My Widow Advice #21 Charles in Charge

Not Charles - Didn't Have a Photo of a Great Dane

Dear Carol,

I read with interest your answer to Ann, the one whose kids gave her a puppy for Christmas. I had the same situation last year. I was missing my husband.

My son gave me a Great Dane puppy. Charles has grown into a huge boy of 187 pounds. He is as gentle as he is big. He is kind and loving. And, like you and your Tony we sleep together.

I used to be on match.com. Not anymore. Charles is a lap dog in the true sense.

Satisfied Widow,

Angela

Dear Satisfied Widow Angela,

I have always been suspicious of women with really big male dogs. UGH! Am I judging?

YOU BET I AM!

The sub-title of this blog and my book is "Finding the New Normal." It seems you have found the new ABnormal.

I guess from now on I'd better clarify when I say I'm a dog lover.


PWM,
Carol

My Widow Man - Tony

My Widow Advice #20 Puppy Love

Dear Carol,

My grown kids surprised me with a puppy last night on Christmas Eve. He’s a cute little thing, (a beagle mix) but I was up all night with him and here it is Christmas Day and I’m exhausted.

They told me they didn’t want me to wake up alone this morning, my first holiday without my husband. I am not happy about this because I have told them repeatedly not to get me a dog.

They used to complain that their father didn’t want a dog in the house, but the truth is I was content to blame him when the kids were young and begged us for one. I’d theatrically throw up my hands in a ‘You know your Dad’ phony gesture.

My husband has been gone for 8 months and of course I am lonely, but I am planning some trips this winter and now I will be busy paper training and worrying about what to do with Buster (I named him Buster because of the shoe store Buster Brown and he is mostly brown) when I am away.

The kids knew I wasn’t happy, but they just laughed and said soon I would fall in love with him and thank them.

What should I do?

Suddenly a Dog Owner,
Ann

Dear Suddenly a Dog Owner, Ann,

First of all, congratulations on getting away with putting the blame on your husband all those years. It seemed to have worked, although maybe the kids were on to you and Buster is payback time.

Or, could it be that your husband had a deathbed request, “Promise me, kids, you’ll get your mother a puppy next Christmas.” Wouldn’t that be a kick in the head? (not literally) What a clever way for your husband to get even with you for letting him take the rap!

I am familiar with this particular pathology because my husband and I used to let other parents be the bad guys. We’d say yes to everything (trip with friends to Puerto Rico when our daughter was fifteen, sky diving and I believe I remember a no curfew policy at thirteen.)

Ann, you’re talking to the wrong person here. I love dogs. I didn’t have one when the kids were young because my husband was allergic. In those days there weren’t that many non-allergic breeds.

After my husband was gone a little over a year my gardener GAVE me Tony, a year old Morky (Yorkie & Maltese combo) I resisted, too at first because I wanted to come and go as I pleased. A dog would tie me down.

My friend Sheri nudged me to take him. She said she’d either be a hero or I’d hate her.

I didn’t fall in love immediately. It took 12 hours. Tony slept with me and that was it. (Am I a slut?) Now, I can’t imagine how I came home to an empty house that first year. Without a doubt, he is the best thing I have done.

My kids love him and my little granddaughter adores him and I have tons of friends who are happy to watch him when I go away. Sheri is a hero.

Give Buster a chance. He will bring life back into your house when you’re alone and your family will re-focus their love and begin to make new memories and traditions with Buster. He was a perfect holiday surprise. Let your kids be heros.

PWM,
Carol

My Widow Advice #19 Poor Widow Her

Dear Carol,

My mother-in-law is mad at me – AGAIN. Her husband has been dead for 9 years. Last week was the day. I didn’t call her. I thought of it early in the day and then I got busy. So, shoot me!

My husband, (obviously, her son) stopped by her house (she lives 3 blocks
away) that morning to have coffee with her. She told him that doesn’t count
because they meet up every Tuesday.

Also, he doesn’t represent me, she said. How long are we supposed to acknowledge a death day?

Frustrated in Pennsylvania,
Joyce

Dear Frustrated in Pennsylvania Joyce,

Are you kidding me? You haven’t figured out yet that you’re expected to
acknowledge your father-in-law’s death day until your mother-in-law dies? You
don’t mention how old she is, but if she lives another 20 years you’ll be
acknowledging his death day 29.

Sounds ridiculous? Well, that’s because it is. Still, from what you tell me she
can never be satisfied. It’s obvious that this is not your only issue with her.

Come on, though. It’s one day. It’s not like she’s expecting you to remember
the day he was diagnosed, then the first round of chemo or when they brought
the wheelchair home – you get my drift?

Personally, I was acutely aware that my widow perks would taper off at the end
of the first year. Sure enough, as the anniversary issue hit the stands, I was
expected to help out in the kitchen again and clear my own plate.
No more, “Oh, you sit. We’ll take care of it.”

This snap out of it attitude by friends and family helped me to heal, though.
I noticed that the amount of concern and outreach from friends were fairly in
line with my “recovery” (for lack of a better word I’ve made myself sound like a drug
addict.)

When people surround us with long soulful hugs and teary eyes it’s nearly
impossible to resist snuggling up to them and purring like a kitten. Our
emotional growth is stilted when we’re surrounded by so much sympathy.

Some widows regress to sucking their thumbs while others continuously sigh.
We, the recent husbandless, are forever apologizing for waking up with our head
resting in our co-worker’s lap.

As much as I like a good foot massage and a pass from buttering my own toast
it’s a relief to me to finally hear, “Get your ass off the couch and help out!”

Your mother-in-law is not of that ilk. She doesn’t want to lose her “widow
status.” It doesn’t matter why. It’s sad. She needs the attention. Give it to her.

PWM,
Carol

My Widow Advice # 18 Praise Ourselves For Living Well

Dear Carol,

I’m here to tell you and your readers that today is my four year anniversary and I am indeed enjoying my life now. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my husband, but these days I look fifteen years younger than the day he died.

Taking care of him for 16 months took a toll on me. I miss the man I who was my husband before he got sick. During his illness his whole personality changed and except for small moments I felt as though I was taking care of a stranger. Our dynamic was gone.

This is something I never could have said out loud or even to myself for the first two years.

Tell your readers that on the anniversary of their spouse's death instead of being melancholy they should praise themselves for living well.

A Proud Widow,
Shelly

Dear A Proud Widow, Shelly,

Thank you. I couldn't have said it better myself. Although, not for nothing, I would have been funnier.

PWM,
Carol

My Widow Advice #17 A Widow Confused

Hi Folks...this is out of season, like mittens because it's from the Dealing with Holidays & Anniversaries chapter of my book.
Dear Carol,

My kids are upset. There is a daughter, 30 and a daughter, 32. The older one is divorced with a four year old boy. They were brought up with a Christmas tree and all the dinner trimmings because my husband, Jim was Italian (I’m Jewish, but not practicing)

Their father passed away suddenly a year ago and now, I am dating a Jewish fellow. I like Steve, but he is not my whole world, not yet anyways.

Back to why my kids are mad at me. I told them that Steve will come to Christmas dinner at my house, but not if I have a Christmas tree. They really want the tree up. I didn't put the tree up last Christmas because it was so close (November 20th) to when Steve died. I didn’t have the heart to see all the old decorations and all.

This year I am ready. I want to continue the traditions. I think it’s good for our family. Now I have this development, though. Steve won’t come. Should I tell my kids I still can’t face trimming the tree memories? This way Steve will come. Unfortunately, I already spilled the beans about Steve not wanting a tree in my house.

Thank you for your advice. I will follow what you say because you always tell it like it is.

Merry Christmas,

Judy, A Confused Widow

Dear Judy, A Confused Widow,

What the %$*&# is wrong with you? Kick Steve to the curb immediately. And, while you’re at it you may want to sit curbside with him until you figure out what should be your priority this holiday season.

You say you want to continue the traditions, yet you are inviting a Christmas tree hating man to sit at your table. Why don’t you make sure Steve sits in Jim’s chair to make sure that everyone is completely crazed?

I don’t care how open minded your daughters are and whether or not they encourage you to date. I’m not judging that. What I am judging is that you are putting your needs ahead of your daughter’s and your grandson.

Put up your tree. Tell Steve that the kids are accustomed to this and it’s way to early in the game to throw them a curve ball. You are actually lucky that good ‘ol Steve objected to the tree because it showed how insensitive he is to your fragile family. Most importantly, a point you seem to miss, is that a new man should not be at your house celebrating the holidays this year tree or no tree.

Steve sounds like a control freak. Lots of Jews don't want a tree in their own house, but are thrilled to visit and help decorate trees in friend's homes. This brings to mind my little theory about Jews and crosses. Jewish people are not fans of the cross. Crosses make Jews uncomfortable. My old friend Jeanne used to wear a huge one around her neck and she wasn't a rock star. Anyway, my Aunt Hannah would refer to her as "the one with the cross."

This brings me to St. Francis Hospital, a renowned heart hospital. According to me, and only me the reason St. Francis has such an amazing rate of recovery for patients is because when Ira Shapiro is wheeled into his room and sees a cross over his bed he leaps up and declares, "I'm cured!" Anything to avoid sleeping in a bed with a cross hovering over you.

Judy, you are the matriarch now. Stop acting like a selfish 15 year old with a crush and show your children some grace. Get your little grandson to sit in your husband’s chair. Tell him even though he weighs 35 pounds he’s the only man who can fill Grandpa’s seat. (I know - the expression is shoes.)

PWM,
Carol

My Widow Advice #16 The Biggest Role

Dear Carol, (PWM)

I am besides myself. You always seem to put things in perspective and since you've been there I am willing to listen to what you have to say. You say it funny, too and that raises my spirits.

So, here's my story. I lost my husband, Phil 3 years ago - it will be 3 years this month (May 25Th) and our 35Th wedding anniversary was last month (April 22ND)

I forgot it! I forgot our anniversary! The day passed and it was two days before I realized. I feel just awful. I never would have believed I could forget such a milestone date. Maybe, I could understand it if it was 10 years , but not after only 3 years.

I can't forgive myself. I feel like I'm leaving Phil behind.

Terrible Widow Penny

Dear Terrible Widow Penny,

STOP IT! The only widows who are terrible are those who killed their husbands. Did you kill Phil? (Hey, that rhymes)

Let's look at your letter together, Penny. Your three year anniversary of Phil's death is just weeks after your wedding anniversary. Is it possible that you were so anxious about that date that your mind skipped over your anniversary, a day that frankly you no longer celebrate?

A milestone? You didn't miss it by a nose, Penny. It's three years later. Not for nothing, it's like a finish line you didn't cross.

My gang of old friends were talking recently. I was married in 1972 and the others were married in 1974. My last anniversary was in 2005 - we clocked out at 33 years. If I was still counting we'd be celebrating our 37th anniversary this August.

My friends are now married 35 years - They actually said, "You're married the longest." What? I told them I think we stop counting when death do us part. Same as with our husband's birthday. We pause and remember he would have been... but we don't order a cake.

I know. I know. You are beating yourself up because you didn't pause and remember. So what?
I take this as a sign that you're living your life. The death date interrupts our life far more than a wedding anniversary because we tend to compartmentalize "before" and "after." And, people constantly ask us, "How long has it been?"

A widow's response? (including you) We rattle off the exact number of months, weeks and days like Dustin Hoffman did with the toothpick count when he played an idiot savant in Rain Man.

Let's reverse this. When we do remember something does that mean it's more important than something we've forgotten? I'm a bit of an idiot savant so my head is crammed with dates that I know longer need. I can tell you that my 5th grade teacher Mrs. Fowler's birthday is February 9th. She mentioned it once...more than 45 years ago. Do I love this woman?

Listen, you are leaving Phil behind. As unfathomable as this feels, it's a fact. You can't take him along with you. Your journey isn't complete but your time with him is.

And you say "only" 3 years. Try making a list of all the global changes, example, new president, economic climate that occurred since your husband is gone. Then, your personal choices and changes...did you move to a new place or buy a new TV, couch, car? Have you taken a trip these last few years? Are you dating? The grandchild that was saying "Mama" and "DaDa" now can show you how to work the remote.

All you did was forget a date on the calendar, not your life together. Little by little we leave them behind, Penny. We have to. But, until we're senile and our kids come to visit and we ask, "Who are these people who keep calling me Mom?" he'll remain a part of us.

Memories do fade. Still, in the story of our life, he will be the one who played the biggest role.

PWM,
Carol

My Widow Advice #15 Why Do I Blog?

Dear Carol,

I've been following your blog and although I see you seem to help some people I don't understand how you bloggers put so much personal information out there for all the world to see.

I am a private person and I like it that way. I don't need to air my dirty laundry in public.
Why do you?

I am sorry for your loss, but we all lose people and don't have the need to display our feelings
on a billboard.

Fed up with Bloggers,
Vicky

Dear Fed Up With Bloggers Vicky,

Why do I blog? Why do you read it? My entries are "dirty laundry?" You oughta see the filthy laundry I don't include here.

If you notice I rarely write about my kids. I never breach their confidence. I did enough of that while they were growing up. Read their diary? Sure. How else was I supposed to know where they were hiding their pot?

If you think bloggers in general tell too much you're in the minority. Human beings need to connect to other human beings. This is why Facebook and Twitter is so popular.

In my case, I am a writer and when Jimmy died it was natural for me to write about my feelings. I put it out there on a blog because I knew I was able to express what other widows were feeling and weren't able put words to.

My friend Cathy Seitz lost her husband Howie about eight years before Jimmy. She was adamant that I write it all down. She was sorry that she hadn't.

One of the reasons she was sorry was because she felt she could have helped me more by going back, reading and remembering and letting me know that she related...specifically. How brave is that...to allow yourself to relive your pain for someone else?

I encourage other widows to keep a journal - private or public - which is basically what personal blogs are...an on line diary. (Boy parents have it easy today. No more rummaging through their kids drawers careful not to leave fingerprints)

It's invaluable for widows to be able to gage how different we feel from year to year, as we get closer to what grief counselors call "our new normal." What's that? Our normal life died with our husband and we are constantly trying to get comfortable with our "new normal" life.

My readers have watched me struggle to find my new normal and now three years later, for the most part, I believe I have. Vicky, this has to offer hope and be healing for others.

Funny, just last night I caught an episode of William Shatner's Raw Nerve and his guest was
Fran Drescher (who I met last year at the Friars Club and couldn't have been nicer and more genuine)

Anyway, she mentioned her book "Cancer Schmancer" about her having stage 1 uterine cancer undergoing a radical hysterectomy and her experiences with misdiagnosis. William Shattner asked her why she would put her personal stuff out there. (although, Vicky, he asked her a lot more kindly than you asked me)

Her answer blew me away. She said, "I needed to make sense of the senseless. As human beings we have an obligation to turn pain into purpose."

This is why I blog, Vicky.

That and when people ask me how I'm doing - I can take the lazy way out and just say, "Read my blog."

PWM,
Carol

My Widow Advice #14 Grief Trumping

Dear Carol,

My neighbor, Georgia lost her husband almost a year to the day that my Frank died. It's been a year for her and two years for me. She acts like I don't understand.

We walk our dogs together twice a day and the dogs get along better than we do. You'd think we'd have some common ground here, but she has to be more upset, more lonely, was more in love - I can't stand it.

Please tell me what I can do or say to her to let her know that yes, my grief has subsided more, but I am still not okay or adjusted to this new life.

Poor & Poorer Widow Me,
Carolyne

Dear Poor & Poorer Widow Me,
Carolyne,

Some people are just hell-bent on outdoing others in every phase of life. When they suffer a loss they "grief trump."

Unlike the other stages of grief: shock and denial, confusion, emotional release, anger, guilt, depression, isolation and recovery - grief trumping is a stage that may never end. "Ahhhhhhhhh" - you say?

The other stages pass because life steps in and pulls us up and out. Healthy people choose pleasure over pain. Grief trumping is only a pain to others. Georgia is enjoying being #1 at something. Where's her initiative to give it up?

I'm sure that when someone says "I'm cold" she is suddenly "freezing." To "I'm hungry" she replies "I'm starving."

A great philosopher never said but should have:

HOW PNEUMONIA WAS DISCOVERED

One cave man chipped away at his cave "I have a cold." The other banged out "I have a bad cold." A very was added and a few very's later: Bam. Pneumonia.

MY THEORY ON QUADRUPLE BYPASS SURGERY


Fred had to have bypass surgery. Not to be out done, his friend Ed had double bypass. Lou had triple and Stu decided to invent quadruple. This is basically
the same idea as pneumonia but with rhyming names.

I remember mentioning my theories to Jimmy and he said, "Could you get me a glass of ice water?" We often had these deep discussions.

And, so Carolyne, it seems that Georgia is just one of those people who has to have it the worst. My advice to you is to ask her for her help. For instance, during one of your walks say,

"You know, Georgia, you've been through so much. This last week I haven't been able to sleep much. (make sure you don't say how many hours or she'll start a number game on you) I know you must have problems sleeping. How do you help yourself?"

This will make her start feeling superior about the solutions and not the problems. And, you may get good advice, too...just like you do from poor widow me.

PWM,
Carol

My Widow Advice #13 I'm The Devil

Carol -

You're the DEVIL!

You granted Craig forgiveness for hating taking care of his wife? Have you ever heard of "In sickness and in health?" It's okay in your nasty world to smack your husband with his sick bell?

My husband Teddy was ill for 19 months and 6 days and I never complained. I wish he were here in any shape or form - alive.

I never wanted to be in a bereavement group because those groups are just like you - evil, selfish widows encouraging each other to just trot off into the sunset leaving their poor (yes...the sick one is poor, not the widows) husbands to suffer.

Think before you speak.

Proud Widow
Madeline

Proud Widow Madeline,

Some human beings are emotionally healthy and others like you, are obviously deranged and have no clue what it means to be honest, self aware and human.

Here's a little story that I know you won't find funny.

A man is in an horrific accident and the doctor calls his wife in to discuss his condition. The doctor says,

"Your husband will be incapable of doing anything for himself for the rest of his life. You will have to wash him and feed him and change him. His heart is strong and it's likely he'll live many many years."

The wife sits in shock.

The doctor says, "Just kidding. He's dead."

PWM,
Carol

Please visit: Youthefilm.com

My Widow Advice #12 Poor Widower Him

Hi Everyone,

Before I enter today's letter let me tell you about a film that's opening at the end of this month. After watching the promo on their website I was taken. http://www.youthefilm.com/

The name of the movie is "You" - about how a young father copes with the loss of his wife, raises their daughter...just take a look...it's presented beautifully.

Today's letter is in this spirit, although not quite as sweet -

Dear Carol,

I'm a widower. It's been two years now and according to statistics I should have remarried by now. Hard to do. I took care of my wife for four long difficult years.

I have a small confession to make and since this is anonymous I feel I can tell it here. I loved my wife, but I hated her sometimes. I hated cleaning her and a couple of times I told her that. She cried and I felt bad, but I still walked away until it blew over.

I felt that she was sucking the life out of me. After work sometimes a bunch of guys and gals would go out and I did sometimes and I felt guilty. I could never enjoy myself. I resented her for it. I wanted a wife, not a patient.

This is what I couldn't say in the bereavement group I was in. I was worried about what the women would think of me. They all made me feel like I did a great job so I acted like I was Marilyn's knight in shining armor.

I was by her side when she died, but I still feel I let her down. It feels good to confess this to someone finally. There is one other man in the group and he acted real loving like me so I'm not sure if it was an act or what.

We were married 11 years total. We had no kids. I'd like to have a family one day. I'm only 41 years old. Thanks for letting me blow off this steam.

Very truly yours,
Poor Widower Me, Craig


Dear Poor Widower Me, Craig,

Honest and real - real and honest. Thank you. Not to put down your group leader, but she should have done or said something to you and the other man in the group to make the enviroment safe enough for you guys to be more open.

A one-on-one bereavement therapist may be a good fit for you now. Two years later, you have some distance and perspective and no one to listen in and judge. Just don't go to my old shrink, Mean Jean. She'll make you cry like you made your wife cry...oops, sorry, Craig.

Anyway, if writing to me made you feel good it made me feel even better. I was in a group with three men who had wives who were sick for years, like Marilyn. They told their story with what I thought was genuine love and compassion and selflessness - the endless doctor appointments,
hospitalizations- well, I don't have to tell you.

What got me was that none of the men tacked on "Poor me." Just having to listen to it I was feeling "Poor me." With pride they'd announce "I was her sole caretaker."

I remember thinking that these men must be from another planet. My husband was a wonderful, generous and loving man, but a nuturer he wasn't. Lucky for the both of us that in
33 years I rarely got sick. The handful of times I did he's say,

"Come on. You can't still be sick." And, that was after a day and a half.

I remember I left that group ready to run home and start a fight with him.

If Jimmy had to take care of me for four years like you took care of Marilyn within the first month he'd be smacking me over the head with the sick bell.

Several years ago I had liposuction and was forced to wear a long tight girdle. He'd complain,
"How are we going to have sex with that thing on?"

In the group, I wondered about the sex. Too weak to walk? Well...then...how? Maybe, my husband was a maniac. Is twice a day excessive? (yes, I'm kidding).

I won't ask you. (even though, if you excuse the expression, I'm dying to) It's none of my business. I just hope you're making up for lost time.

Craig, give yourself a break. It had to be hell for you. Jimmy was sick for barely a month. Four years? I probably would have been smacking him in the head with the sick bell, too.

Find yourself a healthy woman with good genes and who looks both ways when she crosses the street. Then go and have yourself the family and the life you deserve.

PWM,
Carol

My Widow Advice #11 Did They Expect Their Husbands Would Live FOREVER?

Dear Carol,

My husband was 59 when he died four months ago. He would have been 60 this month. All my friends are celebrating their husband's 60th and I feel so cheated and cheated for him.

Worse than that, so many have parents who are alive at 85 and 90 and are just losing their spouse now after a million years together. I just don't have the patience to listen to all this
grieving over people who have already outlived their life expectancy.

DID THEY EXPECT THEIR HUSBANDS WOULD LIVE FOREVER?
At least they had a good long run.

Steve and I were married 35 years but I expected at least to make it to our 50th. We both only would have been 74.

Please help me to get rid of these awful bitter feelings. I am normally not an envious person and I don't want to become one. I want to give a good example to my children. (two grown sons)

I like to play cards, but I'm not much for groups.

Poor Widow Me,
Barbara

Dear Poor Widow Me, Barbara,

It sucks. I know. It's natural at four months for you to feel envious. Life is continuing on normally for everybody else in your circle. They're still here.

It's like the stork that brought Steve to earth as a baby has picked him up and flown away with him. (I don't believe in the stork. That was just an example.)

I felt that way about Jimmy for a long time. Every so often, even now, after three years, when there is a big gathering and he is the obvious gap, I still fill up with resentment. I feel it for me, and for him, and for my kids. (okay, mostly for me.) As time goes on in some ways it feels even more unfair because we've all lived that much longer.

The only way I know to ease that bitterness is to be grateful. We must be grateful for the happy years we had and remind ourselves that happiness can't be measured by time. Still, I had 33 years and you had 35. Those are nice long runs, Barbara.

I hear you - you're not into groups and I'm not either, but my old folks bereavement group taught me a thing or two. Here are just two widow stories from the group.

I listened to Gloria tell the group that her husband was 90 when he died. She seemed shocked.
I admit I repressed a laugh. Was it a nervous laugh or a mean laugh? Probably a little bit of both. They were married for 60 years, longer than our husband's lived. Right, Barbara?

I sat there and observed. Once I decided to be mature, to be respectful, her face revealed honest bewiderment beyond her grief. In a flash, it was clear to me that she honestly did expect him to live forever.

Maybe 'forever' begins to feel possible when your loved one has lived a long life, riding the bumps and beating the odds along the way. It's nearly impossible to accept that someone who has been in our lives for all of our lives isn't anymore. I learned that this day. People often feel this way when they lose their elderly parents.

Oh, and their daughter. Gloria and her husband lost a grown daughter...more than just a bump.

Group member Beverly touched me the most because she was pretty. I know that sounds shallow, but attractive people often escape life's dark clouds so when they get slammed it's a bigger shock to their system. Just my own philosophy.

She was in her late seventies, petite and fit like a golfer. Her day time wear would include a visor and a strap on (water bottle). I could easily picture her and her husband Harold (married 56 years) jumping up to be the first ones to dance at a wedding.

Everyone would comment how cute they were until they hogged the dance floor with their over practiced renditons of the Cha-Cha and the Lindy. Then, the crowd turns on them.

Anyway, like Gloria, she also expected they'd be dancing forever. A month after they sold their home and moved into a 55 and older community Harold died suddenly from a heart attack. Beverly shook her head, still unbelieving it as she told the group.

"Now, I'm all alone in an unfamiliar place and it's all couples."

Beverly's plan for the future was shattered and there was no running back to her familiar surroundings. Even my hard heart broke for her although it did occur to me,

"At least she still has her looks."

It's never easy to loose your spouse, Barbara. These women genuinely loved their wrinkled old men, the husband they had shared more than half a century with and they probably grew to depend on one another even more in the later years.

And, unlike younger widows like us, there's no dating on their horizon. However, I remember one day not too long ago as I stood on line in the supermarket a couple well into their seventies were laughing and just being silly together. I don't know why, but I asked them how long they'd been married.

She gently touched his face and said, "Three years, dear."

"Good for them" ought to be our mantra. (Don't chant it or anything...I mean the attitude) Let's choose to be gracious and open hearted. Life leads us through storms and then spins us around to face a breathtaking sunset.

You'll get there. It takes time to appreciate our lives and hopefully we have a few years on the old folks to get it right.

