Part of being a writer is being honest. Even in fiction, we talk about 'the honesty of the writing.' Reality can be a bugger. Even humour writers - or perhaps especially humour writers - peel back masks to uncover the truth.
I’m at week seven of being a widow. In hope of helping others, here’s what I’ve learned:
1. Well-meaning people say things they don’t mean.
I can’t count the number of people who said, “If there’s anything I can do…anything at all.” Well, of course there are things you can do. If you live close by, you can invite me out to lunch or dinner. You don’t need me to ask you to do that.
So many people said this well-meaning platitude, and then did nothing. I guess saying it made them feel good – as good as if they had actually done something. But it’s not the same. Truly, if you are well-meaning (and several people are, bless them) don't forget to follow through.
If you see someone hurting, give them suggestions of what you could do. Here are a few:
1. Make them a meal for the freezer. Four friends came through in ways that just astounded me. They kept both of us fed for over a month, and me later, for another month. Bless them. I'll never forget this.
2. Invite them out for a meal. Suggest something to spend time with them. They are going to be lonely.
3. If you live farther away, send them a gift certificate for Skip the Dishes or other restaurants. Or Amazon, and other bookstores. I appreciated every one.
2. You have to be very careful how you answer people who reach out to you. They really don’t want an honest response.
They don’t want to hear – as an example – the truth of how your loved one died. They may ask for details, but unless they are medical professionals, they don’t want to hear the painful details. Death is rarely gentle. So you will need to lie about this, to some extent. Otherwise your well-meaning friend will be horrified. And when people are horrified, they avoid you
You also don’t want to tell them that you felt like killing yourself that first week. That you now understand suicide. The pain of what you are going through right now is so great that the possibility of some pleasurable moments in the future means nothing. Don’t tell them that. They want to hear that you are grieving as you should, as society expects, but ‘coping.’
3. You can’t be truthful about how you are coping, weeks on.
If you tell the truth – that you are so lonely – many will back away, afraid you will ask them to fulfill a role they are not prepared to do. Maybe they give you platitudes in response. One cousin, who lives 45 minutes away, said to me: “You can be lonely even in a group of people.” Take it from me: this is exactly the wrong thing to say.
Instead, why didn’t she acknowledge my loneliness, and perhaps invite me to lunch?
What I know now: if a grieving widow tells me she is lonely, I will ask her to dinner. I can’t be company for her all day. That’s not expected. But something I *can* do is make her a little less lonely for a few hours, here and there. Show that I care about her loneliness.
So: The sad truth about being a widow is you can’t be honest. You must show that you are coping, so that people don't avoid you. And in truth, I understand this. Everyone has their burdens within their own families. Very few people can invite taking on additional difficulties.
So how am I really coping? I’m still haunted by how he died, but have learned to compartmentalize it so it doesn’t paralyse me. The loneliness is there, like an illness that won’t go away. I am blessed to have two wonderful daughters, several close friends, and readers who care. I’m writing again, and not just blogs as you see here. I’m even writing humour again.
In short, I’m coping. Thanks for listening. I hope you never have to go through this. But if you come across someone who is, perhaps this post will help.