Thoughts on the second day back to work.

I just finished my first two days of work since John died. It actually ended up being a good thing; plenty of distraction, but spaces to grieve, too. And everyone has been fantastic and supportive, and that helps.

I've been wrestling with a word ever since...well, ever since November 18, 2011. That word is...

Widow.

First it was, "Oh no. I am going to be a widow. I'm too young to be a widow. I don't want to be a widow. I want John to stay. I love you. Please don't leave me alone!"

In more recent months it's been kind of shoved to the side on a shelf; it sparked up occasionally in my brain. But now, since January 19, 2013...I am one. And I hate it.

I remember my first time hearing that word. It was the first time I saw Meredith Wilson's wonderfully exhuberant musical, The Music Man, on television. Set in approximately 1912, the main character--an irresitable con-man named "Professor" Harold Hill, calls Marian-the-Librarian's mother "Widow Paroo." I did some research on this, and the practice of using the title Widow is no longer in practice--at least here in the United States.

Thank goodness.

I remember another time this word (in its masculine form: widower) appeared in my thoughts. It was in early 2002, a few weeks after my mother died. I remember thinking: "Wow. This means Dad is a widower." I just could not wrap my mind around that one. And so, I think it only came up that once outside of my subconcious.

Those of you who are on Facebook know that there's a status area on your home page that gives your relationship status. And you'll excuse me if I don't switch it to "widow" right away. Because I don't feel like I'm a widow. I still feel very attached to John. I still want that relationship "link" there.

Someday, I'll probably change that. Not anytime soon, anyway.

And no, I will never get used to the idea.

I was thinking again (and it pops up often, actually) about Sleepless in Seattle, the first movie John and I saw together. Over the years, I have tended to think about all of that movie except for the first ten minutes of it. The part where Tom Hanks' character has just lost his wife, whom it was obvious he dearly loved. Back at work--like I am, now--a well-meaning coworker hands him a card with some sort of support group. He kindly accepts it and then reads through a stack of business cards with various support groups for him and his young son. I was trying to look up the exact quote but can't find it now...but after reading off these various groups, he quotes something someone has apparently said to him...that X group will "see you through this." He then goes on with "Don't mind him. He's just a man who's lost his wife."

I used to ignore that part, and now, that's the only part that plays out in my head.

Before I go on, I should say that I have nothing against support groups, and actually have one in mind that I may check out. And the wonderful love and support I have received (and continue to receive) from my dear friends from the Cancer support group in church was wonderful. But on the other hand, I totally GET what his character says.

Back to the subject of getting back to work...

Yesterday, I was--understandably--a little fragile. The routine of work helped greatly.

Today, I felt a bit better. And caught myself smiling. And then immediately afterward, I felt guilty.

I guess that's normal, but I know that any emotion I have is the "right" emotion, because it's a minefield of emotion. A wise friend said to me that I will often find myself smiling one moment, and crying the next. That the normal for grieving is different for each person.

I'll take that a step further: Not only is it different for each person--it's different for each loss. I have, in the last few years, lost my older brother, my parents, several pets, and now, my husband. And each grief is different. Each is profound, but each is different.

I guess the important thing right now for me is to be gentle with myself, to try and start fresh (some cleaning projects have helped with that immensely), to allow the waves of grief...and to sometimes smile or even laugh at a memory.

In that, John still lives--in my heart. Even in one waking dream a couple days ago.

So...no. I'm not ready to say I'm a widow yet. Even with ten death certificates in my posession, he still lives.

And yet...I still hurt.