PWM,
Carol

My Widow Advice #10 Are Widows Contagious?

Dear Carol,

I am a group leader for a bereavement group and a follower of your blog. At first, I was skeptical and concerned about you giving advice to very vulnerable women and men. But you have proven yourself to be healing to widows and widowers.

They say laughter is the best medicine and I'm not a funny person. FYI - I am going to incorporate some of your writings into my format, either by me reading one aloud or passing a ditto (do they use that term anymore?) for a take home page.

I've been running groups for eleven years and have been a widow myself for seven and I know it shouldn't matter professionally, but I feel that I've become a far better leader/facilitator since I lost my husband.

For widows seeking a bereavement group please tell your readers to ask a potential group leader if she is a widow. The empathy will abound.

Thank you for doing such good work.

Sincerely,
Ruth, Group Leader

Dear Ruth, Group Leader,

WOW (which is MOM upside down) I am very impressed with myself that you, a professional has given me the thumbs up. I normally don't mesh well with authority figures. I come from a long line of people with attitude problems and I'm a direct decedent of ancestors not living up
to their potential.

I certainly appreciate you taking the time to write to me. Thanks! Interesting that you feel you're a better facilitator since you've lost your husband. As you suggest, of course there is the empathy factor.

But you say to look for a bereavement leader who is a widow? I have yet to find one who is not a widow. I have a little theory about that.

MY THEORY ABOUT THAT

My one-on-one shrink Mean Jean was widowed at 43. She used to say, "Just like the hair club commercial says, I'm not just the president but a member as well." Like you, Mean Jean wasn't funny, either. (no offense)

It occurred to me that at the time her husband died she was already running groups and in private practice. Harriet, my first group leader was a widow for four years. And, my second bereavement group leader became a widow five years ago smack in the middle of her practice.

Could there be something in the air that these shrinks breathe in and bring home to their unsuspecting husbands? I don't mean to make you feel guilty or anything, Ruth, but just being
a scientist here.

Most people become active with causes after they are personally affected. Right? Think about
John Walsh, the cute guy in the black leather jacket who kind of looks like Steve Wynn...anyway he started "America's Most Wanted" after his son Adam was abducted.

It's a natural cause and effect. Could Harriet, Mean Jean and Annie and you have affected the cause?

I wonder if I'm on to something. You must admit 4 out of 4 is pretty suspicious. I'm tempted to do a more extensive survey to uncover how many bereavement shrinks who lost their husbands were in close proximity to widows. Wait...Wouldn't that be 100%? I guess my research should include which ones did not lose their husbands. Yes. That's more like it.

Perhaps, Ruth, you'd like to join forces with me in this research project? Much is at stake. If this gets out we widows may be forced to wear a gigantic W when in public places.

PWM
Carol

My Widow Advice #9 Chocolate Cake & Liver

Dear Carol,

I've read that you were in two bereavement groups. I think part of the reason you had an adverse reaction to them was that you had a preconceived attitude.

You must go to these gatherings with an open mind. No body is perfect and while it's nice to make friends that's not the purpose of groups.

A Good Group Experience
Terry

Dear A Good Group Experience Terry,

Your 'know it all' letter makes no sense. My last group experience was a parenting group thirty years ago. Comparing that to the bereavement groups is like chocolate cake to liver and guess which one is liver? I have no idea what makes you think I expected these experiences to be similar.

My daughter, Jackie was 18 months old when I joined the Mother's Center, an organization designed to ease young mother's isolation and to emphasis that we are all "good enough mothers." Fortunately, Susan Smith and Andrea Yates weren't members or the Mother's Center would have had to close it's doors.

Anyway, back then, we sat in a circle (that hasn't changed) worn out from chasing young children around and fighting with our husbands about how we didn't feel like having sex with him because the kid finally stopped hanging on our breast and fell asleep. The last thing we
needed was to listen to a grown man whine and then breast feed him and his scratchy mustache.

I did not join to make friends, although I did. The group members I hated the most were the perky ones. They would introduce themselves:

"Hi all! My name is Susie and I'm married to Brad and we have two wonderful children, Jason and Jennifer. I used to work in the deli, but now I'm a stay at home Mom and I love it!

I no longer get a discount on cold cuts, but I still get to make sandwiches in my very own kitchen! In my spare time, if I have any, that is ("snort-snort") I enjoy making placemats."

As expected and as you know, Terry, the bereavement group had a somewhat less bouncy atmosphere, which normally I would prefer, but true, I wasn't prepared for introductions like:

"I'm Eva. It's been six months. My husband Charlie wasn't well for some time and the doctors put him through all kinds of tests and when pancreatic cancer was discovered we knew he would
have to have chemo. He lost so much weight and was really really weak, although he managed to come to our son's wedding but he wasn't strong enough to dance. His mother told me...wait, I'm sorry, am I talking too much?"

"YES, Eva, stop! I said to myself. The group leader told her, "Please go on. That's why we're here."

Is that why we're here? I remember thinking. To hear horrible stories? There are no happy endings here. Soon it will be my turn to tell my horrible story. How will I do that? I'm not even convinced it really happened.

So, Terry, yes. I was unprepared for all the pain. I couldn't deal with so much disclosure and had difficulty revealing myself. I'm not a good group member like you are, but at least I'm not a bitch.

PWM
Carol

My Widow Advice #8 What Do Widows Talk About?

Dear Carol,

I've had a very positive bereavement group experience. My group was comprised of wonderful, strong supportive women who I just knew after the first meeting would be my friends. (not all of them, of course - but four of us have formed a bond.

After the tenth and last session we decided to continue meeting once a week casually for dinner. That was such a huge success and since we are all in our sixties and retired we began doing more activities together.

We all live on Long Island so we go into the city for a matinee on Wednesdays and sometimes on the weekends and we often have each other at our homes for occasions.

My problem is that this has been going on for several months and two of my old friends who are not widowed are jealous. They complain I don't have time for them anymore and are constantly saying that there is nothing more important than old friends.

I've been widowed for just over a year now and while I love my old friends and appreciate that they've been here for me I feel like a fifth wheel around couples.

Shouldn't they understand and be happy for me after all I've been through?

Keeping Company With Other Widows,
Sue


Dear Keeping Company With Other Widows Sue,

Women are so petty. A while back I acccused my mother-in-law Fanny of being petty and luckily she's fairly deaf - so to avoid a confrontation I switched it quickly to "pretty." She didn't buy it, but that's another story.

It's refreshing to hear that you found other widows in your bereavement group who can be your friends outside of the group. While the group was going on your group dynamics must have been incredible since the personal caring was in place, too.

Personally, if I had had to depend on my fellow group members to socialize with I would have become a hermit. I would have had to become my own best friend...but to quote me as Dr. Friendship "If you're your own best friend you need to get out more."

And, now here you are with two jealous friends behaving like Junior High School. Women, no matter what their ages are only a gin and tonic away from being 14 year old girls.

My advice to you is to sit down with your old friends, smile and say, "I love you and I need you in my life, but look how my life has changed." Then, hand them a list titled "This Is What Widows Talk About."

Write back to me when you have a moment and send me the list so I can share it with my readers. Thanks, Sue.

PWM,
Carol P.S. Just wait until you start dating and you have to explain to the widows
what a man gives you that they can't.
Please send me that list too, a detailed list, spare nothing, thanks in advance.

My Widow Advice #7 Emily Post?

Dear Carol,

God forgive me - I must admit that you give me a lift and even a chuckle every now and then.

That said, your last response (#6 to Laura) was in very poor taste. She was annoyed and disgusted that all the women in her group were flirting with the one man. At first you showed much insight. You told her that perhaps it wasn't flirting that the women were doing. It was giving him attention because they yearn to pamper a man again.

This is so true in my case, but when I think of pampering I think of getting my Joe a cup of tea, not a ...a BJ. Do they even let you talk about such things on blogs?

This time you went too far.

Best Wishes,
Emily

Dear Emily,

Is your last name "Post" the etiquette expert? I chose to publish your e-mail rather than the ton of positive ones I received because I wanted to be fair and show that not everyone loved my response.

Let's be frank (Who's Frank?) Would your Joe prefer a hot cup of tea or a blow job? I know Jimmy loved Cherry Vanilla ice-cream, but if even if the spoon was to his lips and I gave him the "signal" the ice-cream would be soup abandoned in the dish.

You remind me a bit of Fanny, my mother-in-law. Her husband died over 25 years ago when she was 65 and after about 10 years she told me she had a dream, but not really a dream.

She said that her late husband "visited" her in the middle of the night to "you know what." She actually told me that she turned him away by saying, "Not tonight, Charlie."

The poor man came back for that "One more time" and she's too sleepy. Fanny hasn't see him since.

Hey, Emily, have you seen Joe, lately?

Carol
PWM

My Widow Advice #6 - Poor Widower Joseph

Dear Carol,

I am at my wits end. I joined a local bereavement group in my town of Bethesda, Maryland and there is one man and nine women including me.

I lost my husband Stan only four months ago and the last thing I want and need in my life is a man. I am still grieving for gosh sakes!

All of the women except for me and Cynthia are being so blatant and obvious flirting and carrying on with this poor widower, Joseph. I find it extremely pathetic and distasteful.

I told our group leader to do something and she just waved me off and laughed. Isn't this unprofessional of her? Should I say something again to her or talk with the women and tell them that they are making fools of themselves?

We are all in our early to mid-seventies.

Disgusted Widow,
Laura

Dear Disgusted Widow Laura,

The one thing you don't mention is how Joseph is responding to all this attention. That should be the only concern. I don't know your group leader, but most are responsible and sensitive and have seen it all.

My evil bereavement shrink Gene shared with me many a story about how quickly men "recover" and how needy they are for a woman. Statistic show that widowers remarry on average 2 years after the death of their wives while widows wait 5 years.

I'm sure she figures if this man is uncomfortable he wouldn't be coming back each week. After all, outside of this group Joseph would have to travel to Florida to find 9-1 odds. It's commonplace there for elderly women to elbow each other as they drop off a tasty casserole to the poor widower. All compete to win the prize - a man who drives at night.

If good old Joe is like most men I'll bet he fantasizes all week about having sex with every woman in the room. (you included) He probably has a little blue pill with him 'just in case' like our sons carry condoms.

Consider, too, that you may be mistaking flirting for nurturing. Many widows miss the daily sweet gestures we did for our husbands. Even me, a certified take-out queen enjoys cooking for my kids and friends and now an occasional man.

This brings to mind a conversation I had with my nephew Chuck about four months after his uncle died.

Chuck sat in my kitchen reminiscing about how my husband loved a good back rub from him. Jimmy would lean over and yell "Blood blood!" Of course, this meant "Help me get the kinks out."

Chuck said, "I could barely pass his chair without him asking me to give him a massage. I always did, but I didn't always want to."

I nodded.

"He was so demanding" Chuck continued. "But now if I could do it just one more time..."

"I know what you mean," I said. "I feel the same way about the blow jobs."

Lighten up, Laura.

PWM,
Carol

My Widow Advice #5 Helping Others Helps You

Before I launch into today's letter I want to alert you to a wonderful site that came to my attention http://www.ilasting.com/. It's a quiet, reflective and respectful place to post photos and videos and memory notes to loved ones.

I'm changing my list of 'favorites' and adding this one and others that reflect the spirit of this blog. Take a moment and click on to it. NOT NOW! I"M STILL TALKING HERE!

...About memorial photos. I had the dumbest thought. As it approaches the third anniversary of Jimmy's death on April 13th I wanted to buy space in Newsday with a photo and a few words as I did for year one and two.

However, I thought "I don't want to go with the same photo. I'll use an updated one." Duh...

Dear Carol,

I just got home from my very first bereavement group. I thought it would make me feel better, but listening to every one's horrible story made me feel worse, like I was a loser.

I don't want to be in this club and I don't want to go back. My friends tell me to give it another try. What do you think?

Just some background - My husband, Mike was killed 7 months ago in a car accident and he lingered for 8 days. We were married for 14 years and have no children. I am 50 years old as was Mike.

I don't know if my situation is considered sudden. I had some time for it to "sink in" not like poor Liam Neeson, but I still don't feel comfortable talking about it to strangers.

I don't intend to sound like a snob or anything, but the people were barely functioning and from what I saw I wanted to slap them. Don't get me wrong. I have my bad days, but I haven't lost my ability to laugh. They seem to have. This is why I like your blog so much. You tell it like it is.

A Private Person,
Addie

Dear Private Person Addie,

You've said so much in one e-mail. Let me break it down. According to the experts 7 months is an ideal time to be in a group. They say between 3 months and 13 months. Their reasoning is that before three months it is practically impossible for widows to focus long enough to hear what others are saying so what's the point of sitting there all foggy?

You don't say how long the other members of the group have been widowed. It could be that your fog has lifted somewhat and they are still in the center of that awful cloud. That may explain their appearance of "barely functioning."

I don't know what the definition of "sudden" is, but my evil shrink Gene told me that Jimmy's death could be considered sudden and he was sick for one month. Of course, she was dealing with me, a person who was continually saying,

"How did this happen? He was fine and then he wasn't."

Talk about not sinking in...it was me and high school Algebra all over again.

Groups of any kind are not for everyone and it maybe they're not for you. I joined two and stayed for three sessions each. I guess you might say I officially failed bereavement groups. I was eager for the experience because when I went out with friends in an hour or so I would use up my social energy. My close friends saw it in my face and movements.

"You've had it, haven't you?" They'd say. I would nod not understanding what I was feeling. I just had to go home, but I wasn't comfortable there alone, either. Why not stay out with friends who love me? I'd think to myself. It doesn't make sense, this widowhood.

I joined a group to be with others who were feeling the same. That's the pull, Addie. I needed a nod of clear understanding from those who walk in my shoes. (not literally)

And, speaking of shoes, (literally) I was able to notice that several women in the group were wearing ugly shoes. Trading tragedies one moment and then slipping into sarcasm and laughter is human.

It's wonderful that you recognize this in yourself. Many people can't bring themselves to see the funny, unless someone points it out...like ME.

After all is said and done, grieving is not an inherent state. Our minds and our hearts operate on different frequencies.

You would be a valuable group member. Go back another time. Don't slap them though. Just tickle them gently with humor.

My Widow Advice #4 It IS a Wonderful Life

Dear Readers,

I realize that the topic for this letter is out of step with the season. Spring is a breath away and here I am talking about Christmas. Just switch it in your mind to Easter/Passover so you don't panic and think,

"Damn, was I in a coma and I slept through a few seasons? I hate when that happens."

Yesterday I answered this letter for a sample chapter about holidays and anniversaries to show to my possible publisher tomorrow. I'm too lazy to write a new one for the blog - so here it is.

Also, I'm a teeny bit concerned that my response might be a teeny bit frivilous - My mood dictates my answers. I wrote this wearing my dalmation slippers - the ones I bought to lift my spirits. They may have done TOO good a job.

Please let me know if you think I answered Marion J. in a responsible way. Naturally, I want to be entertaining but it's important that these people who bother to write to me feel somewhat satisfied.

Thanks again for reading - there are so many blogs out there now to read and you chose me...wow...I feel like Sally Fields.

Dear Carol,

This is the second Christmas that I'll be alone. My beloved Fred passed in October two years ago and my son Charlie and his wife and their daughter live in Hawaii.

Last year was horrible. I sat in front of the television eating soggy pizza and watching "It's a Wonderful Life." I was resentful that Fred died on me and left me alone. At 67 my life certainly didn't feel wonderful.

This year my son offered to send me a plane ticket to come to spend Christmas with them, but I am afraid to make that long trip alone. (I live in New Jersey)

I wish they would come to me. I should have had more children. Fred was from a big family and wanted to dote on his only son. Now, Charlie is far away and I'm alone.

Any suggestions to make the holidays more bearable for me?

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year (not for me)

Marion J.

Dear Marion J.

I counted - you used the word 'alone' four times in your short e-mail to me. I worry that the way you describe yourself is who you'll become. Granted, technically you are alone, but perhaps I can find a more uplifting word.

Hmmmm...after checking www.dictionary.com under the thesaurus it turns out that 'alone' is far more uplifting than it's counterparts. Here are the words they say have the same meaning:
abandoned - by oneself - companionless - deserted - desolate - detached - forlorn - forsaken - friendless - hermit - lonely - single - solo - stag - solitary - traveling light - unattached and ironically - 'widowed'.

I laughed out loud at 'deserted' and 'friendless' but that's just me. It seems another approach is needed for you.

My instinct is to tell you to suck it up and fly over to Hawaii to be with your family. However, the last time I followed my instinct I polished off an entire half gallon of vanilla fudge ice-cream and believe me, it wasn't pretty. My instincts are far better for others, though. I rarely recommend that a widow gorge herself.

You are fearful to fly without a companion and this is understandable. When I am faced with my fear - quicksand - I ask myself, 'Can I wake myself up from this terrible nightmare? and 'What is the worst thing that could happen?' In your case stepping on to a plane will not pull you in never to be seen again unless you fly over the Bermuda Triangle.

You don't say who you and Fred celebrated with all the years before he died. If you invited family and friends to your home for past holidays why not call them and invite them for this year? If it's too much for you then ask them to each bring a dish. (filled with food)

People are aware how isolating widowhood can be during the holidays and they may send a card, but they stay away. Our very presence is a frightening reminder of how fragile life is. This is why sometimes we must be the ones to reach out.

It's impossible to invite yourself, yet if you extend an invitation they may say,

"John and I were just about to call you."

Yes, they will be lying, but with that invitation in your back pocket (not literally) you can confess that being a hostess is overwheming for you this year. Tell them you'd be thrilled to accept what we know is their gracious yet empty gesture.

If you're uncomfortable with any of these suggestions my final thought is: how about you celebrate with my family and I take your ticket to Hawaii?

Try to make the best of it...It IS a wonderful life...

Carol - Poor Widow Me

My Widow Advice #3 Balance Sheets Don't Have a Thread Count

Dear Carol,
I love your new format and could hardly wait to write to you. I hope you print this or write back privately.

I am overwhelmed with paper. They come in the form of bills, legal papers to sign and lawyer bills. My kitchen table is so covered I need to clear a space when I put my plate down to eat.

I wish I had been more aware of our finances. Bill felt he was protecting me by handling everything himself. He died suddenly six months ago and now I am a mess.

My son is only sixteen and can't really help me. I've turned to John, my sister's husband for advice and also Bill's best friend, Pete and even though they are patient with me I just can't seem to concentrate and understand what they are explaining. I feel like I am imposing and can't ask again.

I am not a stupid woman. I am a high school Social Studies teacher. I just feel like my brain has melted. What is happening me?

Feeling Stupid Sue

Dear Feeling Stupid Sue,
I noticed that you used the word 'stupid' twice and also in your 'sign off.' Being a Social Studies teacher probably means you're smarter than you're giving yourself credit for.

On the other hand, I remember my 10th grade Social Studies teacher, Mrs. Birmingham smelled, drifted off to sleep at her desk and she only wore two outfits - a red dress and a black dress. She alternated. I suppose she still could have been intelligent, just tired with a limited wardrobe that she never dry cleaned.

Whatever. Intelligence has nothing to do with your inability to understand your finances. You are smack in the middle of your grieving process. Bill is gone only six months. I'm sure that you're foggy about everything even in the areas you were confident and sharp about before your husband died.

As long as your I.Q. is more than double digits I guarantee time itself will lift your fog. Paying bills and understanding lawyerese may never be your strong suit but one day you'll wake up and similiar to suddenly needing your hair trimmed, you will discover that what was virtually a mystery to you is clear.

I used to be pampered and clueless about money. Jimmy would joke that I assume I have money in my checking account because I have checks left. After he died, my good friend and accountant, Gary patiently explained to me that a balance sheet does not have a thread count. I told him I knew that but I don't think he believed me.

Bill shielded you from all things financial as long as you both shall live and today you are helpless to decipher the endless piles of papers. You'll learn as I did, but I deeply regret that I didn't stay awake during Jimmy's long explanations of his business transactions.

Fortunately, many of the papers you need to sign and understand are specific to losing a spouse. When the estate is settled your responsibilites as exectutrix will end, too.

In my case, it took more than two years. But, now I can see my dining room table. Happy will be the day when you can discard your tax attorneys along with their inflated invoices and egos.

Wrestling with finances, especially with this stormy economic climate will be a constant in our lives, yet as life continues our expenses will be more predictable.

Sue, believe me, I know it's not easy to be left with bank statements that need translation. And, mixed with confusion is resentment. Now we are forced to grow up and learn how the real world works. Some would say, "It's about time." (not to our face, of course)

I'm concerned that you are self concious and hesitate to ask your brother-in-law, John and Bill's best friend, Pete for more help. They, too loved your husband and they are good men who want to pull together with you. They want you to carry on to live the way Bill would want you to live. Let them in.

I still lean on Jimmy's buddies, Henry and Trifon and others. It's made us closer. Let your son see that you are the grown up and can handle yourself. Gene, my evil bereavement shrink said,

"Think of your family in a boat. The captain has fallen overboard. If there is a son in the family often he grabs for the wheel. YOU be the one to take the helm and gently steer."

My son, Doug respected me enough to allow me to sift through the muddle. He helped, but his expectations of me drove me to expect more from myself.

Life has dealt you a crummy hand. Try to take it as an opportunity to grow.

Time is your best friend, Sue.

My Widow Advice #2 - Out of the Closet

Dear Carol,

I'm so grateful I found your blog. I enjoy your wit and disclosure so much. It reminds me that all that I'm feeling is "normal."

This Sunday, February 22nd wil be exactly one year since Bob passed on. He was ill for nearly two years and I don't need to get into the heartache that it caused me and our two girls (now ages 17 and 19) Bob was only 49.

I'm writing about his clothes. Friends tell me "it's time" to clean out the closet and "get rid of his stuff." I'm almost ready, but I feel that they are pressuring me. In some ways I like going into "our" closet and seeing and smelling his things near mine.

Another thing that holds me back is the practical. I really don't know what to do with Bob's shirts and ties and pants, etc. Everyone says "Donate them" but donate them where?

Thanks again for helping me to smile again.

Judith (Poor Widow Me, too)

Dear Judith (Poor Widow Me, too)

The clothes, the closet, is a tough one. Granted, your friends mean well. They want you to "move on" but I'll bet that none of them are widows.

For the first year and a half I'd walk into the closet we shared when I wanted to have a heart to heart with Jimmy. There, surrounded by his shirts ad slacks and shoes I was with him. It was far more convenient than driving to the cemetery and it wasn't necessary to stop on the way to pick up flowers.

But seriously, we long for contact, probably more so when it's the death of a young child or a spouse. They've been so physically close to us that we ache for their touch again. This is the most human part of grief, the longing for a body that we know intimately.

Clothes bring us back to that body and the body back to us. Judith, you may be "almost ready" but you aren't there yet. It sounds like you the comfort of your husband's clothes to keep him close to you. I remember standing in the closet literally shaking my head to understand that my husband didn't exist anymore to fill out those clothes. That must be a process that we need to go through.

All these moments weren't tender and longing. I'd run my fingers along the leg of the pants that I bought him months before he got sick. I'd eye the unfinished edge. He never bothered to shorten them. I'd relive how that infuriated me. His reponse made me even madder.

"I'll do it. I'll do it. Just leave me alone about it," he'd say annoyed at me.

I'd see shirts I gave him for Christmas never tried on.

"You're were so ungracious," I'd yell to the air after he died. "It was no fun to buy you stuff." Was he in the closet hearing me?

Some days I would chastise myself. Why did that still make me so angry? It's only stupid clothes and now he's not here to wear them. Other days the memory of him allowing to be so frustrated propelled me out of the closet. I'd slam the door behind me. Visit's over.

"HA. If you had been nicer about trying on stuff on I'd miss you more" I'd scream to the air.

I was embarrassed when friends gently suggested "it's time" to "do the closet" - I'd joke that I could afford to be sentimental because I didn't need the closet space.

I guess it's pretty obvious, Judith, that I understand your need to hold unto Bob's clothes. We all have symbols. This one is ours.

In the first bereavement group that I failed, a widower named Dave told us that he threw away his wife's clothes the day after her funeral. I, silently nicknamed him "Brave Dave" because as you know, this is an unpopular move among the bereaved. I watched the others cover up their horror with phony reassurance.

"Whatever is good for you is the right thing," they chanted like Stepford Wives.

Poor Brave Dave - his wife was sick for four years and there was probably not a top or a pair of pants that didn't yell out to him, "Oh, this is what she wore when we picked up her first wheelchair...and here is the outfit she had on for her last round of chemo."

He needed to make his house healthy again.

So, when you are ready I have a wonderful suggestion, something I did. Hire a seamstress to make a memory quilt from all the most familiar items, shirts, polos, pants, etc. Each square of clothing is about four or five inches and you choose a backing that represents your husband, sports, or fishing, etc.

This enables you to begin weeding out what you will eventually give away (clothing bins are in every neighborhood) You will get rid of the major part of Bob's wardrobe but you are saving forever the pattern and material that you most associate with your husband.

I surprised my daughter and son with one for each of them the second Christmas, a year and eight months after their Dad died. They keep it draped over their couch and I 'm sure they snuggle up to it when they need to be close. Your daughters will love this and if they go away to school they can take it with them.

At first I was going to have one made for me, but then thought it was too morbid. I can always see it and touch it when I visit the kids.

And, time does pass. These days, when M comes over and we get cozy on the couch I see that it would be a bit freaky to notice,

"Hey, isn't your shirt the same as the square in the quilt?"

You're almost there, Judith. Wait until you're there completely. You'll know when.

