BoomerBlix

Home Alone at the Holidays

Credit: thedailymeal.com

Time to talk about how Singles feel about the holidays.  And to do it without sounding maudlin.

My friend Melinda and I were chatting a few weeks ago.  She's a smart, accomplished single Boomer, lives up in St. Paul.  We were talking about Thanksgiving (rebel spirit that she is, she was serving her family roast beef and Caesar salad, instead of turkey) when she said, "You should write a Blix about what it's like to be single during the holidays."

Great idea, Melinda!  But where to begin?

Shall I start with the general sense of just having to endure the whole season?   This can range from a mild, but stoic tolerance to painful, forced-grin occasions.   It's not at all that we are Scrooges, or that we begrudge anyone their delight in the holidays.  It's the annual struggle of finding our own way to fit in.  As experienced and usually-comfortable-in-our-skin Singles, it's odd to find ourselves returning to the same spot.  So here we go again.

It's difficult to explain.  When we're in the mix with other Singles and couples, maybe a work function or a casual cocktail party, no sweat.  What gets tricky are those invitations to join another family. It starts to feel a little schizo.  Part of us wants to be included, part of us wants to avoid it.  Maybe because being around a happy family, with their inside jokes and histories that require no explanation, can actually make us feel even more lonely.  We want to share the day, and yet we don't.  To add to the confusion--and trust me, it is confusing!--we can't predict which way we'll feel on our drive back home.  Content, with the rosy glow that comes from having had a "happy holiday" experience?  Or bummed, because we don't really belong?

Melinda thinks there is a difference between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  One matters more than the other.  For her, Thanksgiving  is more family-based, and therefore tougher to navigate. Christmas is more general; people don't usually invite you over to watch them open their gifts.  Besides, by Christmas, we're in the home stretch of the whole holiday thing.  New Year's Eve is a cakewalk.  Still, I need to think about this a little more.  I can't quite identify a particular holiday as being kinder and gentler to Singles.

For me, the hardest part of being single--and alone--at the holidays is going into the grocery store.  I can sidestep the malls, which are ridiculous with carols blaring before Thanksgiving.  It's easy for me to dismiss the glitzy shopping scene; we all buy too much, anyway.  However, I have to eat, and therefore, I have to buy food.  It's when I see displays with the special ingredients for holiday foods, that I weaken.  Memories of past celebrations come stampeding back.  I wistfully recall tasty party dips, containing many blocks of cream cheese.  Baking supplies, nuts, candies, fancy baskets and cookie tins.  Fruitcake.  Yes, even fruitcake.  I happen to love fruitcake.  That's when I go white-knuckled, wishing I had someone to cook  for, and with.  Someone to clink my champagne glass with.  Veuve Cliquot, of course.

You see my point, now, on the maudlin thing.

"What do you want from us, then?" ask the steadfast married and coupled readers.  Let me first say we don't want your happiness; in fact, we cherish and encourage it.  We applaud it--it gives us hope, makes us smile.  Second, the season doesn't really shake our self-esteem, as much as it may sound like it here.  We're not morose, or in danger of hurting ourselves.  We're simply trying to muddle through.  How much is sheer seasonal hype, how much is what we actually need at this time of year?  Even though Boomer women slightly outnumber men, it's still a two-by-two society.  And it's more pronounced during the holidays, different from the rest of the year. 

So, precious partnered friends, please keep inviting us.  Understand that we may or may not accept.  I hope this Blix explained.  And know that come January 2, we will heave a huge, collective sigh of relief...until Valentine's Day.

 

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Saucepan for One--Wayfair.com

We recently talked about eating alone. Today I'm taking the topic back a step...the challenge of cooking for one. And I don't mean making a pot of chili on Sunday and living off it all week. All single people do that. Five days later, we can't face one more kidney bean. Some of us even toss out the last bowl or two. Which I do.

No, I'm thinking of regular meals, the kind you have when there are others around to help consume everything. I'm thinking of the happy variety that happens when you can make a multi-course dinner knowing there won't be leftovers building up in the refrigerator because you didn't calculate correctly--or you still cook as if the entire family were around, including two teenage boys. Which I do.

A batch of brownies? An apple pie? Oatmeal cookies? Unless you're hauling them to work the next day, or have hungry neighbors, there is simply too much to keep before they go stale. Not to mention the temptation factor.

