Tag Archives: widow

Aging, death

Write Your Damn Will Today

When my husband died, the last thing I wanted to think about was his will. Grieving is a full-time job. Because Tom had prepared his will years earlier, I was spared one of the most brutal complications that can follow the death of a loved one. I’ve heard other widows describe the nightmare of sorting through estate issues without clear guidance—families fighting, assets frozen, legal battles that drag on for years and compound their already devastating loss.

Writing a will is an act of love. It’s a final gift of clarity and protection for those you’ll leave behind.

I know what you’re thinking: “I’m too young” or “I don’t own enough to need a will” or “It’s probably complicated and expensive.” But the fact is, if you own anything of financial or sentimental value, even if it’s just a crappy car, a small savings account, or a family heirloom necklace, writing down your wishes about who gets what will help those you leave behind. And no matter how young you are, I bet you can think of someone your age who died suddenly (and maybe without a will). Finally, it’s not as hard or expensive as you think—keep reading and I’ll tell you about a free and easy way to create a will.

Most importantly, get it through your head that having a will isn’t about you—it’s about the people you love.

If you die without a will, your loved ones will have to deal with additional stress during an already difficult time. If there’s no will, they may have to work through extra legal hurdles, family conflicts, or second-guessing whether they are doing what you would want. You may think no one would want your stuff, but I know families that have fought over cars that don’t run and neckties that nobody liked—not to mention a herd of cattle that a bunch of city slickers went to court over.

The best news is that for most of us, writing a will is relatively simple and affordable. While complex estates might need legal guidance, a basic will is perfectly adequate for most people. Having a simple will is infinitely better than having no will at all.

Recently, I helped someone write their will using FreeWill, an organization recommended by the AARP. I was amazed at how simple it was. The whole process took less than 30 minutes, and yes, it was completely free. The website walked my friend and me through every step, explaining legal terms in plain language and helping them think through important decisions.

The site generates a legal document that you just need to print and get signed by two witnesses who aren’t beneficiaries in your will. In most states, you don’t even need a notary (and the site will tell you if you live in a state that does need a notary).

So, you have no good reason to put it off.

Today, right now, take 30 minutes to write your will. Do it while watching TV or during your lunch break. Do it because you love your people. Do it because it’s free and easy. Do it because having witnessed the chaos of no will and the clarity of having one, I can tell you that this small act makes a world of difference.

Don’t wait until it feels urgent.

Once the will is written, talk to your loved ones about it. Even better, talk to your loved ones before or while you write your will. Make it a family activity. You may be surprised to find out who would love to have your vintage tea cups or the old trombone in the basement.

When we avoid difficult conversations about death, we often create more pain later.

Elizabeth Kleinfeld is a disabled widow who blogs about grief, disability, Buddhist life, and joy. Sign up for her free monthly newsletter here. 

grieving

Different not Worse: My First Christmas Alone since My Husband Died

It’s my fourth holiday season without Tom. Facebook’s “On This Day” feature has been particularly aggressive lately, serving up memories of holidays past like a relentless digital ghost. Here’s Tom and me at Christmas dinner with family. Here we are making latkes with friends. Here we are camping in Death Valley. Each photo is a reminder of not just what was, but what isn’t anymore.

I’ve always loved celebrations, even ones that aren’t technically “mine.” Growing up, I got to experience a mix of traditions—mostly Catholic until my mom died when I was 12, with a dash of Hanukkah from my father’s Jewish side of the family. What I learned from this blend wasn’t so much about religious significance as it was about the joy of gathering, the pleasure of good food, and the warmth of giving gifts. Even now, as a Buddhist adult, I’ve kept these celebrations alive in my own way, decorating a Christmas tree and hosting an annual latke dinner, creating my own meaning from these inherited traditions.

This is the first year since Tom died that I’m alone for Christmas. My daughter, stepson, and mother-in-law are all traveling. I keep telling people I’m fine with being alone—after all, December 25th is just another day when you strip away the cultural expectations. But there’s something undeniably hard about being alone on a day when it seems like everyone else is gathered with family. Especially when my own memories of the day are so vivid and happy.