Carol - PWM

My Widow Advice #1 - Everything Comes With An "Oy"

Hi Folks,
I've gotten dozens of e-mails telling me they are happy I am changing this to an advice column and they sent me questions I will print here each new entry. Here is the first one:

Dear Carol,

You are amazing and have helped me so much. I think an advice column for "Poor Widow Me" is a terrific idea. I've e-mailed you before and I may be of those too pathetic to print, but here goes:

My husband Phil was only 53 when he died of pancreatic cancer almost a year and a half ago. We were married 30 years and most of the time we were happy. My son is 29 and he tells me he dreams about his father several times a month.

My problem is that for a long time I never dreamt about Phil and I felt terrible about that. Suddenly, this week I've dreamt about him twice. It turns out I was happier before the dreams because these dreams were really nightmares.

They both had Phil being mean to me. The one that upset me the most was the one where he was dressed like Abraham Lincoln with the big black hat. He was criticizing the new sofa I bought. (in real life I did buy a sofa) He shook his finger at me scolding me.

I woke up as I was jumping up and down trying to knock the Abe Lincoln hat off his head. I know you're not a dream interpeter, but maybe you can help me not to care so much about these dreams. You always seem to have a funny spin on things.

Your friend,
Charlene, (Another Widow)

Dear Charlene, (Another Widow)

I'm glad you mentioned dreams to me because I, too, didn't dream of Jimmy until it was about 8 months and then again about 6 months ago two times. None of the dreams were pleasant. None of them made me feel...oooh, for a short time I feel like I have my Jimmy back.

When my friends asked me what my first dream was about I was reluctant to tell them. I was afraid it would make me sound angry and resentful. I told them anyway.

It was during a period when I was trying to sell Jimmy's limousine company. I was sitting in a theatre in a perfect seat, the center of row five or six from the stage. All of a sudden Jimmy appears and tells me I should move to where all his employees are sitting.

I didn't want to sit with them, but I listened to Jimmy and in the next scene I'm in a terrible seat seat all the way to the side and I'm straining to see the stage. In the dream I'm annoyed with myself that I listened to him.

My friend Richie laughed and said, "Here you are trying to distance yourself from those company people and even in your dreams you can't get away from them."

Boy, Charlene, was I relieved that he translated it that way. I took it to mean that I'm proud to be making decisions on my own and needing less and less imput from Jimmy.

Here you are having made a decision to buy a new sofa, normally something a couple would choose together. Good for you. In many ways it must have made you feel great. You're changing your enviroment, something I did, too...some widows move, others redecorate.

The point is I believe as our lives move forward we feel confusion that our grief is at odds with our growing sense of ourselves. It's not exactly guilt we feel, but something close to it.

For a spoiled brat of a wife like me who made dinner by calling for reservations little by little I saw lots of things my husband took care of are not all that complicated. I just never paid attention. No need.

As newscaster and snappy dresser Diane Sawyer said, "There's no subsitute for paying attention."

Lots of widows wrestle with feeling a sense of pride for each small personal triumph while it's colored with a sense of shame. It's normal. It's healthy as we begin to live in the world without the support of a husband.

You're no doubt feeling, "What would Phil think of this couch?

"What would Phil think of me spending the money to buy it?"

"How would Phil feel about me replacing the old one that has all the memories? (and stains)

Well, just wait when you start dating Charlene, and see how it feels to be feeling,

"What would Jimmy, er, I mean, Phil think about me sitting on this couch with another man?"

Anyway, I explained this weird combo of feelings to my friend Jade.

She got it and re-phrased it like this: "I understand, Carol," she said. "Everything comes with an oy."

Perfect!

Oh, by the way. I wouldn't be concerned about the Abe Lincoln get up. It must reflect all the stuff in the news about Lincoln/Obama. You've internalized it - just like if someone sticks your hand in water while you're sleeping - you'll pee in your bed.

Hope this helped. Best to you in 2009 - let me hear from you again.

Carol - PWM

Where Do I Go From Here?

You may have noticed I haven't written a new entry since "I Thought I'd Be More of a Slut."

Here's my dilemma. Where do I go from here? I've met someone. I'll call him "M" which is "W" upside down if you're dyslectic. I've taken myself out of the dating pool (I've never been much for swimming) to enjoy and see where this relationship goes.

Here's the hitch. I don't really want to take you along for the ride. And I don't want my children to be privy to my antics. Suddenly, I've found my privacy gene. Who would have thunk it?

More importantly, publicly sharing my life today, normal and natural as it is - is beginning to feel disrespectful to Jimmy's memory.

I've gotten away from the point of the blog which was to express the aftermath of widowhood from my very personal day to day living. Did I set this up to help other widows? Come on. Anyone who knows me knows I am way too self absorbed for that.

Writing forced me to pinpoint my exact feelings and it gave me clarity during an unimaginable unfocused and searingly painful period. Notice there are two ME's and a MY in that previous sentence. I told you - self absorbed.

Now, almost three years later, I'm in a new period and it's none of your %$*!%^business. Of course, I only mean that in a loving way.

But, and that's a big BUTT - from all the confusion and loss comes wisdom and son of a gun - a bit of grace. I believe I really do have something valuable to offer other widows. I have managed to hold onto myself. (not literally) I've lost my spouse without losing myself.

This is clear to me because my sense of humor is undoubtably what most defines me to me. That has remained in tact during some extremely dark days to boot. I'm seeing that I can inspire other widows to step outside of their comfort zone to find themselves again.

In the two bearevement groups I joined and failed and in my sessions with Gene, my evil shrink, I took away one phrase that rang right. Our lives will never be "normal" again, not in the way we knew it, but we must strive to find "the new normal."

Even doing familar things feels unfamiliar because we've been damaged. I know this only too well. But, time and the right attitude heals us. I can't do anything about the time. My name's not Ann Sullivan, the Miracle Worker, you know.

Yet, I believe I can champion other widows to choose a positive healing attitude. I can help them to accept their "new normal" by rediscovering their "old self."

After much thinking (so much so that my furried brow needs an extra shot of Botox) I'm going to turn this blog into an advice column for widows and widowers. It will be helpful and real and funny and entertaining.

Besides the comments displayed here I've gotten tons of e-mails throughout the life of this blog. They always tell me how much my blog has given them strength. Unfortunately, many of them are too pathetic to print.

So, please write to me and let me know what you think about the new format...which I haven't shown you yet (will begin it ASAP) and to the poor widows and poor widowers out there let me hear from you.

To e-mail me: click on "View My Complete Profile" above the orange "Health Maven" to find e-mail address. Thank you, as always for reading and allowing me a forum to shout from.

I Thought I'd Be More of a Slut

Here I am, a widow - three months short of three years and still no bedroom frolics. Are you surprised? No one is more shocked than I am. I though I'd be more of a slut.

Even when I was married and heard about women divorced or widowed waiting years for "the one" I hissed to myself...LOSER! Often I accompanied that with a mature gesture - my thumb and pointer making an L on my forehead.

Now I do it to myself in the mirror...the gesture, I mean.

It's not like I haven't had opportunities - remember 23 year old Hector? And, there have been others a bit older than him, (well, it's almost impossible by law to be younger) but still appealing enough to break the ice with, so to speak.

I never let it happen. Why? Why? and to show off my French "Pourquoi?" Well, one man was married...and I cooled learning this - after all I am Dr. Friendship and "the sisterhood" is all important. It certainly showed a lack of character on his part although, to be fair, his wife didn't "get him" - the poor boy...

Without the help of my ex-bereavement shrink, Gene, who would probably shrug and say,
"How am I supposed to know?" I realized that once I have sex with someone it breaks off my last bit of being married to Jimmy.

But, this realization came a month ago. In the meantime, something shifted. I'm very in tune to these shifts because they occur regularly in surprising moments of "Wait a minute...I don't need to hold onto his clothes anymore" or "It's not really relevant what Jimmy would have done...what should I do?"

So, here I am - having another "Wait a minute moment - I think I can be with another man and
not feel that disconnect with Jimmy...or I can feel it and it's time...

Applicants may apply.

Death vrs Divorce - The Final Verdict?

Many divorced people read this blog and say they can relate to it because after all,

"Divorce is just like a death."

This comment comes from my enthusiastic readers and I may be shooting myself in the foot (not literally) to quibble, but I must address it.

On the eve of the most profound and historic presidential inauguration in our country's lifetime I am struck with the reality that Jimmy is not alive to be aware of this monumental election.

Long sentence - simple thought. Basically, divorced people may not live in the same house with each other anymore but they continue to exist in the same world. Different TV's still report the same news. Same - same - same.

Unless Jimmy has been peeking over my shoulder while I read the newspaper he would not know the name Bernie Madoff. A bail out to him would mean a flood in the basement and even if word snuck up to heaven that a black man was our 44Th president - he'd assume it was Colin Powell.

Interviews with passengers of the Hudson River airplane accident revealed that instead of panic
everyone aboard was calm and helpful. Jimmy always said that under those circumstances people don't freak out...they chill. Well, if we were divorced you can bet that I would have gotten an "I told you so!" phone call from him.

No need to list all the personal changes in my friend's and family's life in the less than 3 years since Jimmy's been gone, but he and I can't share a burden or celebrate a milestone - even separately.

Please don't translate this as whining. The "not existing" part is just something I continue to have trouble with. Possibly, in a different way, yet just as painful would be fighting over who gets the end tables.

I can't imagine watching my husband grow the mustache I always nagged him to as he made himself marketable for other women. How would I deal with seeing his profile on match.com?

The friends who rally around me if given a choice would possibly choose Jimmy. Widows never have to face the fact that they may be the broken link in the circle of friends.

I have no clue what it feels like to be divorced. I used to tell Jimmy that if we were ever divorced and remarried to other people we could still have sex with each other. Our respective spouses should understand...we'll always belong to each other.

His comment was something like, "What are you nuts?"

He had a better handle on how bitter and angry and fed up he'd be with me if we were divorced. That always troubled me a bit. Anyway, it was nice to know he had more respect for his fictitious new wife than I did for my made up new husband.

I'm not sure if I proved that divorce and death are very different feelings. I may have. Lemme know. Perhaps, someone like Elizabeth Taylor is the one to ask. She divorced Richard Burton, then married him again and then he died...or were they divorced when he died? hmmmm?

All I know is divorce may be worse because I know plenty of divorced people who wish their spouse was dead. Actually, I know some married ones, too...

So?

Last night I laughed all night long. Should someone dial 911? Have I flipped? Nope, not yet, anyway...I had dinner with Kathleen, a relatively new friend I met at a writer's conference exactly a year after Jimmy died. She, too is writing a memoir.

We get together every so often (what exactly does that mean?) All right, a few times a year. Anyway, not to give away her age she was single for many years and now she's married for a few.

Much of her memoir is about her dating years. Now that I've entered that arena our conversation naturally moved in that direction - before we took our coats off.

"So?" Kathleen said. Then she sat and waited.

These days many don't bother with "Hello" - They launch right into "So?"

Obviously, the translation of "So?" is: "How's the dating going for you? Met anyone special? If not, lemme hear the crazy stories."

We both had lots to say about specific men we met on dating sites. But, without any alcohol consummed (impressed?) we pinpointed the inherent flaw of internet dating.

The Kathleen and Carol A-Ha Moment

Simply put...it's unnatural. No slow unravelling of ourselves to another. Our past, present and hopes for the future are either generically checked for all to see or there's a tiny space to write "favorite foods" - God forbid we have no room to write Italian - someone might say,

"She doesn't like Baked Ziti? What's wrong with her? Next..."

Internet dating misses the sensual air of mystery when we eye someone attractive at a party across a crowded room or notice a good looking guard as we empty our pockets for him when we visit our Mom in prison.

We read a man's profile. We see that he has x number of children, he's divorced, or never married, widowed...etc...Everyone is "Very Active" and since most people are blah it's amazing that all are consumed with so many hobbies.

He ski's - that old man? (Liar!) We discover he's either grateful for his Upper West Side condo or his kids. True or not the wise man chooses "kids"

We get a overflowing capsule of the man - not to mention photos of him dancing at his daughter's wedding to show himself off in a tux AND pose as Daddy to Daddy's little girl...smart move, Mister.

The next shot is him on a boat (we're supposed to assume is his) holding high the stupid goldfish he caught.

So, we know all this information about someone and now we meet him or talk on the phone. Kathleen and I had very different takes on how to converse normally to this sorta kinda unfamiliar potential "friend."

"So often I met someone for the first time and I had all this information about him in my head, but I had to pretend I didn't know he was a Virgo." Kathleen said.

"Oh, I said, "I panic thinking I should know all this or he'll think I didn't care enough to read his profile carefully. Sometimes I print it out and refer to it..." "Oh yes, John," I say, "I remember you wrote you love peaches."

"How does that work in person?" Kathleen laughs. "Do you bring notes?"

So, we laughed a lot. But, as I mentioned, Kathleen and I are fairly new friends. Gradually, we've gotten to know each other revealing here and there. And, that's why our friendship will stick. It's a natural getting to know you process.

Good thing we didn't meet on line.

Tony & Me

The snow is piling up. It's Saturday night. Must be a mad house for the movies...the ones who are brave enough to venture out.

Me? Well, I have my dog, Tony. True, Saturday night is not what it used to be. Friends are coupled off doing what they do...and I remember how it used to be.

I never used to eat alone and finish a bottle of Cabernet - the same one I started last night. I had a little head cold and it didn't taste right...but tonight - it's good and I drank the rest. The buzz made me talk out loud as I watched the snow fall from my front window. I held my Tony in my arms. He listened intently. He licked my face. He's the perfect man.

I remember how Mimi Scott, my partner in Manhattan Playwrights, Inc. insisted she hold the weekly meetings on Sunday. Our group met for 2 hours and I drove from Merrick, Long Island an hour each way to her apartment on the Upper West Side. I complained.

"Why Sunday? It's a family day."

She is 10 years older than me. She's a widow. She told me that Sunday is the loneliest day of the week. I understand now. Saturday night is no picnic, either.

I'm sorry, Mims...

Happily, Tony loves the snow. I put his little coat on and hooked his leash...He sneezed a few times. He sneezes when he's excited. I slipped on my snow boots and took my keys and my phone (in case I fell and hit my head and needed to let someone know I'm laying right on my block unable to move because I finished that bottle of Cabernet.)

Off we went - down the steps and free to romp in that white stuff still lightly adding to the one inch of accumulation. (some snowstorm) I put my hood up. That told me I'm not too drunk to NOT care about my hair. To not care about my hair...I'd have to be unconscious.

We ran. We lifted our leg...well, Tony lifted his leg. He did a number 2 and I covered it with snow. Am I a rebel? Jimmy hated the snow, the cold and so often said,

"Why are we living in a refrigerator?"

I was so grateful that Tony loves the snow. I told Jimmy.

" It's invigorating. The cold, the weather you can see...it makes you feel alive! What do you know about staying alive?"

No answer. Never an answer. I wiped off Tony's paws with a dry towel and we kinda sorta smiled at each other.

What a Charmer!

Granted, I haven't been out in the world for very long as a single woman, but I have been out in the world period. When Gene, my ex-bereavement shrink told me:

"Now, Carol, when you begin dating you will be emotionally at the age you were before
you were married."

I knew then that SHE needed a shrink. Come on. I was 15 when Jimmy and I met. I know I'm a bit on the immature side (I like to think "Playful") but 15?

Even with my limited dating experience I know I'm emotionally right on track for my age - which TODAY is exactly 58 and a half. Please, no cards or letters for my half birthday...

Yesterday I called a man from the dating site plenty of fish (good name, isn't it?) and our conversation PROVED to me that I am far more mature than 15.

He is a widower for almost 2 years and he's 54 years old. I printed out his profile and had it in front of me to give him the phony impression that I cared enough to remember his "fun facts."
Somehow, though, reading it I reversed his age and his height. I thought he was 57 years old and 5'4" tall. (or in this case 'short')

In my mind I was telling myself "Oh, my God - I'm talking to a midget. I like short men, but I don't want to be able to balance a drink on his head."

He was extremely chatty so he didn't notice I wasn't contributing a fake interest, like "Oh, really? I, too, need coffee in the morning to wake up. We have so much in common!"

When I realized that he wasn't a midget I told him my mistake and he didn't laugh. Could this be a RED flag? Oh, dear - or worse...maybe I AM immature! So what? Jimmy would have giggled...the big baby.

Anyway, he told me he had a "soft spot" (Viagra should cure that) for widows because he is a widower himself. However, he went on to tell me about all the "crazy widows" he's met (good empathy) and one he called a "disgruntled widow."

This woman's husband left her for another woman and then about a year later he died. We both wondered if that counted. Technically, I suppose it does although if Jimmy had left me for someone else we would have been divorced before the year was up.

And, here is the compliment that makes me believe that I am not as immature as Gene says I am. This man, with relief in his voice announced "You sound like a normal person."

There you have it. It's best we don't meet. He may change his mind.

Profile This!

On my profile page for dating services I had to choose...

1. dating

2. long term relationship

3. marriage

4. marriage and children

Children would be a miracle so that ruled out number 4. Looking for "marriage" sounds like I ought to present a resume. I'd be forced to divulge: Are my teeth all my own? Do I have mood swings? If so, are they controlled by medication?

Must I hand over a notorized letter of recommendation from my past employer? Wait, that would be my husband. Fortunately, he's unable to challenge the high marks I give myself in the only real category that counts - sex. Let's face it, all else is forgiven if your bedroom score is a ten.

I considered checking "long term relationship" but I don't want to be exclusive right out of the gate. I need to figure out who I am as a single woman and how it feels to be part of a couple again. Do I even know who would fit?

So, I circled "dating," But, what is dating? ... a chance to practice flirting - is batting your eyes still popular or will he think I have a twitch? Do I offer to split the bill with him?... an empty gesture and a deal breaker if he says yes.

I'm not the type to take long walks on the beach. Must I confess this? It's Winter. Hot tubs are noisy and overrated... it's like sitting in a huge toilet that's constantly flushing. I don't ski, play golf or like to go over 30 mph in a convertible.

I'm quite a catch. Call me.

Blabber Mouth

My hands are tied. (not literally) I want to tell you about a date I had, but I can't. I told him about this blog. I'm a blabber mouth. My stupid ego made me. How can I make fun of him now? He's not for me, but he is a sweet guy. I can't diss him when I know he's going to read it. Apparently, I have scrupples. Funny word...scrupples. Anyway, I have them so no jabs about him here.

I did meet someone on line who is fun and energetic and good-looking. I confessed in my profile that I'm addicted to Utz dark pretzels and he wrapped them up in Christmas wrapping and gave them to me at our first meeting last week. Nice, nice start. I'm seeing him again tomorrow night. He also knows about this blog...Hello Daniel!

Okay...that's it. No more about dating until I have something concrete to say. It did shock me and must report back to you that there are lots and lots of 50 something men out there who when asked if they want children answer, "Undecided."

Are they nuts? Well, they certainly aren't having them with me...my eggs are dead. Well, even if they were alive - that ship has passed.

Christmas Eve and Christmas Day passed too. Now at holiday three without Jimmy it's more comfortable to entertain and celebrate with many of the same friends from "before." I strive to incorporate yesterday with today. Life moves along and and I float with it staying on course to the future while I peek back almost to ask permission.

The permission thing reminds me of my old (and fired) bereavement shrink, Gene. She told me that when a widow wants to remarry she goes to the cemetery to ask permission. I told her that made sense to me...and she said, "Really? Well, isn't it interesting that none of the husbands ever say "no."

Good one, Gene....but I still don't miss you.

Where Are All The Funny Guys?

Banter is everything to me. Funny banter. I say this. He says that. We collapse (not literally) in laughter. I took for granted that all couples do it - like sex. On both fronts I was wrong. (People confide in me...)

Laughing together is like making love with your clothes on. Jimmy and I spent a lifetime laughing. Early in our marriage I learned that pointing and laughing when your husband is nude is a no-no. Pointing is fine. Laughing is great. Undressed, the combo is a mood breaker.

Armed with that vital morsel of experience I am marching into the world. First I trotted out to the virtual world. Then, I progressed to talking on the phone. Can someone please tell me... where are all the funny guys?

I've talked to four perspective dates this week and maybe I need a new vitamin regiment, but the drone of their voices made me fight to stay awake. I know I'm a tough audience, but don't start a sentence by saying, "This is a funny story." It's not. Nine times out of ten it's a bedtime story.

I love the ones who say, "I have a great sense of humor." Should they have to announce it?

Guess what, Mr. Catskills, we've been on the phone for seven or eight minutes already. That humor should have surfaced by now.

"Do you keep a Kosher home?" is on the J-date form and according to my nephew Chuck, "If you keep Kosher you can't be funny." His theory is not mixing meat and dairy takes too much concentration and this causes you to be serious. Apparently, lack of pork in the home strips you of your funny bone.

On Saturday night I have a date with someone kosher. He's seems like a sweet man, a widower and I'm hoping it was his wife who insisted they keep their kitchen kosher. Maybe, he just needs someone to accidentally bring him a ham and cheese sandwich and plop it on his counter.

That ought to test his sense of humor.

Liar Liar Pants on Fire

On line dating may not require hair and make-up but it's ridiculously time consuming. Scanning profiles and photos is like looking at a police line up, but instead of picking out the serial killer we hope to choose the cop.

The same man who in the future will probably sit silently on the couch refusing to "talk about it" relentlessly sends me messages, virtual roses and chocolates, all his phone numbers, his fax and e-mail address and the deed to his house.

They see I'm a comedy writer. They make feeble attempts at humor. 99% of the time humorless Charlie Rose is funnier.

They also lie. I called someone who claimed to be 61. We were on the phone less than five minutes when he confessed to being 68. They are always "Youthful and energetic" - "No one can believe my age" they all say. This is why they lie.

"Would you have called me if you knew I was 68?" he asks. "NO" I answered loudly.

It turns out his ex-wife is my age and graduated Jamaica High School the same year as I did. I probably know her. I wonder, was it the same woman who I saw two months ago at my 40th reunion ranting about her "asshole ex-husband?"

He refused to tell me her name. Not that I'm marrying him, but it would have been a time saver. Shelly Winters said, "When you are planning to marry someone go to lunch with his ex-wife."

The same "catches" pop up on the other sites, too and not to be paranoid, in one instance I felt I was being virtually stalked. YESTERDAY I joined Jdate and someone from Plenty of Fish or was it e-harmony?... instant messaged me TODAY.

I finally called him and although he seemed sweet and fun, it didn't take long for him to confess that he wasn't only married twice, but three times. Next up was his omission on his profile that he was unemployed.

Now I'm wary of these 60 somethings who write "retired" under "occupation"... When they say they're "good in the kitchen," could they mean "Soup kitchen?"

In his attempt to be charming this guy wooed me with the old joke "My boss told me two words that made it impossible for me to work there any longer. "You're fired" I said jumping on his punchline.

And, I meant it, too. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...Oh, Happy Thanksgiving.

Dating on Line

I posted this photo of me. I hope nobody notices
that there's a hand growing out of my shoulder.

I went and did it. Yes. I joined TWO dating services, eharmony.com and Plentyof fish.com. Filling out the questionnaire made me come face to face with the fact that I have no interests. I have no hobbies unless you count shopping, reading, watching TV and opening the mail.

I do zero physical activities except for the dancing lessons and I hesitate to make too big a deal out of that because the lower the expectations the better. My teacher, Rainer told me I started in Kindergarten and now 8 months later I'm in 8th grade.

It's progress, but I'm limited to the Hustle and the Fox Trot and I need someone not only to lead me, but to place me. Or, better yet, RE-place me. I'll just sit it out and watch.

Not to be labeled superficial I didn't circle the highest number when asked "How important are looks to you?" I circled the next to highest so I wouldn't be matched with the guy in the deli who has one tooth.

This was a huge mistake. I should have insisted my match have a good set of dentures. E-harmony paired me with extremely odd looking men. This was discouraging. At this service they match you with who they think you'd like based on what you write.

For age I put down for 54-62 and click - a match with Ken from Freeport - Aged 60, a widower for almost ten years. Very good looking photo, gray hair and mustache, sweet smile and broad shoulders. He said he was 5'7" and I happen to like shorter men - anyone over 5'10 is just unnecessary extra height. But, I'm thinking if he wrote 5'7 he could be a midget.

We talked on the phone. It went smoothly. Gene, my ex-bereavement shrink told me when I begin to go out with men I will be emotionally back to the age before I married Jimmy. Not true. I've still lived in the world all these years. I kinda sorta almost know how to talk to a man without being uptight or slutty...a balance is the answer...I think. Okay...perhaps Gene had a point.

We met for lunch. He told the truth about his height. However, his photo was so old it may have been from his Bar Mitzvah album. The photo was a good (or bad) 8 years old. A lot happens to a face in 8 years, trust me.

A pleasant lunch. He asked me out again. I said something like 'uh, um, well, humph...' He understood. He suggested I call him if I change my mind. I offered to pay half. Happily, he said no.

On plenty of fish the questionnaire is not as intense and you get to "shop" for your match. They
select a group of men that might be a good "catch" but you can look at any one's profile and photo. It keeps you very busy, this site.

Several men were interesting and good looking and many sent me a message. I've corresponded with a few and not sure about giving out my phone number. Then, if I call them...they have it in their phone. Tricky.

It's strange, but I always played this game with myself: I would observe Jimmy from across a table or at the other end of a room and I'd ask myself: If I didn't know him would I want to get to know him? My answer was always yes. I wonder if eharmony would have paired us.

Anyway, just for the record and just to brag many men like older women. Hector at 23 was not as unusual as I thought. Gee...a baby of 26 was very persistant yesterday and today a young guy of 37. Put their ages together and I've got a match.

