Widowish: A Memoir(35)

Or the friend I ran into from my early days of working at Atlantic with Joel. I barely recognized her; it had been so many years. But she stopped me and said, “I heard about Joel. I’m so sorry.” And then continued reminiscing about the old days. I appreciated that she saw my circumstance as a matter of fact. She didn’t exude any pity or projections of her own.

People knew Joel and me as a happy couple. They knew us as Sophie’s parents. They knew that we lived in the house close to the elementary school (which at one point or another, everyone with kids in our neighborhood had parked in front of). But now I was the woman whose husband had died. The husband who everyone saw riding through the neighborhood on his bike. The husband who was so nice. What did he have again? What was wrong with him? How did he die?

And if that could happen to me, couldn’t it happen to anyone? How will she manage? In that big house, just her and her daughter? Oh my God! What’s she going to do now?

No one knew what to make of The Widow.

The truth is, I didn’t know either.





THIRTEEN

Small Steps Forward

Hi, this is Allison Frank. I got your name from Rabbi Hannah. My husband died three years ago, and if you ever want to talk to someone, I’d be happy to meet you. Thanks.”

I saw the name Allison Frank listed as a missed call on my phone, but it would be weeks before I would listen to her message. I let it sit in my inbox because I just wasn’t interested. Some friends had told me about Allison. I knew that she lived in our neighborhood, that she had also lost her husband, and that her kids were a little older than Sophie.

I was aware that she might be calling and was encouraged to meet her, but I bristled at the idea. Why in the world would I want to meet anyone else whose husband died? No, I was territorial over my grief. No one but me was married to Joel. No one knew what it felt like to lose their everything.

So I made up my mind to ignore her message. For now.

Besides, it was a busy time. Or at least, a time of transition. Joel had been gone for nearly six months. Everyone knew that Sophie was my priority. In a bit of a role reversal, whenever I was invited anywhere, I would first check with her. I didn’t want to leave her alone or with a babysitter. She was getting a bit old for that anyway.

I tended to make my plans during the day, when she was at school. The problem was that friends were inviting me out to dinners. To happy hour. To the theater. I tried; I really tried to just say yes to everything. But the truth is I missed out on many events. The thought of showing up to a friend’s fiftieth birthday party by myself, for example, seemed daunting.

I was developing an unhealthy dynamic. I would wait to hear what Sophie’s plans were, if any, before making plans for myself. If she was invited to a sleepover on a Friday night, only then would I agree to meet my friends for dinner. If she was going to a movie on a Saturday with one of the grandparents, then I would agree to a hike or to meet someone for coffee.

Everyone was encouraging me to make time for myself. Happy mom, happy kid, they’d say. I would try, but how could I ever be happy again given that I was now facing a future without Joel? I was afraid. I didn’t know if I would ever feel whole again.

But the truth is, with the exception of my husband dying, my world being completely rocked, and having to do the heavy lifting of two parents, I was a happy person by nature. I had to believe that I could be that way again. It’s not that I was no longer laughing or enjoying myself at times, I was, but Joel’s absence was always a presence. The minute I would sense it, I’d get sad. It was hard to reconcile.

Leigh, a woman I had known since our daughters were in preschool together, had encouraged me to join her writing group. Leigh’s daughter and Sophie had become close friends in middle school, and she and I became close during the girls’ bat mitzvah planning and even more so in those difficult months leading up to when Joel was in the hospital, and beyond. Leigh offered an open-door policy to her home at all times. Sophie and I loved the chaos of her house with her three spirited children, doctor husband, and big dog. We could sit there for hours and just watch all of the action. It was so different from our quiet life on our cul-de-sac.

Leigh had a degree in spiritual psychology and shared the same alma matter as one of my “healers,” Iyanla Vanzant. You could say she had me at Iyanla.

“Look. You’re a writer; you should be writing,” Leigh told me. “I think it will be very healing for you, and we’re a very friendly group. No one bites.”

I recognized that I needed to find my way back to myself. Joining a writing group would be a baby step; although, it was also a big one. It meant that I’d actually be getting dressed and leaving the house. But Leigh’s presence in the group gave me reassurance. Plus, the class was held in a house in the hills just above my house. I could walk there if I wanted to.

“Soph,” I said on the way home from school one day. “I think I’m going to join a writing group.”

“OK,” she said as she fidgeted with the radio, looking for a good station.

“It meets once a week. Right around the corner from home.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll only be gone for a few hours. I’ll leave after dinner and be home by nine thirty, maybe ten, the latest.”

I kept driving while Sophie kept changing stations.

“I just think it will be good for me. I haven’t written anything in a while, and Leigh’s in the class, and I think I just need to start doing stuff again and—”