Reflection: 11 Years A Widow

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This March, I have lived in the fog that comes before Mike’s deathaversary. I can’t track the day or date, as if this will keep the date and pain from coming. Living in this state of denial and suspended animation worked until March 9th, four days before his death day. A song played on Spotify, and all the tears and pain of being a widow for almost eleven years overwhelmed me. And as is usual, it hit me close to bedtime, when I want to sleep, not cry.

I am such a different woman than I was in 2012 when my life split in two: before and after Mike’s death. I was a shell of myself that first year as I endured the worst pain I’d ever experienced. I had been slowly losing Mike to his addiction before he died, but I also lost hope at the moment of his death, hope that he might be able to shake his addiction and that we would have the life we planned. The end of hope is as painful as physical death. So now I had to navigate this unchartered territory alone, making all the decisions with no one to have my back. I was fully capable and had been doing it for years, but having no other choice made it much harder.

Grocery stores were the one place I liked to go to because it was orderly in a world of chaos. However, when the stores would be decked out for a holiday, which seemed to be a constant, I would go through the store as quickly as possible, trying to avert my eyes from anything I would no longer be celebrating with Mike.

My moods, other than sad, were a constant rollercoaster from being furious at Mike, God, rude people, and the world to being brought to tears by the simplest act of kindness. I would give Mike’s photo the finger, angry that he chose drugs over our family. I have compassion for him now and for what he struggled with at the time, but I felt every emotion so strongly in the beginning. It took several years for my feelings to settle down so that I could live with them. However, birthdays, wedding anniversaries, and holidays were still hard, especially the days leading up to them.

As I come up to eleven years since Mike’s death, I am able to have some perspective on my life since the initial shock and devastation.

• I was not responsible for Mike’s choices, nor could I have predicted or changed the outcome. I made the decision that I made at the time that was in my family’s best interest, and I was at peace with it.
• The first year was more painful than I could have ever imagined. I honestly never thought I would find joy and peace again.
• The second year was challenging in a different way. I knew that this was my new reality, Mike was not coming back, and I would have to keep moving forward on my own. Although I had supportive people, grief is a road you travel alone.
• The support of my parents and friends made all the difference in my survival that first year.
• I learned to create a new life for myself. That meant going on trips and events on my own. Some things were easier than others, but I did it anyway.
• I rediscovered photography and live music, something that connected me to Mike. I met Mike when he played an acoustic set, and he taught me about photography, which opened many opportunities for me. I met many local musicians and became a part of the Phoenix Film Festival, where I met people in the film industry as I used my photography skills.
• I grew in confidence as I began to give myself credit for my accomplishments.
• I learned that being alone did not mean being lonely.

Mike’s death forever changed me. One thing I did find was that I grew more compassionate for those who experienced the death of a loved one. Just as people who had experienced the death of a spouse had reached out to me at the lowest point of my life, I began to reach out to others as I grew in strength. Although I had not dealt with the death of a child, I also offered the hand of love to grieving parents. I remember a young widow saying to me at the time of Mike’s death, “You can get better, or you can get bitter.” By nature, I’m an optimist. So there was no way I would spend this precious life becoming bitter.

You never heal from the death of a significant loved one, but I’ve learned to incorporate Mike’s death into my life. I will always miss Mike’s positive qualities in my life, and I will always love him. He is a part of my DNA.