I wrote, last Wednesday, about the awfulness of others saying “You were lucky to have him,” to us, the bereaved, often at a moment shockingly close to the beloved’s death.
But the more complicated truth is, not only do others say this to us, we say it to ourselves.
My friend, the writer Jane Yolen (who has been widowed for 11-plus years now, after a long and happy marriage to an adored, smart, funny, irreverent, brilliant man), noted in a recent Facebook post:
“… [O]ne thing I have really learned from this long walk: the better the marriage, the more it feels as if (in widowhood) you have been taken off to the side and cursed. I am trying to get to the place where I say, ‘You were blessed to have been in such a loving, supportive relationship for so long.’
“But all I do at the point is think of the guy who would have looked at me and said in his matter-of fact way, ‘Fuck that!'”
xxx
This is the thing: grief is the price-tag of love. The measure of how lucky we were is equal to the measure of how unlucky we are, or feel ourselves to be, now. The degree to which we we were fortunate in who we loved and were loved by is the precise degree to which we feel exiled from life.
And yet, in a weird non-linear way, even this brings back the presence of the now-vanished person, as in Jane knowing just what her smart-assed David would have said. This means, aggravatingly and heartbreakingly, that they, the ones we loved who’ve crossed into that addressless country, both have and haven’t vanished. They are always with us; they will never be with us again. “You were lucky to have him,” plants our feet unsteadily on the razor’s edge of mystery, the duality of life and love, love and death, death and life.
As for me, maybe 3 years after Ned’s death, I came upstairs on an early fall day in Vermont, on a bright afternoon, to take a nap. The air was the perfect temperature; sunlight poured in through the window onto the quilt-covered bed, on which Z-Cat, as if waiting for me, lay curled up. Dust motes spangled the crystalline air. Z-Cat looked up at me and I heard myself say out loud, “How did we get so lucky, Z-Cat?” And then, as the words emerged from my mouth, a moment as if punched in the solar plexus: I doubled over, weeping. How could I possibly, even for a moment, even in an instant that was temporarily perfection (but for the huge subtraction of it being a world that was now and forever absent Ned), how could I have thought of myself as lucky?
Z-Cat blinked up at me from the bed, seemingly wondering at the human balled up on the floor.
xxx
But then. Some ten years later, so about 13 years after Ned’s death, long after the daily immediate spates and torrents of grief had subsided, one day I was at an upscale gourmet shop. I was looking at a jar of apricot-orange jam bearing a gold sticker which said “Award-Winning.”
And I remembered the year, perhaps 20 years earlier, when I had heard that some jams of mine, which a friend entered in the Carroll County Fair, had won blue ribbons.
So Ned, then very much alive, and I drove out to check it out.
Only trouble was, that was a transitional year in Carroll County. They weren’t using the old fairgrounds, and the new one was still under construction.
So that year the fair was held way, way north of Berryville, Arkansas, out in a pasture somewhere. Ned and I drove north, took a left at the hand-lettered sign, bumped slowly through several pastures, across cattle-guards and dry washes. Finally we came came to a small bedraggled version of the usual fair.
We found our way to the forlorn home ec tent, and there were my jams. Sure enough, each had a blue ribbon. However, that year, given the out of the way location, there were only a couple of entries.
I said to Ned, “You know, the lack of competition kind of takes the thrill out of it.”
And he said, “Well — you could say you came in first in a very large field!”
xxx
So there I was, in that fancy food store, easily 25 years after that. There I was, looking at the stickered jars of jam, all those years later, hundreds of miles away from Carroll County, right in the middle of my new life, a life wholly unsuspected, and unimaginable, at the time I won the blue ribbons.
And I remembered that day out in the pasture, and what Ned, that funny, funny dear man, had said.
And I laughed out loud. And I thought, effortlessly, “Gee, I was lucky to have him for as long as I did.”
Then I heard myself. I stopped, and put down the jar of jam.
And I thought, “Lucky? You?”
And I thought, “Hunh. ”
And was able, finally, to think, “‘ Yes. I was lucky to have him.’
Lucky. That is something only widows gets to say. Only them. And only in their own time, which might be a year, or five years, or twenty, after the love of their life left the earth. Or never.
And only if she or he feels it. Not because she or he thinks s/he should feel it.
xxx
So, at least I know this much. Don’t ever say to a widow,”You were lucky to have him.”
But if a widow should ever say to you, “I was lucky to have him,” the right answer is , “Yes, you were.”
Related Posts
DOES IT GET EASIER? YES. DO YOU GET OVER IT? NO. (9)
WHEN GRIEF WANTS TO BE FELT, IT WILL. BUT IT WON’T ALWAYS WANT TO. (3)
“YOU WERE LUCKY TO HAVE HIM”: AN UNCOMFORTABLE POST (9)
FOR SUMITA, 16 MONTHS WIDOWED: THE CLUB NO ONE WANTS TO JOIN (6)
HOW I MET HIM, LOVED HIM, LOST HIM: BLUEGRASS, APPLE CRISP, & FEARLESSNESS IN THE FACE OF MYSTERY (7)
I am so happy to have found Widowhood Wednesday. My interest in this topic is not because I’m a widow, but because my life-long, dearest and closest friend lost her husband ten years ago, he by association was also a close friend, and I am married to a widower.
As the widow’s friend and widower’s wife I am continually finding myself with confusing and complex feelings. While I love reminiscing with my friend about old times, and accept it as perfectly natural and heart warmingly nostalgic, to remember her husband and my friend; after almost seven years with my husband, nine years since his loss, I often feel left out, disrespected and “othered” when my husband, his family and friends board the “remember when” boat.
