Ten Things You Always Wanted to Know About Widows, But Were Too Afraid to Ask

Early on in my cultural and feminist studies, I learned the importance of not making sweeping generalizations about entire classes of people. For the purposes of this blog entry, I am planning to make massive assumptions about all widows. I should really be saying “I,” but will instead be typing “we.” Tonight, I am going to speak for every single widow in the country.

1. During holiday time, we do not want those damn cards with the pictures of your kids on them. In fact, I can’t think of any single gal that likes getting those cards, but I’m only focusing on widows here. First, nothing is worse than holiday time after losing the one person you actually enjoyed spending the holidays with. Then, you have to endure day after day getting those constant reminders that scream, “Hey, look at my annoyingly happy family that you don’t have anymore.” Of course, I know that is not the intention of them. What can I say? I’m planning to be in a bad mood for a very long time.

2. We will say whatever the f*ck we want. Liz tells me that I only have two more months before the filter in my brain needs to return. However, for the past 10 ½ months, I have truly enjoyed blurting aloud every thought that comes into my mind. I always imagined that I would have to wait until my fifties to be so forthright. There have been some gems too. Like the time I asked my friend Katie if I could sample her breast milk. Or, the time I told my friend Nancy that I secretly referred to her as “my MILF” behind her back. Or, when I told a close male friend to not be so “tightfisted” with his money. Or, when I told a certain female friend that she needs to not wear those white pants anymore.

3. We always want to talk about our departed loved ones. If Cindy knew I was keeping this blog, she would kill me. First of all, she’d be pissed that I was referring to her by her real name. And she’d go crazy if she saw all the pictures that I’ve been posting of her. I can’t help it—I need this blog. If the front desk guy at my apartment building wanted to have a 30-minute conversation about Cindy, I’d gladly be late to work to talk about her. The only time I don’t like talking about Cindy is when the person I am talking to wants to compare their break-up with my loss. It’s not the same; it will never be the same. This happened at work the other week and I almost lost it on the poor boy.

4. We sit in our cars a lot. There used to be this obese woman who would come back from work everyday at 6pm and she’d sit in her car for at least 10 minutes before entering her house. When I used to walk Vegas in our old neighborhood, I would notice her sitting in her parked car just staring at the windshield. By the time I made the loop around the block, she would finally emerge from the car. I remember telling Cindy about her and Cindy was like, “Maybe she’s sad she lives alone, you know? Just trying to mentally prepare for the evening.” I didn’t really understand this because the woman had about five cats roaming around her porch and sometimes her son would come by to mow the overgrown grass. But now, I spend a lot of time in my car. No music. The engine turned off. Staring at the windshield. We can really do our best crying sitting in the closest thing we have to a soundproofed room.

5. We completely identify with the Sally Field character from “Steel Magnolias.” I remember the first time that I saw the movie, I thought Sally Field overacted during the Julia Roberts funeral scene. I loved the movie, but still felt it was a bit melodramatic. A couple of weeks ago, I re-watched the movie for the first time in ages. And when Sally Field screams during the funeral scene, I was like “I hear ya, sister. Let it out!” It’s what all us widows are thinking everyday of our lives: “I am so mad. I don’t know what to do. I wanna know why Shelby’s life is over . . . I just wanna hit somebody till they feel as bad as I do. I just wanna hit something! I wanna hit it hard!”

6. We recognize the importance of life insurance. Funerals are f*cking expensive.

7. We have zero tolerance for bullsh*t. Maybe it’s because we know how short life can be, how precious the seconds are that we will get up from a boring conversation mid-sentence. One time at a party, there was this guy talking to me about how he’d never be strong enough to handle the death of his wife and that I must be amazing to be dealing with this. Why would I want to hear this? I don’t want to hear this. Before Cindy died, I used to watch a LOT of television. Our DVR was easily maxed out every week. And now? I don’t watch anything (well, except “Golden Girls”). I definitely can’t watch anything that takes itself too seriously. I tried to watch “Lost” (a show that I used to love) after Cindy’s death and I threw my shoe at the TV. I was like this is complete nonsense and where are the women getting this never-ending supply of tampons from?

