“It occurred to him now that people are defined much more by their association with death than by what they do in life. Poor thing, she’s a widow, they say. She lost her mother when she was ten to cancer. I’ve been immune to all this, he thought.”
I am currently reading An Association of Small Bombs by Karan Mahajan, and this passage, spoken by a father whose sons have recently died, rang true.
As I was getting to know Patrick, the loss of his brother to cancer when Patrick was in high school was one of his defining characteristics. Losing my dad to a lung disease when I was only 27 set me apart from many of my peers. Like Patrick’s brother, my father had struggled with a progressive disease and failing health for many years, and Patrick and I connected in having lived in households cocooned by debilitating illness. Now as a young widow, I know that my closeness to Patrick’s death influences how people interact with me. With people I have just met, the death of my husband is the first thing on my mind when I’m filling in the basic “getting to know you” information. I find myself making an assessment of how much to divulge: “Do I want to get into that part of my story if I will never see this person again?” I prepare myself for the arresting effect it will have and the extra effort it requires to receive the awkward expression of a stranger’s sympathy. A few times, I have introduced myself to someone who knew Patrick but not me, and I have seen the light of recognition in their eyes: “Oh! This is his widow.” I am still not used to that term, widow, and it is in the reactions of strangers that I see it mirrored most starkly.
This past month has been a tough one. The darkness of winter, aching post-marathon joints, the national discourse, and preparing for the holidays in the absence of Patrick have left me feeling anxious, fatigued, and deeply sad. I can never seem to keep on top of the endless house chores, meal preparation, and the finding of misplaced but essential items that accompany child-rearing. This past Saturday, I had planned to drop CR off at her ski lesson and return home to clean, wrap presents, and have some time to myself. Fortunately, I was reprieved from all of that by an overnight snowfall of 19 inches!
I scrapped the housekeeping in favor of skiing, and I’m so glad I did; I think it saved me! Saturday was a day that reminded me why I love skiing. The glorious sensation of floating through two feet of soft snow reverts serious, responsible adults to giddy, whooping kids. I skied with parents of kids in CR’s daycare program, none of whom I know beyond the pick-up and drop-off pleasantries. We had so much fun, reveled in the kinship of a shared adventure, and parted with hugs at the end of the day. When I went to meet CR in the late afternoon, her instructor informed me that she had made a huge leap and was turning and stopping on her own. CR was keen to take another run, and watching her ski in front of me, I felt as the Grinch must have when his heart trebled in size. I was the happiest I have been in a long time sharing that one ski run with my daughter. She, too, will be marked and defined by her father’s death, but CR can now add “skier” to her list of attributes.
Here’s to the redeeming power of powder and to many more ski days with CR.
https://www.instagram.com/p/BOIyvjFBXUR/?taken-by=alpenglow80&hl=en
As I was getting ready to post this, I learned that the driver of a truck took the lives of at least nine people and injured many more at the Christmas market in Berlin. When I hear of the sudden, violent deaths happening daily around the world, I am reminded how tenuous human life truly is. We – those of us in a warm place with a computer (of all things!) – are blessed in so many ways, and I grieve with those who have lost loved ones today.
Like the Country 