I had a caller turn the tables on me after she told me she had just become a widow.
She wanted to share her story with another widow (me) and asked how I survived the experience she is now suffering with.
She talked about the event with profound loneliness.
After 35 years of marriage, she was suddenly alone, the only person in the kitchen, the living room, and the bedroom.
It was shocking and upsetting.
Having to make decisions and solve daily problems on her own made her feel even more alone, scared, and insecure.
She couldn’t get over the feeling of isolation and confusion about planning her day, much less her future.
She felt lost and hopeless.
The first thing I did was reassure her that these responses to her husband’s death were totally normal and expected.
It’s not unusual for a person confronting the loss of someone they virtually spent their whole adult life with to feel as though they have fallen into an abyss which has infinite dimensions.
Telling someone that this feeling is “temporary” really does no service early on in widowhood. One of the better ways of coping is to share these feelings with others who have been through the same situation.
There are groups for people to share their experiences; all at different stages.
“I know you are also a widow,” the caller said. “How did you cope, and how did you survive all the fears and the loneliness?”
I admit I was taken a bit by surprise, but I used the opportunity to reassess my own experience. I had basically gone through everything she described.
“When I came home an hour or so after his death,” I said, “I had two friends with me. I walked into my kitchen and said, ‘What am I supposed to do right now?'”
It was an odd moment. I meant it quite literally. I did not know what to do. My friends said, “Well, let’s start by sitting down and having some tea.”
And that is what I did.
I was robotic in following directives from my friends.
Truly, I was in such shock that I could not make simple decisions, even like sitting.
I don’t know how people really get through those moments without people close to you to guide and support each moment.
I don’t remember much more of that day, but I must have gone to bed at some point. Here is where I felt the most helpful to the caller.
I told her, “There is a huge difference between being alone and being lonely.
“One can be alone and not be lonely. When you recognize that there are people helping and caring for you — whether or not they are physically there at the moment — you can be technically alone, but not lonely.
“I see lonely as a more profound isolation from your world of friends and kind relatives. Knowing you can pick up a phone and call to hear their voice precludes loneliness.
“Having someone around, a voice, a presence, becomes a fact of your existence. However, you can even feel lonely in that circumstance if there isn’t a feeling of profound connection — a loving sense of care.
“Learning to be alone without designating yourself as lonely is a main task of grieving. Learning how to allow people close to you to give you input and love without you becoming inappropriately dependent on them is a blessing.”
The caller turned the tables on me, and we found ourselves in a kind of closeness that can’t be manufactured. It was touching for me and helpful for her.
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