Yesterday, I visited a hospice patient who’s unlikely to see New Year’s. We didn’t talk about the December holidays—I’m not even sure if she’s aware of them or if she cares about them. She wanted to talk about dying and what I knew about it from talking to other hospice patients. It was a good reminder that December 25 is not in and of itself anything special. I know her adult children feel like they should be with her on Christmas. They’ve decorated her house with a tree and replaced all the usual kitchen towels and potholders with red and green ones.

But grief and dying don’t care what the date on the calendar is. None of the holiday traditions can outweigh them. The tension between what dying people and grieving people feel and the insistence around them that this is “the happies time of the year” can make their grief feel even more isolating, as if they’re the only ones not participating in the mandatory joy

When I tell people I’ll be alone for Christmas, they immediately try to fix it. “Come to our house!” they say, or “No one should be alone on Christmas!” I appreciate their kindness, but sometimes being alone is easier than being the widow at someone else’s family celebration, watching their intact family traditions and trying to smile through the stomach-punch of grief that hits when someone makes a comment I know Tom would appreciate or a dish I know he would love is served.

I’ve noticed some folks in the Facebook Widow groups answering the question about whether they’ll be alone for the holidays with “I’ll be with my dogs,” “I’ll be with my cats,” or even, “I’ll be hanging out with my plants.” I love the way they are pushing pack on the idea that you’re alone if you’re not with other humans. And this reminds me that I won’t, in fact, be alone on Christmas: I’ll be with my two dogs, who are very cuddly in the winter.

Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for ourselves during the holidays is to accept that they’re going to be different now. Different doesn’t have to mean worse. This year, my Christmas plan involves Chinese food, snuggling with my dogs, and zero obligation to make conversation. That actually sounds pretty great.

I might spend some time looking at those Facebook memories, letting myself feel whatever comes up. I might text friends who are also alone or grieving. I might watch terrible holiday movies or ignore the holiday completely. The point is, I get to choose.

For others navigating holiday grief, whether it’s your first season without your person or your fifth, I want you to know that there’s no right way to do this. If you want to maintain all the old traditions, do it. If you want to create new ones, do that. If you want to pretend the holidays aren’t happening this year, that’s fine too. The only rule is to be gentle with yourself.

Elizabeth Kleinfeld is a disabled widow who blogs about grief, disability, Buddhist life, and joy. Sign up for her free monthly newsletter here. 

death, grieving

My Choice to Respect My Dead Husband’s Privacy

After his stroke, Tom spent hours at a small black desk facing our porch, a compromise when his wheelchair made actually getting outside too difficult. The desk became his command center, gradually accumulating the tools and supplies for his unlikely new hobby: knife sharpening. Who else would take up knife sharpening after a stroke? That was pure Tom, finding a quirky way to adapt to his new circumstances while still expressing his need for a little danger.

His approach to organization hadn’t changed with the stroke. The knife sharpening supplies sprawled across the desk, spilling onto nearby surfaces. Tom had never been known for neatness. One of my favorite stories about his disorganization involves him having a pile of papers on the dashboard of his van that was so tall he could barely see over it. He finally got motivated to dump the pile of papers only to realize later that—oops—the pile had included a money order.

The stroke had left him with Left Neglect, unable to process any sensory input from left of his midline. We found workarounds for reading and writing, but computer use proved especially challenging. Eventually, his laptop migrated to the left side of the desk—the forgotten side—and disappeared under layers of papers, books, and sharpening supplies.

After he died, I moved the knife sharpening equipment to the garage, where it still makes me smile, remembering his dedication to this improbable hobby. I kept his journals and books and look through from time to time. His left neglect shows up in the pages where he started writing in the middle and continued to the right margin. He annotated some of the books he was reading, but the notes are clustered only on the right-hand pages.  

The laptop stayed hidden in a drawer until last week, when I suddenly noticed the desk had drawers at all. Four years untouched. What might it hold? Pre-stroke emails, photos, browser histories—windows into who my husband was before his stroke. I plugged the laptop in and heard it whir to life but then I sat with my hands hovering over the keyboard for some time, trying to decide if I really wanted to know what was on the laptop.

I guessed incorrectly at the password and stopped.

I could keep guessing at the password. But I’ve handled all the practical matters of his life and death—the financial and legal matters have been settled. I have all the records and paperwork I need. What remains on that laptop belongs to him, to the private space of his thoughts and interests that existed separately from our shared life.