8. We think we know more about life than the rest of you.

9. We will look for signs of our reincarnated loved ones everywhere. I remember one desperate time when I was trying to clean out the bedroom after Cindy died and I was sprawled on the floor crying. And I looked over to my cat that had just been walking on my back, locked eyes with him, and asked “Cindy?”

10. It takes us a long time to realize that we no longer have to relegate ourselves to one side of the bed. It only took 319 days for me to start sleeping in the middle of my bed.

Voices Carry

In my opinion, there were three times the Academy Awards got it completely wrong: 1) in 1950 when Bette Davis lost Best Actress to Judy Holliday, 2) in 2005 when Dolly Parton lost for Best Song, and 3) in 1986 when Kathleen Turner did not win Best Actress for "Peggy Sue Got Married."

"Peggy Sue Got Married" is one of those movies that I am compelled to watch regardless how many times I have seen it before. One scene, in particular, makes me cry every time--and I know I'm not the only one. Whenever someone tells me that they love this movie, 9 times out of 10, that person will mention this scene. The scene itself lasts maybe ten seconds, but it has stayed with me forever. As I approach the 306th day since Cindy's death, this scene has been playing over and over in my mind.

I am sure most of you know this movie. But, in case you don't, Peggy Sue is at her 25-year high school reunion when she faints. When she wakes up, she discovers that she has been magically transported back to 1960, her senior year of high school. Peggy Sue has a lot of fun seeing old friends restored to their younger bodies and mouthing off in her math class since she knows that in the future she "will never have the slightest use for algebra." But, then the movie takes a serious turn when confronted with the voices of those who have since passed on.

---

The TELEPHONE RINGS.

PEGGY SUE'S MOM
Would you get that, dear?

PEGGY
Sure, Mom.
(picking up the phone)
Hello.

Peggy gasps. Her mother turns to her.

PEGGY SUE'S MOM
Peggy! What's the matter? Who is it?

PEGGY
(shaken)
It's Grandma. I can't talk to her now.
(into phone)
I'm sorry, Grandma.

Peggy hands the receiver to her mother and runs out of the
room sobbing.

---

Kathleen Turner plays this scene brilliantly. The dramatic punch comes not from a long-winded, melodramatic declaration of love for her grandmother, but from Kathleen Turner's desperate look in her eyes when she hears her grandmother's voice. The voice reminds Peggy Sue of our mortality and breaks her heart.

Who wouldn't want to hear the voice of a departed loved one? What would you say if given the chance? Would you be able to control your emotions long enough to speak coherently? I've mentioned to several friends that I would chop off my right arm to talk to Cindy just one more time. When I told my friend Nancy this, she asked me what I would say to Cindy. So many words bang around in my brain that, in the end, nothing intelligible ever comes out of my mouth. Even in the scene I quoted above, Peggy doesn't actually say anything significant to her grandma.

When Cindy was in the ICU for those two weeks, my mind ached with the desire for her to wake up, even for five minutes, so that I could talk to her just one more time. I didn't know when I tossed her the batteries for the blood pressure machine that was going to be the last time I got to speak to her. No one told me this. Cindy didn't tell me this. I had no idea.

So, yes. I want to speak to her again. I want to hear her voice. Her deep, sweet voice. A word. One single word would be fine. And perhaps I could even utter a few sentences back to her. Okay, maybe we can't engage in a big conversation. That's fine. How about if I could just see her one more time. Just be able to see her dark, brown eyes staring back at mine again. I am not asking for much, am I? Seems so simple, right? With a little bit of movie magic, could this not happen?

Back in April, when I knew I had less than an hour to pack up almost 8 years of my life from the house I shared with my life partner, there was one item I was determined to get above everything else. I told my friends who helped me that if we can only get one thing, that one thing needs to be this tiny videotape labeled "Road Trip 2002." This tape contains footage of our road trip from California to Seattle. It may be years before I can ever watch this video. And quite possibly, I may never be able to watch this video. Like Peggy Sue, hearing Cindy again may be too much and I too will run from the voices.

As I end this entry, I wonder what will be the last words you say to your loved one tonight before you go to bed? Maybe it's "I love you?" Maybe it's "Turn over, you're snoring." No matter what, I am envious of you.

