These could be your most prolific art years. Create! Hugs, dear one.
Wow! This is me exactly, why do we do this to ourselves.
So very true and relatable!
I hated the phrase, “the new normal” and the fact that it was thrown at me frequently, who had NOT experienced having a piece of you ripped away. I try to give them grace now, bit initially I just wanted to punch them in the face!
I often had thoughts of striking people in the early stages of my grief, Jamie. People smiling and holding hands, people saying things like “You’re not married now.” (Social Security office!) Grace…my mantra! ❤️
I lost my Beautiful Mom 10 days ago and my new normal is going to pick up the phone to call her…then I think I will never hear her voice again…it hurts so badly but I know she is at peace in Heaven with our Lord and with my Dad and sister…The pain seems to wash over me unexpectedly, as yesterday I was feeling okay but today I am missing her more then ever…is this normal Ginny?
First of all, let me give you my heartfelt condolences. Losing your mom is a really hard thing. We are never prepared for any kind of loss. And, yes… It is perfectly normal to have waves of grief wash over you. You never “get over” grief. But you do get through it. You will learn to lean into the waves so they don’t knock you down as often. Be patient with yourself, dear one. This is a difficult journey you are on. ❤️
The first time I had to check a box that said “widowed” on a form was a reality check. I just stared at it for a long time, not wanting to check it but knowing the others didn’t describe me anymore. One little word I had looked at hundreds of times while I skipped over to “married” and moved on without a second thought, now had the power to hold me motionless until finally I could take the pen and check that word for the first time.
Oh, Connie… I remember that first time so well. My heart is with you. ❤️
Although I have not lost a precious husband as you have, the way that you put into words regarding raw emotion is what is very relatable to me in many instances.
The feelings I felt 15 years ago made NO SENSE for the longest time, until this morning when I read your words. As the wife of a higher ranked military officer, I have the honor of attending formal military balls as the “First Lady” of the unit. One in particular stands out to me but not for any other reason than the way you described the emotion behind being called a “widow” for the first time. I was having a wonderful time at this grand formal event until one of the young female lieutenants asked me if the wife of one of the other officers there was my daughter. (Realizing as a babysitting teenager that I had no maternal instinct or desire at all, I made the purposeful decision even back then not to have children). When she asked that question, I just froze. And then I was furious. It was for the very reason that you stated. In that split second I saw myself as someone else saw me, and not at all who I thought myself to be. In my mind, I was young and vibrant. Certainly not old enough to be anyone’s mother, much less have a daughter that was almost 30 years old! Impossible!
I wish I could say that I handled it with class and decorum. Instead, with a withering steely-eyed glare, I turned on my heel and pointedly walked off. We left soon after. It didn’t help that my husband did not “get it” at all. Why wouldn’t I take it as a compliment that this striikingly beautiful girl was my daughter? She was gorgeous! Beauty – or lack of it – had absolutely nothing to do with anything! Like you, I felt shoved into a demographic that I had no desire to be in. Someone’s mother! And far worse, I apparently looked “old” enough to have a daughter that age! What a wake-up call that was. One innocent question and I went into an emotional tailspin of epic proportions.
Thanks for articulating so beautifully what I felt at the time. I chose not to analyze the raw emotion or the reasons behind it then. And until this morning, I wasn’t even sure why I reacted the way I did. {{{ HUGS }}}
Thank you so much for sharing your story, dear one. I had a similar instance in England whe I was a military bride. A younger (by 2 years) friend and I went shopping. I was very pregnant sleuth my first child and an older shopkeeper asked my friend if she was having fun “shopping with her mum”. I was shocked, angry, devastated. No one understood why. I was just turning 21…she was 18. It really upset me. I’m glad you gained insight through my post. Thanks for being here. ❤️
Always glean valuable insights from your wonderful posts. 😀 You truly have a rare gift for writing.
Regarding what happened to you in England when you were 21 —> In your case, any way you slice or dice it, the math just didn’t add up. How insulting to add about 15 years to your age to insinuate you had an 18 year old daughter! Obviously that shopkeeper’s eyesight was beyond gone! And being young and pregnant, you were probably still getting used to the idea of going from a wife to the duo-role of wife AND mother. For a shopkeeper, with a quick glance, to immediately make you an instant mother of 2 on top of thinking you were in your early-30’s? Yes, I would have been very upset too!
That’s what made my experience even more bizarrely puzzling to me for a long time. Almost even laughable! In my case, no years were added to my age. In my late 40’s at the time, I COULD have had an almost 30-year-old daughter. How insulting that this lieutenant dare ask that I had an almost 30-year-old daughter when I could have had a 30-year-old daughter?!!! WHAAAAT??!!! In my mind, if a stranger was going to ask me about children, I just KNEW they were going to be pointing at someone that was 8 or 10 years old! Not 3 times that! Somewhere in the span of that part of my life, I was unaware that the years had passed.
On that day I learned that MY perception of me may be far removed from actual reality. This morning I learned why. So, thanks again. Always look forward to reading your blog. 😀
❤️
I am still in the “waiting room” and can’t break out. Everyday I get up with best of intentions to do something positive but can’t find the energy or strength to move. I feel like half of me is gone. Keep wondering when I will ever feel good again. I want my old life back. I know that will not happen and I will have to find a way to feel alive again but right now I just want my heart to heal. Thanks for your site. You express what I cannot put into words mysef.
I totally get that, Mary Ann. Grief is such an individual challenge. I had to dig deep and force myself to do things till it became easier. One of the camping groups like Girl Camper or Sisters on the Fly can offer a wonderful, supportive atmosphere where you can grow and build new connections and new skills. That’s what I did and I’ve made life long friends. I had never pulled a camper before but I did it! Even if you don’t “camp” there are often alternatives like cabins, lodges, and hotels you can use and still participate in the fun activities. My heart is with you, dear one. ❤️
Thus us so appropriate for me right now, thank you. I think I’ve been stuck in the “waiting room”