Hello all. Another crazy busy weekend for me that included a memorial service and luncheon for the loss of a dear family friend, a Red Sox/Yankees game today with my husband at Fenway Park , (my team got clobbered) and me writing up yet another offer for us on another house we have fallen in love with and probably won’t get in this nutty market. But, we shall see. Anyway, I just finished the offer and all the documents and everything, and am finally sitting down to write in Widows Voice. I switched to Sundays a couple weeks ago because I figured Sundays would be less crazy and more relaxed for me to write in here. Hopefully they will be , most of the time. This week – not so much.

But back to that memorial service. So, back in late January, a very close friend of my family named Susan, died very suddenly from an aneurism. She worked most of her life as a 2nd grade school teacher, and last year, her and her husband finally retired and moved to Florida to enjoy their retirement years together. She was young, healthy, and died without ANY warning. Because of covid, her two adult children and her husband were not able to honor her with a service until now. So yesterday, I packed into my parents car and rode with them to the funeral and luncheon reception for our dear friend who we have known for over 30 years. I did not expect her funeral services to bring up so much grief or so many grief triggers for me. But as always, grief is filled with the unexpected.

To begin with, Don’s death happened 10 years ago July 13th, so its coming up quickly. So her funeral being similar time of year, the hot humid nasty 90-ish degree weather was the same as 10 years ago, when I felt like I would faint the whole day. Also, 10 years ago when Don died, we stuffed ourselves into my mom’s small car to go to the funeral home, just like we did yesterday. Both deaths were completely sudden and totally shocking and unexpected. The hardest part yesterday, was perhaps observing Susan’s husband, and recognizing myself in him, and not being able to help or do anything at all to make things better for him. Having to witness that glassy look in his eyes, that distant way in which he was speaking to the guests, And when I tried to talk with him, give him some words of comfort or let him know that I really do understand, he couldnt even look me in the eye. He muttered something about: “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m okay, I’ll be fine”, and started walking away from me It was heartwrenching watching his pain, knowing what he will be having to endure in the weeks and months to come, and being powerless to offer help in any way. I know exactly where he was. He was at that same place I was mentally – a decade ago at Don’s funeral – when people were hugging me and offering up words of wisdom or comfort – and I honestly just wanted everyone to go away and I especially did not want to hear from other widowed people, or even hear the word widowed in any way, because I was nowhere near ready to see myself as that yet. I was in shock, and in denial, and just wandering around in a fog of confusion at where my life went.

There was so much about yesterday that was very hard, and I was surprised by the intensity with which I can still feel pain and grief a decade later – but watching someone else going through all the things you went through, and being invisible in their eyes to make any impact – that was awful. I want so badly to be able to fast-forward his pain, and all the HORRIFIC he is about to go through. I want to fast forward him to the part where he feels joy again, the part where laughter is a thing and it feel genuine, the part where he can be proud of the life he has rebuilt and created, and proud of how he has honored his late wife and their love story. I want to fast-forward him through all of the darkest and most evil places that loss takes you. I want to fast forward him through all of it.

But I cant. I just cant. And watching him live what I have lived through – it was torture.