Tom was a man who valued his privacy. Before his stroke, we gave each other ample space for hobbies and friendships that belonged to only one of us. We were never a couple who did everything together and we valued our independence as much as we did our relationship as a couple.

Tom lost his independence completely with the stroke. He took that loss with incredible grace, but I watched how hard it was for him to need help with everything from getting dressed to using the bathroom. Now, 3 ½ years after his death, I can honor his privacy by leaving his laptop unopened. While part of me is curious about what I might find there, a deeper part knows that respecting the boundaries he valued in life is a way of honoring his dignity even after death. The laptop will stay in the drawer, holding whatever secrets it contains.

grieving

When will I feel normal again?

Whenever I meet someone who is newly widowed, they ask when they will feel normal again. I remember asking that question of my new widowed friends, too. We all want to know how long it will take before the crushing pain in our hearts cools lets up a bit. I worried during the first year that I would die from heartbreak and I see other widows posting similar sentiments in the Facebook widow groups I belong it.

This journey is different for each person, but for me, around the three-year mark I started to feel kind of normal. I still felt grief but it was no longer overwhelming. I’m almost 3 ½ years out now and yes, I still miss Tom horribly, but I’m so used to him being gone that missing him is just part of my routine.

In the early months, grief was all-consuming, filtering every of life. Even basic tasks like cooking, getting dressed, and answering email felt impossible, and work held no meaning. Simple objects like Tom’s last glass of grapefruit juice in the fridge or clothes that still carried his scent became precious artifacts. I couldn’t bear to think of moving them, much less getting rid of them. Every day I was pushing through thick brain fog.

Around the six-month mark, there was a pattern of waves—intense periods of mourning followed by calmer stretches where the brain fog lifted slightly. I was able to take some small steps forward, like giving away some of Tom’s clothes and dismantling the makeshift bedroom in the living room and moving back down to our old bedroom. Every “first” without Tom—holidays, birthdays, traveling—brought fresh waves of grief.

Over the course of the second year, those waves continued, but the calm stretches got longer. I’ve heard many people say the second year is harder than the first, because the numbness of the first year has faded but the pain remains. That feels true for me. Those calm stretches got longer, but when the fresh waves of grief hit, they hit hard. During the calm stretches, I began feeling engaged with work again and did some entertaining. During the grief waves, I was completely flattened. I tried to imagine going rafting, for example, and just felt sick at the thought.

During the second year, I worked to develop new routines around my new life as a widow, which meant letting go of routines I loved that were built around my life with Tom. I still miss the old routines. For example, getting him out of bed after his stroke was a complicated procedure, so we learned how to enjoy our coffee together before he got fully out of bed; I helped him sit up and swivel around so his feet were on the floor, then I brought our coffee into the bedroom area of the living room and he drank his coffee while he was sitting on the edge of the bed and I sat at his feet while we discussed the upcoming day.

Letting go of that routine after he died was tough. I kept the bed in the living room for months after he died and sometimes sat on the floor to drink my coffee, in the same spot where I had when he was alive. After I moved back to our bedroom in the basement, I experimented with drinking my coffee in different rooms and during different activities, like reading or puttering around the house. I drank my coffee outside. I tried switching to tea.

At about 2 ½ years out, my morning coffee routine stabilized into one I still observe today. I journal and talk to the dogs while I drink my first cup of coffee. Talking to the dogs kind of takes the place of talking through my day with Tom. It’s a nice way to begin each day, feeling connected to the dogs and myself (through the journaling).

By three years out, grief had become a familiar companion rather than an overwhelming force. The pain hasn’t lessened, but the ability to carry it while living fully has grown stronger. Dreams of Tom have become frequent, offering new ways to feel connected to him. Grief no longer filters every experience, but it’s always there, laying at my feet like a sleeping dog.

I have been told over and over that time heals grief and every time, I call bullshit. Time does not heal the grief. I have worked hard to get where I am, with regular therapy, multiple support groups, and tons of reflection through daily journaling. I’ve had the help of many friends and family members who have been unwavering in their support. I have not “gotten over” Tom’s death by any stretch and I don’t intend to. I love him as much now as I ever did—if anything, my love for him has grown stronger over time. I have reshaped my life around Tom’s absence, missing him, honoring him, and accepting that I won’t see him again in this lifetime.

