I think back, often, to a guest at Bob's Celebration of Life service, who told me in the receiving line—much too giddily—that I should look at this time as an opportunity to reinvent myself! How exciting, she gushed, we all wish we could do what you get to do! Two and a half days after Bob died, after a 19-month journey through hell. I was too deep in shock to say what I should have said: Oh, really? You want your husband to die a horrific death so you can have a do-over? Instead, all I said was, "No, it'd be exciting if I'd had a choice in the matter . . ." Timing, people, timing . . . but as time passes, I am finally, grudgingly having to admit that that is, indeed, what I get to do. Reinvent. All the while reinventing, I am reminded why it is I get to do this in the first place. Because my beautiful husband died.
I find it an astounding phenomenon, that when one suffers an immense loss of someone so close, one can still get out of bed every day (but at the same time, I completely understand if one simply cannot), go through empty motions of living, when those on the outside say, "You look so good! You seem to be doing so well!" Fake it till you make it . . . When every second of every minute of every hour of every day is intricately laced with thoughts of Bob, I am astounded that I can still carry on conversations, pay bills, shop for groceries, drive a damn car and keep it on the road, go through the act of living, while feeling dead inside. To be able to do all this, when no one else knows that the all day, every day, Bob is in my thoughts. How can there be room in one's brain for all of this thinking, all these images, so many memories are tangled up with all the day-to-day stuff we have to process. Astounding. . .
Since moving, I have been reaching out more, to friends, to a grief therapist, to other widows (that label still does not fit me well, I cringe at the sight and sound of that word . . . I'm going to have to work on that one, perhaps try to embrace it, own it, maybe come up with a better word. Or, perhaps I could market widowhood, make it trendy, like pregnant women now are . . . I am now visualizing a whole line of clothing and accessories, emblazoned with the silhouette of a black widow spider, maybe encrusted in rhinestones, sequins, a chain of stores across the country, reality show to follow . . . yes, you can say it—I'm temporarily, maybe forever, insane), trying to piece together some sort of meaning for this journey. . .
Gotta admit, it's been much easier, being in the city, closer to "civilization," to make myself get out and about, make myself more accessible to family and friends, baby steps back into the land of the living. But being "out of it" for so long, it can get overwhelming at times. And damn scary. The neighborhood where I now live has had a rash of burglaries and break-ins all fall. Both next door neighbors and a neighbor behind me have been burglarized. It's enough to make me want to pack up and head back to the safe, sad loneliness of my "old" home. I now have a security system and told my landlord I was getting another dog; amazingly, he agreed to it, but I have yet to do it. . . on the plus side, the string of events have spurred my neighbors to band together and form a block club—we exchanged phone #'s and e-mail addresses and even have a facebook page, where police reports and other helpful info are posted. From an unfortunate string of events, we're rebuilding a stronger sense of community. . .
I met two amazing women with eerily similar stories to Bob's and mine, at an event sponsored by Fairview Hospice several weeks ago. Of all the people to connect with at the event, I was inexplicably drawn to these two 40-something women, who had also lost their beloved husbands to gruesome battles with cancer. We now try to regularly meet for dinner and drinks, to cry, laugh, curse, vent, share our stories in the dim corner of a restaurant in a northern suburb, our own little support group. . . I have connected with another group for widowed, called The Grief Project (in a crazy, round-about-way, I met the founder of this organization who is an acquaintance of an acquaintance of my sister, Jill), and have again, found a hidden tribe of people who speak my crazy language, who know the customs of this fucked up world to which, against my will, I now belong. It's both sobering and comforting, to know there are so many people walking around wearing heavy, nearly debilitating cloaks of sadness, but also to know that these are the ones who truly understand. . . and that there are those among the mourning who have been on this path longer, who offer hope, peace and even love and happiness to those of us new to this world of grief . . .
I find it equally astounding that, even beneath this crushing shroud of grief, wondrous and beautiful things continue to happen, to me, around me, to others, around others. . . I don't believe in miracles the way most people believe in miracles. I believe it's a miracle that when we suffer immense loss, we are able to inexplicably pick ourselves up and continue living, hard as it may be. The resilience of the human spirit and its ability to heal is a miracle. I find it miraculous that no matter what happens in the world, the leaves still change colors, the sun still rises, the day slides into night, that babies are born and love is found, that friends and family are still by my side, still willingly hold me up and love me as I stumble along through this strange land, most of the time, not knowing what I'm doing, but doing it anyway, in spite, despite, who knows why . . . I find it wondrous, if not a miracle, that so many people have told me that they now immediately think of Bob when they see or hear an owl. . .
I was recently accepted into Hamline University's Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program, to start in February. I am still in shock, still half-expecting someone from the department to call me and tell me they've made a huge mistake in accepting me, that they meant to accept Jenna Hildebrandt, not Jennifer. . . I haven't been a real college student in over 20 years and I'm scared to death, but also deeply honored and excited about the whole deal. Bob would be so proud of me; he had encouraged me, for so long, to go back and pursue my advanced degree in writing. At the time, I wanted to, but couldn't fathom it. I had my business, the timing wasn't right, I was too scared, endless other excuses . . . And now, at the heart of the deal is the glaring reminder of why I finally applied for the program this summer. Because Bob died. Because life as I knew it is no longer. Because I get to reinvent myself.
