The Word "Widow" and The Grand Illusion

First, let's get this out of the way so that it's not stuck in our (my) head the whole time we go through this post:

Now then, on to the reason I brought you here...

This is me:

So what do YOU see? Some people look at this image and see an old woman, with a flowing headscarf covering her hair and an important looking shrug on her shoulders. Other people look and see a young woman, glancing over her shoulder, which is draped with the same important looking shrug the old woman wears.

Up until about four months ago, the term "widow" brought to my mind images of ancient temple-attending women in the Bible and modern elderly women whose wrinkles denoted not the sadness of a single loss in life, but the completeness of an entire life lived--ups, downs, and all--and an entire life accepted and embraced, and perfectly illustrated in the subtly earned marks of time on her face. In a way, "widow" was synonymous with "old woman" (and, it turns out that almost half of women over 65 are widows, so this connotation halfway makes sense).

I knew that young women also lost spouses. I had even heard of nearby neighbors, whose toddler-aged children unexpectedly were left fatherless due to sudden illness or accident. I don't know if I ever labeled these young mothers "widows" in my head though. I can't remember!

I do remember moments in the last four months when the term "widow" has suddenly struck me. Kinda like in those old cartoons when someone mindlessly steps onto the end of a rake, or slips on a banana peel. You'd think those things sitting there in front of the characters would be obvious enough to see and step over, thus avoiding the painful smack in the face. But somehow those silly cartoon characters always fell for the same old thing.

You'd think that I would know that I'm a "widow," and that in knowing, I could step over that title without getting smacked in the face by it. But, alas, Looney Tunes and I are apparently right on par in terms of observational prowess.

There are moments when I am suddenly, without warning reminded of my new label--my new demographic, identity, or whatever it is. Filing taxes, for example, or responding to surveys that want to know whether they're appealing to the "married" or "single" crowd. I am a widow. I still can't tell if saying that feels painful or empowering. Like everything else about my husband dying, the most accurate descriptor, to me, remains "surreal."

I'm pretty young. My kids are pretty young. My husband was pretty young. I suppose all married people know that eventually one or the other of the people in the relationship will be a widow(er). That part isn't a surprise. It's the timing part. And yet, I think it's just like so many other things taken for granted in life: you never really think it will happen to you. I mean, most people don't seem to really think it necessary to start planning their funerals, wills, life insurance policies, etc. before age 30 (with obvious exceptions, such as military families, people with serious illness, insurance salespeople themselves, etc.). Because, really, who dies these days? It's so passe. And in any case, who dies young? Since when are there "young widows." Totally not a thing...

Except, apparently it is.

Turns out I know a lot of people whose parents died when they were young, or whose spouses died young. Dying young is like this whole underground club (forgive the pun; inappropriate as it may be, that's how that sentence came out naturally, and I'm inclined to leave it). I am somewhat ashamed I wasn't more aware of it before, or nearly as sensitive. And here I always thought I was a pretty sensitive, compassionate person! Now, I look around and realize that suffering--true suffering--is all over. And it doesn't look the same for everyone.

The kicker is that I know how trite that sounds. None of this is new to me, or to you. Sometimes I wish that there was a way to understand the truth of something without having to endure it. Then my attempts to express all this wouldn't feel so cliché. But I guess people have been talking about death for millennia, so there's bound to be some repeat interpretations (let alone repeat attempts to verbalize those interpretations).

And yet, at the same time, you'd think we could have alternate ways to refer to "widows" (or widowers) by now--ways that spoke more specifically to age or circumstance or individual. Words that don't just speak to the woman left alive, but to the half or her that died as well. "Survivor," for example, implies two parties: it acknowledges the live person while nodding to the deceased. But "widow"? It's so individual, so lonely. It's just one person. It's not old or young, involved or distant--it just is a fact. Cold, hard, lonely fact.

I certainly feel older, now that I am a widow. But grief (in general) has a way of draining every emotional and physical reserve in you. (Thank Heaven for spiritual reserves!) I feel tired, worn, and maybe even weak, when I stop to think about my loss--or rather the loss: my husband.

So, the answer: there is no answer.* That self-portrait in the beginning--the optical illusion that shows either an old or young woman, depending on your view--it isn't really the illusion. The illusion is the question: am I old or young? Am I married or single? Do I feel joy or sorrow? Am I one thing or the other? Ultimately, the answer is, yes. It's all a part of me. The opposites, the contradictions are all etched into my portrait. But ultimately, I am ok with that. Really, being widowed at some point was always expected; you might even say it was always "part of the plan," so I'm working on embracing the details of that plan that I didn't foresee (most obviously, the timing). It all will ultimately be swallowed up in the greater plan anyway: eternal life with eternal family. No illusions there.

*Side note: Brandon always hated how in my field of Sociology/Social Work, there are no real concrete answers; he appreciated the closure of math, and the security of knowing a right or wrong response.

**"The stage is set, the band is playing. Suddenly your heart is pounding..." Is anyone else still humming that song? :) **