For me, that’s how “normal” looks, and I like it.

caregiving, grieving

Accepting “I Did the Best I Could” is an ongoing process

Accepting that I did the best I could when my husband had his stroke is an ongoing process. I often find myself thinking, “yes, I did the best I could,” followed by “my best wasn’t very good,” and then I dwell on that second thought.

Of course I would be a better caregiver today than I was when Tom needed me. I know so much more now about holding space than I did then. I am better rested now without the exhaustion of around-the-clock caregiving. Without the constant worries about Tom’s pain, his mental health, and his prognosis, I can now reflect and make decisions at a more leisurely pace.

And oh, yeah, my caregiving all took place during a pandemic, which made it difficult or impossible for many friends and loved ones to help out.

Still, while I generally feel pretty good about how I showed up for Tom, there are times when I am reminded that acceptance isn’t a one-and-done thing but rather something I need to do over and over and over again.

I have spent the last week accepting again that I did the best I could.

Last week I read Summoned by a Stroke: An Homage to Love, Relationship, and Living Life Fully, Judy Friesem’s memoir of life with her husband Kim after he had a stroke. There are many similarities between Kim and my husband Tom. Like Tom, Kim had a massive stroke on the right side of his brain, leaving him paralyzed on the left. Like Tom, Kim exhibited incredible grace and acceptance of his new reality.

But I saw many differences between Judy and me. Judy seemed to have much more insight than I did into what Kim was thinking, feeling, and needing. Where Judy is generous, I was narrow-minded. Where Judy seemed to intuitively know what Kim needed, I had to figure out Tom’s needs by trial and error. Even when Kim couldn’t speak or write, Judy was able to communicate with him, while I sometimes overlooked basic niceties or argued with Tom or thought I knew better than he did what he wanted.

I know, I know—Friesem’s book is an edited version of what happened. I know she had imperfect moments. I know she struggled. I know this, and yet, I found myself thinking as I read, “I wish I had been half the caregiver she was.”

I did the best I could at the time . . . and I hate that I couldn’t do better at the time.

In this current round of accepting that I did the best I could, I am finding that talking to myself in the second person is more effective than reminding myself I did the best I could. I talk to myself, saying. “You did the best you could,” or “Give yourself some grace—you were operating under terrible circumstances” or “Tom loved you and appreciated everything you did.”

I think using the second person puts a little space between who I am now and who I was then and makes it more possible for me to feel compassion for that past version of me.

That space also allows me to see the distance I’ve come since then. My listening skills, in particular, are so much better now, and while I wish Tom could have benefitted from them, I know he’d be proud of having taught me to listen.

“Another lesson from Tom DeBlaker,” he would say with a wry smile, and I would hug him and bury my head into his shoulder.

grieving

Help Your Loved Ones Follow Your Wishes: make a will + advance directive and have the difficult conversations

From the moment my husband’s stroke started, I had to make decisions for him: call 9-1-1, consent to him being transported to another hospital from the original one the ambulance took him to, authorize surgery to remove part of his skull to allow his brain to swell without causing more damage to his brain, and on and on. When he didn’t wake up after his final surgery, a year after the stroke, I had to make the decision to remove him from life support. After that, decisions had to be made about cremation and a celebration of life.

As difficult as all of this was, it would have been significantly more awful if Tom and I had not talked at length before I had to make those decisions about what we each wanted in the event that we couldn’t make our own decisions. We had wills and advance directives drawn up years before we needed them. The advance directive allowed me to make medical decisions for him; the talks about what we wanted allowed me to know with confidence when to say yes to care and when to decline it; and the will allowed me to respect his final wishes in terms of who got what and what kind of memorial service he would have wanted.

You may know that you need to have a will and advance directive, but you may not know how to get started on them, or you may worry that hiring a lawyer to do them will be too expensive. You may not know who to designate to make decisions for you in an advance directive. You may not be sure who to have the conversation with about your final wishes.