The Time I Pooped on My Sneakers

While I always looked forward to seeing Cindy at the finish line, I do not have particularly fond memories of the start of any race. The unfortunate tradeoff to having Cindy at my races meant that she often drove me to the race as well, and she was never on time for anything. Cindy was upfront about this fact. She always warned people that she was on "Filipino Time." Through the years, I learned to accept this aspect of her. However, racing to the start line with five minutes to tie my shoes and slap on my bib number is something I never got used to. In fact, I lost a perfectly fine pair of sneakers because of Cindy's tardiness. More about that later.

I arrived ninety minutes early for the 5K race that I did this past Saturday, and it felt glorious. For a month, I have been stressing about this race. Not wanting to do it alone, I asked every runner friend of mine to do it with me. I did not tell anyone that I was scared of the ghosts/emotions that I would encounter at a race that I fondly remember attending with Cindy only a year ago. Even though I failed to get anyone to join me, I forced myself to go.

As I was leaving, my friend Liz offered to walk me to the metro. I knew this was out of her way, but I also knew that she would make me laugh. Had she not offered to walk with me, I am certain I would have thrown on my headphones, blasted "Plainsong" by The Cure, and continued onto Crystal City as if I was going to a funeral. Sometimes I wonder if Liz knows just how often she is in the right place at the right time with me.

Because of the jokes we shared on the stroll to the metro, I arrived at the race in good spirits. I meandered around the start area and observed all this activity that I never got to witness before. There were people stretching out, runners registering on-site and checking bags, families taking pictures, and volunteers filling up water cups. And even though I didn't actually have to "go," I went into one of the freshly opened Port-o-Johns and indulged myself by sitting down on the seat.

All runners know that the Port-o-John you force yourself to use before the race is the grossest place on Earth. Something about running must upset the bowels so much that these Port-o-Johns are often violated before, during, and after the race. I should know. I am an offender.

Labor Day 2006. Cindy and I were doing the Virginia Beach Half Marathon. As usual, Cindy went to bed late, having stayed up until 2am playing poker with her sister and Keila. In order to get to this race, I told Cindy that we had to be up by 6:00am and out the door by 6:30am (the race started at 7:00am). Even though I had laid out Cindy's race outfit, filled up her water bottle, prepared her breakfast, and charged up her iPod, Cindy was still running around the house like a crazy person at 6:30. We didn't get out the door until 6:45am. Then, five minutes into an already tense car ride, Cindy realized that she had forgotten her ID and we had to go back.

We finally arrived at the race with one minute to go. Normally, when I do a half marathon, I like to eat an hour before the race and then have some time to casually go to the bathroom before the race starts. But, we were way behind schedule this time. I thought about skipping the bathroom routine and just starting the race. But, nerves combined with stress combined with my frustration at Cindy for being late did a number on my intestines. I ran into one of the Port-o-Johns and, just as I was about to go, I heard the gun go off. Then, there was the "explosion."

If you know me well, you know that I do NOT like toilet humor. I don't care for fart jokes or humorous yarns about one's poop. So, believe me when I tell you that I do not write this for laughs. But, until that fateful morning on September 3, 2006, I never thought I was capable of such a sh*tshow. There was crap everywhere. On the seat. On the lid. And, when I looked down, on my brand-new $100 sneakers.

I cleaned myself up best I could. After several minutes and a wad of toilet paper later, I abandoned the Port-o-John with my head held down in shame. When Cindy saw me she immediately asked what was wrong.

Cindy: You still pissed at me?
JM: No.
Cindy: Come on, let's go. We're not too late to start.
JM: I need to walk slowly for a second.
Cindy: Come on, don't be mad at me.
I point to my sneakers.
Cindy: What the hell is that?
JM: I just crapped on my shoes.
Cindy: GROSS! You are nasty.
JM: I blame you.
Cindy: You are nasty. Runners are gross.

