A group of widows is called an Ambush. I learned that at one of the three Camp Widow events I’ve attended. Greater than that fun fact, are the friendships I’ve built from those Camps. My home base Camp Widow has been San Diego.
My first year in attendance, I almost instantly connected with three other suicide widows. We found ourselves drawn to one another, seeing a little bit of ourselves in each other. It was a relief to meet people who had experienced the same kind of devasting loss. Over the last three years, we’ve continued to grow our bond. Along the way, we met more amazing humans widowed by suicide.
One of those amazing humans took a little longer to find us at Camp Widow but I’m so glad they did. Months ago, they invited the four of us to their home in LA for a weekend of togetherness. It had to have been a higher power that enabled us to find a weekend that worked for all of us to get away from our collective responsibilities.
Three weeks ago, an ambush of suicide widows descended on LA. We had never gathered without the premise of Camp Widow. As expected, it was a very special weekend.
We had plenty of time for catching up on life. Things get lost over thousands of miles and text threads. There was time to relax over coffee and mimosas. An afternoon hike, had us reinvigorated and ready to hit the town of WeHo (West Hollywood for my fellow Midwesterners) for an evening of fine dining and dancing.
But most importantly, there was space and understanding. Space to share our stories is so important. Even though we are all widows by suicide, how we got here is so different. Being able to share the details with people who will not judge is critical to our own healing.
Each one of us experienced something different in the time leading up to our partners death. Some battled mental health for years. Others showed no signs of struggle. The discovery of their death is just as contrasted; we witnessed, found, or were informed. Method, location, parting words, informing loved ones, planning funerals; there is a variable in all of it. Holding all of that in, with no one to listen is toxic.
In many places, we aren’t encouraged to share our full truth. I understand that the details could be too much for some people, but I wish there was a secondary space for us to share when ready.
My first camp, I ended up at a bar in the Gaslamp district with another ambush of widows. We stood together in a circle sharing our stories. Around us the staff was moving tables and chairs, as a dance floor emerged. Meanwhile, we stood in a circle shouting over the music describing how each of our husbands died in detail. It’s comical and sad when I look back on that evening.
I don’t know for certain, haven’t been there, but I think other widows get to talk more freely about their loved one’s death. If they had medical problems, what kind of treatments/medications were they on, if they got to say goodbye, etc, etc. While there is less stigma around suicide, it still exists.
This weekend gave us a chance to share our whole widowed selves. Who else can hold your hand as you replay the worst and still understand the love you still carry? Is anyone a better cheerleader for your big and small successes? Who else would you want to go through it all with, other than your Ambush?