That last question may be the toughest because not only do you need to decide who to talk to, you also need to think through what you want and who might be making decisions for you. That’s a lot. You may not want to think about those things, and I get that. It may help to frame it in terms of making things easier for others. When you are able to specify what you want and share that with loved ones, you’re making their lives easier because in the event that they need to make decisions for you, they won’t have to guess at what you would want, which can lead to guilt and regret.

To help you think through what you want, I highly recommend the Five Wishes guide to end of life care. Not only is the guide set up to walk you through the difficult questions, once you complete it, you will actually have a legal advance directive—no lawyer required. A hard copy version is $5 and a digital version is $15.

As far as who you designate to make decisions for you, most people select a significant other, a sibling, or an adult child. You’re not limited to those, however, so you could choose a friend, a spiritual advisor, or someone else. Talk to that person about what you want and answer any questions they have.

If you anticipate that friends or family may object to decisions the designated person makes, it’s ideal to talk to those folks and assure them that the designated person knows what you want. If that isn’t possible, the next best option might be to tell the designated person what kinds of objections to expect.

When it comes to writing up a will, if you have a simple estate, no minor children, and don’t anticipate people contesting your will, you don’t need a lawyer. Laws differ from state to state, but in Colorado (where I live), a will is considered legal and binding as long as two witnesses have signed it OR you’ve had it notarized. This website will walk you through the process.

The #1 most important thing is to have these conversations and make these documents BEFORE THERE IS A NEED FOR THEM.

grieving

Three Years Out: Grief Is Familiar + Life Is Good

My husband has been dead now for three years. My life feels good. I’m comfortable with who I am. I date, I socialize, I host small dinners, I dance. I don’t feel injured all the time, like I did for a long time after his death.

The shifts in my grief during the third year have been subtle. While the first two years felt like they were full of upheaval and big tasks—going through the garage, learning how to be a homeowner, getting comfortable being the only human in the house—the third year has felt quieter.

A lot hasn’t changed in the third year. My husband’s picture is still on the lock screen of my phone and I still have some photos of him around the house. I still chant for his wellbeing. I see my therapist once every three weeks, and I attend a support group meeting every month or so.  

Moving forward in the third year hasn’t looked dramatic. At two years out, I posted about still not being able to camp or raft and not being ready to part with my husband’s sock collection. I haven’t camped or rafted yet but doing a grief float is still on my radar. I have started giving away his socks to people who knew him.

Grief is familiar now, which makes it easier to tolerate, but it is no less intense or real. I don’t miss my husband any less or love him any less. It’s possible I love him even more. More time to reflect has meant more time to miss him and appreciate what he brought to my life. Writing this blog and memoir pieces keeps me in touch with my pain.

The saying that time heals is not true for me. Time has made the grief more familiar and comfortable but not less. Or perhaps I misunderstood what people meant when they told me, “It will get easier.” I thought they meant the pain would go away. I never believed them, having learned from my mother’s death 43 years ago that losing someone you love is a forever pain, but I hoped my suspicions were built on cynicism.

There are still rough days, but even the rough days are easier to tolerate than they used to be. A rough day doesn’t last a full day any more—it’s more like a rough half day lately. I still have the gut-wrenching full body sobs from time to time, but generally, I can function with my grief in the background. Again, not because there’s less of it or it’s less powerful, but because I am used to it now. I’ve learned how to function with it in the background and that feels normal to me now.

The biggest change for me in year three has been dreaming about him. For the first two years, I hardly ever dreamt about him, but in the third year, I have dreamt about him often. It’s always the post-stroke Tom in my dreams.

I have a lot of dreams where he’s walking. Very slowly, but he’s walking. In my dreams, I’m usually living my current life and he’s there, walking slowly toward me or with me. In my dreams, we’ve gone to street fairs, held hands on the beach, traveled to Europe and Africa, relaxed in hammocks together. In my dreams we dance together, him using a walker or standing nearly still while I shimmy around him. In my dreams, he’s disabled but there’s no pain and no drug haze. He’s always happy and at peace.

Sometimes I’m not sure if something is a dream or a sleepy memory. Often after I’ve put fresh sheets on the bed, he shows up in a dream snuggling into bed with a little sigh of satisfaction, just like he did in life. He pesters me to make him fried chicken and German chocolate cake. The dream Tom is exactly as he was in life.