Obama and I Both Won Florida

Someone in the news today said that John McCain is about yesterday and Barack Obama is about the future.

After spending this past weekend in Florida I'm feeling much more future orientated in my own little world and therefore I'm in tune with our new almost President. He and I are practically one. An overstatment? I don't think so.

As some of you may know, my sense of direction is non-existent. Somehow, though, I was able to travel the roads of Florida and find my way. From the Ft. Lauderdale Airport, to Marion and Marcel (40 minutes away in Lake Worth) to Blondie and Barry in Coral Springs (another 30 minutes) to Mimi Scott in Hollywood and then back to the airport.

I was so impressed with myself my head was spinning around...which really made looking at the road ahead even more of a challenge.

You think electing the first black president is a miracle? Me, renting a car and programing a GPS and not mixing up the point A and B and winding up on road Z is like waking up from a lifelong coma.

Care to Comment?

Okay...I read the last comment from Carol (not me...I'm not so lame that I comment on my own blog.)

I re-read it. I read it again. I still have NO idea what she meant. I feel so dumb. Can anyone out there s'plain it to me?

Thanks in advance...

What Is This Thing Called "Dating?"

All right - so I put the ca bosh on sex with Hector. It may be something I'll regret especially considering I tell Jackie and Doug "We regret the things we don't do more than the things we do."

Ah, no one listens to me, anyway...why should I?

Here I am, a widow for two and a half years and still no date for the prom. (just an expression...I'm not really going to the prom)

I've sporadically gone to dinner, to a movie (okay once) and for drinks. A handful of men and no chemistry. What's the point? Until I meet someone I can't keep my hands off:

I'd rather play hide and seek with Skylar than hide in the ladies room praying my date will pay the check and go home.

I'd rather write in my blog while I sit in my underwear than be with an ugly 60 year old who farts in his.

I'd rather snuggle with my dog Tony than dance with a guy who has longer back hair than him.

I'd rather rent "Dumb and Dumber" for a laugh than be with a guy who's funniest part is his face.

Yup...I'm ready for a little romance - I accept that Jimmy isn't coming home for dinner. I haven't lost my appetite. I'm just a picky eater.

What The Hec-tor!

He's 23 and he wants me. Yes. You heard me twenty-three years old. Even to a cougar this would be smutty. A score, but smutty. A smutty score.

The odds are that Hector won't be reading this blog. English is his second language. I'm guessing Spanish is his first, although through his heavy accent it's kinda difficult to tell.

Who cares? I understand him fine when he says "I've been thinking about you all day." WOW...which is MOM upside down...which is what he might call me if he thought about our age difference. (35 years)

Hector and I met when I hired him last month to barbecue. Immediately I saw that he really knew how to work my grill. My guests were drinking and teasing him...suggesting he wear a speedo and "Hey, Hector - aren't you hot by the heat? How about you take off your shirt?"

He smiled good natured pretending not to understand - and at the time I was thinking he was thinking "What a bunch of old pathetic drunk people."

Well, this pathetic old drunk person locked eyes with him in the kitchen. When he leaned over the counter and told me "You have beautiful eyes" I batted them. Isn't that what a woman does when a man tells her this? Who knows? It's been a while.

Perhaps, I encouraged him. I sampled those 23 year old lips right after I slipped him the 100 bucks for cooking and clean-up. In the dining room away from wide eyes and big mouth friends we kissed...a nice kiss that promised future kisses, etc.

The next day he called. I thought, "Boy, whatever outfit I wore yesterday...I'm wearing that everyday."

I put him off. Embarrassed and a little unable to understand him on the phone, I found out he is one of 19 brothers and sisters. He's a middle child, but in his family middle is number nine.

He probably didn't get too much attention growing up and one thing's for sure - he's used to sharing his bed.

I actually considered it. I knew in my travels I would never be the pick of the day in a room full of 25, 35, and 45 year old women. Maybe, I could hold my own next to a 50 year old, but Hector was my ticket for unpaid sex with a stud.

He continued to call every week wisely not referring to me as "Mommy." Just yesterday I firmly explained to him that I need to be with someone who remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot...

That's my criteria and I'm sticking to it. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh...

Marty's Party

Marty & Me

Marty Fischer was my friend for more than 20 years. He died of a heart attack Monday night at age 61. He was the big brother I never had.

I did have a big sister, who was a lesbian and quite the dike to boot, but Doreen, gone now 11 years from drug abuse and taking herself too seriously, really didn't fit the brother role as well as Marty did.

I could count on Marty. I could count on Marty to council me and to comfort me and yes, to let me know when I disappointed him. He was a sensitive soul. He was sweet coupled with an irritating way that each day was a new day to prove my allegiance and love to him.

That part sucked. But, that part was only a small part of Marty. Marty lived to make people happy. He'd be the first person to party more after the party ended. His recent hangout was the downtown restaurant La Mela, but Brooklyn born Marty was Mr. Diner.

Oh, and Mr. Chinese buffet. This is where "Marty's Party" began. Years ago a Chinese maitre d directed Jimmy and me to a backroom gathering that Marty was hosting, "You here for Marty's Party?" Since then I called him this and began all my e-mails to him, "Hi Marty's Party,"

No one could pile a plate higher and dig in deeper than Marty. And, the check always mysteriously disappeared, paid by, you guessed it, Marty.

The man loved to eat because he loved to live. For him, it was all about excess. Maybe, it was his play for broke habits that killed him. Or, maybe, acutely aware that his father died in his early sixties of heart disease, Marty was racing the clock.

He struggled to get it all in. He did it his way. He played Blackjack just enough that it hurt to lose. He invested in edgy businesses he had a passion for, mainly comedy clubs. This is where Marty shined. He immersed himself in comedy management. He drank in the comedy scene and comics loved and respected him. And, not for nothing, he was funnier than most.

He beamed when a comedian came off the stage, went right to his table and thanked him for the opportunity. He beamed even larger when big name comics were introduced to him and they shook his hand and said, "Of course, I know Marty Fischer!"

Ten years ago Marty sponsored me for Friars Club. I'd watch him schmooze with the staff, the members, the waiters. He had a special relationship with the waiters because "They give me stuff that's not on the menu."

As generous as Marty was, he had an area that prevented him from spending. We all have it, I guess. Jimmy could spend a fortune on a horse, but buying paper cups was "wasteful." With Marty if he got something for nothing it was not only a coo, but it must be used.

His business card printer misspelled his name, Martin FISHER - left out the c. He let Marty have them for free. Marty gave them out and then bitched that people misspelled his name.

A man about town, he loved most being with his grandsons, Alex, 5 and a half and Evan 2 and a half. And they worshipped him. The other grandpa is also named Marty, so the boys called him "Grandpa Marty Who Lives Alone." But, he was never really alone.

Marty was a fixture in so many lives and it's almost impossible to believe he's gone. Little by little, if we live long enough, the people we love disappear. We can't call them on the phone or touch them, but we can remember them. I know this isn't an original thought. It's universal. It's human.

In a few weeks Marty's friends, comics and family will gather to have a Comedy Tribute to him, a parade of loved ones to celebrate his life. We will attempt to give him the last Marty's Party.

Real Kodak Moments Don't Need Photos

I heard that photos are the most googled. People don't care about reading the text. They want to look at the image. Sarah Palin (Don't get me started...) is now the "person most googled" Although, she may be grouped in with Tina Fey.

I was always the picture taker in our family. Jimmy's theory was if it's important enough it will be etched in our memory. In other words, if it's a Kodak moment we don't need Kodak.

That said, he never anticipated the need to look over our life the way I do. Had I died maybe he'd be sorry that I was behind the camera and not in front of it. Okay. I take that back. Here I am assuming he'd be continually pouring over pictures of me. hahahahaha...Wait...Why am I laughing?

The other day an incident happened that forced me to consider that maybe kinda sorta Jimmy's theory had a speck of truth to it. As you see, it's difficult for me, even now to admit that in 33 years of marriage he may have been right - once.

Jackie was busy and I got Skylar off her school bus. I will never ever forget (although, it's only been 48 hours...ask me next year) the bus door opening to that little blond angelic face wearing grey sweatpants and a pink and white striped dress and an Ariel backpack. She stood on the top step and screeched"Grandma!" She leaped into my arms. Luckily I caught her.

We were still hugging as the bus pulled away. Later I thought of my in-laws. I remembered how overwhelmed they would be at a simple moment with my kids. They would both say,

"This has been the most wonderful day of my life!"
I'd think, "What the f%#@ is wrong with you?"

Now, I know. There was nothing wrong with them. They were grandparents...

P.S. If I had a photo I'd post it...See - Jimmy was wrong again!

House (Not the TV show)

72% of widows move within the first two years. hahahaha...I just made up that statistic. How would I know?

Many non-widows (is that like non-Jews? ) suggest I sell the house and start fresh. We bought this house 21 years ago. I remember this because Jackie was ten and Doug was six. Erma Bombeck said, "If we didn't use our kids as a gage we'd never remember when things happened." I guess she was right.

So, here I am. I continue to put my energy into house projects. I won't bore you with a list, but it's significant. So significant that my friends Alex, Richie, Anderson, Robert, Nadia, and Lynn came over yesterday and maybe they were thinking what Jim Scoroposki yelled, " So this is what you did with the insurance money!"

My latest project? I paneled and put a drop ceiling in the garage. Okay. Perhaps, that wasn't necessary. Still, it's a terrific looking garage and it adds value to the house, doesn't it? Am I selling? AHHHHHHHHH...I think that's panic speaking.

Our house has always been the "go to" house just like Jimmy was the "go to" guy. We had most holidays, even the "little" ones like Prom party, Mother's Day and Fathers Day and July 4th (wait...that's not so little)

When my friends Blondie and Barry moved to Florida and came up to New York they stayed here. Same with my cousins Marion and Marcel and my brother-in-law Robert and sister-in-law Carmela. My nephew Chuck has stayed weeks at a time.

Since Jimmy died all of the above have flopped in my guestroom. I wanted to establish early on that Jimmy wasn't the only gracious one. (When my friend Connie saw my pristine garage she said, "Now we know who the slob was.") When a couple divorces see who your friends prefer...you find out who the 'dead wood' is. In death, it's simpler.

In keeping with tradition, this Sunday will be the third bridal shower in this house since Jimmy died. Over the years we hosted a million (give or take) bridal showers and baby showers here. This house has heard more "oohs and ahhs" as the bride opens her presents than Brad and Angelina hear from the crowd as they walk the red carpet.

The famous baby shower line? "Wouldn't it be funny if her water broke right here!" Not really.

Can I move away from my next door neighbors, and close friends Sheri and Fred? And, what about Debbie and Henry, a town away. AHHHHHHHH...Jackie got divorced in July and I encouraged her and Skylar to move closer to me. Happily, they did so where am I going now?

Without getting into the tragic circumstances, just last week I even held a Shiva here. So "they" think I should move, huh? Between the kids and the friends and the overnight guests, not to mention the showers and the shivas, I'll never be able to get the &%$#@ out of here.

On My Own

I just finished reading a really good book that was praised by people far more distinguished than I. (this includes the entire Tri-state area)

Eve Ensler, the author of The Vagina Monologues called Florence Falk's On My Own: The Art of Being A Woman Alone " "A call to independence and empowerment" See what I mean? I said it was "a really good book."

Amy Sohn, author of Run Catch Kiss and My Old Man wrote, "On My Own is a provocative, smart read for any woman who is alone, wants to be alone, or is figuring out how to be alone. An empowering, emotionally honest book that is long overdue." (from the library?)

Before I was virtually alone (not cyberspace virtually) I wasn't aware how many woman as Vanessa Williams sang have, "One less egg to fry." I love these lyrics. The line "one less man to pick up after" gives me the chills. It's so simple while it says it.

I'm a little confused about the title, though. "One Less Bell To Answer" - Why would your husband be ringing the bell? Wouldn't he have a key?

Anyway, finding your own situation in others is an old story. When you're shopping for lamps you notice lamps. In the market for a white car? Every car on the road is white. Thinking of joining a cult? Suddenly, everyone is wearing moccasins. It's a phenomenon.

Yesterday's New York Times Modern Love column in the Style Section had a line that jumped out at me (not literally) Bob Morris, the author wrote about marrying his boyfriend now that gay marriage is an option. He writes: "As someone who has been a defensive single most of my adult life, I still believe that solitude makes you a deeper person, not a lesser one."

While I was skimming, I mean reading Ms. Falk's book I nodded (off to sleep?) ...in agreement that I could truly become deeper simply by reprogramming my feeble brain to believe that
it's possible to befriend aloneness.

This goes against my claims as Dr. Friendship that "If you're your own best friend you need to get out more." I've staked my illustrious (or lack luster) career on the platform - "Hugging oneself may be good for the soul, but bad for the back." Let's face it. It's an awkward position.

I've always laughed at that love yourself first crap, but now that I have no choice (I have one less bell to answer) it may be time to look in the mirror and smile.

I Fired My Shrink

My bereavement shrink reminds me of Bette Davis. I half expect her to crazy dance and sing "I've Written a Letter to Daddy."

She hasn't signed my a clean bill of health yet, but when that day happens will it really count? Gene's judgement is as credible as John Edwards. I'll feel like I cheated on a mid-term, slept with the teacher or donated a wing to the school.

I've been seeing her since December of '06 so she has helped me through some tough times, although she's gotten tougher herself each visit. She's like a Mom I continue to disappoint.

With each shake of her head I feel she's saying I ought to go out into the world and embrace widowhood. "There's no shame in telling people your husband died. You didn't kill him."

Yet, I am self conscious. And, I still belittle him in my mind. How could a big, boisterous, intelligent man, a man I counted on for all the major decisions, allow a few little cancer cells to do him in?

I may not know how to analyze a company and until recently I thought a balance sheet had a thread count, but I feel superior. I've stayed alive longer. That's twisted, I know. I expected Gene to help me with that.

She boasts that she's seen "thousands" of clients and this is quite common. I am quite common.
We wait while I re-vavel what has unraveled. I can wait alone. Who needs her?

She tells me that I still think like a married woman. She tells me I'm naive. She says, "Do you really think your daughter doesn't lie to you?" Um...That hadn't occurred to me...not at 31 years old...

When I ask Gene a question she says, "How should I know?" This reminds me of how when Jimmy and I would watch TV and I would comment, "Why is that woman running away from that man?"

Jimmy would say, "How should I know? I started watching when you did." I wasn't
really expecting an answer.

Sometimes, I do expect an answer. Gene answers, "I can't tell you what to do."

I haven't officially fired Gene. I told her I'd call her for a next appointment. I considering not calling.

Skylar - Our Little Blonde Flower Girl

 

Skylar and Adrianna

On Saturday my God-daughter Katharine married Pete - they looked so happy they actually sparkled! Skylar was one of the two flower girls.

Just nine months ago she was the flower girl for Katharine's sister Kristi...We're thinking of renting her out. Any interest? Oh, is this legal?

It Is What It Is

Today is two years and four months since Jimmy died. When someone asks me how long it's been do I say "A little over two years" "Almost two and a half years" or "Two years and four months?" And, what do I say two weeks from now?

Or, does it matter? It is what it is. I love that expression. It covers a whole lot of situations and it's neither negative or positive. It's acceptance. I accept whatever I can't change. It is what it is. That's emotionally healthy. Isn't it? Just checking...

I recently heard a newscaster say, "BACK in 2006." If I was in a coma and just woke up I'd be worried. I'd assume the year was 2016 or more. I'd demand to see a newspaper. Stat.

I used stat because it's a hospital term. I figure I'd be in a hospital. I'm sure my kids wouldn't want me snoring and dribbling on their carpet for years. Actually, even a few minutes of that would be disturbing.

We're only half way through 2008. Is it accurate to say "BACK in 2006?" Not for me. That was two years and four months ago. And, I'm still back there a good part of each day.

Like a Virgin

"I crack my knuckles." That's what I tell people when they ask me what I do for exercise. If they press me, I elaborate, "Not just my fingers, I crack almost every bone in my body every few hours."

They think I'm kidding. So, I give them a show. I bend slightly backwards and my left hip goes 'pop' - I continue with my knees, my shoulders and by the time I'm up to my neck most normal people yell "stop."

Apparently, it's disconcerting to watch, to hear and I can see that it may be perhaps something I ought to do in private. Don't ask me about my exercise program, then.

Why do I have to watch sweaty men and women who are decades past looking reasonably attractive in short-shorts walk briskly by my house swinging their arms like military rejects? Stay home on your tread mill or join a gym, cheapskates!

This small rant is a result of my recent dance lesson. The Hustle is making a comeback and so am I. Since February, twice a week, my dance instructor, Rainer Trubere at Dancesport has been tackling a nearly impossible task. I may be too white, too Jewish and too old to stand up straight, but Rainer is determined to break my lifelong habit of zero activity.

This sweet, misguided man has vowed to "clean me up." In layman terms, this means my posture will no longer resemble the Tim Conway character on the old Carol Burnett Show.

Rainer dances as gracefully as a ballet dancer, yet excels in every possible sport. He is totally physical. And, as we know, I'm anything but. Luckily, his rigorous training for his body has bumped up his endurance for the mental anguish I drop on him each session. His sense of humor has kept him from a breakdown and more important, has saved me from being strangled.

The other evening we both learned something significant. I'd like to shout it out here out so I can virtually stick my tongue out to all the middle aged know it all "athletes" who may be taking a break to sit down and read a blog.

I couldn't point my toe. Yes, I can point it, but not the way Rainer wanted me to. Always ready with a creative alternative teaching tool (extremely necessary for this student) he demonstrated limping, "You know, favor one side, like when you twist your ankle."

"I've never twisted my ankle" I said. Too stunned to comment, Rainer stood on one foot (show off!) and simply looked at me. He reminded me of how my dog Tony cocks his head to one side straining to sort out the foreign words.

"What do you mean?" he finally stammered.

"Never happened." I said. "I don't do anything physical so I've managed to avoid torn ligaments, dislocated shoulders, knee problems - all the ailments from..."

"Movement." He finished my sentence. It sounded so odd hearing it from someone else, but it was true. Pushing myself is not finding a close enough parking space.

Flabbergasted that our worlds are so opposite, he shook his head and listed all the injuries he'd suffered throughout his lifetime. The list made me shudder and it also made me smirk.

He saw it and said, "No pain-no gain."
I countered, "No strain -No pain."

Still not past it, he said, "You mean, if we took an xray of you now it would show n o t h i n g?" I nodded. Knowing I'm no youngster he was excited like we were launching a new product - me.

"Do you realize that all your active friends who are your age probably have a chronic problem from tennis or jogging?"

"They do...and not for nothing...their skin is more wrinkled from the sun - which I avoid. Again, another casualty of outdoor activities." I rested my hand on my hip with attitude, just like he taught me.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he suggested that if I do a little bit of stretching (I kinda do when I crack) and aerobics along with my dance lessons - in a few years I'll be in amazing shape (for my age...they always add that to ruin it)

"You will be superior to them physically because you're just starting out. It's like you're a virgin."

And, I am, in so many ways. Jimmy said to me, "We should have danced more." Well, here I go.

My So-Called Love Life

Here I am back to blogging. Where have I been for two months? Is my sense of direction so bad that I can't locate my computer? I find it to e-mail friends. I play three card poker and video poker on-line.

Sometimes writing about life gets in the way of living it. Often, I'm writing in my head and it's just a matter of putting it down (not my head, the thoughts) Now, half the summer is gone. I'm attempting to review.

A week ago today my crackerjack agent, Victoria Skurnick of the Levine Greenberg Literary Agency sent my "Poor Widow Me" proposal out to publishers. She told me to keep my fingers crossed and I said, "How am I going to type like that?" I haven't heard from her since.

The memoir only covers the first year after Jimmy's death and if I'm lucky enough to get a "Yes" from a publisher today it will be nine months to a year before the book is out - At that point it will be over three years and as a reader I'd want an update. I'd want to know how the first year compares with the second, etc...and I'm too lazy to write another book.

So, my last chapter will be an epitaph (look it up) Keeping current with this blog will help me remember this time period. It will be my note taking for that chapter.

Starting today - no more huge gaps in these entries. It probably makes sense to categorize. Today, I'll talk a tinge about my love life.

Before I do that I must say that daily life is different for me now. I do similar things, but I'm more comfortable doing them. The change for me is internal. And, yet external because of the way people react and respond to me. That leads me right into my so-called love life.

The first year when I was asked "How are you?" it was accompanied by a crumpled face and a suffocating hug. At the year and a half mark "How are you?" was a careful tread bordering on perky and the translation was: "Are you dating yet?"

Today, two years and three months in, a wink precedes "How are you" and often no words are spoken to say "Seeing anyone special?"

In the romance department, I've learned I'm behind the curve. I've only gone on four dates and even those were just to get my feet wet. As I predicted, they only lead to soggy socks. My attraction to the handyman was inappropriate and I couldn't pull the trigger, anyway so I'm not sure if that one counts.

My bereavement shrink, Gene tells me I still think like a married woman. Yesterday, just to spite her when two cute guys in the elevator asked me if I was married, I much too enthusiastically said, "No." I think they expected me to add, "Press the stop button."

Gene tells me I'm naive. I half expect Cupid to find me at the cleaners or the butcher or in my kitchen. "Love doesn't come to you. You must go to love" she says. When I quote Gene in person I give her an Romanian accent. It adds flavor.

The biggest change is that I feel sorta kinda almost ready to experience someone Jimmy-like. This time we get to grow old together and he has a mustache. (or at least more hair on his upper lip than I have)

Never Say Never

Finally, it stopped raining...Experts told us it would stop one day. They just didn't tell us which day.

In keeping with my new love of the outdoors a crazy thought popped into my head. No, I am not planning a camping trip. To me, 'roughing it' means no room service. Jamie deRoy hits a truthful chord when she sings her parody song "Jews Don't Camp."

I'm seriously considering renting a small furnished place in...in...in...F L O R I D A... next January and February. I'm stuttering because I've never been a fan of Florida and Jimmy wanted to spend a chunk of the winter there. He hated the cold. I hate the hot. This was our standoff.


In my fumbling defense, that last February, '06 when we were there for five days I did say, "Ya know, at this time of the year, no hurricanes, not so sticky...not so bad." I was beginning to
break. I WAS!


Today's plan? My dog, Tony and I will hit the road right after the New Year. We'll drive down. We'll drive down? Not to be picky, I'll be doing all the driving.

Why the about face? When I got Tony last August I said to my next door neighbor, Fred..."I love walking a dog!" He said, "Wait until it's eleven degrees out."

Admittedly, in February, it was less pleasant. But we're New Yorkers, Tony and I. And, that means it's exhilarating to sniff bare bushes and lift our leg on the frozen pavement. Ice that stuck to our fur is a fun surprise that we simply recycle to our water dish.

Not to lean on a cliche, but you can't beat the change of seasons and layers are far more forgiving
than tank tops. Give us a puppy cut when the temperature drops and we're grateful. We have Spring to look forward to. After all, if you haven't fought the war you can't appreciate the peace. Too dramatic? Maybe...

On the other paw, (oh, no, she didn't...) where was Spring this year? It's May 21st. Is May the new March? After spending month after frigid month shivering with Tony in the backyard watching his stream practically freeze in mid-air I had this snow-bird revelation.

Recently, I discovered a hint of green scattered on the hard, cold lawn. I stared in disbelief. Tony gave me his "What's this?" expression, the one he puts on when I introduce a new treat. As the days passed more color appeared as the twigs sprouted leaves. Soon small purple flowers joined in and Tony and I found ourselves prancing around 'a garden.' Who knew it was under there all this time?

If we spend a few months in Florida next year I can see my buddy Blondie more and my cousins Marion and Marcel and Sharon and Eli and their kids and Puff and David and Skylar can visit with Jax and Doug will come and other friends will fly down.

But, how do I explain this to Jimmy?

Old Post Revisited

I'm not trying to sneak a recycled post by you. I'm not that lazy. Well, maybe I am, but I dug this one up from last July because with all this rain every day even anti-sun me is eager for a dry sunny day.

Saturday, July 28, 2007

Who Jumped Into My Body?

Yesterday I opened the back door and actually breathed in the summer air without retreating fast to my crisp air-conditioned kitchen. Instead of my usual "Ugh. It's hot. My hair" I was "ahhhh. The sun. Feels good."Scratch my concern about my hair because it's been straighened the new Brazilian way. But I'm dumbfounded that I've spent a lifetime avoiding the sun, the beach and convertibles and yet just this morning I couldn't wait to be outside manuvering a push broom to sweep my front steps.

Then, I grabbed the garden hose and like an old lady warning "Get off my property" I nosed the nozzle at my driveway. I saw a rainbow. It was wonderful. It was invigorating.

"Look Jimmy, I'm outside! If Jimmy is watching me, I know he's pissed. He would beg me to go to the beach. I hated the scratchness of the sand. He'd promise to drive his convertible slow enough so my hair wouldn't look like a rat's nest. Of course, he lied. How do you do 20 mph on the Long Island Expressway?

He'd conjole me to have coffee with him on the deck and I did...until the sun got too intense. (6 minutes)I happily lived in a dark cold cave and now that Jimmy is no longer alive I suddenly appreciate what he wanted me to soak in with him. LIFE.

Yet, if he hadn't died I never would have deeply known how fragile life is, how the sand can hug my heel and my arch and make walking a whole new almost life affirming experience. I guess, it's not always about the shoes.

I so regret that I didn't take more strolls on the beach with him and that we rarely just sat together sipping a cold drink on a hot deck. It took losing him to understand.Don't get me wrong, though. I haven't turned into a nature freak. I may be seduced by the smell of freshly cut grass, but I'm still not about to roll around on the lawn and risk staining my white pants.

