The thank yous have been mailed to the friends and relatives who expressed their condolences or made contributions in my husband’s memory after his death in March. The blizzard of paperwork that immediately accompanied Don’s passing has been swept away; reams of forms filled out, signed and officially stamped, beginning at the mortuary and church the day after his death.
As the surviving spouse, I have dutifully taken the required trips to the lawyer’s office, Social Security, county recorder, CPA and brokerage firm to ensure all changes occurred in a timely manner. I have answered countless phone calls from those wanting information for their records. Stored in the cloud or shoved into filing cabinets are the changes necessary to remove Don’s name from bank accounts, deed of trust, pension, retirement plan and tax forms.
The journey from one official destination to another is what is demanded of a widow to ensure all dictates of church, county, state and federal governments are met. All Ts must be crossed and all Is dotted “at your earliest convenience,” when all the bereaved wants to do is lie on her husband’s side of the bed in the dark and have a good cry.
Grieving must wait. Bureaucracy and custom take precedence.
Taking care of the paperwork was physically taxing. What is much harder now that the phone has stopped ringing and the fat envelopes have stopped arriving in the mail, is something I did not expect from my husband’s death — the feeling of abject guilt.
I feel I am deliberately rearranging my life to fit a new reality my husband is not a part of. I’m reshaping my life, while he has lost his and has no say-so in any of these changes. I am betraying him, erasing him and going on to a structured, organized future without sharing it with the man I loved and was married to for 60 years. I did what the law and custom demanded of me, and am now the legally recognized mistress of a comfortable future he worked hard for and will never see.
Unless I’m conned by a gigolo with a mustache and pointy shoes, I should be financially secure, thanks to a good man who educated himself and spent three decades in a suit and tie and who gave up three-day holiday weekends to fly the length of the state, in order to appear at early Tuesday morning hearings anywhere from Eureka to San Diego. A man so dedicated to his profession that he flew to Los Angeles the morning of the Northridge earthquake for a hearing not even the judge showed up for.
I realize how fortunate I am to have security when too many widows struggle, those who skip meals and take medications every other day to stretch their supplies so that money lasts until the next Social Security check arrives. The federal government finds holes to fill all over the world, yet millions of its own aged citizens struggle to put food on their tables, because manufacturing moved overseas for the tax benefits of corporations and wiped out the livelihood and pensions of millions of blue collar workers and their survivors.
To lose a loved one you’ve spent most of your life with is an earthquake of the soul. If nothing else, it brings one’s own death into sharper focus and leaves a hole that companionship and happiness once filled. An old photograph, a song on the radio and a mind unclouded by the dementia that killed my husband are triggers to remembering a life now gone forever and the unexpected guilt that sprang from its demise.
Dee Fratus is a Larkspur resident. IJ readers are invited to share their stories of love, dating, parenting, marriage, friendship and other experiences for our How It Is column, which runs Tuesdays in the Lifestyles section. All stories must not have been published in part or in its entirety previously. Send your stories of no more than 600 words to lifestyles@marinij.com. Please write How It Is in the subject line. The IJ reserves the right to edit them for publication. Please include your full name, address and a daytime phone number.