I wake up from the dreams feeling happy and connected to him. Those dreams are the biggest gift of the third year.

death

What To Talk about with a Dying Person

Several years ago, one of my favorite colleagues was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer and her doctors anticipated she would die within a few months. The diagnosis was a shock. She was close to retirement and had been eagerly anticipating post-retirement life. She told me the news in her customary no frills way: “I’m a dead person.”

But she wasn’t dead yet and for the months she had left, I had no idea what to talk to her about. I saw her many times after I knew she was dying and every time, I carefully avoided the topic of her death. But it seemed pointless to pick up our usual conversation topics, which revolved around work, writing, and travel. None were relevant to her anymore.

I did my best to steer our conversations to our children or our shared history of living in Virginia—topics that felt “safe” to me. She wanted to talk about how her wife would fare as a widow, but I mistakenly thought I should just tell her not to worry about that and trust that her wife would be fine. In hindsight, I wish I had invited her to share her anxieties about her wife instead of shutting them down.

My husband wanted to talk about his death and how I would manage, too. He didn’t have a terminal diagnosis, but he felt that his death was imminent after the stroke and the seemingly endless complications he suffered. Three months after his stroke and nine months before he died, he begged me to talk to him about his death. I reluctantly agreed, certain that the conversation wasn’t necessary and would just be horribly depressing.

It was a very difficult conversation, but we both felt immensely better afterward. We were both able to feel peace, knowing that nothing was left unsaid between us. That conversation allowed me to remove him from life support when the time came with a clear conscience.

My friend and my husband are not unusual in their desire to talk about their deaths and the aftermath. I am learning now in a class I’m taking to become certified as an end-of-life doula that dying people often want to talk about their death and how their loved ones will do afterwards.

I wish I had told my friend how much I would miss her. I told her I loved her, but I wish I had told her how much I would miss our conversations and her dry humor. I wish instead of brushing off her concerns about her wife I had invited her to share her worries. I thought my job was to resolve those worries or minimize them, but it’s clear to me now that I was wrong.

My therapist would remind me that I did the best I could at the time. I did not yet know how to hold space. I did not understand that when you are talking to a person who knows they are dying, they get to pick the topics. This is only fair since their time is limited. Whatever they want to talk about should be talked about.

Now I know.

Now I think “what’s on your mind?” might be the best question to open with. From there, allow silence, allow your own discomfort, and put aside your ideas about what “should” be talked about. It’s not really about you. If a topic comes up that you don’t know how to talk about, it’s ok to say, “I don’t know how to talk about this.” Let them talk about it. Maybe all you need to do is listen.

Aging, Buddhist life

Embracing Aging

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This month I’ll turn 55. I hated birthdays as a child because of family dysfunction, but after my stroke when I was 27, birthdays finally felt meaningful. Making it to 28 did seem like something to celebrate. Now I celebrate all birthdays with gusto—mine as well as those of other people. So much can happen in a year and I love taking the time to reflect on that and appreciate it.

Even the difficult events and developments of a year can be seen as milestones worth savoring. Living three years without my husband is a grim milestone, but it’s also motivated me to explore being a hospice volunteer and becoming a living kidney donor, two things I’m very excited about. I’m proud of the ways I’ve grown out of necessity in my 55th year—for example, taking “date night dancing” off my calendar and reframing my relationship with my house. I don’t regret the growth, despite it all coming from adversity.

Aging means facing adversity. There’s no way around it; with aging comes loss—loss of relationships, loved ones, ambitions, and more. Sometimes because of those losses, we grow. Other times, the losses open up opportunities. Other gifts of aging come simply with age itself.

When I hit 47, the age my mother was when she died, I thought about how I was having experiences that come with age that she never got to have, like having a relationship with my teenage daughter. When my sister and I traveled together, I did so with the knowledge that my mother and her sister never got to do that. When I had my first hot flash, I laughed out loud, thinking, “Well, Mom, you never got that treat, did you?”

Once my husband died at 61, the lesson was sharpened: aging is something not everyone gets to do. The aspects of aging I might have complained about in the past now take on a different meaning: they are things he will not get to do. It’s easy to think of aging as a series of bleak losses. Our independence and health may ebb away or disappear suddenly. Loved ones continue to die. With those losses, though, we may find unexpected spaciousness.