Tips for Getting 'On With It'

Today I did a radio interview with Dr. Jane Greer on www.healthylife.net. It was an hour (less commercials) of talking about myself and my "circumstances." I know Jane for many years and she's a real pro and easy to talk with. The hour flew by...at least, for me, it did. Although, when I hear it I may have to tie myself to a train track...

Jane introduced me by reading my writing credentials and explaining my new status as widow. She emphasized that I'm adusting remarkably to my new life. She attributed my healing to my sense of humor. I believe she's right.

A handful of months ago I was on the Judith Regan Show talking for the first time about this blog and the memoir based on it. My previous radio experience was silly and jokey as Dr. Friendship, the female friendship expert. (Rule #1: If you're your own best friend, you need to get out more.")

Today's interview was easier and harder. It was easier because I was simply talking about my life. It was harder because it once again drove home the point, made it official - my husband has died. When asked 'marital status' I circle 'widow.'

In one of her books, The After life Connection Jane writes, "You never get over it...you get on with it." Towards the end of the show Jane asked me to give her audience tips for "getting on with it." It made me pause. It caused me to view myself semi-responsible for the widow world. Oh, my...Did I sign up for that?

My babble about my life started to sound small. Here was an opportunity to spell out what has worked for me. So, what has worked for poor widow me? I blurted out what I knew to be true.

1. GIVE YOURSELF PERMISSION TO LAUGH.

I realize many widows feel squimish or guilty about laughing. I never did. This may be because I come from the comedy world and it's said that if it's your circumstance you can make fun of it. More importantly, Jimmy and I spent our lives laughing...He would be the first to see the humor within the tragedy.

When I look back on the day I changed my on-line profile I'm amazed. I wrote I would "find the funny." This was only three months after Jimmy died... I wasn't deturmined to find humor. Deturmined implies it was an effort. It wasn't.

I knew I'd be able to pull humor from my new life because my sense of humor is my core. To anyone who has lost a husband or a wife ...We may have lost our spouse, but we haven't lost ourselves. Who you are without him isn't all that clear immediately. Take this as an opportunity to find out.

2. WRITE DOWN YOUR FEELINGS OFTEN.

You don't have to put them in a blog for the public to see. You don't have to spell correctly, either. Writing unscatters feelings. When you write about your emotions you're forced to pinpoint what the MAIN emotion is. So many feelings are swimming within us especially the first year, that putting it on paper makes us choose a theme among all the sub-plots. One feeling at a time is much easier to deal with.

3. KEEP BUSY.

It's difficult to know what to keep busy with - After all, so many of our activities have been as a couple. I'm fortunate to have my writing and many woman work real day jobs that gives them a reason to get out of bed each day. I've always had my own time with friends. Ironically, As Dr. Friendship I used to say that since women live longer than men - the other widows won't let you in the card game if you haven't been playing all these years.

Staying physical has helped me - I find myself actually moving faster and I'm more annimated than ever before. It may have something to do with needing to feel alive. Moving about = fighting back.

I started taking dancing lesssons a few months ago. Don't ask. I'm ridiculously white. I'm majoring in Hustle and a little bit of Salsa. I'm awful in both. Still, I'm having fun and maybe someday I'll actually find a partner.

4. DO FUN THINGS WITH FAMILY AND FRIENDS

It's awkward. It's painful, for us and for them. They see me. They see Jimmy. Still, the relationships need to be nutured - so many widows complain their couple friends have left the building. I wonder who left first.

And, the kids are here for the long haul. Jimmy, assuming he'd be in his 80's used to joke and tell them "If I feel myself going I'll try to take your mother with me...so she won't live to be a burden to you."
They never agrued. Nice. Now, they're going to pay.

Not A Celebration or a Tribute....

This past Sunday, April 13th, marked the second year since Jimmy died. As the day approached I tumbled back again experiencing the weeks leading up to his death. I replayed that terrible time frame by frame.

Gene, my bereavement shrink (now I go every other week) affirmed that this is natural at "anniversary time." She knows this to be true because she's treated "thousands and thousands of grieving people." A session is not a session without the word "thousands" coming out of her mouth. One day I'm going to ask her to name them.

Here it is only a few days later and already I feel lighter and more focused on the future. How can a number on the calendar can be so powerful?

It may be because we didn't gloss over the day. Several of us visited Jimmy at the cemetery in the morning and then Jackie, Skylar, Doug, my nephew Chuckie, Fanny and my friends Debbie and Henry went to dinner - Connie and Trifon surprised us - met us at Puglia in East Meadow.

So many of Jimmy's core people eating and laughing together twisted the day away from a drowsy, rundown, flu-like feeling. It wasn't a celebration or a tribute. It was simply a bunch of us appreciative to have each other and grateful to be alive and well.

Can We Move On Without Moving Out?

A fellow member of the Friars Club waved her bony finger at me and said, "You don't belong in that house, anymore. The city is the place for you."

I should have punched her in the mouth. I've never actually hit anyone and I think this would have been a good moment to start. You may be thinking, "Who is SHE to tell YOU where to live?" Well, she's a real estate agent and these baracudas just can't help themselves. Everyone is a property to them.

She waited what she considered a respectable amount of time before she swept in with the ad she's been composing in her head since she heard that Jimmy died:

House for Sale

"Poor Widow has lost her mate and now has no need for a kitchen...who is she going to cook for anyway? One bedroom is plenty...a place for her to lay her zombie-like body after a day of sobbing. Her kitchen table can double as an office where she sits for hours pulling her hair out writing checks for services she never knew she had to pay for, like water.

All furniture will stay because everyone knows after a loss like this it's way too painful to surround yourself with familar stuff. One exception: The ridiculously expensive, yet extremely cool leather chair her husband refused to buy because "Do I have an S on my forehead that stands for shmuck?"

Naturally, the widow got her way and that chair became her husband's favorite. The seller wants to keep it to remind herself that she won that war.

A backyard is no longer necessary for this middle-aged single. After all, she should be perched at the front window just in case someone attractive passes by. Perhaps, she can rub her thighs together for friction and when a spark catches she can run out the front door screaming, "Fire!"

This is far more inventive than placing an ad on JDate or Match.com."

So, other widows - do what feels right for you. I'm staying here with my memories. It's home until it no longer feels like where I should be.

What is Progress?

At the wedding...

Big head or small hat?

Cowgirl Jax

Cowboy Doug

Traveling alone is a very grown-up thing to do. It begins with the deciding to go. That in itself makes me shake my head with the realization that I can go and do whatever I want - whenever I want.

Not having to 'check in' or 'check with' Jimmy is beginning to feel liberating. In two weeks it will be two years that he's gone. In these last few months something shifted and not to be cliche - the fog lifted. Using a cliche is bad writing, but, until very recently there was an actual fog all around me. These days, I feel more relaxed, better capable of understanding how the world works.

On the other hand, (another cliche) I still can't set my alarm clock. I still get lost even in a parking lot. And, I still smack my side mirror backing out of my garage. But, there's progress. I feel fairly comfortable saying "my garage."

I intended to write today about my most recent trip, last week's Vegas jaunt, but I want to backtrack a bit...partly as an excuse to post those photos. A few weeks ago, on March 14th Jackie and Doug and I flew to Houston, Texas for my cousin's Pam's wedding. That day would have been Jimmy's 58th birthday. We ate dinner in the airport and we clicked glasses - "Happy Birthday."

When we got on the airplane I felt like we were leaving him behind. His family is traveling to an event being part of life's celebrations, but where is Jimmy? Is he back in that restaurant or is he sitting next to the pilot invisible to us all?

I shook off that thought and put my headset on. I closed my eyes and listened to the oldie channel, sentimental music. I can do that now. This is progress - I told myself...although, real progress would be not even thinking that this is progress. Damn.

What a Casino Means To Me

Tomorrow morning I'm meeting my friend Lori in Las Vegas. I've been back a few times since Jimmy died, but I recently realized that a casino represents all the stages of my life. I can trace who I am today and who I was forty years ago by remembering my occasions in a casino.

My first trip to Vegas was with my mother. I was 17 and my father had recently died. He was 57 just a year older than Jimmy was. My mother was much younger. She was a widow at 43.

She was eager to jump back into the dating pool and swim with a younger guy. That was clear to me as she dressed me up to make me look older and legal; her companion and bait. She was like that. There were always strings attached.

Five years later when we were 22 Jimmy and I went to Vegas for our honeymoon. We only had enough money for one of us to gamble. Fresh faced and totally enamoured I stood over him at the blackjack table. As he played craps I convinced myself that I was his "lady luck."

The casino, an atmosphere of chance, excited and energized us. We were grown-ups here; sexy.
He was my James Bond and our incredible life lay stretched out in front of us, a winding trail of pure happiness.

Decades later I'd take note of young couples at the tables with similar body language. I'd smile remembering us. Often there would be an older woman in her fifties, sixties and even seventies, an obvious regular. Both extremes told me I was smack in the middle of life.

I knew the girl's stories but I'd be curious about the older woman. Where was her husband? Did
he leave her beause she had a gambling problem? Had he died? Is her diamond bracelet real?

Soon after our honeymoon we graduated to gambling junkets. Everything was paid for as long as Jimmy played heavy enough. We bet above our means to get a taste of the high life. Once I watched Jimmy play roulette and parlay our last fifty dollars up to nine hundred. Some wives would be horrified. I was proud. "Come on 14. We need a new fence for the backyard" we would yell.

When Resorts Hotel and Casino opened in Atlantic City, just a three hour drive from us, we were practically at the door before the ribbon was cut. Then, we "worked" hard to establish a credit line.

Before long they were sending a limo for us and soon after that the casino offered us 45 minute helicopter rides. This insured we'd get there quicker and spend more money. We knew this but being young and stupid it still made us feel special.

One evening a stormy and fog-filled sky forced us to make an emergency landing. Jackie and Doug were eight and four years old. We made a pact. No more helicopters for us.

But, of course we continued to gamble. Jimmy always played much more than I did. The comps for free rooms, food and transportation were based on his play. We'd begin our gambling day standing on the outskirts of the casino pumped up and ready, like a boxer about to lunge from his corner.

He would hand me cash knowing full well within an hour and a half I'd be down to zero. I'd find him, watch him play a few hands and pretend to be interested. Naturally, I showed up to replenish. Finally, he'd plop a few chips in my hand and I was on my way. I was consistantly unlucky. Jimmy called me his anchor, but not in a good way.

Fun filled trips to casinos with friends and family continued throughout the years. Whether we won or we lost, we always laughed. Of course, we laughed harder when we won.

I assumed we'd be that old couple in ridiculous bermuda shorts strolling hand in hand on the boardwalk in Atlantic City or on the strip in Las Vegas. Instead, tomorrow I'll be sitting at a table aware that a thirty-something girl next to me is eyeing my diamond bracelet. I'll watch her have a run of bad luck. I'll notice her chips dwindling.

She'll sigh as she gets up and she'll wish everyone at the table good luck. She'll walk in the direction of the high stakes pit area and I'll hear Jimmy's voice say, "Back so soon? You're killing me."

May Our Friends Be Our Family & Our Family Be Our Friends

Bunny runs in the family...I mean, funny...

Skylar and I often wear our bunny ears. Luckily, it's Easter time. We got, "Oh, how festive!" instead of the usual "Enough already with the ears, you two!"

Holidays are getting easier. I actually looked forward to the preparing. In the 'old' days my preparing was picking out a great outfit and making sure I had a hair appointment. For some reason Jimmy didn't trust me to touch anything food related. I didn't mind. I set the table and ran out for extra ice. We were a team.

This year we celebrated Easter Eve which worked out perfectly since I did lots of last minute shopping and apparently most places close on Easter Sunday. Who knew?

I happen to be excellent at errands. Even with my non-existent sense of direction I manage to
to navigate from store to store logically. I never understood why Jimmy would have five things on his list and come home after doing three "to take a break." As I was leaving the liquor store yesterday I thought, 'Jimmy would come home now for fifteen minutes.'

When will I stop thinking "Jimmy would...?"

We were eleven people and I'm grateful I was able to surround myself with a perfect blend of family and friends. My kids, Sky and Fanny, my mother-in-law was the family.

In the friends corner (I didn't actually make them sit in a corner) were Connie and Terry. Unfortunately, their daughter Kristi and her husband Matt couldn't make it, but my god-daughter Katharine and her fiance Pete were there and so were my friends Debbie and Henry.

We promised to make this a yearly tradition. Still, as we anticipate many more years of happy holidays together that familiar twinge of reality is ever present. It's kind of like our innocence was collectively taken away. Year to year? We don't know from day to day.

Living in the present is the only way for me to live now. Appreciating the NOW seems to work. That's why I didn't repeat last Easter's toast, "Family is doing things you don't want to do with people you don't want to do them with."

I can't deny that's mostly true. And, of course that's why it's funny. Still, as I saw all the people I loved sitting together at my Easter Saturday table I said,

"May our friends be our family and our family be our friends."

Then, Skylar and I tapped our bunny ears for luck.

Dancing With the Klutz

These days when people ask me "What's new?" there's a gleam in their eyes. I translate that to:

"So, are you dating?"

My standard answer is "I'm ready for a little romance. It's got to be the right chemistry,
though."

Sometimes I say, "I've gone out to dinner...a few men, but Jimmy is a tough act to follow."

My friend Vera wanted to fix me up with Tom. He's 60 but only dates women under 45. I have two words for him and it's not "Happy Birthday."

Eventually, Mr. Right will come along and as the comic Mickey Freeman says, "I was looking for Mrs. Right...who knew her first name was "Always?" - Hopefully, my Mr. Right's first name will be "You're always."

I'd like to try on easy-going. Jimmy loved the IDEA of being easy-going and he aspired to that, but often when he said, "It's no big deal" it was. He sulked. At my age, I have no time for sulking. I'd say to Jimmy,

"I've never seen a man work so hard to be so easy-going."

In anticipation of meeting someone I had to do something to get ready, but what?

Bathe? check.
Moisturize? check.
Color, straighten and continually obsess about my hair? check
Shop for shoes? check
Play on-line poker? check
Giggle about Spitzer check
Exercise? NO

Hmmm...My friend, Sheri suggested I join her pilates class. It's supposed to make you leaner and taller. Yippee! I pictured those extra inches around my waist stretched up and peeking out of my head. Pretty disgusting, actually.

Pilaties is the movement for ex-dancers. It keeps your body in line. Sheri has great posture or as my mother used to call it, "carriage." I've known Sheri for 20 years and pre-pilates she stood up straight. If she were a chimpanzee she'd walk on two legs.

I hemmed and hawed. Most decisions are difficult for me except for
"Should we stop for Carvel?"

Then, something wonderful happened. My friend Connie's mother went to the hospital. Yes, she died soon after, but that's not the wonderful part. Connie called me from the car on her way from seeing her dying mother. Naturally, she was sad. Suddenly, she perked up,

"Hey, today's Monday! Dancing With the Stars is on tonight!" she said.

Her enthusiasm was a ten out of ten. I thought, 'Gee, any show that can lift her spirits like that is a show worth checking out. '

As I watched that night I felt myself smiling. Tony almost smiled, too but that was because I was rubbing his tummy. Anyway, as I mentioned in yesterday's post, he has no lips.

Epiphany! Rather than take a class for ex-dancers, why not learn to dance? It's exercise with a skill. I may never go out dancing, yet I do go to weddings. And, at weddings I'm known as the Elaine from Seinfeld dancer. Remember that episode where Elaine thought she was such a cool dancer? After she saw the video of her arms and legs going in different directions she was mortified.

Jimmy was light on his feet and loved to dance. He would throw me around like a Raggity Ann doll. He thought that was funny. He'd almost be surprised when I stumbled back to his arms only to toss me out again.

We were carefree when we danced. Often I was looped. That may have contributed. Not to be morbid, but one of the last things he said to me was,

"We should have danced more."

That's why I kept his tuxedo and patent leather shoes. And, maybe that's why I'm taking dance lessons. So far I love it. My "carriage" is improving. I'm still a klutz, though.

Back to Blogging

Tony Bologne Scibelli

I've missed blogging. I've missed the immediate response from readers. So, here I am...back to blogging. If anyone has an objection blame it on Alison Grambs. I ran into her last night at the Friars Club and she said,

"You MUST get back out there! While you're writing your memoir "Poor Widow Me" you can still keep your blog fresh. How lazy can you be?"

I'm assuming that was a retorical question because I sure can be lazy. Alison is the author of two must buy books, "The Smart Girl's Guide to Getting Even" and "The Man Translator" so she obviously doesn't understand the irresistible pull to leave the computer mid-sentence to tweeze her eyebrows.

It's a good bet, too that she doesn't disconnect from a thought because she hears pretzels calling to her from downstairs. Alison gets the job done and from what I can see her eyebrows are in good shape. She must leave a bowl of pretzels near her workspace.

As I write this, Tony, the new man in my life is laying at my feet...and I can tell you this - Jimmy never stooped so low. Of course, Jimmy never pooped on the carpet either, unless you count that time when he was prepping for a colonoscopy...no, wait...that was me...

Back in August my gardener GAVE me Tony - he came from an unhappy home with two huge dogs who didn't understand that he wasn't their chew toy. (Tony, not my gardener)

Since Tony was already a year and a half he had a name - Bones - Well, I couldn't live with that so since Tone and Bone rhyme I changed his name to Tony. He responded immediately. I took that as a sign that either he was gifted or he never really knew his old name.

Everyone was thrilled that I got a dog. Luckily, I kept in mind what my nephew, Roby wisely said immediately after Jimmy died. He whispered, "Remember...People mean well."

This sage advice helped me to deal with comments that otherwise might have made me feel pathetic.

1. "Good for you! Now you don't have to come home to an empty house."

2. "He sleeps with you? Sweet - On Jimmy's side of the bed?"

3. "Tony's so affectionate. You must miss that."

I have Tony for 8 months now. We recently celebrated his 2nd birthday. We had a little party for him and I invited my good friends Debbie and Henry for cake. My daughter, Jackie came and my granddaughter Skylar helped to blow out the candles since Tony doesn't have lips.

Not to keep quoting nephews, but right after Tony came to live with me I thought about how my other nephew, Chuck told me I should get a dog. But, he told me this about five years ago.

He was about 40 at the time, but he nagged me like a six year old.

"Why don't you get a dog?" he asked.

"Someday I'll get a dog" I said.

"When?"

"Someday, Chuck..."

"You love dogs. You should get one."

"I know. I know. I will."

"When? When?"

Finally, his eyes opened wide as though he'd solved a big mystery and he said,

"Oh, I know, when Uncle Jimmy dies, right?"

I nodded sheepishly. So, I guess, deep down I thought he would die first. I just took it for granted it would happen 20 or 30 years from now.

So this is life...bottomline...I couldn't love Tony more and yes, he is wonderful to come home to.

Who Jumped Into My Body?

Yesterday I opened the back door and actually breathed in the summer air without retreating fast to my crisp air-conditioned kitchen. Instead of my usual "Ugh. It's hot. My hair" I was "ahhhh. The sun. Feels good."

Scratch my concern about my hair because it's been straighened the new Brazilian way. But I'm dumbfounded that I've spent a lifetime avoiding the sun, the beach and convertibles and yet just this morning I couldn't wait to be outside manuvering a push broom to sweep my front steps. Then, I grabbed the garden hose and like an old lady warning "Get off my property" I nosed the nozzle at my driveway. I saw a rainbow. It was wonderful. It was invigorating. "Look Jimmy, I'm outside!

If Jimmy is watching me, I know he's pissed. He would beg me to go to the beach. I hated the scratchness of the sand. He'd promise to drive his convertible slow enough so my hair wouldn't look like a rat's nest. Of course, he lied. How do you do 20 mph on the Long Island Expressway? He'd conjole me to have coffee with him on the deck and I did...until the sun got too intense. (6 minutes)

I happily lived in a dark cold cave and now that Jimmy is no longer alive I suddenly appreciate what he wanted me to soak in with him. LIFE. Yet, if he hadn't died I never would have deeply known how fragile life is, how the sand can hug my heel and my arch and make walking a whole new almost life affirming experience. I guess, it's not always about the shoes.

I so regret that I didn't take more strolls on the beach with him and that we rarely just sat together sipping a cold drink on a hot deck. It took losing him to understand.

Don't get me wrong, though. I haven't turned into a nature freak. I may be seduced by the smell of freshly cut grass, but I'm still not about to roll around on the lawn and risk staining my white pants.

Lucky Me - 07/07/07

I'm baaack. After nearly three months of sitting on my hands (not literally) here I am blogging again. I wrote my last post almost a full year to the day that Jimmy died and it felt then like a natural ending for the blog, too.

Also, people "in the know" warned "If you put it all out there on your blog no one will buy your book."

To those "in the know" people I say, "You don't know squat." People "not in the know" know just as much. This leaves "people who only know a little" and they voted "undecided." Some didn't come out to vote. They just stayed home and washed their hair. All this is not important. What is important, at least to me, is that I am eager to write and fill in these last three months.

After the dreaded year anniversary passed it clicked into my thick head that this is it, my life is going to continue on without Jimmy. It's not that I expected him to come back. I just didn't expect it to get easier. It has. Something shifted.

Coming home to an empty house is not as jarring as it was. It no longer feels so weird to make plans without checking. Only a handful of months ago I'd be out and suddenly I'd panic. I'd need to be home. I felt out of place wherever I was.

These days I'm fairly comfortable shopping, traveling and eating alone. "It is what it is" I tell myself. This says nothing, but somehow explains everything.

Memorial Day Weekend I took off my wedding ring. Why? I'm not sure. My friend's six year old who knew Jimmy looked at my hand and asked, "Is that a wedding band?"

After I nodded yes I wondered if maybe this was the time. It was spontaneous in the sense I didn't plan to do it, but I was aware that once it was off I wouldn't put it on again. That night I had a long talk with Jimmy in the closet. He understood. I feel married and not married and I needed to look at my ringless hand and remind myself. It was a way of moving forward.

Gene, my bereavement shrink laughed when I told her I talked about it with Jimmy. She said, "That reminds me of what widows do when they're ready to remarry. They go to the cemetery to ask for 'permission.' I told her I understood that. She smiled and said, "Isn't it interesting that none of these husbands ever say 'no?'

So, tomorrow is my birthday, my second one without Jimmy. Four of my closest couple friends are taking me out to dinner at The Crescent Beach Club. I've learned that the trick to not feel like a fifth wheel is just to be myself and to keep reminding myself that that's enough. It's hard to sit there and watch the intimacy between two people, but when they begin to bicker it helps.

My birthday, tomorrow is 07/07/07 - the reason I've always felt I'm a lucky person. I was 27 in 7/7/77. I don't remember that being a particularly great year, though.
It's clear that feeling lucky is a state of mind.

Recently, a new doctor asked me questions and I was forced to face that my life doesn't look so good on paper.

Doc: Are your parents living?
Me: Well, my father died in 1967 at 57. My mother is still alive. She's 82.
Doc: Is she in good health?
Me: Um, it's hard to say. We haven't talked in several years.
Doc: Any siblings?
Me: (Nervous laugh) My sister died 10 years ago, complications from crones disease.
She was 50. I'm beginning to feel like 'Queen For a Day' here.
The doctor glanced down at the form I had filled out...
Doc: I see you circled widow...
Me: Yeah. Just last year. Burkitts Lymphoma.
Doc: (nervous smile) I'm a little afraid to ask, any children?
Me: Oh, yes. Two. They're fine! They're fine!

My life doesn't look so good on paper. This is true. I'm kind of like the lost dog: Description: He has three legs, a chewed ear, and missing patches of fur. Answers to the name "Lucky."

Hey, life throws you lemons - just add vodka.

The Measure of a Year

April 13th came and went. Tomorrow, April 18th, was the date of Jimmy's funeral. We said good-bye that day and it began the year that just passed.

April 18th was also our "Date-a-versary." Our first official date was April 18, 1968. Jimmy was eighteen and I was seventeen. We played Pitch and Putt, nine holes of golf. It was boring, but I told Jimmy it was great.

In those days most girls pretended to be into football or cars or all kinds of sex, or sex at all when they weren't. Soon I stopped pretending. I didn't want to have to play golf again. Or have the burden to remember to act excited about Ringo when I was really into Paul.

I remember I wore yellow. Lots of yellow to the golf course. I had yellow opaque tights and yellow hot pants, a silky yellow top and later, years later Jimmy told me how stupid I looked.

"It was like looking at the sun," he said. "the sun with big tits."

We used to go to the airport to watch the planes take off. I don't remember why, but we did. It was free. I guess that's why. We'd sit on the log in front of Carvel eating our ice-cream and I made fun of Jimmy because he always had vanilla in a cup with peaches. "That's a desert for a little old Italian man" I'd tease.

Friends and family tell me Jimmy would be proud of me now. They say this past year I've handled myself with dignity and courage. I don't know what that means, really.
Each day kind of fell into the next and decisions had to be made.

Jimmy's limo business is still up in the air, but I'm less frantic and more at ease about the outcome. I learned what a receivable is. I've attended business meetings and been on conference calls and sometimes I actually understand what is being said. Sometimes I even say something smart.

I sold two cars, a couple of horses, bought a new oven and redid the basement to be a playroom for Sky. We took a family trip to Aruba. These are some tangible things that measure the year.

The intangible is the love and support from my kids and from my friends. All have been beyond loving. My children are strong and caring and I try to fill some of their void and lessen a bit of their pain. But, I can't be Papa Bear for them.

I tend to hide away and do my best imitation of a hermit, but then an invitation for dinner draws me out. I'm a sucker for a glass of red wine to start.

