Courtesy of the author
I am a widow — that's my new title.
This past June would have been my husband Steve and my 48th wedding anniversary. Instead, our marriage will be frozen at 45 years.
My life as I knew it and my identity were transformed. I've been a wife, a dog mom, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, a cousin, a grandchild, a girlfriend, and, for three years now, a widow. It takes a while to sink in.
Steve will always be my husband. How could he not be? Even if you lose your leg, research shows that often, people feel a phantom leg. I sometimes feel like I have a phantom husband; I sense Steve in the apartment, when I'm walking in the street, when I'm scared, when I can't find something, when I need a question answered, when I'm sad, and when I'm lonely.
But it's no longer our apartment. There is no ours; it's just me. When Steve first died, a thought raced through my head: "I can paint the apartment." I had wanted to do that for years, but the effort and smell would have been too much for him, given his respiratory challenges. I still haven't done it.
Our dog, Cassie, was our chosen child, and she died shortly before my husband died. As Steve's illness worsened, I was devastated without her. Then Steve found a new dog — someone to help me through losing him. It was during COVID, and locating a dog was like winning the lottery.
On the internet, he found a local breeder who was expecting a litter. The mini-golden doodle puppies were born a week before my husband died, and he showed videos of them to the nurses. It made everyone smile. I met Romeo on my birthday, two weeks after Steve had died, and brought the puppy home on our wedding anniversary.
It's taking me time to fall in love with Romeo. He's not Cassie, and Steve is no longer physically here. Sometimes, I think I'm living in another universe and will eventually return to where I belong.
Seeing a therapist and reaching out to family and friends helps. But they have their own life and think I should be OK already.
A neighbor and I dated. We traveled and dined in upscale restaurants — things neither of us could do while our late spouses were ill. Then he complained that I had too many photos of Steve and Cassie. "If you live in the past, what's the point of living?" he asked. We stopped seeing each other.
My heart still grieves. Little things set me off — "Something" by the Beatles, which was our wedding song, the blue denim work shirt hanging in the closet that matched the color of his eyes, and a photo of Steve and Cassie hiking.
I've read that grief can last from six months to more than two years. Some people never get over the loss. I'm taking each day as it comes with Romeo by my side. He's a comfort as he cuddles next to me. I even started to paint my apartment. A friend said, "Ann, be gentle with yourself. Do things that make you happy."
I'm trying.