I don’t mean that we ever stop missing or loving what we have lost, but that in addition to those losses, there are some gains. And those gains can be appreciated and even celebrated. I welcome my new interest in hospice work, which feels like a calling.

I’m trying to approach aging in both a practical way—it will happen whether I like it or not, so might as well make the best of it—and a Buddhist way, which is to reduce suffering by letting go of attachments. For example, when I recognize myself feeling attached to things my younger body could do easily that are now not so easy, I try to be grateful for the ease of the past rather than angry about the loss. Anger about the loss assumes I have a right to hold on to that ease. But it was temporary, like everything.

I do enjoy many aspects of aging. Feeling less pressure to please others is quite liberating. Being comfortable in my body, familiar in a loving and appreciative way with its quirks, is lovely. I wish my husband had gotten to experience more of aging’s rewards.

Many of the wonderful gifts I am experiencing with aging are available only because I’ve suffered losses. Several of my most cherished relationships deepened with my husband’s stroke and death. The older we get, the more likely it is that we will experience loss. Every loss will hurt—I don’t think that ever stops—and also present opportunities to connect with others.

The loss that comes with aging also provides motivation to reflect on what matters. I have clarity today about what matters that I couldn’t have had earlier in life simply because it took me 55 years of history on this planet to get there. That clarity was earned.  

Buddhist life, grieving

You’re not the only one who is lonely

In his compassionate and deeply thought-provoking book Together: The Healing Power of Human Connection in a Sometimes Lonely World, Vivek Murthy makes clear that nearly everyone is lonely at some point in their life but one of the cruel tricks of loneliness is making you think you’re the only one who is lonely. You are suffering through an almost universal experience yet believe everyone around you feels connected to others. The truth is that if you are lonely—whether it’s a longtime state or a fleeting feeling brought on by a particular situation—others near you probably are, too.

Loneliness often accompanies grief. If you are already lonely when grief hits, your loneliness may be compounded. We don’t tend to talk about either loneliness or grief, and by not talking about these outlaw emotions, we fail to develop not only our skills for talking about them but our ability to tolerate them in ourselves and others. When we see grief or loneliness heading toward us, we hurry to slam the door and lock them out.

We label people who are grieving downers and we urge them to “move on,” “get back to normal,” or cheer up. But being told to move on or cheer up just makes me feel lonely—it’s proof that the person talking to me doesn’t get it. When someone has told me to move on or cheer up, not once have I felt less alone, and more importantly perhaps, not once have I gotten closer to moving on or cheering up.

While I find those comments completely unhelpful and even alienating, I feel for the people making them. I think they are afraid. The next time someone says something like that to me, I hope I have the presence of mind to respond with, “I’m afraid of grief, too.”

It’s not just fear at work, though. I think people equate taking time with grief to a lack of effort or activity, as if the hard work of grieving has no value.

In a culture obsessed with productivity, taking time to grieve seems wasteful. It appears to be “doing nothing.” We think activity is inherently valuable while doing nothing is inherently lazy, but in fact, the opposite is often true. One of my favorite Buddhist sayings reminds me of the folly of taking action in lieu of reflecting: “Don’t just do something, stand there.”

I guess you could say that in my grief process, I’ve done a lot of standing there. I have chosen not to distract myself with activity and instead to turn towards my grief and give it space. I’ve been a downer. And yet, more often than not, when I’ve talked about my grief with others, they’ve reciprocated in authentic and vulnerable ways. Being a downer and standing there with my grief rather than hurrying through it has become a connecting point between me and others.

Often standing there with my grief is difficult. For example, last week I took something off my calendar that was a reminder of the life I had with my husband before he died. Date night dancing showed up every Saturday on my calendar. Taking it off my calendar was the easy part. The hard part, the real work, has been sitting with the hard hollow that forms in my throat every time I see the empty space on Saturday on my calendar. Even harder has been not pushing past those tough feelings with distractions but rather sitting with them, feeling them, acknowledging them, turning toward them.

Standing there with someone else who is grieving means holding space for them, not trying to cheer them up or fix their grief. That person in front of you who is grieving feels lonely and thinks they’re the only person feeling it. But they aren’t. You feel it or have felt it. I know you have. Don’t just do something—stand there.