I no longer avoid running into people in my neighborhood dreading their looks of pity or shock. I still feel more comfortable with my family and friends who knew and loved Jimmy. I feel safest at home and no, real estate brokers, I'm not selling the house.

I'm not dating. I've had some offers. That began at ten months. I clocked it. It's both flattering and disturbing.

I belong in a category that sets me apart. Widowhood is sad and strange and I miss Jimmy all the time.

Still, I wonder what next year will bring.

Continuing The Blog

I went to a writer's conference this weekend and although there were conflicting answers by "people in the know" most told me it's fine to keep the blog going even while planning to publish much of this material.

Was that a run on sentence? I guess I should have attended the grammar panel...

When I began this blog I planned to end it when the year ended. I reconsidered that, too. I realized I'm not ready to stop blogging just like I need to hold on to Jimmy's clothes.

Of course, I can afford to be sentimental. I don't need the closet space.

Will blog again tomorrow...

A Year

JAMES SCIBELLI
March 14, 1950 - April 13, 2006
Much loved
Deeply missed
Always in our hearts
Love forever, Carol, Jackie, Glenn
Doug, Skylar and your Mom

This was in Newsday yesterday and I really should have added "and Jimmy's many many friends who loved him and misses him, too."

Easter At My House

Last Saturday I sat at my mother-in-law's kitchen table between her and my brother-in-law, Charlie. Every Easter for at least the past 25 years my family has gone to Charlie and his wife Gabie for this holiday.

Here it was the day before Palm Sunday and nothing had been said about Easter. I didn't get an e-mail requesting my famous chocolate pudding pie. Jackie, my daughter didn't get a phone call asking if Skylar eats ham. Nobody sent up a smoke signal to say,

"We're telling you to come at 3:00, but this is Carol time...since you're always late."

I asked, "Hey, Charlie, what's going on for Easter?"

He pushed his hair back in a nervous gesture. I could tell it was a nervous gesture because his hair was already neatly slicked back. He stuttered something about their good dishes being packed away since they're in the process of selling their house. I didn't catch the last part because he drowned out the end of his sentence with a self concious sip of coffee.

Before I had a chance to respond, "That's fine, but when were you planning on telling me this? Easter morning?" a peculiar conversation began between Charlie and Fanny.

Charlie: "What did we do last year?"
Fanny: "You know, I don't remember."
Charlie: "Let me think...
Fanny: "I have such a good memory. Don't I have a good memory? I must be losing it."

I silently moved my head from Charlie to Fanny, from Fanny to Charlie following their words like the ball in a tennis match.
Finally, I blurted out,

"Well, let's see - if Easter last year was next week Jimmy was in the hospital. And, if it was the week after, he wasn't anymore."

You can imagine the embarrassed groans of "Oh, yeah" from the two of them, Jimmy's brother and mother.

I don't expect everyone to remember, although most of my friends, do. It's kind of like we all expect important events in our lives to hold the same importance to everyone.

So often when I ask my friend what she's wearing to some event she answers,
"I think I'll wear what I wore to Lori's party."
Does she really think I can picture what she was wearing? I don't even remember what I wore.

As I said, we haven't varied the holiday in twenty-five years, so I can't imagine why there would be any confusion, anyway. So much for extended families. The best definition I ever heard of family is:

"Family is doing things you don't want to do with people you don't want to do them
with."

I mentioned to Doug that Aunt Gabie isn't having Easter this year fully expecting him to shrug and say "Let's skip it." Instead he said, "Then, you have it."

Oh. Okay. Yeah. I guess, I could do that. I love that he expects of me what I don't expect of myself. Last summer he saw a stack of bills I was going to bring to Jimmy's assistant to pay for me. (Rae used to pay all our bills even when Jimmy was alive) Doug said, "You can't pay your own bills?" Since then I have.

Doug is a great combination of a helpful, loyal son but he won't take over. He knows I'm capable and I rise to that. It's working.

Tomorrow we'll be twelve people around the table and one little three year old running around looking for hidden Easter eggs. Tradition continues in it's own new way.

A Dream

Some mornings I have an awareness that Jimmy floated into my dream, but he hasn't played a starring role...until last night.

In my dream I'm sitting alone in a theatre. I seem to know the people on stage and suddenly Jimmy is there and he says,

"Let's go sit with the Luxury people." (Luxury is the name of a
Jimmy's company that I'm trying to sell)

I go with him and I sit down, but we're all the way to the side and it's hard to see. Everything looks out of focus, too.

That's it. I woke up. Later in the day I called my friend Mimi Scott who's an actress and a therapist figuring this is a perfect dream for her to analyze.

She said,

"You're making decisions independently that are making you feel good
rather than just going along. You're learning to trust yourself."

I think she's right. I thought about all the choices I made over this last almost year and and as hard as it is to make them alone, when I do, I feel stronger and more grown-up.

I believe if Jimmy came back tomorrow I would challenge him more. Although, I didn't in my dream...

Thank You

The comments to this blog have been incredibly kind and sensitive and many people have told me that they read entry after entry at one sitting. They tell me not just to praise me, but also to blame me for making them stay up until 3 o'clock in the morning. I'm never quite sure how to answer this. Read faster, start earlier...what can I say?

I am simultaneously stunned and thrilled that my experience resonates with others and while it helps me tremendously to write, forcing me to pinpoint my feelings, it seems to be helping others, as well.

My goal is to expand this blog into book form. I'm working on a book proposal now and I'm searching for a new literary agent. I'm pretty sure that if I'm lucky enough to get an agent who will find "Poor Widow Me" a publisher, some bigshot will tell me to stop the presses on this blog or certainly limit the content. We can't have a fairly large chunk of the book's material out there on the internet while trying to sell the book.

I'm writing this now for two reasons. One, to thank everyone who has been reading and commenting and two, maybe you've noticed that I used to post approximately twice a week. I am purposely slowing down my entries to be about once every ten days so I can keep the blog active and yet not give away so much content. Capice?

So, I won't count this as a post because that wouldn't be fair and we all know how fair life is, right? I'll post a new entry tomorrow and from now on a little more sparcely - once every 10 days or so.

Thank you for reading and thank you for your encouragement. See you tomorrow.

Bad Time To Be An Idiot Savant

I remember dates like Rainman counted toothpicks. Don't be flattered that I remember your birthday. I remember Mrs. Friedman's birthday and she was my second grade teacher.

My memory for dates is a talent with no real value, like baton twirling. Occasionally, I've reminded others about an upcoming birthday or anniversary and I've saved the day, but being an idiot savant is definitely not bankable.

Jean, my bearevment shrink warns me (and she oughta know - After all, she boasts every time that she's treated "THOUSANDS" of grieving people in her career) that as it closes in on the first anniversary people experience film like memories that are difficult because it's like watching a movie for the second time, but now we know the terrible ending.

She's right. I wish I could turn it off. I'm remembering dates and seeing scenes from last year even more acutely now. This past Saturday, the 10th which was the 11th last year was my brother-in-law's 65th birthday party (his actual birthday is March 6th) and Jimmy drove 45 minutes to his house in New Rochelle.

Thirty-three days later he was dead. How is this possible? Today, it's exactly 11 months and tonight last year we went to our friend Mimi Scott's reading. I didn't drag him like I did with some events. He liked Mimi and he didn't want to disappoint her. He threw up in the men's room.

Tomorrow would have been Jimmy's 57th birthday. I don't have to be an idiot savant to remember that, of course. I'd be a plain idiot to forget. I realize this.

The 15th was his first catscan, casting the beginning of concern that the pain Jimmy was feeling was not just indigestion. On the 22nd he had an MRI.

Also, on March 15th, this Thursday a year ago, Jimmy said something to me that I will never forget no matter day it was. As we waited in the doctor's office before his catscan with no reason yet to feel there was anything seriously wrong, he kept fooling around saying, "Sayonara. See ya. Nice to know ya."

Then, he stopped smiling, became thoughtful for a moment, and like it just occurred to him he said,
"Wow. What a life changer for you. It will be an adventure."

Music

Music stirs so many memories and feelings that I've been forced to listen to the news while driving. I'm up on current events more than ever before. Jimmy used to have a perfect comeback if someone brought up a news story that he had no clue about. He'd say,

"I haven't been following that story."

It implies that he's aware of EVERY OTHER story, just not that one. It's very effective, unless it's something big, like "Anna Nicole Smith died? I haven't been following that story." For ones that grab the headlines for weeks, you have to make up your own story, like,

"I just woke up from a coma."

Lately, though, the news is even more depressing to me than hearing "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion. I can hear "My Girl" a song Jimmy sang to me at my 40th birthday party or "Hero" the ballad I put on the "This is Your Life" video I made for him when he was 45. They make me sorta smile.

There's a wistfulness surrounding me when I hear our song, "Our Day Will Come." We dated since 1968 and I remember so well waiting and waiting for 1972, the year we'd finally be married. Finally...we were 22.

I shake my head in amazement that our day came and our day went and now it's over. The story of us has ended. Jimmy's cousin Lew and Carole Yevoli made a Cd for me soon after Jimmy died with varying renditions of "Our Day Will Come." Last week I was able to listen to part of it.

Music makes him alive to me now and while there's a yearning, I don't move away from it or change the radio station so quickly like I did even a month ago. I feel us together dancing or what our interpretation of dancing was. After all, a white middle aged couple trying to look cool doing the the ancient cha-cha can be a hazard. Caterers should be instructed to put orange cones around the dance floor.

And, I can never again think of dancing without hearing what Jimmy said to me just weeks before he died.

"I wish we had danced more."

An Honest Woman

Jean, my bereavement shrink told me I'm a very honest woman. She said it like she doesn't come accross one often and that is just weird considering every other session she throws her hands up in the air and announces, "I've treated thousands of people."

Just in case I might mistake this 70 something for a new kid on the block, she repeats, "Not hundreds, but thousands."

I get it. I get it. Each day she sits in her high back leather chair with her feet up on the ottoman, holding her huge mug of coffee (I'm assuming) and tells another poor widow or widower or worse how everyone experiences grief differently.

I object. I doubt there are "thousands" of variations on the death theme. I doubt it a lot. She seems to take great pleasure repeating my questions.

I ask her: "Why am I mad at him, lately?"

"Why do YOU think?" she responds. AHH...can I kill her and get away with it? I wonder.

"Why does it bother me so much that he never cleaned out the garage? Should that matter now? Damn. I'm a terrible person." I say, slumping further down on the couch.

Again with the "Why do YOU think?" But, something shifts and I sit up and tell her that if he had cleaned out the garage I wouldn't have to see the sides to Doug's old bunkbed, the gray lacquer cradenza from two houses ago and the stupid outdoor cushions that fit chairs that are long gone. I'm stuck seeing them through only my eyes and there's no one here to say,

"Oh, God, remember when Louis the decorator made us buy that?"

She has that 'It looks like we're getting somewhere look.' I furiously tell her that I'm not going to ask her why I'm focusing on the bad stuff. I already know. She bates me with a "Why?"

"Because there was so much of it!" I say, feeling PMSY even though I haven't gotten my period in five years. She puts down her coffee mug, takes her feet off the ottoman and leans towards me, "No", she says softly, "You're trying to not miss him so much."

Oh.

Living In a Refrigerator

Jimmy hated the winter. He was a big guy so it was always surprising to everyone how quickly he felt the cold.

"This wind goes right through me. Why do we live here? It's like living in a refrigerator" he'd growl and then throw in a couple of 'brrs' and shiver for extra drama.

Naturally, I called him a baby and if snow was convenient I'd scoop it up and throw it at him. If this is painting a picture of a playful snowball fight ensuing and ending in a major sex scene by the fire, it didn't go that way. It never went that way.

Snow to Jimmy an anti-aphrodisiac. In fact, it was probably the only thing that didn't turn him on. (although he did appreciate the hot chocolate)

"Why do people ski?" he say. "I like sand beneath my toes."

This morning as I looked out at the driveway that was transformed to a skating rink I thought I heard Jimmy's voice, "HA!"

I had to be in the city by noon for a luncheon for a
Gotham Networking luncheon at the Friars Club. My car looked like an igloo. Again, I heard "HA!"

"HA! Yourself" I said to a nearby photo. "It's invigorating and fun and scrapping off the car will be a challenge!"

Finding and then putting on my snow boots on was the first challenge. Locking the door behind me was another. The lock had froze and my key wouldn't slip in. I went back into the house and turned on burning hot water, poured it into a paper cup, then "ouch!" doubled the paper cup.

Splashing burning hot water on the lock worked and I smirked as I turned the key. As I inched like Tim Conway on the old Carol Burnett Show down the steps towards my car I slipped and hung onto the mailbox. Then, I realized I left the scrapper in the house and had steady myself and climb up again. The lock was frozen again. I stood outside with no hot water.

Brainstorm: I'll go in through the garage. I gingerly got down the steps and slid across the driveway to the garage door. I put the code in and open sesame - the garage lifted up and I went in - to the garage, but the door to the house was locked.

The 'fun' part was pretty much over and 'invigorating' had turned to freakin' freezing. I felt like a contestant on Survivor, except for the fact I was decked out in a cute little mink jacket, my neighbors were 20 feet away and it had only been 15 minutes.

As I ice-skated over to my trunk where I prayed I kept a scrapper I slipped again and this time grabbed hold of a skinny tree on the side of the driveway.

All these near misses made me think of what could have happened. If I had fallen and landed on my head I may have lived and been a burden to my children or choice number two I could have smacked my head even harder and been reunited with Jimmy.

Another "HA" somewhere inside my head gave me the wherewithall to balance myself. I would never hear the end of it from him if living in a refrigerator killed me.

Literally, I'd be hearing "HA! HA! HA" for all eternity.

My Shrink Sounds Like Jackie Mason

I'm beginning to attempt to use the word 'died.' Jean, my shrink says that 'passed away' is a cop out. She says that people fumble with the word 'die' to keep their loved one present.

She insists, "Jimmy didn't pass away. He died." Is she reminding me?

Her tone is biting and too aggressive for me. I'm feeling fragile. I've taken a few steps back and she needs to take it easy with me. Shouldn't she see this? Is this tough love or is she trying out new comedy material on me?

She doesn't stop. "If he passed away where did he go?" She waves her hands and as they float in the air she hesitates like she's waiting for the audience to get the joke.

The cackling of her imagined fans 'dies' down and she continues. "I also hear '"I lost my husband." ' I tell my clients. "No. He's not lost. He knows exactly where he is."

I'm squirming and becoming teary yet also finding this oddly funny. This sounds like a routine
that Jackie Mason might do.

When they told me Jimmy had ____ in my head I knew that meant he was ___. I never expected my husband to come back, walk in the door as so many people who have lost loved ones express.

Still, it's almost impossible for me to say he ____.

Superbowl Tradition

Superbowl at our house has been a tradition long before HD TV and flat screens and huge screens. For 30 years at least a dozen guys would gather around our 27" televison and later our 35" and last year, Jimmy's pride and joy, a 60" screen.

The grid for the pool was posted on the kitchen wall and nearby there were wings and cannoli's and Fanny's meatballs, food enough to feed the entire NFL.

Jimmy was the loudest among the loud and the funniest among the funny. He would fall to his knees and curse at the coach or heckle a player rooting like he was at a live game. Women were not allowed so I was never there, but I know this.

It always puzzled me that Jimmy was so unbending about the 'no woman' policy. He was normally extremely bendable. A brat like me could never be married to him if he wasn't.

This day was totally testosterone. Poor, displaced me, would have to find someplace to go. It wasn't easy in the early years when Jackie and Dougie were little. Superbowl games are always in the evening into the night.

After several years I saw it was senseless to argue. He did the shopping and the cleanup and before long Doug was one of the boys along with his friends and it was just Jackie and me seeking a quiet haven without a tv.

Me, being me would use it to my advantage all the rest of the year. Whenever I wanted him to go someplace with me or if I wanted to go with just my girl friends without him I would pull out the Superbowl card. It usually worked throughout the rest of the Winter and into the Spring and then again mid-January as Superbowl Sunday was around the corner once again.

The last 10 years it was a non-issue. I would go out to dinner with my cousin Marion and other friends and see a movie. I still used it against him, though. That was almost as much a tradition as the Superbowl party itself. It was our dance.

Today, it wasn't me who was displaced, but Doug and all of his and Jimmy's buddies. Everyone scattered. For Doug, Superbowl without his father must have felt like this past Christmas all over again. He went to a sports bar in the city and some friends joined him. Others stayed home with their families.

And, for the first time in 30 years I could have stayed home. It was quiet, too quiet. I went a few towns over to Vera's house, our friend from Junior High School who I've reconnected with.
She and her husband Jeff had a huge Superbowl bash...both men and women. There was enough food to feed the entire NFL. Missing were Fanny's meatballs.

I won the pool twice and I talked with old high school friends. It was comfortable. Back at home there were no hefty bags to be thrown out and no lingering food smells or friends with hoarse voices.

Tradition is a wonderful way to stay close, remain connected and make memories, but when the main link of the chain breaks, it's over. Jimmy's Superbowl parties are now in their own Hall of Fame we'll always refer to as 'the good old days.'

Photos From Aruba - Captions By Sky

"Hey, is Daddy copying me?"

"When I grow up I want to be just a silly as them...wait, I am!"

"Grandma loves me."

"That's my Grandma under that hat."

"I don't remember this restaurant."

"I think I like this place!"

"He's cute!"

"I have a very funny family!"

"Is Uncle Doug wearing my daisy?"

"Wow...The ice-cream cones are much bigger in Aruba!" "Mommy's tickling me again."

Life Is a Beach

We got home from Aruba last night and not a moment too soon to watch all the shows I had tivoed. My plan was to unpack immediately but "Desperate Housewives"and "Medium" was calling to me, similar to the way Jimmy would say,

"That Rocky Road ice-cream is singing my name. I can't ignore it. That would be rude."

It was good for us to be together and begin to feel complete as a family. Skylar was the star, enthusiastic about EVERYTHING...the beach, the pool, her sand toys, the casino (okay, that was me)

Being on vacation brought back memories of other vacations. In Puerto Rico when Doug was Dougie (and sometimes Dougsie-Wougsie) Jimmy and I tried to explain to him that 8 year old little boys aren't allowed in a casino. Dougie said,

"I'll just tell them I'm here to play 'the marble game.'"

We all flew to Vegas when Jackie was 14 and Doug was 10. Fresh off the plane and still in the airport Jackie took a handful of quarters from me and ran over to the row of slot machines. As she began to slip them in an airport Nazi goosestepped over,

"The children must stand 10 feet away from the machines" she said.
I answered, "Then, how can they get the quarters in?"

Watching Sky dig in the sand reminded me a trip to France when Dougie was 11. We were on the beach and he was playing in the sand. I said,

"See, he's not too big. We should have bought him a pail and shovel."

Jimmy motioned for me to see that Doug was facing away from the water and staring at a topless woman. His eyes were glued to her chest while his hands unconciously built too huge mounds in the sand.

That was the moment we knew for sure that he's straight.

I never liked the beach. First you get hot. Then, you get wet and then you end up hot with wet sand sticking to areas that sand is not supposed to be. Jimmy loved it. He could never be too hot. He'd walk outside on the stickiest day and declare,

"What a perfect day!"

Perfect? I could barely breathe. Perfect for a heart attack.

So there we were on the beach sifting sand on Sky's little feet to hide her toes, letting her dribble sand over ours and then wiggling them free to watch her giggle. All the elements were there to make Jimmy smile. Maybe he was.

Family Vacation

I'm writing this from Aruba. I know, poor me...sun, beach, pool, casino...Went today with Jax, Glenn, Skylar and Doug, something Jimmy and I talked about doing and probably this would have been the year.

In many ways it's a good thing we never took a family vacation with our adult kids. This is new territory. We're making new memories.

Skylar is 2 years and nine months and as we stepped on to the plane I heard groans from the passengers as they prayed we'd sit anywhere but near them. Kids on a plane is almost as bad as 'Snakes on a Plane.' Actually, snakes may be slimy, but they don't
scream out,

"I have to go pottie! Right now!"

Other than the normal kid stuff Sky was a perfect passenger and less noisy than the snorer behind me. I sat on the aisle across from Jackie and next to a couple in their sixties. (she was 60 - snuck a peek at her immigration form)

She was so sweet and sincerely interested in what her boring husband 'James' (yes, kill me now) had to say that I was 30% impressed and 70% nauseated. I tried to be honest with myself as I wondered, 'Did I listen to Jimmy so intently and respond this kindly to him?'

It reminded me of the conversation I had a few days ago with my friend Cathy, a widow for eight years.

"Howie and I were such kids. If I found someone today
I don't think I could ever love him as much, but I know I'd be kinder.
I wouldn't yell at him,

"You're fat, stupid and your mother's insane!"

I watched the woman next to me put her head on her husband's shoulder and I panicked, afraid at some point during the flight the fact might come up that the only shoulder I had to lean on was the arm rest. I looked around. Three in a row on Jet Blue, but a pair in each row.

Jimmy and I always held hands during take off and landing. It began at the beginning - on our honeymoon. The flight attendant sensed we were on our honeymoon and brought over a small bottle of champagne. Ever since then we held hands hoping for at least an extra bag of peanuts.

As our plane's pace quickened down the runway for lift off, my wonderful, sensitive daughter reached over to hold my hand. Nice, nice start.

Ironing The Sheets

I just took the sheets out of the dryer. They were still warm and as I folded them I remembered at the very beginning of our marriage 22 year old Jimmy would iron my side of the bed to make it "toasty."

This sweet, romantic and seemingly gallant gesture was not completely unselfish. As he patted the mattress to call me to bed he would say,

"I made your side toasty - Now, you can make it hot."

Ten years or so ago it popped in my head.

"Remember when you used to iron the sheets for me?"
"Yeah, but now they're permanent press."

Recalling all the small moments that made up our life together is now my new life with out him.

We Were The Lockhorns

In our empty nest, dinner time was a free for all. Jimmy and I behaved exactly the opposite of the good manners we stressed to our growing kids. We talked with our mouths full, interrupted each other and often didn't bother to use a fork. No more need to set a phony good example.

I've noticed that eating alone frequently turns civilized people into grunting pigs. I have a leg up here. My table manners can't get any worse. It's kind of interesting in a disgusting way, but in a restaurant you can tell who lives alone by the way they 'forget' soup is to be eaten with a spoon and cherry tomatoes are not supposed to be picked out of a salad and flicked into the bread basket to score two points.

Eating alone sucks. My cooking sucks and I miss Jimmy's sarcastic comments. We used to say we were just like our favorite cartoon, The Lockhorns. Leroy, the husband would wisecrack about his wife's cooking, "If I say I like this, Loretta will you promise not to make it again?"

He also made fun of her hair (check) and her out of control shopping habits. (check) She countered with his laziness, his love affair with laying on the couch, "Leroy could stand to lose a few pounds, but he rarely stands." At a party, Leroy was rested and ready to flirt with all the busty, sexy women. (check)

Each morning at breakfast right after Jimmy dropped butter on his shirt, went upstairs to change and came down again I would read him The Lockhorns to give him material for later on at dinner.

I just started reading it again. I may have to stop. I miss my Leroy.

A Sign

It's not like we never talked about death. We did. Jimmy concluded that he would go first and he had facts to back him up.

"First of all, I'm a man. Minus me seven years right there.
Second, you probably haven't noticed, but I'm about 100 pounds
overweight."

We compared family history and that balanced. Aside from my father who died at 57 (a brain tumor brought on by my mother's aggravation) my sister at 50 (drugs, alcohol and taking herself too seriously) 'everyone else' in my family managed to glide into their late 80's and even 90's. Jimmy's Dad died at 72 and all his aunts and uncles on his mom's side lived into their 90's. Both of our mothers are living - mine is 82 and Fanny is 88.

Jimmy insisted (and the insurance company agreed)that my driving record put me at risk for an accident even though backing out of driveways so far has been my most major fender bender. Jimmy believed in God because of all the 'near misses' I had. "Someone must be watching over you." he'd say.

I slather on body cream and a host of moisturizers each night and we would joke that one night I would slip right out of bed and hit something vital or if I'm lucky, my head.

I love irony (not ironing) and sometimes I thought maybe I was going to die first because it would make such a good ironic story. After all, I'm the one who's in better shape and not responsible for the finances, etc. I have less stress. If I had a sudden heart attack everyone would say, "Oh, my God. She seemed so healthy." Jimmy would be shocked, too because he always said "My wife will never have a heart attack. How could she? She has no heart."

One time near Valentine's Day I was going to have a procedure (okay, liposuction)and
as a pre-op I needed to have a cardiogram. I saved the sheets of paper that showed my heart graph, enclosed it in my Valentine's Day card and wrote, "See - Proof - I do have a heart!"

Most of the time I agreed that yes, I would be left. Jimmy would go first. A few years ago my grown nephew asked me over and over again why we don't have a dog. "You love dogs," he said. "You should get one." he repeated again and again. I stuck to my answer, "Someday, I'll get a dog."

He continued "When? When? When?" like a five year old. Finally, his eyes opened wide and like he solved a big mystery said, "Oh, I know when...when Uncle Jimmy dies, right?"

I nodded sheepishly. I thought it would happen, but I thought it would happen 20 or 30 years from now.

With all our talking we didn't make a plan for contacting each other from the grave. Friends ask
"Do you sense him around you, in the house?" Aside from feeling closer to him when I'm in our clothes closet I really haven't felt his presence. I'm not sure if I feel cheated or if I'm glad.

We had over 30 years to put our heads together and decide, "Okay, if you go first I'll come to you each evening at 10PM and tap you on the right shoulder. Remember, when you feel that it will be me.