I thought about this incident on Saturday night when I ran the Crystal City Twilighter in the pouring rain. I remember thinking how it would have helped the smell had it rained on my sh*tty sneakers that day in 2006. Near the end of this race, I got sad thinking about Cindy and I wanted to cry. The loneliness almost overtook me, but then I noticed Chris Anderson, waving to me from under an umbrella about six feet from the finish line. My good friend Chris ventured out in the worst weather (rain, lightening, and thunder) to see me finish a measly 5K race. I wanted to cry. I wanted to give him a big hug. I wanted to tell him that he was my hero. But, all I could muster was, "Let's go eat. I'm hungry for steak"--words that, in my mind, translate to "I love you, friend."

10 Things You May Not Have Known About Cindy

1. Cindy wanted to be the next Missy Elliot. Cindy always joked that the best hip-hop songs were the ones that sounded as if a 5-year old had written them. Think about it: “It’s Your Birthday” by 50 Cent. “Drop It Like It’s Hot” by Snoop Dogg. Or, how about this for simplicity: “It’s Hot in Here!“ by Nelly. Cindy was of the opinion that “if they can do it, why can’t I?” She actually kept a notebook on her nightstand so that she could jot down song lyrics as soon as they came into her head. My favorite song of hers was this gem titled: “Do It Like You Do It.”

2. Cindy hated runners. You may not have known this based on her perfect attendance at all my races. But, she hated runners with a passion. She could not stand that the majority of my races were full of gangly white people who stunk up the port-o-johns, gorged themselves on post-race bananas, and would run even during a heat advisory. Nonetheless, Cindy never missed a race of mine, even the ones that started at 6am. This Saturday, I am supposed to be doing the Crystal City Twilighter 5K and it will be the first race in 9 years that I may drop out of (Cindy and I had a great time at this race last year and made plans to run it together the next time). I’ve done three races since Cindy died, but I’ve always met up with friends before and after them. I don’t know anyone doing this race and, maybe I am a wimp, but I can’t go by myself. It’s too depressing.

3. Cindy often dreamed of reuniting Michael Douglas, Kathleen Turner, and Danny DeVito. I can’t tell you how many times Cindy asked me to brainstorm ideas for a reunion movie for her favorite “Romancing the Stone” actors. She was convinced it would be a blockbuster and that it would remind the world just how potent the chemistry was between Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner.

4. Cindy smelled. Those closest to her may already know this, but Cindy had a funk. She used to refer to this as her ethnic “spiciness.” No matter how much deodorant or Channel Allure she wore, she had a permanent smell. The odor was not always unpleasant, but it was uniquely Cindy’s. The evening before she was taken off the respirator, I remember crawling my way up to our bedroom, kneeling before her pile of dirty laundry, and desperately trying to take in as much of her smell as I could. I grasped every article of clothing one-by-one and held it up to my nose. At some point, my friends Nikki and Tanya discovered me upstairs sniffing all these clothes and I turned to them with eyes full of tears and said, “If you were me, you’d do this too.”

5. Cindy rarely cried. I can count the number of times I witnessed Cindy cry on one hand. One time, about a month before the aneurysm, we went to the movies. I remember staying for the end credits and while we sat, Cindy observed a heavy-set, older woman with a cane trying to exit her row. The stadium theater was packed and no one coming down the aisle stairs was giving this elderly woman room to go. Cindy turned to me repeatedly and said, “Why won’t any of these people let her go?” After the crowd diminished, the woman finally left by herself. At this point, Cindy turned to me and there were tears in her eyes: “Why didn‘t anyone notice her?”

6. Cindy experienced racism throughout her life. Cindy often told me stories about how she got teased as a kid on account of being Asian. She once told me this story about the time she drove back from a concert with an African-American male friend of hers. On the way home, the car broke down. It was a dark, star-less night, and despite their best efforts to wave down a car, no one stopped for them. Finally, after three hours, a cop car drove by. They explained their situation to the officer, but instead of offering to help them, he said there was nothing he could do for them and drove away. Cindy was convinced that, had they been white, the officer would have at least called for help for them.

7. Cindy wasn’t a lesbian. Despite having mostly been in relationships with other women, Cindy did not identify as lesbian. She always said that she “loved the person, not the gender.” At first this bothered me, but the more I got to know Cindy, the more I believed that she truly loved all kinds of people. The only time this affected me was when, after her death, I discovered that her company did, in fact, offer domestic partner health benefits. Cindy never mentioned this to me.