Trust me, I'm all for feeding myself well, and I enjoy cooking. Some would say that I'm pretty good at it. So it's not a lack of motivation that trips me up. It's the "mini-ness" of the effort.  

There are two aspects to any food preparation: First the shopping and then the cooking. 

The shopping: Say I want to make a something that calls for a fresh herb. I can hardly bop into the produce department and ask for six basil leaves. No, I have to buy one of those pricey little plastic boxes with forty basil leaves. I can--and will--try to use more of them, but inevitably, most will end up sadly shriveled. I'll feel guilty  and will avoid recipes requiring basil for a long time. Cheese gets moldy. A dozen eggs last over a month.

I have a refrigerator door full of specialty items, purchased for a recipe.  Fish sauce, jalapenos, capers. Three kinds of mustard. Four kinds of vinegar. Both salted and unsalted butter. I'm not complaining, because it's fun to make all kinds of foods. I'm just saying that that "condiment creep" happens over time.  In my cupboard, it's the same story with spices. Even if I buy the smallest bag, flour becomes rancid. Cornmeal gets those tiny bugs. 

One fish filet. Two slices of pancetta. Three ounces of spaghetti. Mini-ness, indeed.

Now comes the preparation. Allow me to share a recipe--with my comments in italics-- from "serves ONE: Simple Meals to Savor When You're on Your Own" by Toni Lydecker. Ms. Lydecker means well, and does her best to downsize foods for the solo cook. But I am never going to go to the bother of making a single serving of ratatouille or one salmon croquette.

Spicy Rice Noodles with Pork  (Sounds nice, huh? I agree!)

2 ounces dried rice noodles (sticks) or cellophane noodles (These come in 8 ounce packages.)
1 Tablespoon black bean and garlic sauce (See my remark about about "condiment creep.")
2 teaspoons soy sauce (This is okay...soy sauce is a standard.)
3 ounces boneless thin-cut pork chop (One single pork chop! Now the freezer starts to build up with extra  bits of meat that will need to be used before freezer burn sets in.)
1/2 medium carrot (Where can I buy one carrot?)
1/2 celery rib (You can see where this is going, right?)
1 scallion (And the other four that came with it? What happens to them?)
2 teaspoons peanut or vegetable oil (Takes a long time to use up oil, 2 teaspoons at a time.)
2 teaspoons grated ginger root (Great! Another thing to buy and then watch dry up.)
Crushed red pepper, to taste (Like soy sauce, I actually have this on hand.)

I won't continue with the directions, which instruct me to slice and dice the carrot, scallion, and ginger. And to cut the lonely pork chop into 1/4 inch slices.  By the time I'm doing that, I'm already wondering how I'm going to use the other eight carrots and celery ribs, along with the scallions and ginger. Cooking like this sets off a chain reaction; I'm always chasing the next recipe that can use these ingredients before they get wilted and slimey. 

It's a funny thing, this cooking for one. I've been at it for over nine years now. Some days--and weeks--I do better than others. Overall, I manage quite nicely, and do find ways to use the carrots, celery, and whatever else comes my way. It's important to me and a huge part of self-care. 

There's your glimpse into a single cook's kitchen. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to make a pot of chili. Or maybe just a big bowl of popcorn...after all, no one's watching.

Next week: Holiday Cooking for One

 

 

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Reacting to the Cancer Diagnosis

 

Credit: dailyplateofcrazy.com

Today's Blix is an excerpt from my book, Waiting to Be a Widow. Still in the works, it is a combination of actual events that women experience as their husbands or partners are dying, as well as advice to help women prepare, along the lines of a "So You're Going to Have a Baby" book.  Why women? Because 80% of women will outlive their spouses. And there is nothing to help them know what to anticipate.

A few years ago, I posted another excerpt from the book; it tells of the time before Tony was diagnosed with cancer. When we thought his back pain was a slipped disc. A bit of surgery and all would be well. Life would carry on after this small glitch.

Here is what happened next....

Month 1: The Diagnosis

The time from the MRI to determine the problem that was causing Tony to have such excrutiating lower back pain, to the diagnosis and onset of treatment was less than ten days.  Yet in my memory, it passes in slow motion.