Why didn't we ever do that? Maybe, it's best. I would keep looking over my shoulder even more than I do now.

What Do Widows Look Like?

I stare at women and wonder if they're married. Everyone needs a hobby. I stood behind a woman at Duncan Donuts the other day and she was so annoyingly bubbly I knew I'd see a ring on her finger.

As her wedding band taunted me I consoled myself with, "At least her manicure is dull and lifeless."

My view isn't that married people are happier. I'm not delusional. Married people are lighter. Sharing the load of life with someone frees us to hum silly songs and whistle favorite tunes as we skip down the street like Mary Poppins.

Don't get me wrong - I've never been a hummer or a whistler or a skipper. I've giggled uncontrollably but that usually involved an illegal substance. More recently, I sigh. I hear a long drawn out, "Ahhhhh"and realize it's coming from me...poor widow me.

To look at me you probably wouldn't know I'm husband less because I wear a ring on my left hand ring finger. It's diamond begets and small stones within a yellow gold band. Jimmy had it made for me over 20 years ago.

When I was feeling exceptionally happy with him I would switch off and wear my original plain gold band, the one from our wedding day. Jimmy never knew this. It's not like in the middle of a fight I would announce,

"Timeout. We'll go back to arguing as soon as I take off this gold band and put on the diamond one. HA! Just keep it up buster!"

When he died I was wearing the diamond one. I've told him I'm sorry, but now it's too late to switch.

The Beginning of the Last Year

I took down my 2006 wall calendar today and I read all the notations I had scribbled in each little square beginning with January. Clueless me, innocent me, poor widow me was completely blind to what was to come.

I turned over the January page to the February page to the March page and I felt my left eye twitch as I tried to stare at April. January was filled with fun stuff and mundane happenings "Home from Atlantic City" (January 1st) or "Eyebrow consult 2PM" (January 12th) We saw Jersey Boys on the 10th and had dinner with our friends Jade and Gary on the 28th.

Hair was a big item on my calendar for January, February and March. If I wasn't cutting it I was coloring it or having it blown out or straighened. Admittedly, by May I was pretty much back to the same schedule. I just had no one at home to tell me how pretty it looked or

"What the hell did you do to your hair this time?"

There was a wine tasting at the Friars Club on February 7th that I dragged him to. I'm sure I dragged him to see Jersey Boys, too. I was the dragger and Jimmy was the draggie.

We rarely acknowledged Valentine's Day with anything more than a card but this February Jimmy bought me a gorgeous diamond necklace. I remember thinking, "hmmm...Could he be feeling guilty about something?" Now, of course, I wonder if he sensed something.

"Leave for Florida" is written in on February 24th and I am grateful for this because he loved Floriduh and this time he was the dragger. I agree with comedian Paula Poundstone who says, "Florida juds out too far on map. It makes me want to chop it off and let it drift off into the ocean."

I dragged him home on March 1st. In between, we really did have fun, visiting his brother Robert and our friends Blondie and Barry and my cousins. He seemed fine. He sheepishly bought another horse while we were down there. Maybe that's why he got me the diamond necklace. It turns out I was jealous of a filly.

I went to an Oscar party at a restaurant with my gay nephew on March 5th. We were thrilled. After all, to women and gay men the Academy Awards is the Superbowl. Jimmy was thrilled to stay home. "Go and have fun. You know I hate award shows and anyway I don't feel that well."

First doctor appointment is marked on Thursday, the 9th. His brother Charlie's 65th birthday party was that Saturday, the 11th. He was tired, but he drove the 45 minutes. He didn't feel up to going out for our traditional dinner with the kids on his birthday. That was the 14th of March. I thought he had a virus.

The next day Jimmy had a cat scan. After that, less than a month before he died, I stopped writing in the calendar. I stopped making plans for us.

The Day After Christmas

The holiday I dreaded is over and I feel sadder than I have in weeks. Today it hit me that I didn't only need to get through this Christmas without Jimmy. This is forever. I need to get through all my remaining Christmases without him.

I tried to make it easier by having no tree or decorations in my house. It kinda sorta worked in a way. This is the first year I don't have to concern myself with poinsettias that refuse to die until President's week. Jimmy couldn't bear to discard a living thing so by the end of January I'd begin to sneak them out in a hefty bag along with old newspapers and chicken bones. They had to go. Red leaves don't belong in a house full of earth tones.

Two weeks before Christmas the cemetery people mailed me an ornament in the shape of a wreath and in the center in gold it read James Scibelli 1950-2006. Being treeless I hung it over a framed picture of Jimmy. It felt right, respectful, my only decoration and easy to put away.

It's a strange feeling to be done with Christmas as soon as Christmas is over. I even left Christmas Day leftovers at Jackie's house although there wasn't much to pack up. Jimmy's brothers vacuumed up the lasagna and the beef tenderloin and the shrimp in a valiant effort to make up for the portions Jimmy would have scuffed down.

We all claimed we forgot our cameras on Christmas Eve. The truth is we went out to dinner with our heads down because no self respecting Italian family dines out on the 24th. Even Skylar covered. When the waitress said "Merry Christmas" she responded, "And, Happy Hanukkah."

As a Jew, I'd go anywhere for a meal, but since becoming a Scibelli 30 something years ago I've been inundated to slave over a stove and then set the table carefully with the good china reserved for the four main events - Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, Christmas and Easter.

In between the unusual quiet and the palatable sadness Skylar would squeal for joy to remind us that all this was new to her. Yesterday was the first of her Christmas memories and we struggled to stay in the moment to make them with her. Next year will be easier. And, next year I'll put up a tree.

Christmas Skylar

Taking A Bullet For Each Other

The last session I had with Jean she used a word I didn't know. I did my best imitation of an intelligent person, but I'm afraid she's smart enough to realize I'm not.

I confessed to her this week. I had to. I had missed the complete content of her wisdom by not understanding that one word.

"Uh, I have to ask you, uh...you used a word last week. I know it started with an 'm'."

Jean looked at me blankly until her expression told me to give her more.

"We were talking about how people react and respond on the basis of how they've heard they're supposed to..." This was stupid. Now, I'm was wasting today's session.

"Oh, you mean market place thinking?"

"That's not a word."

"Who said it was a word? It's my own expression. It means the way the masses think they should think."

"Market place thinking. That was it."

Jean has nice straight teeth. She showed me all of them when she laughed in my face. Nice reaction from a bereavement shrink.

She's had thousands of 'patients' over the years and became a widow herself some 30 years ago when she was 43. She's acutely aware of the many paths grieving takes. Her market place thinking phrase was in response to my rant.

"About three years ago we were with my cousins and somehow the conversation
became 'Would you take a bullet for your spouse?' Everyone said they would, but Jimmy. Can you believe that?"

Jean shrugged.

"No, no...listen to what he said. He said, "Why would I take a bullet for you? I've got a lot of living to do."

Jean smirked. I thought the smirk meant the irony wasn't lost on her. Nooo... she was smirking at me. In just a few moments this became clear.

"I remember saying, "We don't exactly live in a neighborhood with drive by shootings every other day. Lie to me! Then, Jimmy challenged me, 'Come on, you would take a bullet for me?' And, I said, 'Of course, I would. How could I live with myself if I didn't?"

Finally, Jean jumped in, "Well, here you are living, aren't you?" she said.

It wasn't a drive by shooting that killed Jimmy and I didn't skirt my opportunity to save him, but Jean explained that while Jimmy's comment would dim his chances for getting laid that night he was the most honest person in the room.

"I've worked with thousands (that's how I knew this) not hundreds of people who have lost their husbands or wives, even parents who lost children. The market place
thinking is that they can't go on. Guess what? No suicides in all those years."

Okay. So, I can live without him, but I didn't know this until I had to. How come Jimmy knew he could live without me?

I comfort myself by fantasizing if I had died he would have become Jean's first suicide. Romantic, eh?

Shrinking About It

At first I was embarrassed to mention here that I've been seeing a bereavement shrink because I had such a negative experience and hated everyone in my first group. And, then again in my second group

I took a shot with Jean because I liked her no nonsense attitude on the phone. I cautiously told her I didn't make it past the third session in two bereavement groups like I was confessing I flunked out of high school. I immediately saw that going one on one with her would earn me my G.E.D.

She bad mouthed my first group (she knew organization by reputation) This took the heat off me and we were instantly aligned through mutual hate. And when I told her my second group was comprised of people 150 years old she groaned and said "Their experience is nothing like yours."

I knew that deep down, I told her. I knew I was fooling myself when I said we were all the same age in grieving years. I felt her rolling her eyes and now after three sessions I see that she rolls them often.

In between rolling her eyes Jean gives me analogies. I love analogies. Easy to remember and it all sinks in. The first analogy she put out there was to think of my family like a boat. The captain has fallen overboard and drown.

Me, the first mate is to step up to the helm - not the son (which often happens if you let it) and not the son-in-law because well, because he's the son-in-law and could be digitally removed from all photos and replaced with a plant.
Jean didn't go into such detail but I did and she rolled her eyes.

Jean told me about the thousands of widows she has seen over the years and how different each person grieves. (she didn't list them) I told her I feel like Jimmy just disappeared and shouldn't I accept this by now? (8 months today)

She gently explained that for all of my adult life he was the one I shared everything with. There is barely a memory that he's not starring in and each day for decades was ours and I looked ahead a future with him in it. Eight months is a blimp on the screen.

I knew all of this. Of course, I did, but hearing it made me see an awful picture almost like it was someone else. This is why this therapy with Jean may help. She insisted I take the helm, but she also gave me permission to treat myself kindly and steer slowly.

How Do I Do Christmas Eve?

Doug lives in Manhattan now and he came home today as he does most Sundays. I told him it's fine not to, but he says he wants to - sweet - until he smirked,

"Because you have the football package."

Later in the day Jackie and Glenn and Skylar popped over for dinner and the house got loud and frantic as we all played hide and seek and crawled around being puppies thrilled to be taking silly orders from a 2 and a half year old.

The toddler that Jimmy knew 8 months ago is a little girl. The passage of time is undeniable as she helps me make the salad with the finese of a midget Martha Stewart. I just hope jail time isn't in her future.

We talked about Christmas Eve. That was Jimmy's holiday - he cooked and prepared for more than 20 people and did it with the ease of a pro. Each year he had a theme. One year he made a volcano with shrimp and calamari overflowing.

Another Christmas Eve he had little carrot bundles that were supposed to be boats and he arranged the shrimp in the shape of a tortoise. All this was on a blue foil to symbolize the water.

He was proud and there was a lot of oohing and ahhing and applause. He wore a chefs hat and apron and moved the macaroni out of the kitchen onto the plates and into the dining room with flawless rhythem.

We had a Santa suit and for many years each of us took turns being Santa. After dinner the designated Santa and half a dozen of us elves would go two doors down to Marie and Dick's house and bring a pillowcase filled with toys to their little grandchildren. These grandchildren are older now and I always expected to use that Santa suit for our own.

The other day I saw Marie and Dick putting up their Christmas lights and I remembered that the last time I saw them they were knealing by Jimmy's coffin.

So, how do I do Christmas Eve? I can't.

Winter Cleaning

This weekend the weather felt like Spring so while neighbors put up their Christmas lights Doug dragged the outdoor furniture into the garage. Until last week the '64 Avanti was in that spot. So many changes.

It was impossible to look at the furniture without thinking that a whole summer season has passed without Jimmy stretching out on the chaise lounge and telling me,

"No. We don't need new furniture. Just relax here with me. I heard
all the outdoor furniture stores are closed."

My mother-in-law has been (or should I say, my has been Mother-in-law?) nagging me to find her old photos from her wedding and 'the early years' Jimmy and his brothers were growing up. Jimmy's brother's wife had volunteered to put them all in an album.

It must be nice to have extra time like that. I have better things to do. Namely, Boston Legal, Medium, Heros, Desperate Housewives and Deal Or No Deal." Oh, and of course, The Office.

Somehow, years ago we ended up with Fanny's life in our basement. I have no problem tossing it back to her except that her black and white photos are no longer in a separate box. They got mixed with my life - in color - but not in living color - if you know what I mean, so I put off going through them.

I shook my head and wanted to tell Fanny that although my house is filled with photos of Jimmy I know they're there but I don't need a fresh rendition of "Through The Years." I wanted to tell her that. What I actually said was "Okay. I'll try to get to it this weekend."

I lied. I had no intention of going through those photos. I keep the winter coats in the same closet downstairs so I had to climb over the overflowing boxes of pictures to get my coats to bring upstairs to the coat closet. Jimmy had many more coats and jackets than anyone would have thought. He tended to wear the same one or two all the time. I guess, that's typical of a guy.

I remembered bringing his jackets downstairs last Spring after he died and thinking there's no reason to ever bring them back up again. There they were again.

A box of gloves and scarves had to be hoisted up and spilled out to change over the upstairs closet with more winter stuff. As I lifted I looked and saw a photo of Jimmy at Disney slapping five with Mickey Mouse.

I was hooked for the next four hours looking - often with a magnifying glass -how did that get in my hand? And, I saw our whole lifetime of events jumping out at me. We were happy in every one of those pictures and of course, we weren't always happy. But, when it's a bad time or a sad moment or a serious event only the paparazzi snaps a picture. For some reason they never followed us around.

When I was done I had Fanny's photos isolated in one box for her. I gave her the Jimmy photos from before he and I met. After that, I rationalized he was mine. Three boxes captured our 33 years of marriage and several before that - our engagement party at my Studio apartment in Queens, many years of opening presents at Christmas with the kids from infants to footie pajamas, around the table with family and friends at holidays, some dead, some dead to us... the kids with us on vacations, the usual times that make up our usual lives. Most moments only I'm left to remember.

Damn. All I wanted was my winter coats.

Photos from Thanksgiving 2006

Me and Sky.

Jax and Glenn - 30th birthday cake

Uncle Doug eating Sky's foot

Hosts - Connie and Trif

Photographer & God-daughter Katharine & boyfriend Pete

God-daughter Kristi and fiance Matt

Me and 93 year old Yai-Yai singing away...

Thank Heaven For Little Girls & All The Grown-ups Too

It's the day after Thanksgiving and I lost a pound. Every time I sat down to eat Skylar pulled me up to play. This granddaughter diet is terrific.

Maybe it was the steady diet of good friends on Thanksgiving that helped me lose that edge of sadness that weighs heavily, too. As we laughed and joked and teased each other I felt lighter.

The dread of spending the first holiday without Jimmy became something else. For me, if turned into exactly what Thanksgiving is all about. I doubt if the pilgrams had me in mind when they made a turkey dinner and all the guests showed up ready to give thanks wearing those silly buckle shoes.

Still, as the pilgrams bowed their heads to count their blessings, thankful that they didn't poke someone's eye out with those weirdo pointy hats they were definitely on to something huge and I owe them big time. I never really got it until now. It took losing my husband to be grateful for all the wonderful friends and family members I have.

Before I get too sickeningly sweet let me add that not all friends and family members are included here. Oh, pleeez...I lost Jimmy - not my mind. Tragedy brings out the best and the worst in people. Although I lost a pound, I gained clarity and clarity is what I am grateful for.

Seeing that traditions are fragile, my kids and I broke from traditon and spent Thanksgiving with old old friends who knew and loved Jimmy best. He was there with us on everyone's mind and in every one's heart. We just had a little more room at the table and several servings of apple pie left over.

Why The Long Face?

Jackie and Doug with 'Skypa' our future triple crown winner.

My father-in-law would bet on two cockroaches crawling up a wall. Anything for action. Jimmy inherited the gambling 'bug' and after our honeymoon in Las Vegas
I caught it, too.

Big difference, though. I can spend hours in a casino but horse racing is stupid. In between races it's just twenty minutes of waiting around with nothing to do. Oh, right. I could 'handicap' like Jimmy did - calculate past races, figure in if the jockey is having a good day, blah, blah, blah.

My method requires none of that. I choose a horse who has a cute name. Sometimes he catches my eye to psychically send me a message.

"Pick me - I feel frisky today."

Guess who won more often? Actually, neither of us. That's why betting on horses is stupid. More stupid than betting on horses is owning horses.

Jimmy inherited that obsession from his father, too. Charlie owned a few horses and loved them so much that growing up he told Jimmy and his brothers,

"I fell for your mother because she had ankles like a filly."

When we started dating I would check my ankles. Do I have ankles like a horse, too? Before long it was clear that Jimmy liked me from the waist up...whoe... since my children are reading - enough said.

Over the years we had several financial ups and downs. When we were up Jimmy bought horses. This quickly brought us down again. He would shake his head and say again and again,

"I love this game, but I have no luck."

Really? I hadn't noticed. In 1990, we actually had "Country Day" entered in the 116th Kentucky Derby - I have to admit that was a thrill - until the evening before the race when Country Day took a bad step and had to be scratched from the race.

Derby week in Kentucky is magical when you're an owner. Our family was treated like royalty until the foot incident. The next morning we were already old news with nothing to show for it but a lame horse and an printed program to prove we could have been contenders.

It's silly to list all of the horse disappointments and disasters, but there were plenty - To me, horses = disappointments. And, horse people seem to make excuses for everything.

"My horse would have won if it wasn't for those other two who passed him." Duh.

Today, however, I am the sort of proud owner of James Scibelli Racing Stables, Inc. I inherited four two year olds - a hobby/business that I groaned and moaned about all these years. Each month I pay exorbitant fees to trainers and vets. My hand wobbles writing these checks as I realize these freakin' horses get more new shoes every few weeks than I get in a year. They have four feet and they're running around (literally) a lot more than I am, but still...


Why don't I just sell them? Because I promised my son Doug who loves the track and spent so many memorable moments with his Dad in the paddock and actually in a few winner circle photos, too that we will play out his father's dream. One of these four two year olds that we're left with may be 'the one.' (at least champion enough to earn his keep and pay for his own shoes)

So now that Doug and I are 'partners' he explained a few papers I've found and phone calls I've gotten these past months. He confessed that

"Dad had 50% of this horse - Oh, and 25% of that horse. He would tell
me, 'Don't tell your mother.'

Nice. Some widows find jewelry meant for another woman or love letters - I find a half a horse here and a quarter of a horse there.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving, November 25th Skypa, the first of our two year olds will be running his first race at Aqueduct. Jimmy had named him Skypa because his father was Stravinsky and his mother was Garopaba. It fit perfectly because 'Sky' was for Skylar our granddaughter and she called him 'Pa.'

I'm so much more excited about this race than I ever could have imagined. I wish I could have had this enthusism for racing to share with Jimmy. I know he was hurt that I wasn't one of the wives jumping and hugging their husbands as they watched their horse glide over the finish line.

Here I am, though, caught up with the possibility that as strange as it sounds just maybe in death Jimmy's luck may have changed. Friends say he will be there with us at the track. Just in case his bad luck lingers I hope he stays away until the outcome and meets us in the winner's circle.

Carrie Fisher Says It Right

This morning I read that Carrie Fisher is opening a one woman show this Wednesday in Los Angeles. I'm a fan, but I'm not about to rush off across the country to see her.

Still, the article quoted her and I felt it was spot on.

In her show she sums up:

"If my life weren't funny, it would be just true. And that would be
unacceptable."

I can't believe I'm quoting Princess Leia.

Some Things Never Change

So, I went to Atlantic City. I didn't go with my girlfriends. I went with my good friend Marty...who Jimmy and I have known for more than 20 years. Am I spelling out p l a t o n i c loud enough? Along with us was George and June who grew up with Marty.

What do four old Jews do when they walk into a casino at noon? They head straight for the brunch. After we piled up our plates like we were being executed in the morning we dug in and it got real quiet. My stupid mind began to wander...

"What am I doing here?"

"Jimmy would have gotten the omelet."

"This is banana cake? Ugh. I thought it was vanilla."

"I don't think I brought enough money."

"There's always the ATM machine."

"Last time I went over to the ATM here Jimmy caught me. Oh, God...I remember actually
looking over my shoulder and being nervous - like I was stealing."

"Everyone took care of themselves. Jimmy always brought a surprise back for the
table."

"Oh, there are the people who stroll around and play music - I hate that."

"A request? Yeah. Go away!"

"The flute is right in my face."

"Are we supposed to stop eating?"

"The guitar player is looking at me with pity. Oy...like Cindy said it's like I have 'widow'
stamped on my forehead."

"Wait a minute. The guitar guy sees us as two couples. He doesn't know. Wow. Maybe
when I see people give me that look - they're not. I feel like a fifth wheel.
That's where it's coming from. It's coming from me."

After that brilliant epiphany I told Marty and he said "The guitar guy WAS looking at you with pity. He assumes you're with me."

Walking through the lobby, passing the statue and getting into the casino was hard. It wasn't harder than I anticipated, though. In my mind, I had already gone through all the possible 'triggers.'

Lots of people sound like Jimmy in a casino. Loud booming voices come at you from everywhere and big guys hunched over a blackjack table or crap table are a major part of the scene. I was braced for that, but I wasn't expecting was to feel
fine at the blackjack table and the three card poker table and the slots. (I try them all and lose at every one of them -every time)

Jimmy was a bigger player and so most of the time we gambled separately and then met up and entertained each other with stories about fun dealers, lucky hands, weirdo people at the table, etc. Of course, that part was missing, but, I realized this still can be my enjoyment, kind of a hobby. Zipping over to a casino now and then is not like dancing alone.

The casino enviroment brings such a variety of people and many of them are elderly.
Seeing older people out and about doing what Jimmy loved so much brought home again how Jimmy was cheated. It makes me want to go back in time and let him know -

"You won't be old. You don't have much time. Do what makes you happy."

Those of us who loved him and are left here are doing just that these days. This is why I'm glad I went. Of course, if I had won I would have been more glad. Some things never change.

Into The Closet

I have a running conversation with Jimmy in my head that only stops when I'm asleep. I doze off and we both rest in peace. This is not all that different from our marriage.

I'm sure his version of heaven didn't include hearing me whine, "Why can't you help me find my keys? Wait a minute...are you deliberately hiding them so I can't go out? Will something bad happen to me if I leave the house today?"

Then I wonder if he's protecting me from harm so that he doesn't have be with me again so soon. That's my theory for my mother-in-law's longevity. Fanny's husband's been dead for almost 25 years and he's probably up there whooping it up. Our loss will be his gain...or the end of his fun (for all eternity)

When I really want to have a heart to heart with Jimmy I go into the closet. Surrounded by all his shirts and slacks and shoes I am more with him than anywhere else. It's easier to find than the cemetery. And, let's face it, there's no pressure to bring flowers.

The other day I needed to talk with him about whether or not I should go to Atlantic City to gamble. Casinos have always been our playground. On our honeymoon we went to Las Vegas. Just last January we spent New Year's Eve in Atlantic City and two weeks later we were in Vegas for a few days.

In July I made plans with Barbara and Judy to go for my birthday and I cancelled a week before. It just didn't feel right. I couldn't imagine walking by the familiar statues at Caesar's or seeing a heavy set guy leaning over the crap table. Jimmy's voice would be the voice I'd hear each time a "Yo - Eleven!" would ring out throughout the casino. And, okay - I felt guilty that I was still here able to enjoy what he never could again.

The day we had chosen to go was July 6th - the day before my birthday and only day in the history of New Jersey that they closed the state for 24 hours including all casinos. I don't remember the reason for that political move by the governor, but I do remember getting the heebie jeebies thinking if I hadn't cancelled I would have been convinced Jimmy was pulling some strings saying, "Oh, no you don't. You're not stepping into a casino without me!"

Now it's seven months and I stood in the closet waiting for permission. Defensively, I told him I was pretty sure he would have gone by now if I was the one who died. I promised him I wouldn't bet more than I usually do. I knew as soon as I said that it wasn't true. I took it back.

"Come on" I said - "You know I'm going to bet a little heavier without you to answer to." I felt his exasperation. He was sensing that I was experiencing a new kind of liberation, something a wife never feels within a marriage and if it's a good one, shouldn't.

So, now I'm liberated. I'm standing in the closet explaining myself to four rows of neatly folded sweaters.

Celebrity Baseball

At Yankee Stadium - Jimmy holding 'the duck' and me.

Each season brings it's own memories. This year's World Series between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Detroit Tigers made me react as I do every year...."Who cares?"

True, I'm not a baseball fan, but even New Yorkers who ARE baseball fans had zero enthusiasm this year, too. If a New York team’s not in it we’re not into it. Jimmy was a Yankee fan and I'll bet he wouldn't have even watched.

Seeing glimpses of the World Series on my way to another channel and closing the paper on the Sports page did bring back the memory of game two of the Subway Series in 2000, though.

I was sitting next to my husband in a seat he could have scalped for big bucks or given to one of his begging buddies. I felt unworthy.

“I know you don’t care about the game, but if I come home and tell you I saw celebrities you’ll kill me!” he said.

When Jimmy died this Spring so many fellow Yankee fans told me that his antics at the seats were more fun to watch than the game. I nodded remembering my first game with the man they called “The Duckman.”

Yankee Stadium was vibrating inside and out. It was the first time two New York teams faced off since the Yankees beat the Brooklyn Dodgers in the 1956 World Series. Even I could see this was a big deal and it would draw a Kodak crowd.

From the second we parked our car in the lot for season holders and ball players I was on high alert for a celebrity citing. Famous people start and end at this point and I was ready for the fake bump in, a little system I invented, but never had the nerve to do. Basically, you inch towards a celebrity pretending not know it’s them and then stumble into them. This forces them to say “That’s okay” to your “I’m sorry” which qualifies as a ‘conversation.’

