Divorcee/Widow

When I found out Bill's death was imminent, I was visiting my siblings about four hundred miles away from home. During that time I had lunch with two friends from high school. These were two guys I used to hang out with, even cut school with, and one of them had been my boyfriend at the time. I have always felt comfortable with them and, even after decades of non-contact, I feel I can be candid with them. Although we don't see each other all that often, the companionship is good when we get together. It doesn't seem like four decades have done too much to erode the feelings of trust and friendship. When we met this time I asked them if as it appeared, Bill were to die soon, would I be a widow or a divorcee. They both said I would be a divorcee. It seemed that legally, divorcee was the correct description. The marriage had been dissolved. Bill wasn't my husband. If he wasn't my husband at the time of his death, then I wasn't a widow. How odd that seemed. Bill was going to die. I would not be a widow. The divorce would erase the twenty six years we spent together. Five months of being divorced would, in essence, take away widow. Twenty six years. Two years of ugly divorcing. Five months of divorced. On that day, at that lunch, it felt correct. There's the legality of being a divorcee but a sense of being a widow. And somehow, I knew my two friends were right. I wouldn't have 'widowhood' because of the divorce. I wonder if that ever occurred to Bill? When Bill died I felt I wasn't entitled to feel sad. Or to mourn. I wasn't his wife. I shouldn't be sad. The divorce, slightly under two years in the making and five months in finality, and acrimonious most of the way, should have wiped out any feeling I might have that would even resemble being a widow. On many levels I understood that I would mourn Bill. We had spent a lot of time together. He was the father of my child. He had been the love of my life. He had shown me all kinds of thrills and we had been on countless adventures together. And the sex had been great. Always, always great. From age 32 to age 58 for me and 39 to 65 for him. It had been consistently great. Even when he was ill. When he died, memories of the sweet and loving Bill washed over me so powerfully I was inundated by them, and in ways I can't describe, forced part of me to shut down. I remembered being swept off my feet by this handsome man who took risks and was afraid of almost nothing. I remembered how his face felt when I stroked it, the strength, beauty and tenderness of his hands, the camping trips, the windsurfing adventures, the beach-camping honeymoon at the mouth of the Klamath, the summers in Europe, the way he would keep talking to the French in English even after they had insisted they didn't speak it and then their breaking down and finally answering him. This was mourning. It was unlike the mourning I experienced when my mother or my grandfather, the first death I was to experience, had passed. This was different. It was a unique grief and mourning. Since September things have changed from those initial sweet memories. I am able to couple them with some of the unpleasant recollections and they restore my mind's equilibrium. There's always good with the bad. Or bad with the good. That said, there were twenty six years, and I was a loyal, loving and forgiving wife to him. His disease and addiction took me on some rollercoaster rides, he was not a team player, and he never even tried to support the family. He lied and betrayed and stole from me, and I forgave him, kept his secrets, and stayed by his side. Now that I spend a lot of time with our grandchild I find myself saying things like, "Your grandfather wouldn't have approved of this." "I wonder what your grandfather would do right now." "I wonder how much Bill would have helped me with you." "I think your grandfather would be unhappy with me for not feeding you vegetables." The thoughts go on and on. Even with the balanced memories I feel like a widow. I feel his absence. I wish he were around for KJ, Laura and Kyle. I wish he could fix the hole in the ceiling Kyle made when he lost his balance in the attic. I wish I knew what he thought about a multitude of things, from the neighbor's new girlfriend to the state of our economy. I miss riding bikes with him and going out to eat. At times like these I miss him and I feel like I'm sure most widows feel. But I don't get to call myself one.