While we each suspected that the mass on Tony’s sacrum was likely malignant, neither of us said it out loud then.  We were ordered to go for a biopsy of the mass, at a special unit in the hospital called Diagnostic Radiology. Tony would be sedated while radiologists, who did nothing but this particular type of invasive procedure, would insert a needle into the mass, and send a sample to Pathology to be interpreted.

As we waited in the holding area before the biopsy, Tony, in his hospital gown on a narrow cart, we chatted and held hands.  Then, he began to cry.  Just a few tears, but the silent kind that come of their own accord.  “I’m scared,” is all he said.  The procedure was brief, and in an hour, we were on our way home.  It was a Friday, so we had one last weekend to do as we wished, without knowing the results.  Saturday was Tony’s birthday, so we agreed to splurge on dinner at an incredible restaurant. 

For Tony’s birthday, I gave him two books: One on gardening, one on retiring in Mexico.  It was important to me that we continue to look ahead and plan without fear or worry.  When we toasted his sixty-first birthday, I said, “Are you ready to fight?” His reply:  “Then you think it’s cancer.”  Although I had my suspicions, I said, “I don’t know.  But if we prepare for the worst, then we can be delighted to be wrong.”  He laughed and agreed.   

Alas, I was not wrong.  The diagnosis was cancer.  Stage IV: already spread to the lungs, bones, liver, and lymph nodes. He didn't stand a chance.

Hearing a diagnosis is every bit as dramatic as you see in the movies, or read in a novel.  There really is that moment of “No!” and you actually do ask “Can there be a mistake?” Then, as predictable as the initial reaction, comes the immediate response:  “We can beat this!”  

Following the news, Tony had a sudden gait change.  He started to drag his left foot with every step.  His internist insisted on hospitalizing him; he was afraid that the mass was pressing on a nerve, and that Tony would get permanent damage if he did not get complete rest.  Thus, the first hospitalization began.   

There never was a primary cancer site.  There was no tumor. The oncologist did some tests to rule out different types of cancer.  Not liver, not kidney, not pancreas.  The biopsy showed squamous cells, the all-purpose skin cells that line the throat, neck, and lungs.  Given Tony’s history and the cell type, the treatment would be based on lung cancer. Chemotherapy to kill the cancer cells, and radiation to shrink the bone mass.

I have it marked on my calendar:  Saturday, January 22, 3:33 pm:  “Chemo begins.  Here we go!”  As if we were off on a long-awaited vacation.  

The first round of treatment went swimmingly.  First, infusions of an anti-nausea drug, and a steroid, to minimize any allergic reactions.  Then, the chemotherapy began.  A specially-trained nurse administered the drugs, sitting by for the first round.  She took Tony’s blood pressure and pulse, watching for adverse reactions that would indicate that he was not tolerating the circulation of pure poison in his veins.  There were no problems.  And why would there be?  He was going to conquer this thing!

Radiation was just as easy.  Ten visits, with immediate relief.  Back pain and walking problems melted away.  At the end of his appointments, Tony brought boxes of candy to all the radiology technicians.  He told them good-bye, and no offense, but he wasn’t going to miss them.  

We had a schedule now.  Two weeks of outpatient chemotherapy, then one week off.  We marked out our calendars through the entire year.  We went back to work. We even made vacation plans:  Mexico in March, New York City in September.  Now that we could see how simple modern cancer treatment was, it was easy to look ahead without dread.  People get cured all the time, right?  The papers are full of stories about folks with advanced cancer who achieve miraculous cures.  Why not Tony?  

We sent out a cheery e-mail announcement about the diagnosis, letting everyone know that Tony would be undergoing chemotherapy.  We asked for good thoughts, prayers—whatever support people felt appropriate.  We bought dozens of yellow cancer awareness  bracelets and sent them to anyone who wanted one.  

In truth, our lives had changed forever.  We would not make it to NYC in September; Tony would die on August 19. From this point on, we would be working together to defeat the cancer, and yet also functioning separately.  Tony became The Patient, and I became The Caregiver.  Our roles made that instant shift; it was slight at first, but would continue to become more dramatic over the next seven months, until the transition was complete.

When it was complete, I would be a widow.

 Copyright 2010, Suzanne Ball. All rights reserved.

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A Blood Test To Predict Death: Would You Take It?