Jimmy’s seats were the legend seats, first row behind the blue wall, with an incredible view of third base straight ahead if you want to see the players run home or an even greater view of the Saturday Night Live seats to the right, if you wanted to see what Jack Nicholson smears on his hot dog. Guess which way I faced the entire game?

Jimmy’s loud heckling voice had been known to rattle the opposing team as they warm up just a few feet from us and because he was funny he got the crowd laughing and hooting along with him. At crucial games he brought out ‘the duck’ a tiny (one inch high) yellow rubber duckie. He waited until the Yanks really needed help and then he’d stand and show the fans his good luck duck, but also as he put it, “I want to show the duck the crowd.”

We never named the duck. He was always simply, ‘the duck’ and superstitious fans near ‘the seats’ would yell to Jimmy “We need the duck!” Jimmy told me once, an employee of Yankee Stadium came by and with a straight face said, “Mrs.Torre would appreciate it if you bring out the duck now.” I never believed him.

This day we sat near P. Diddy (then known as Puff Daddy) who sat next to the Reverend Jesse Jackson. Jimmy yelled over,“The two best rappers in New York!” They smiled and waved and I’m sure I heard the Reverend say, “That’s The Duckman.”

Penny Marshall, a huge Yankee fan, was nearby, too. She posed for a photo with me and as she whined about the score Jimmy leaned over and used Tom Hanks line from her movie “A League of Her Own”, “There’s no crying in baseball.” She laughed. Jimmy made Penny Marshall laugh. Then she said, “Yeah, I knew I should have cut that line.”

My husband was having a conversation with a celebrity and he didn’t even have to do the fake bump in. Suddenly, I was loving baseball. I had no idea the game was so much fun.

The best was yet to come, though. The game was over and the Yankees had won it 3-1. People in all variations of Yankee and Mets wear were bopping out of the stadium to the piped in Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York.” The parking lot was a maze of cars, vans and limos and one frustrated policeman was attempting to direct the traffic.

Jimmy jumped out of the car and ran over to help him. As I rolled down the window to yell “What are you doing?” I saw Paul McCartney hop out of his limo and heard him say in that adorable English accent, “I’m going to help the big guy.”

There they stood side by side, my husband and my favorite Beatle, waving their arms and getting the cars moving. I watched Adam Sandler run over to shake Paul’s hand. Because Jimmy seemed to be Paul’s pal he shook his hand, too. Bill Murray appeared and did the same.

My mouth hung open as Paul McCartney strolled back to his limo, slapped five with my Jimmy, and said to him,“I think it was the duck.”

I went home with a celebrity that day and of course he got lucky that night. These days I keep the duck on my night table next to my bed and the night when David Eckstein of the St.Louis Cardinals, (a bird team a duck may prefer) drove in the game winning double I held the duck up to Jimmy and told him in Paul's English accent, “I think it was the duck.”

What If We Lived Life Backwards?

Okay, I admit it - the following is not original - It was sent to me by my ex-ex bereavement counselor (yes, I quit group number 2 - if only it had been this easy to give up smoking)

I've racked up three sessions in two groups - if I join another I'm hoping to get credit for the six I suffered through, but I have a feeling I'll be told it doesn't work like that. Yeah, well, so far it hasn't worked PERIOD.

Anyway, the source of the little ditty is "A Whack on the Side of the Head: How You Can Be More Creative" by Roger von Oech. If you have a moment, check out his amazing website.
I'm going to put it on my blogroll http://www.creativethink.com .

WHAT IF WE LIVED LIFE BACKWARDS?

The life cycle is all backwards. You should die first and get it out of the way. Then you live for 20 years in an old-age home, and get kicked out when you're too young.

You get a gold watch and then you go to work. You work 40 years until you're young enough to enjoy your retirement.

You go to college and you party until you're ready for high school.

Then, you go to grade school, you become a little kid, you play, you have no responsibilities, you become a little baby, you go back into the womb, you spend your last nine months floating, and you finish off as a gleam in somebody's eye.

NOW

Fear is all around me. Friends and family watched Jimmy disappear within a month. How could they not be frightened?

"What are we waiting for?" they say, "Let's take that trip to Italy NOW." The NOW, of course, is 'before some horrible disease creeps into our bodies and puts an end to us.'

My husband's influence on people throughout his life was big. NOW, it's huge. Jimmy and I spent lots of time making fun of all the people we knew. We made a hobby of it. Some couples play golf and some play bridge. We would sit around and pick apart our loved ones.

"He doesn't reach into his pocket for spit. They just can't be embarrassed" we'd nod and giggle.

I wish Jimmy could see them NOW. NOW, they not only spend more on themselves. They buy me dinner. They offer to take me to a Broadway show. Who are these people? I always loved them, but NOW they're actually lovable.

The same people who are proud that "I never go to a doctor" are NOW makeing appointments for body scans. A freckle that was always there NOW looks suspicious.

Those of us married more than 25 years buy new towels for the newlyweds and joke about needing a bridal shower of our own. NOW, we throw out the old and restock the linen closet. Who's more important than us?

The other day even my 88 year old mother-in-law, known for 'stealing' Sweet and Low from restaurants broke down and bought a box.

My friends who were on a continual diet NOW suggest going out for ice-cream. My world, my small circle, feel a little like many did the months following September 11th. We NOW know we're fragile and we're scared. In some ways, it's not a bad way to live, if only it didn't hurt so much.

My Little Pumpkin

Bereavement Group 101

I've never had much patience or tolerance for old people. Society tells us to expect age to bring wisdom and a clear perspective on life, but most people approach the end of their lives fearful and bitter.

My friends and I spend lots of time promising each other that we "won't get that way" and if we do "please kill me." We laugh a nervous laugh knowing there's a good chance we won't even remember those conversations.

On Tuesday afternoons from 2:15 to 4:15, though, I sit in my bereavement group, younger by at least 20 years, yet I'm 'one of them' in a sense - a widow struggling to reframe my life.

Within the group I'm a an insider, a contemporary hearing about their troubles. Outside the group I'm their trouble making daughter. Life sure does spin us around.

I'm amazed to witness their powerful determination to hold on to themselves and not allow their 'well meaning' children to control them and become their parent. I'm touched by the love they carry for the wrinkled man they shared a half a century with. As they reminese about their husbands we are all the same age.

Now that the old people and me are beginning to mesh I'm thinking maybe next week when the group ends at 4:15 we can all go out for an Early Bird Vodka. Grey Goose?

The Right Place At The Wrong Age

As I thought about returning to my new and improved bereavement group something very odd happened. I noticed I'm sort of kind of looking forward to it.

It's not the kind of eagerness I feel when my little granddaughter Skylar is on her way over or when I open the freezer and realize "Wow. I forgot I bought vanilla fudge ice-cream!"

But, something safe and close to belonging is waiting for me there and even my resilient self can't deny that I'm needy for others who can genuinely know what I'm going through. Not to be overly dramatic, they know my pain. They're experiencing so much of the same.

Afternoon groups attract the elderly. I knew that. Somehow, I wasn't prepared for my fellow group members to be 150 years old. Still, as I said in my last post we're all the same age in grieving years.

Sitting among women and men who could easily be my parents made me uneasy in a situation where it's not the most comfortable to begin with. I stood out. I have one (okay, one and a half) chins, not seven. For the first fifteen minutes waiting for Linda, the leader to come into the room and begin the group I talked to myself:

1. "What am I doing here? It's like I got on a bus to Atlantic City by
mistake."

2. "Why do these people need a bereavement group? What did they expect,
that their spouse would live forever?"

3. "At least I'm young for something."

4. "If Jimmy is watching he's shaking his head and trying to send me a signal
to get out of here fast."

5. "If I had died Jimmy wouldn't be caught dead here."

6. "Yeah, caught dead...very funny. I'm never going to believe he's gone."

7. "Six months. How could it be six months? And, I'm still stuck in
denial."

8. I hate these stupid stages. Denial, anger - sounds like a textbook. No
body knows anything."

9. "Oh, God...I think I'm going to cry - nothing even started yet...those
stupid tissue boxes around the room..."

10. "This is going to be horrible."

11. "All of a sudden I'm antisocial. That lady smiled at me. I'm not even
sure I smiled back."

12. "Who cares?"

13. "They're all talking to each other. This seat is good. I don't have to
deal with them."

14. "I should spit out my gum. Jackie says I chew like a cow."

15. "Two men. Why are men alone so pathetic? But, they both look neat and
clean and the men in the other group did too."

16. "Why am I surprised? Maybe, their wives were sick for a long time. They
got used to fending for themselves."

17. "I guess, without me Jimmy would go to the cleaners, he'd do his laundry.
Then he'd realize it's no big deal. He'd see I didn't take such good care
of him. Yes, I did. I did. I could have been more nuturing..."

18. "When he got pissy I just didn't want to please him. That's normal. It
is."

19. "This is good. Old men. They're well into their seventies. No chance at
all they'll misinterpet a friendly smile. The other group was tricky
like that. Especially the one with the beard. The dork. Oh, God. Kill me
now."

20. "That lady is kind of shakey. No one really looks too good here."

21. "Well, I guess it didn't matter what I wore."

Linda appeared to cut off my thoughts. The group began. One woman's husband was 90 when he died. She seemed shocked. I repressed a laugh. Was it a nervous laugh or a mean laugh? I'm not sure. Probably a little bit of both.

They were married over 60 years, longer than I'm alive. I hear her now. She expected him to always be there, live forever.

Damn. I'm becoming so empathetic. What's happening to me?

Another Day, Another Bereavement Group

I went and did it. I joined another bereavement group. I know. I know. After reading my previous post "I Hated Everyone In My Bereavement Group" even a really dumb person would figure I was done with group grieving and my plan was to go back to feeling sorry for myself in private.

This was true until I got a call from Linda my future new group leader. Someone had given her my name and apparently that someone had failed to mention that I was an immature trouble maker who will make fun of everyone in the group and then write about it on my blog.

Linda voice sounded so soothing over the phone and I was practically sucking my thumb as I told her it's approaching six months since Jimmy's gone and that I'm over whelmed by loneliness and paperwork and some days I'm not sure which comes first.

She told me I was a 'perfect candidate' for a 'group experience' and I guess
I was so flattered to be thought of as 'perfect' for anything I found myself saying "Yes! Yes! Sign me up!" like I was volunteering to bring cupcakes to a bake sale.

So, this past Tuesday afternoon was my first group. I got stuck joining an afternoon group from 2:15-4:15 because I had tickets to see Barbra Streisand the first Monday night of Linda's evening group. By the way, yes, as reported, Barbra did tell a heckler to "Shut the f%#k up." That was my favorite part, actually.

Linda warned me that afternoon groups are generally older people since they are retired and don't drive at night. She said the important thing is that we are all going through the same time period of grief - anywhere from 3 months to a year. Apparently, Jimmy died right on time.

More about THE GROUP when I return...must go babysit for Skylar, my little granddaughter. Isn't she beautiful? All I have to do is look at her and I feel blessed.

File Cabinets Aren't Used To File Your Nails

I needed a place to put all the files and papers and bills. For thirteen years Rae, Jimmy's assistant had a fine tuned system. His office hummed (and it wasn't from one of those fluorescent fixtures) In cracker jack time Rae could put her hands on correspondence from 1994.

Jimmy would have been lost without her and Rae was content to carry on for me, too but in a manic moment after listening to "I Will Survive" I made a unwavering decision to take control of my own life and turn my dining room table into one huge pile of papers. One look and you know a crazy person lives here.

I knew I needed either a file cabinet or a hefty bag and yet for weeks I circled the heap too panicked and overwhelmed to do anything but yell up at Jimmy,

"How could you leave me with this mess?"

No answer. Finally, Rae came to the rescue. She came by to dive in and give me back my dining room table. She made files and piles and now I look like an organized crazy person.

And, yesterday I made a purchase that I never thought I'd make - two file cabinets. Now I have four new drawers and I'm thinking

"Oh, good, now I have extra room for sweaters."

Sex & Jewelry

It's late and I'd like to get to sleep, but I can't. I can't because this evening I wore that stupid bracelet that's impossible to take off by myself. Damn. Why didn't I remember that? Jimmy used to bargain with me,

"Okay. Hold still. I'll get it off, but how much is it worth to you?"

Some wives have sex to get jewelry. I had sex to get the jewelry off.

Killing Me With Kindness

Everyone wants to help the widow. On line at the supermarket if I happen to be wearing black and I happen to let it slip that my husband recently passed away it's a sure bet that I'll be ushered to the front of the line.

Perks of widowhood are a double edged sword like losing five pounds by way of an intestinal flu. A perfect example is from an episode of one of my favorite shows
"Curb Your Enthusiasm."

Larry's mom passes away and he discovers that he can get out of going places by just hanging his head and saying,

"My mom just died."

People genuinely want to help me in any way they can and it isn't an empty gesture like in real life (which will probably begin again when it is a full year) when your sister offers to pick you up at the airport and she's praying you'll say,

"Don't be silly, Barbara. I'll just hop in a taxi."

Women like me who have never dealt with finances (except for spending, of course) are
approached by our husband's financial friends, the ones he did business with and they patiently explain that a balance sheet does not have a thread count.

An extra car needs to be dealt with. Do I sell Jimmy's car? Should I sell it on eBay or cars.com? Do I really want crazy people coming over to see the car and then killing me and putting me in my own trunk?

It's hard to be a woman alone. We're vunerable. I know if I had died 'broads' would be knocking each other over to bring Jimmy casseroles and lots and lots of cleavage. He would have been a great catch. I know. I broke him in.

My men are pure and they only want to help, though. No agenda. They loved my husband and they reach out to me with no funny business attached. They imagine themselves the deceased husband and would want their widows taken care of.

Fair enough, but, sometimes, I'm doing them a favor when I let them do me a favor. This is why I 'allowed' Pete to help me clean up Jimmy's 1964 Avanti Studebaker that had been sitting in our garage for years and years and had collected so much dust that I knew it was red only from memory.

I love Pete. He's known Jimmy since they were five and me since I was eighteen. His wife, Bonnie is my best friend. He was aching to do something for me because he was aching period. But, the Avanti wasn't really bothering anybody. It was just sitting there used to being not being touched or washed.

Pete arrived Sunday morning ready to tackle the job armed with his own special soap, sponges and some kind of three way attachment for a hose that made the water soft so that it would dry on it's own or something. I'm not sure. I wasn't really paying attention. I zoned out. It was kind of like when Jimmy would attempt to explain a football play to me.

Anyway, that car sparkled. That car smiled. That car was definitely red. Wow. Pete and my son Doug had pushed it out of the garage into the driveway and there it stood in the sun, shiny and proud.

Suddenly, the sun went away and it began to sprinkle. I sat in the drivers seat as instructed and Pete and Doug struggled to push the car back into the garage. They were a man short. Jimmy may have been watching and smiling, but he was useless.

Pete, who has a 1960ish Corvette and drives it a few times a year decided we should do what he does to get his car started - add a thimble full of gasoline. So, we went to the gas station - got the gas and I watched Pete put just enough gas in to drive it into the garage. Thrilled that it even started we closed the garage went inside to have lunch.

A little while later Pete left for home beaming with pride. I was happy and grateful and Doug went back to his apartment in the city. I was left alone with a shiny, red car in the garage. Good times.

About 11:30 that evening I had to go down to the basement (now I call it a playroom because I fixed it up for Skylar, my granddaughter, but that has nothing to do with this story) and I smelled something awful as soon as I opened the door. Then, I opened the door to the garage and it was stronger. Before I knew it the bathroom on the main floor that shares a wall with the garage was kind of stinky, too.

I imagined myself being affixiated in my sleep so I went on line and googled around until I found a 24 hour poison or odor control number in my area.

"We'll send the firemen over right away, Mame."

Ten minutes later I stood by my front door in my flowered pajamas and slippers as the fire truck with lights twirling around and siren blasting pulled up to my house.
Five giants in fireman costumes jumped out and before I knew it I was opening the playroom door and asking,

"Do you smell something funny?"

One whiff and the biggest guy said,

"Are kidding lady? It reeks."

I was sort of happy about that - I was afraid it might have been like going to the doctor, your symptoms disappear and you look like an idiot. I looked enough like an idiot in those pajamas.

I led them to the Avanti and they looked under the car before I knew it they were pushing it out of the garage and showing me a huge puddle of gasoline where the car had been. It was like looking at an outline of a body at a crime scene.

They explained that even though Pete had put only a teeny tiny bit of gas in the car since it hadn't been started in years there must have been old clumpy gas in there and that little turn of the key got the gas moving and there must be a break or hole in something to cause it to all leak out.

I asked them

"Is this like not eating in a long time and then having a tiny taste of something and getting sick?"

I think they nodded. Anyway, they put some white pads to soak up the gas and then all five of the firemen ran around the house opening windows. One came down to the playroom and told me how nice it was - I beamed.

"You wouldn't believe what we see, Lady. People call us and have no
time to straighten up. This is some basement."

I was a little disappointed that it wasn't clear to him that it was a playroom, but I let it slide. He got busy setting up and turning on a huge fan that they use in fires to get out the bad air and pull in the good so we just stood there together waiting for the bad air to leave.

And, soon they all left, too, but not before they asked if there was anything else they could do for me - is there a place I could stay overnight? I said I was fine.

And, I guess, I will be. After all, I have so many people around me to help out.

Business As Unusual

I was a spoiled brat of a wife. I was. Bills? What are they? I've heard about people who get the shakes when they open the mailbox. They anticipate the bills overflowing and swallowing them up. Not me, not then. I just handed them off to Jimmy and never looked back.

He used to joke that I assume there's money left in my checking account because I have checks left in my checkbook. That wasn't far from the truth. 'Daddy' was always there to refill so why worry?

These last months have been a shot of reality. I've actually sat down and written checks to pay for credit cards that I used to think of as magic plastic. Apparently they have this silly new system where you have to PAY the credit card people.

As I sit in the kitchen writing out check after check I know Jimmy is watching me and laughing his ass off. I guess, if I had died and I saw him doing the laundry I would be smirking, too.

I Hated Everyone In My Bereavement Group

I'm one of those people who can just look at a stranger and hate her like she stabbed my best friend. I've always been grateful for this ability to weed out the boring and annoying.

This is why I after two sessions I decided not to go back to my bereavement group. I hated them all. Even for me, a group hate is unusual. Most of the time I spare somebody. I even hated the new member, number eleven who claimed he was put in the 'over 70' group last week by mistake. Trust me, it was no mistake or else losing his wife has made him age a decade in three months.

I kept thinking, "Jimmy would hate them, too." I wanted so much to be able to come home and tell him about how stupid and ugly they were. I wanted to sit beside him on the couch and and giggle immaturely with him as I immitated Laura, who insisted on keeping her husband's voice on the answering machine, totally not caring that she was weirding out everyone and then wondering why no one was calling her anymore.

Jimmy would have loved to hear about Dave who threw out all his wife's clothes the day after her funeral. I nicknamed him 'Brave Dave' because this is an unpopular move among the bereaved. I watched them cover up their horror with phoney reassurance

"Whatever is good for you is the right thing."

You have to hate these people! I'm so relieved that my anger has now been redirected from Jimmy to eleven grieving strangers. I guess, the bereavement group did help me.

Hard To Bereave It

My friend Barbara told me I should join a beweavement group. I said, 'I'm not really into arts and crafts.'

'BeReavment!' she said louder, but not too loud because everyone is very very gentle around me lately. I appreciate this and at the same time I feel pathetic, like a poor pampered puppy. Some actually reach out to pet me.

I always think, 'Boy, if I was the one who died and Jimmy was left here being bereaved he would love being petted.' He was much more touchie feelie than I am. Just sitting on the couch watching TV he was content as long as I occasionally reached out and squeezed his foot. (and even more content if that led to squeezing other things)

Anyway, I should appreciate the kindness while it lasts, I suppose. I figure I have until it's a year next April and then people will go back to treating me like a normal person. I know I'll never be normal again, at least not what I recognize as normal me. It will be a new normal. Pretty wise, eh? Well, actually I read that in one of my 'How to Cope With Losing A Spouse' books. (not a real title...don't go looking it up on Amazon.

I decided to take Barbara's advise and join a group because according to grievers in the know I have a small window of time to do this. It seems from 3 months to 13 months is ideal. Before 3 months it is extremely hard to focus on what others are saying (and listening to others has never been my strong suit anyway) As Fran Liebowitz,the brilliant humorist said,

"The opposite of talking isn't listening - it's waiting."

I signed up quickly realizing I am five months in. Reading the newspapers and watching the news made me panic. So many tragedies every few seconds each day probably adds up to a long waiting list of grievers. I didn't want my window to close. Lucky me - They squeezed me in. I guess my check cleared.

On the way to my first group I was nervous, until I realized everyone else would be nervous, too and I have this ability to fake being comfortable when I just want to jump out the window. This made my nervous feeling fade and I started to feel superior. I tried to shake that off remembering the last time I was in a group this attitude did not endear me to the other group members. A snotty superior air does not win Miss Congeniality.

Wait. I'm not going to win friends and influence people. I'm going there to...hmmm, seems I couldn't finish that sentence. Why am I going?

My last group experience was as a member of the mothers' center. My almost 30 year old daughter Jackie, was 18 months old then so I suppose it's been awhile. I didn't expect the bereavement group to be the same. And, as it turned out it wasn't. Back then we introduced ourselves like this,

"Hi all! My name is Annie and I'm married to Brad and we have 2 wonderful children,
Jennifer and Jason. I used to work in the deli, but now I'm a stay at home Mom and
I love it! I no longer get a discount on the cold cuts, but I still get to make sandwiches! In my spare time, if I have any, that is ('snort-snort') I enjoy making placemats."

You have to hate Annie, right? I know I did.

As expected, the bereavement group had a way less perky atmosphere which normally I would prefer, but I wasn't prepared for the introductions like,

"I'm Eva. It's been six months. My husband, Charlie wasn't well for some time
and the doctors put him through all kinds of tests and when pancreatic cancer was discovered we knew he would have to have chemo. He lost so much weight and was really really weak, although he managed to come to our son's wedding, but wasn't strong enough to dance. His mother told me...wait, I'm sorry, am I talking too much?"

"YES, Eva - Just shut up already!" I said to myself. The group leader told her, "Of course not. Go on. That's why we're here."

Is that why we're here? I thought - to hear horrible stories? I sat there cringing realizing that soon it will be my turn and my story is pretty horrible, too.

Where are the young moms? Why aren't I hearing them confess that they laid awake the night before because they were guilty that they told their two year old,

"Your bottle ran away from home and now it's time to drink from a big girl sippy cup."

Actually, I always knew those concerns were stupid. Maybe, that's why I found it so difficult to listen.

Now, I'm listening. I'm sitting in a group of 10 people all between 50 and 60 all who lost a spouse and I'm listening to the other 6 women and 3 men. I'm getting more nauseous by the minute and I wonder what would happen if I dropped dead right there in the bereavement group. The person in the middle of talking might feel really guilty and she doesn't need that now. I'd better snap out of it.

I notice a phenomenon. Each of the three men had wives who were sick for YEARS and YEARS and I watch them tell their story with genuine love and compassion and selflessness - the endless doctor appointments, hospitalizations - "And, then my poor Judy was in a wheelchair - I was her sole caretaker."

To me, these men are from another planet. Jimmy was a wonderful, generous and loving man, but a nurturer he wasn't. Lucky for us both in 33 years I hardly ever got sick, but when I did it was,

"Come on. You can't still be sick."
And, this was after three days.

Several years ago I had liposucsion and I had to wear a tight long girdle.

"But how are we going to have sex with that thing on?"

I wondered about the sex. Did these men have a low sex drive or was Jimmy a maniac?
I wanted to stand up and scream, "What did you do all those years?"

I looked for any teeny sign of resentment - the helping her shower, getting her dressed, the not being able to go to the movies...nothing.

Maybe, I'm still in my angry stage because all I know is I went to the group feeling sad and alone hoping this would help and I left being mad at Jimmy. I know deep down he wouldn't have taken care of me so happily. And, now I can't even go home and start a fight with him. It's still so hard to bereave it.

Plucked

Jimmy was plucked. That is the best way I can put it. Everyone else is still around but where's Jimmy? It just isn't fair. It isn't fair to him. It isn't fair to me. It isn't fair to our kids, our granddaughter and all of his other family and friends. I hope I'm clear. It isn't fair. Is this my angry stage? Who knows?

All summer I tried to keep busy visiting friends and relatives and I accepted most invitations. Typically, I stood around watching his cousin Frankie and Vito and Saul...Saul? (my cousin, the Jewish side)

These men are still predictably standing around the barbeque stuffing their faces with cheeseburgers, laughing over stupid fart jokes and making fun of their wives.

Not very facinating, true, but they're guys being guys and Jimmy was part of the mix. He was more than just a part. He was the loudest and the funniest and the biggest noise he made was making fun of me. I loved that.

I miss being the butt of his jokes because that was our dance. Those small, silly moments that were unique to us as a couple is gone. Forever. This is how every widow must feel. It must be how every person who has ever lost anyone must feel. We will never dance the same way with anyone else again.

"It takes some getting used to" some people say lightly. Ya think?

Twenty three years ago when my mother-in-law, Fanny was 'only' 65 she lost her husband (who she wasn't too crazy about to begin with) and decided that

"It's a couples world." "I feel like a fifth wheel." "I'm alone in a crowd."

Guess how many times in these two decades I've heard her speak these sentences? I lost count the first few years. It was like a public service announcement. I often felt like handing her a bullhorn.

I hate to commiserate with Fanny, but I've felt all these things in the last few months. Big difference, though...I know that what became a way of life for Fanny, a platform for her, is only a stage for me.

Thank you, Fanny.