8. Cindy blamed British new-wave rock stars from the 1980s for making us all gay. She specifically pointed her finger at these pretty-boy, eyeshadow-wearing artists: Boy George (Culture Club), George Michael (Wham!), Limahl (Kajagoogoo), and Nick Rhodes (Duran Duran).

9. Cindy's clothes and shoes took up almost every closet in the house. I used to get angry about this: "Why do you have so many clothes, but yet still wear the same hooded sweatshirt and Keene sandals everyday?" She would claim that her clothes were "classic" and that as soon as she lost some weight she would be wearing them again. When I pulled out her Ocean Pacific jam shorts from the 80s and her ginormous fleece sweatshirt from the 90s, I challenged her: "This is classic?"

10. Cindy’s primary care physician broke up with her once. Four years ago, Cindy stepped on a rusty nail on our deck and called our primary care doctor for a tetanus shot. The receptionist informed Cindy that the doctor was no longer seeing her. Having been to this much-loved doctor for several years, Cindy was left devastated and heartbroken (this was actually one of those few times I saw her cry). A couple of months later, I visited the doctor for my check-up and asked her point-blank why she dumped Cindy. She said, “I was tired of watching Cindy kill herself.” Cindy consistently ignored the doctor’s recommendations regarding her weight, her blood pressure, and her smoking. Rising to Cindy’s defense, I explained to the doctor that Cindy had just quit smoking a month ago, that she had started taking her blood pressure medicine again, and that she had bought a blood pressure machine for home. After some additional pleading, the good doctor agreed to take her back as long as Cindy kept to those changes. I promised her that she would.

The Age of Innocence

In the summer of 1993, I proposed to my then-girlfriend while we sat in her car listening to "Plush" by Stone Temple Pilots on the FM radio. Although this was well past Stonewall, it was still long before many states would even begin pondering gay marriage. Melissa Etheridge had only just come out in January of that year. Ellen DeGeneres was still assumed to be that straight woman who loved wearing vests. And the only network that would have aired a show like "A Shot at Love with Tila Tequila" would have been the Playboy Channel. So yes, in the summer of 1993, I popped the question to, as luck would have it, an extremely Orthodox Jewish girl. Do I even need to continue?

Prior to that evening, my then-girlfriend (I'll call her "FF") and I had not even identified as "lesbians." Like most newbies, we just happened to be two gals that loved each other and that also liked to kiss on the mouth and with tongue. For that entire summer, I lived this secret life and devoted every thought and action to FF. I isolated myself from all my friends and kept my entire family in the dark. FF, on the other hand, did tell her rabbi about me--somewhat. According to FF, the rabbi was really excited to one day meet her Jewish boyfriend, "Jason."

For several months, FF and I continued our charade. It was not until the night of the proposal that I finally challenged the definition of our relationship. Earlier that day, I had received a letter in the mail from the one person that knew about me and FF. In the sweetest letter ever written, Maria congratulated us for finding love and for being a really "cute lesbian couple." I loved this letter so much--I probably read it 20 times. It was the first time someone had referred to us as "lesbians" and I accepted and cherished the label immediately. Unfortunately, I never should have assumed the same for FF.

During my proposal/monologue, I seized every romantic cliche known to man to describe our love and I thought it was going well. FF was holding my hand, her head was on my shoulder, UB40 came on the car radio, and so I decided to read the letter to her. When I reached the end, I was crying. Then, I looked over at FF. She was no longer on my shoulder. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was backed up against the car door. I asked her about five times what was wrong before she finally launched into a tirade about how she was not a disgusting lesbian, how Maria had nerve for assuming that, and how I was crazy and perverted for thinking that we had any kind of future together.

I don't remember how I got home that evening. But what I do remember is the next morning and resolving myself to pulling an Anna Karenina on the LIRR train tracks (Note: I was only 18 at the time and somewhat overly dramatic). I don't know why, but when I arrived at the train station I made a bargain with myself. I said that if I could get my friend Maria on the phone, I would not do what I set out to do. Lucky for me I had a quarter in my pocket and, even better, Maria answered the phone.