Credit: Getty Photos
 

I've been thinking a lot about the future lately. A few weeks ago I posted a Blix about writing a letter to yourself in the future. (You did that, right?) A way to remember or remind yourself about something. Or to check in with yourself to see how those goals are coming along. It's a nifty concept, although it will probably feel weird when the email arrives...from the past me.

Today, let's talk about knowing your chances of dying in the future. Say, within five years. 

This is not science fiction. Researchers in Finland and Estonia have identified four biomarkers (molecules in the blood that can identify a disease, condition, or risk) that correlate with death in the general population--not just people who are already ill.

The study involved over 17,000 people, ages 18-103. Both Finland and Estonia have health registries; medical records and lab results are available for many years. Groups from each country were randomly selected to represent the demographics; 106 biomarkers were tested. The Estonians went first, 9,482 of them. Over five years, 508 died of various causes. Then 7,503 Finnish subjects stepped up; 176 passed away. 

Being good scientists, the researchers did statistical analyses to control for factors such as smoking, alcohol, cholesterol levels, and pre-existing conditions: cancer or diabetes. This levels the playing field. After that, the common biomarkers of the deceased were examined.

Four biomarkers prevailed among those who had died within five years. For the medical geeks: alpha-1-acid glycoprotein, albumin, very low-density lipoprotein (VLDL) particle size, and citrate. (Click here for the study.) A person with a biomarker index in the top 20% of the range was 19 times more likely to die within five years.

It's going to be a while before your internist will be ordering this test along with your routine blood work.  The study needs to be validated--duplicated with similar results. Clinical implications factor in here, as well; the biomarkers don't give an underlying cause. They're just saying, "Heads up!" 

And let's not forget the ethics of this kind of testing. Does everyone get it? Should people have a choice regarding whether or not to find out if they have the biomarkers? What happens to the folks who get the bad news?

I first heard of this test while listening to a recent podcast of one of my favorite radio treats, from WGN Chicago 720 AM, The Kathy and Judy Show. (Podcasts free on iTunes) Usually the hilarious duo tackle lighter topics, but this idea brought out some thoughtful comments. Overwhelmingly, callers wanted to know the results. Although they tended to joke: "I'd start spending!" "I'd quit work!"...the message was the same. "I'd live in the moment.  I would enjoy life now."

Isn't that what we hear, over and over? No matter what life-changing event takes place--a near-miss on the expressway, a biopsy is negative, a relationship turns around--people have an awakening. The realization that it all could go away in a heartbeat. And that we're not done yet. There are children to hug, trips to take, gardens to grow. Wisdom to gain...and share.

One of my favorite colleagues, Chuck Corr, a retired professor from Southern Illinois University and an expert on end-of-life issues, told me about a study he had done. He asked the question: "Would you rather die quickly, without much pain, or more slowly, possibly with pain?" 

Younger people overwhelming chose the quicker route. If they were going to die, they wanted it to be fast and easy. Not so the mature folks. They understood that it might be uncomfortable, but they wanted to have time to do a few things, settle their affairs...and to say good-bye. They didn't like the idea of not being able to say what needed to be said and to finish up on their own terms.

All this brings me back to the "Biomarker Profiling" study. Would you want to know? What would you do? What would change? 

And why wait?

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Communication From the Departed--Is It for Real?

My Opal Earrings

Before you think I've gone all woo-woo, hear me out. Or, rather, read me out.

I've worked around death for over twenty years; I've come to accept that it's part of the circle of life. Like you, I've had people I love pass away. Even when expected, the sadness is overwhelming. Grief can take years to resolve. I think of loved ones who have been gone for decades--my father almost thirty years--and still, we miss them.

One of the benefits of working in the field of organ donation--beyond the incredible satisfaction--is that I've had the gift of seeing bereavement experts at work. Remember, organ donors are usually unanticipated deaths. The families impacted are suddenly subjected to a loss that few of us will ever experience. Every organ procurement organization (OPO) has someone skilled in following families for a year or two. These are highly trained professionals--social workers and counselors--who help families make sense of their terrible loss.

