The ones who were in the middle of experiencing a normal life, a normal day, a normal hour, and then all things changed literally with one final second. One final heartbeat.
*Disclaimer - I am by NO MEANS saying a person widowed without any warning suffers any more than a widowed person who has had to struggle through sickness beforehand.*
When I first lost Mike, I had no clue how to navigate widowhood. My own grief. My family's grief. Mike's family's grief. My son's grief. No clue.
I of course did not handle the role of widow very well in the beginning. I didn't handle any role well. I fell off the course of being an involved, energetic teacher; I fell off track of being this funny, dance in the kitchen mom; I fell off every path that I had followed for thirteen years as Mike's wife. I just had no clue how to navigate this new world in which I had been so violently thrust.
So many thoughts ran through my brain a mile a second every single day and every single night. I became a non-functioning shell of who I was before. Being thrown into probate court increased my anxiety and it seemed that every time I turned around, someone or something was kicking me in the throat. A foot held on my chest, pushing on my will to breathe, making me want to scream but not being able to. It felt that I was literally clawing my way through the days. It was awful. The worst pain I have ever known.
And then the next thing I knew, months had passed and I was back to work. Not full-time; my son and I barely made it a full week for about four months. Thank God we had such an amazing support system in our school (where he attends and I teach).
Before too much longer it felt, we reached the Holidays and our families (Mike's and mine) supported us in whatever we wanted to do - which was evade, evade, evade! The faster the better. So we fled our home Christmas Day that first Holiday season alone, to a friend's in Oklahoma and did not return until we absolutely had to.
I blinked and a full year had passed. 365 days I had survived.
Alone.
Isolated.
It did not matter how many family members and friends had surrounded us those 365 days; Conner and I were utterly alone.
It felt so cold and gray.
The colors left everything.
Joy in the music we used to love to sing disappeared.
Laughter vanished from our home.
But I had become the model widow.
I paid all of the bills, all of his bills.
I hired a lawyer to navigate the issues that arose in droves.
I took our son to church.
I visited Mike’s headstone often.
I threw a huge party for his birthday and continued with our Fourth of July traditions.
I worked. Hard. At being a teacher, a mom, and as a farmer.
I bought cattle myself and learned to feed them and move them on my own.
I mowed fence rows and maintained the farm as best I could.
I didn’t date.
I stayed in my proverbial cloak of grief every.single.day.
Only sorrow, regret, fear, and self-doubt filled the walls around us and both Conner and I found that isolation in our own home was where we grew to find the most comfort.
Once we avoided the Holiday traditions we had practiced for years, we figured out that we could avoid anyone and anything we wanted to. So we did. For a long time.
Then as you all know, my career changed that. I became a principal and fled not only our sad home, but also our sad hometown.
I avoided the looks of pity from literally every person who passed me on the sidewalk, in the grocery store aisle, in church. I guess a part of me felt like if I could avoid all the sad looks, maybe I would forget how sad I was too. Maybe if I could keep Conner and me in this bubble of safety, of just the two of us, then we could never be hurt again.
We made changes to the house. Cosmetic changes, but changes that we hoped would bring a different light to the pain that filled the walls. We changed flooring, paint color, outdoor features, furniture, decor...as much as finances would allow. We tried to make it a "new home".
How naive.
So, even with all the changes, we stayed busy and out of the house as often as we could for two years. We were hardly ever home. And when we were, it was so quiet and lonely. We hated it. We looked for opportunities to get out of the house. None of the changes "fixed" our grief. The new paint, new deck stain, new recliner...they couldn't hide the reality. They could't mask the pain we feel in every corner of this house.
Within two and one-half years, finances forced me to sell the majority of the farm Mike had worked so hard for. The farm that pushed him too hard. The farm that brought exhaustion that I know ultimately caused his death. I grew to hate this farm. As much as a part of me wished I could keep it and be this "Super Widow" who farmed, worked full-time, raised a God-fearing son on her own, and kicked butt doing it all...there was no way. So, with the sale of the majority of the land, Conner's and my anxieties about the farm and our home increased.
Everywhere we went there was a gate that was not there before.
Vehicles drove up and down our road and they weren't ours.
Tractors cut, raked, and baled hay, and we didn't deliver a million bologna sandwiches to the fields.
The feeling of loss intensified.
Guilt grew.
Regrets increased.
Grief kept her stronghold.
So, for a little more than three and one-half years, we have experienced daily reminders of what should be but no longer is. We are reminded of his absence. In every corner and crevice of this house and farm.
And I’ve had enough.
I’m leaving.
We’re leaving.
We’re leaving all of it behind.
All of the pain, the sorrow, the memories, the emptiness, the loss of joy, the loss of hope.
We are leaving it all behind for a fresh start.
It is time to start anew.
On fresh ground.
On a clean slates and I know that God is blessing this whole part of our lives.
My closest family members and friends know the news, but now I share it with the world.
We are packing up our home we shared with Mike and moving to a new home.
We have so much hope that a new home will bring new memories.
New laughter, joy, and hope.
New beginnings are on the horizon and if I am ever going to truly be able to step forward in hope and in love again, I cannot battle the war against this house and this farm and all that it reminds us of daily.
I am simply walking away.
So what kind of a widow does that make me?
A widow who is no longer allowing herself to be held prison by the memories.
A widow who is no longer willing to sacrifice her own happiness, and that of her son, in order to continue being the “model widow”.
A widow who is tired.
Tired of hurting, of feeling regret, of feeling the pain he left behind.
A widow who knows she has been judged every step of the way and will surely be judged once more.
A widow who cares not what others think or say anymore, but only cares about filling her life and her son’s life with laughter.
New traditions.
New hopes.
New dreams.
It makes me a widow who is trusting God.
We all do the best that we can with the hand we are dealt.
I’ve played my hand.
Time and time again I held the cards that were dealt and kept the poker face as best I could.
I didn’t give up.
I didn’t fold.
But I am so beyond ready for a new hand.
A widow reborn is what I feel like. I will love my husband Mike for the rest of my life and beyond. There is no doubt about that, but I’ve paid my debt, financially and emotionally, and it’s time for me and my happiness.
I am excited, nervous, eager, and ready for our new home. For our new memories. Our new hope. Our new life.
The day this home is empty and we walk away for the last time, Lord knows I’m gonna need the strength of a million men. But the day we sleep in our new home, with so much hope for healing in our hearts, the strength of a million men will not be able to tear us apart.
So I ask that you keep us in your prayers and wish us well on our new journey. Sending so much love and light today and always.
Love, Roni