In retrospect, the failure of that relationship and the homophobia that I witnessed on the part of FF made me who I am today. I went on to become a big-time feminist, supporter of gay rights, and I always made sure to never ever again isolate myself from my friends and family. Through the years, I have amassed tons of fantastic, close friends, learned to rely on my family's support, and have always made sure to have at least 5 friends that I could count on/run away to if I needed help. After we broke up, I resolved myself to do whatever necessary to become strong and confident because I was never going to endure someone else's homophobia without being properly armed next time.

When Cindy went into the hospital, I immediately drew upon the mental artillery for the courage to make it through the day. And, if not for what I went through in 1993, I may not have had the army of friends that stood by my side at the hospital and afterwards. I'll be honest, in the days after Cindy died, I did find myself making bargains like the one I made the day after the proposal. The trick I found was to dare myself to make it through the day. If I could make it through the day, I would be fine. And I've made it through lots of days--269 of them in fact. But, I am so tired of living day-to-day. I don't know what I am going through right now, but I am so sick of the advice to just get through the day. I can get through the day no problem. What I want to know now is when I get to think about my future again? I'm a 34-year old widow who wants to start her life now.

I Don't Care that Michael Jackson is Dead

Before becoming a widow, I used to wonder what possessed people to reenact Civil War battles or what compelled someone to camp in a "pretend" ditch while reenacting a World War I battle. War is horrifying, rather indescribable, and I would think that the majority of people who went through it for real the first time would not want to relive it. But yet, some people want to know what it "felt" like. How heavy did the clothing feel on their bodies when it was pouring down rain? What was morale like when half the battalion was shot down? Or, more importantly, what did the food taste like?

But now that I am widow, I finally understand the drive to reenact. There is something powerful about not forgetting--about walking over fading footprints. Since Cindy died, I often relive in my mind those 14 days in October. I force myself to remember how soft her palm felt in my hand when we went to sleep at 11:58pm. Who could predict that the aneurysm would burst at 11:59pm? I cannot allow myself to forget that final moment of tenderness between us. I am obligated to reenact that minute in my mind.

I recently looked up an old friend from Cindy and my past. She was someone whom Cindy and I lost touch with, but always thought of over the years. For the last three months, I have scoured the Internet to find out her whereabouts. She was the only person I failed to contact in October to break the news about Cindy's death (I had an old e-mail address for her). It drove me crazy that she had no idea that Cindy had died. I started running by her house in D.C. during my evening jogs in hopes that I would see her sitting in the window and could "bump" into her. Finally, last week I found her on LinkedIn and reconnected with her.

I don't know how to explain the next part (I wonder if other widows have gone through this). But, I was anxious/excited to tell her about Cindy's passing. When I knew that I was going to see her that evening, I was counting the minutes until I arrived at her house and sat on her couch. By that time, it was at least 260 days (or 8 months, 17 days) since Cindy died. That amount of time to me is ludicrous, but also frightening. I don't want anyone to forget Cindy. Soon, we are going to hit the year mark and people will have moved on. How can this be? I still cry about Cindy. So, it felt like I was downing an elixir when I shared the story of Cindy's passing with this old friend of ours. Something about remembering, reliving, and narrating the story of Cindy's time in the ICU and her subsequent death keeps Cindy present--it keeps Cindy's memory alive on Earth. I am so grateful to this friend who probably had no idea that our conversation was a salve to my frantic, anxious mind.

It's no secret that I see a therapist once a week to deal with my loss of Cindy. And each week I tell her the same thing. I can't get through a day without mentioning Cindy's name once to someone else. What's even better is when people initiate a recollection about Cindy to me. I don't feel as guilty when someone else mentions her name first. It's the first and only addiction I have ever had in my life. But, I am concerned that I am going to alienate friends, turn off people who can't "go there" again, or worse, become that Debbie Downer that everyone avoids.