The idea that the "departed" could try to contact those left behind began with my organ donation career. Over and over, I would hear stories about unusual--but always comforting--signs that suggested an attempt to reach out after death. Nothing extreme, certainly not the scary stuff of television. The families were quite ordinary. Going about daily lives: jobs, school, caring for children and parents, driving carpools, baking cookies for fundraisers. Maybe religious, maybe not. The only thing in common was that they had gone through a terrible, untimely loss. Yet they reported the same things.

Then came me. After years of singlehood, I met Tony. What a wonderful time we had. Ended much too soon. I've written about widowhood before. And will again. But for today, let me tell you my own "encounter" with my late husband.

This is an excerpt from my pending book "Waiting to Be a Widow."

Shortly after Tony died, I lost one of the beautiful opal earrings he had given me when we were first married.  By the time I discovered it, it was the end of a busy day.  I had been out, running errands; it would have been impossible to retrace my steps.  Still, I searched everywhere I could, without any success. It was gone, and I was heartsick. An intense sadness hung over me.  Not only had I lost one of my favorite earrings, it had been a gift from my husband.  And there would be no more gifts.  It was a metaphor, a sparkly couple separated. At that moment, just one—either earring or spouse—seemed useless and unnecessary.  I tucked the lone earring in the back corner of a drawer. 

A year after Tony’s death, I had finally finished sorting his belongings and shredding his papers.  The house was clean, furniture rearranged; there had even been a few guests. I was beginning to smile again, and make some plans.  It was time to write.  The weekend after I decided to get out my notes, I noticed something sparkly on the living room floor.

There, in the middle of the floor and in plain view, was the missing earring. 

The Thing About Death

The conversation went something like this:
Me:  I recorded "Marley and Me."  Want to watch it?
Him:  No, I know how it ends.  Too sad.
Me:  Yes, but Marley's old.  And he's loved.  He made people happy.
Him:  Maybe another time.

Hmmm...another dodging of the inevitable.  Death.  Makes folks squirm.  They want to look away, think about something else, find another topic. 

Everything dies.  People and animals, of course.  Flowers--look around, it's the end of summer.  Trees, even giant sequoias.  Heck, stars die!  Someday, our own sun will stop.  Life cycles may vary, but it's unavoidable.  Still, we shuffle our feet, avert our eyes.

I've worked around death for a long time.  About a quarter of a century by now.  It's something I've come to accept.  As an ICU nurse, I had the privilege of being present as people passed to whatever comes after the physical body gives way.  In the cold setting of a hospital, often in the middle of the night, it was important for us not to let a patient die alone.  We'd call to each other:  "Come.  Margaret is passing..." and whoever could break away would go to the bedside.  We'd stand in silence, respectfully, until after the last breath.  Someone would hold the patient's hand.  A real person was leaving the world.  There should be witnesses.

Then, I began to work in organ and tissue donation and transplantation.  It's been twenty years in a field where death is the first step in saving another's life.  I've sat with families whose babies never even learned to crawl.  Children who left for school and never came home.  Teens who did the same goofy stuff we all did, only they succumb.  Spouses who thought they would have their partner for the next fifty years.  Old people who were healthy, but slipped and hit their heads.  The stories are always sad, the endings unexpected.  Here one minute, gone the next.

One doesn't get hardened to grief.  Rather, one comes to accept the fragility of life and the randomness of death.  It could be you or me.  Or, possibly worse, someone we love.  We see how vulnerable humans really are.  Nothing protects us.  When it's our turn, there is no choice.

It's not cold or hard-hearted to recognize this truth.  In fact, quite the opposite.  It's liberating--we're now free to live with enthusiasm and gratitude.  "There is nothing but today," said Goethe.  If we're not happy, not getting what we need, not feeding our soul--well, let's do something about it.  There are no guarantees as to how many tomorrows we're granted, steadfast readers.  None.

Continuing the conversation at the start of this Blix:
Him:  I'd love to have a dog.  I'd name him Duke.
Me:  Why not?  Sounds like fun!
Him:  Because he would die, and I couldn't bear that.
Me:  Yes, but Duke would be old.  And he'd be loved.  He would make you happy.

The Thing About Death?  It makes Life more precious.  Birth means death, no matter if it's an idea or a relationship or a person.  Life is NOW.

Go get the dog.