Its wrong, I know. I can’t say when these selfish thoughts began to bang around in my head when one of the sons says ” remember when mom?” Or when my husband wants to have discussions for several days leading up to a holiday, birthday, anniversary about flower arrangements for her grave. In the beginning of our relationship I wanted to know everything about her, her and him, the family and friends, but not anymore. I’ve kept these thoughts and feelings to myself, I am ashamed of my greediness. For whatever reason, while I fully accept one thing from my friend, I then expect the exact opposite from my husband. This is something I need to sit down and look at closely. It is my hope that through your articles, I will find the answer to my questions.
Thank you for all the good work you do.
Susanne, feelings — we just feel what we feel. Why label these feelings selfish or yourself greedy? Feelings want to be felt, not necessarily acted on. (A friend says, “Have your feelings, but don’t let them have you.” In other words, acknowledge and welcome and perhaps even express them, but don’t let them run the show.
It sounds like in many ways you are doing just that. Your behavior has been kind and compassionate (except to yourself, so far).
I think you are doing the right thing in exploring, within yourself, here, and elsewhere. Making inquiry is powerful. Even more so if you can soften from judgment and evaluation to compassionate curiosity.
And perhaps the time has come, or will, when you simply say what you feel to your husband. To say there’s a time-limit, to ask that your feelings be heard, to express that you feel guilty about having these feelings and that just makes things worse… I don’t know. But you know, or will, with inquiry.
“while I fully accept one thing from my friend, I then expect the exact opposite from my husband.” Well, sure! Rings true and natural to me. You aren’t replacing your friend’s late husband — your role in loving her remains what it was, friend. But with your husband, even though each person is individual and irreplaceable and you know that about his late wife and you, you are still in the same role as his late wife (even though each of you may do/have done that role entirely differently). So you both are and are not “replacing” her, and I think I or almost anyone would have at least some of these feelings you describe sometimes, when things get too “remember when.” Like, “Will I ever be enough for you?” or “Is there a time when it doesn’t all reference ____?”
The man in my life has seen pictures of Ned and me and he is so graceful about it that it sometimes just lays me flat: “I look at those photographs and you look so happy. And I think, wow, a woman capable of loving someone THAT MUCH loves ME!”
So there is another bit to chew on.
I hope these pieces will help you, and thank you for your kind words on my work.
You sound like a good friend and a good partner.
xxxooo
I really appreciate your writings on the experience of being a widow. My dad died unexpectedly almost 20 years ago. He and my mom had a wonderful, loving and long marriage. She had always struggled with anxiety, but after he died it became really unmanageable. She quit leaving the house. I love her very much, but she kind of isolates herself and it’s hard to stay close. We very rarely talk about my dad. I don’t think we know how to. Your writing feels like a window into her experience. Grief is so private and so universal. Thank you.
Thank you so much, Holly. This is exactly what I hope for in writing these posts. It IS so private and universal. So needs to be talked about… so tough to do.
Perhaps you can talk to her about your father… it might be a relief for both of you. I love it when I can talk about Ned to someone who actually knew him! It’s almost like he comes back to life for me a little bit.
My late mother wrote a children’s book called MY GRANDSON LEW, in which a grandfather’s death is not talked about until it finally is, a mother and her young son at last telling what they remember. At the very end, the boy says:
“I miss him.
“So do I, Lew’s mother said.
But now
we will remember him together
and neither of us
will be so lonely
as we would be
if we had to remember him
alone.”
One of my favourite movies of all time is Ladyhawke. When Hunnyman was alive, I watched it frequently, always feeling lucky that he and I had found each other again after being 15 years apart. There is a scene where other characters are discussing the curse between the two lovers, which is described as, “Always together, forever apart.” That precisely describes how I feel since Hunnyman’s death. Everywhere I walk in my day, lovely little gems of memories will suddenly drop into my hands, and for a moment he is there. But… in these moments (or even later in the day) I can’t turn to him, look into his eyes, and laugh, touch his hand or reminisce about the memory. “Always together, forever apart.” Yup, it is a nasty, nasty curse, with no end in sight, but I refuse to let it win. For now, the sorrow will slice & bite but I try to concentrate on the joy. I am uncertain if I’m becoming inured to the pain, but I do find that, every now and again, I can simply enjoy a memory without it. Wouldn’t it be lovely if, in the future, I might even find a DAY like that. But, unlike Navarre and Isabeau, Hunnyman & I shall, for the rest of MY life, remain thus… “Always together, forever apart.”
Yes, “always together, never apart,” that is so exactly it, dear Laurel. Such a two-handed practice is this widowhood. Oh, darlin’ — it’s early days for you yet. You were married long and well. Moments, and now and then memories, may be the only small comforts you have for awhile. But they are enough, and it will not always hurt in this way. You will get through this, though changed. xxxooo
Lovely blog post. I am only widowed a bit more than a year, but I now often hear myself say to myself, how lucky I was to have had the time I did with my husband. 37 years of marriage.
I burst into tears reading that incredible quip about placing first “in a very large field.” What a loving thing to say!
I can’t begin to imagine how much you have missed his humor and joy and freshly flipped perspectives and how many others were lost along with him. What more might he have shared?!? Thank you —immensely —for sharing these private moments with strangers like myself… Ahhhh these Ned-isms. I could read a book full of them. ?