I wish I could just pay someone 50 bucks a week to reminisce with me about Cindy for an hour. What can I say? I miss her. I miss her friendship. I miss her advice on how to not be so "stiff and white." I miss her guidance on how to be more affectionate with my friends. I miss her knowledge of 1980s alternative music. I miss her unconditional support of my career and my writing. I miss her ability to eat any leftover regardless of discoloration and smell. I miss her soft hands. I miss her voice. I miss her generosity. I miss the sight of her holding a baby. Oh boy, do I miss the sight of that. I miss her shouting "People!" through the Barretts mail slot (as opposed to knocking on the door). I miss her presence at my family gatherings. I miss her Sanford and Son car. I miss her little Fred Flintstone feet. I miss her. I miss her. I miss her.

I want to tell you that after 266 days that it gets easier. And sure, the passage of time helps me move forward with my life. But, it also lunges me into a defensive position where all I want to do is prevent Cindy's footprints from fading.

Au Revoir April

If I let it affect everything, it's gonna own everything. I don't deny or pretend it's not there, but if I don't allow it to be bigger than it is, I can do everything else.

Michael J. Fox

After Cindy died and I was on sabbatical from work, I spent most of my days in the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, DC. Walking into the various rooms with the multitude of paintings and photographs of people, I felt simultaneously alone and crowded.

I must have visited the "American Presidents" collection at least a dozen times (each time trying to guess the President in the portrait without reading the adjacent signage). One photograph in particular resonated with me even though I have seen this photo many times before. This iconic photo was the one of Jackie O at the swearing in of Lyndon Baines Johnson on the Presidential airplane. Anyone who has witnessed the death of a loved one can sympathize with the expression on Jackie O' face. Her face reveals at once complete shock and resignation.


I know that when I was alone with Cindy witnessing her body and mind succumb to the aneurysm, I was an utter mess. I kept begging her to respond to her name. I said I love you over and over. I touched her hand and told her that it was going to be okay and to just "hold on." The thoughts in my mind were traveling at supersonic speeds and my eyes darted left and right. My shaking hands were barely able to operate a cell phone.

I wrote in my last blog entry how Liz had to punch me across the face to calm me down. I now know that had Liz not done that, I would never have been able to resign myself to doing what needed to be done. When I look at that photo of Jackie O, I wonder who slapped her across the face so that she could do what she needed to do at that moment.

In addition to the Presidential photos, I also always made sure to walk through the "Twentieth-Century Americans" collection. I received hope and comfort from the faces and stories of some of the strongest and most courageous people in my lifetime. Interestingly, out of all the portraits in this collection, the photograph that I spent the most time absorbing was the one of Michael J. Fox (shown above).

I think what amazed me was how the quote that appeared to the left of the photo neatly summed up my philosophy on widowhood. I re-read this quote when I visited the Portrait Gallery on Cindy's birthday on March 29th. I expected this quote to serve as my mantra for the coming month.

However, April has been my worst month this year. On April 4th, I moved out of the old house entirely (I packed up almost 8 years worth of possessions in 48 minutes). On April 14th was the 6-month anniversary of Cindy's death. At midnight on Tax Day, I remembered all the years of watching Cindy start her taxes at 11:30pm the day they were due and then racing to the post office to get them in on time. One year Cindy even sweet-talked a grumpy postal clerk to "turn back" the date on his postmark stamp since the time was 12:03am and her taxes were technically late. Then came Easter and Passover--holidays that I vividly remember celebrating with Cindy. On April 26th, I did my first race without Cindy cheering me on at the end and taking pictures.

April has been a particularly wet month with bouts of crying in the car, in the shower, at work, before meetings, during meetings, on my runs, and even once during a meditation class. I was bawling yesterday just five minutes before entering a party for one my clients, a candy association. Cindy would have loved the mounds of candy and chocolate given to us at this party. I felt as if I were in "Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory" (one of Cindy's all-time favorite movies).

The problem is that I never know when these crying spasms are going to occur. Recently, I compared my widowhood to being afflicted with a chronic condition like colitis or irritable bowel. You just never know when your body is going to need to give itself over to it. And I accept it. I accept that this is now a part of my life. Like Michael J. Fox and his Parkinson's, I don't pretend it's not there. And like Jackie O, I resign myself to doing what I need to do.