 

  

Waiting to Be a Widow: Before the End Begins

Many of you commented on my previous Blix about being a widow.  Based on your reponses, I thought I'd offer an excerpt from my book, "Waiting to Be a Widow."  Since 80% of women will outlive their husbands or spouses, it makes sense to consider what to do when we find out we will be in that group.  Today's excerpt describes the moment when everything changes.  Forever.

 

BEFORE

 

It had been a busy autumn.  September was the month of our wedding anniversary, and we went to New York City for a long weekend.  That was because we were saving our vacation time and funds for a trip to Barcelona in October. On our way back to Seattle, we would stop in London, Tony’s favorite city, for a few days.

 

It was exhilarating, to be at this stage of life! 

 

During our trips, Tony seemed to tire easily, but he never stopped.  We both had busy careers, and agreed that the fatigue just showed how much we had needed some time off.  After we returned from Europe, he began to have some lower back pain.  But we had done so much walking, as well as hauling luggage full of pottery.  It had to be a result of nearly two weeks of non-stop touring.  Next time, he announced, he would make sure his shoes had proper support.  And the weight loss?  Who wouldn’t be able to drop a few pounds, with so much activity?  We felt fortunate that we could eat whatever we wanted during the trip, with the automatic ability to burn so many calories during our days of exploring.

 

As we moved into the holidays, the back pain persisted.  And now, there was some rib pain, too.  There were plenty of explanations:  some house renovations had caused extra stress on the arms and shoulders; perhaps the lower back discomfort had caused some type of imbalance in his posture.  Tony was a tall man; he had read somewhere that tall people had a greater likelihood of lower back syndrome.

 

In December, my daughter and two grandchildren came from Chicago.  Tony was especially happy to be “Papa,” and looked forward to spending time with his favorite, grandson Payton.  We would go see the pretty Christmas Ships, and take them to see Santa Claus.  There was one problem:  Tony’s back kept him from lifting and carrying two-year old Payton.  Also, he was having a difficult time keeping up with everyone.  When we did make our trip to see Santa, Payton was terrified, and would not sit on Santa’s lap by himself.  Tony gladly accompanied him to Santa, and stayed for the photo.  It is charming to look at now:  Payton in full tears, Tony smiling broadly at the camera.  He looks thin, but happy.  Still, after our guests left, we knew it was time to seek medical care.

 

Finally, it was New Year’s Eve.  We went to one of our favorite annual parties, Charades Night, at the home of our friends, Bill and Chris. Charades Night is a three-round battle between the Men and the Women, with a champagne break at midnight.  Lucky us, we said on the ride over.  Bill is a physician; we would ask him for a referral.  More and more, it looked like Tony needed to see someone about possible back surgery.  Bill gladly provided the name of his favorite neurosurgeon, and offered to expedite the appointment.  By then, Tony was experiencing considerable pain.  Nevertheless, he was able to perform his usual high level of Charades expertise, and for the first time in several years, the Men won.  Tony was exuberant.  Soon all would be well.

 

A week later, we were in the neurosurgeon’s office.  After a review of Tony’s medical history, a five minute physical examination showed restricted leg movement, and a gait change.  Off we went for an MRI.  Results would be available in a few days.  Tony tried to figure out how he could rearrange his work schedule to accommodate back surgery, for what he was certain would be a herniated disc.  How could he spare two or three weeks off work, with so much to do after the holidays?  Unconcerned, I took a business trip.

 

When Tony called with the MRI results, I had just returned to my hotel room after a day of meetings.  We always talked each evening, so I answered my cell phone with some witty remark.  On the other end, he was sobbing.  “I have a mass on my spine.” Then he just kept repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry………I’m sorry.”

 

With that call, the journey began.  “Before” ended that day.  I look back on our few months before the diagnosis with bittersweet memories.  It was a glorious time, and we later agreed we were glad to be naïve in our rationalizations.  It was also a sad time, because by the following September, Tony would be dead.

 

(Copyright 2010.  All rights reserved,  Suzanne Ball)

 

 

 

 

Till Death Do Us Part: Reflections from a Widow

Every relationship ends.  This isn’t some metaphysical jibberish, but simple truth.  I read an article that said if we’re lucky, it ends in death.  I suppose that’s meant to be positive, in a sideways manner.

 

Not for the person left behind.

 

I write today from the perspective of a widow.  Widowers likely share many of the sentiments that follow, but I can’t speak from the male viewpoint. They will have to weigh in for themselves.

 

Tings—that’s what I call them, anyway.  Other widows no doubt have their own word.  Tings are not officially recognized in the Literature of Spouse Loss, but every woman who has found herself single-by-death knows exactly what I am talking about.  Tings are the little stabs, the reminders that we are no longer part of the world that we moved in so easily, back when we had a husband. 

 

They are the little losses that are beyond the staggering adjustment to widowhood.  Tings represent all the things that are gone—and the need to adjust our reality accordingly. 

 

Say you are at work, chatting with a co-worker before a meeting starts.  She says, “We just made our annual reservations for Mexico.” That’s a Ting—your annual vacations are gone.  Another colleague joins you, and talks about the great new restaurant he and his wife tried over the weekend. Ting—even if you tackle solo fine-dining experiences with the zest of a food critic, there is likelihood that your income has been adversely affected by your husband’s death. Result:  You couldn’t if you wanted to.  Double Ting.

 

It goes on, all day, in every situation.  Your friends and colleagues are not cruel people.  They are, in fact, very sensitive to your loss. They have gone out of their way to check on you and to offer support.   It’s just that they still get to have the life that has been snatched from you.  Being social folks, they like to talk about those lives, never dreaming that what was once a normal routine conversation now enlarges the giant hole in your heart. 

 

When the “we” and “us” sadly end, each encounter with another couple holds potential Tings. Shared holidays, wine club, golf foursomes, dinner parties. Ting, Ting, Ting, Ting.  Kind friends still include me, and the relationship is reconfigured.  At one dinner party I went to, I sat with the men learning how to deal with the mole invasion that was destroying my lawn.  Then I went to the women to help in the kitchen.  One foot in each camp.  It’s awkward to feel adrift. I mutter “Ting” under my breath, and then aloud all the way home.

 

Go to the grocery store, and realize that today is the day that couples have descended to shop together.  “Do we need more of this? Let’s have something different for dinner.”  Ting.  On the drive home, remember that you have to get the oil changed, you have to mow the lawn, you have to put out the garbage. Oh, and it’s a recycling week, so haul that bin out, too. Then you can do the things that were once your own half of the chores:  laundry, meals, cleaning, banking.  After that, you can tackle the tasks that would have shared.  Painting the guest bedroom, pruning the blackberries.  This list constitutes its own TING.

 

Statistics tell us that 75-80% of women will outlive their husbands, and 50% will be widows by age 65.  The average age of a widow is 56 years old. Just as I was.  I ask myself how I could have prepared for this life-changing event.  Is there any way to better handle this involuntary circumstance?   Certainly, grief is unavoidable and necessary.  I knew that. And I guess I acknowledge that Tings are the losses that are attached to the reluctant transition from couple to single, so they are necessary, too. 

 

Why am I telling you this?  Americans tend to avoid grief in general, and they really dodge things concerning death. In all honesty, it is hard to know how to respond to sorrow. Platitudes prevail. After a few months, people assume you are on your way to healing. Here is the secret:  widows learn not to bring up topics that might trigger unexpected waves of sadness.  That can bring us to our knees.  We mourn in private, so as not to upset you. We don’t tell you about the enormous and inescapable void of Permanent Aloneness. We absolutely know that if we tell you about Tings, you will be uncomfortable, and you won’t include us anymore.

 

And, more than anything, we still need to be included. In fact, we crave it. We value our relationships, maybe more than ever.  We wobble and fall back, just like a baby learning to walk.  But we won’t get steady and confident without friends and colleagues who invite us to spend some time practicing our new role.

 

We hope you will encourage us as we embrace a new identity.  We are on a path, not of our choosing.  As we feel our way forward, we need your support and good wishes.  Who knows, we can possibly help you, too, when it is your turn.

 

[Note:  This was written in 2005, a few months after my husband died.  My grief was fresh. I am pleased to tell you that grief softens, mourning ends.  I’ve been “back” for several years.  People wonder how to react when I say that I’m a widow, as if I’m perpetually sad.  I’m not. And now I’m happy to hear your plans, vacations, and restaurant experiences!]

 

[Note in 2014: Yes, the initial grief subsides. But now, as other couples look to retire, relocate, travel, and spend remaining years together, my grief has returned. In a different form, but it's a loss all over.]