Rain, Thunder and Rainbows

It's still raining.

All night I've been listening to the sound of the rain hit the skylight above my head. I sleep in the attic of a small coach house I'm renting in this hip neighborhood of Chicago. My two kids are in the room next to me, fast asleep. And I'm thinking about you.

The widow.

How can I even begin to understand what it is you're going through? You told me in a text message tonight "I just need to wallow tonight." As a single mother, divorcee, I know a thing or two about wallowing. But, for me it was never acceptable to take more than two minutes to pity myself. I'm not allowed that luxury. Society doesn't consider divorce as an acceptable reason to grieve. So, I didn't ever have the space for wallowing. Get up, dust your pants off, and get busy living (and paying all your own bills and change your name back and ....). That's the attitude of a single mother. That's the advice I've been given and so I do. I live as hard as I can, every day. Mainly because I was the one who chose to end my marriage. And now it's for me to figure out how to navigate life alone.

The rain hits so hard, I wonder if I should worry about something. The bikes I left outside yesterday? Did I close all the windows? Is the basement currently flooding? Will there be a disaster to deal with in the morning? Is this roof, on this house that is not mine, strong enough? Will it leak and then days later the smell of mildew or mold will cue me in to the damage that is currently being done?

Fear rules over the lives of so many people. I can spout off all the self help books I've read in the last year and how they've helped me. But, you're right. They're not going to cure you. "Some passages in a book aren't going to snap me out of it right away."

If I could snap you out of it, I would. If I could fix it or heal you, I would. I'm trying in my own life to snap out of it. Stop repeating the words "It's not fair" each time I can't figure out the answer to one of life's dilemmas. But, if I could snap you out of it with some passage or some book, would you be receptive to it? Would you be open to moving on and going on with your life? These are questions I ask myself and everyone around me too. Not just you. I work with a life coach, for God's sake. Do you think I'm proud of that? But, I'm scraping the surface looking for happiness like an anteater. (How do they survive by eating such small tiny bugs if they're such a large animal, anyway?)

Since you've experienced too much loss and pain this year to even sum up, I am not even sure where to begin when it comes to support. "Sometimes I just need you to listen. And sit with me." your texts said. "And let me decompress." As a patient and caring person, I am capable of this. But when will the rain let up? What if the sun never comes out? What if I am going to always be worried about the eventual flood from so many tears and what if they wash away my life too...?

The way I wrap my mind around being the girlfriend of a widow is this:

I have to love her too.

I love her. She was so beautiful. Seriously, a stunning woman. I can't hate her or be jealous. I can't criticize her, as I would if she was your ex-wife and she'd left you and your son alone. All the things they say about her on her profile is that she was a wonderful person, a kind person, a gracious person. And, so I begin to love her and memorialize her even though I never knew her. I begin to mourn her being gone each time I see your son's eyes look lost or empty. I see a box on top of the antique buffet table that I know is her. And when I pass her there I pay respect to her, since I'm in her house. Loving her husband and packing lunches for her son, in her absence.

Maybe the residue of a loved one's death is so easy for me because my mom lost her mother at an early age to breast cancer. In the 60's, there was no chemo therapy or radiation or treatments. Her cancer spread to her brain and all her other organs and she died at home as her four children watched her illness consume their family. My mother never recovered. She described her mother's skin, in exacting detail, how gray it turned and how her hair fell out and she wore a scarf to cover her scalp. My mother carried her grief forever. I learned to try and mitigate her sadness as a child. I felt the guilt of having a mother that she never had. I was supposed to feel lucky.

There are notes all around the house for your wife. I could never ask you to take them down. I don't even want you to. Little colorful post-it squares with your handwriting on them. Messages of encouragement. Usually it seems like the note is meant for you, even though it addresses her. "You are beautiful." "We will overcome this and our family will thrive." For me, those are reminders that she is gone. Maybe for you they keep her memory alive by keeping them stuck to the mirror or the door. Because when you wrote them, you were hopeful she would survive. But, for me they're a sad reminder that her life ended. The heavy, heavy burden of loss in each tiny note.

Right now you are laying in your son's bed, no doubt, tears in your eyes. Listening to this same rain. I have no words that will console you. It's going to rain until it stops.

The widow's girlfriend never knew him before he was a widow.

What were you like? Who would you be today if you hadn't had to experience this? Did you have dark circles under your eyes? Did you keep a stash of Kleenex in your car and in every room before this? Were you quick to be defensive or slow to recover from an argument? Did you question everything all the time? Did you worry constantly about safety and sunscreen and locking the doors and seat belts? Did you adamantly object to jaywalking? Were you carefree and confident? Were you ambitious or cocky? Did you laugh more and sleep better?

I may never know.

The hardest part is imagining that part of you died. I wish I could have you back. But, if it wasn't for her passing, I would never have you at all. So, again, I am supposed to feel lucky. As if the misfortune of so many people losing their daughter, sister, friend, mommy and wife is my fortune.

I want all of you, though you don't belong to me. It's for that reason that I want an end to the wallowing, the grief. I want you in happiness and strength. I want you feeling stable and safe. I want that man, not the widow. It's selfish, I know. It brushes over the process that you need to go through to recover from the trauma of her death. And it's unrealistic to expect that I deserve rainbows all the time. I'm not saying I do. I guess, it's just hard to embrace the storm while it's raining. And the darkness. For the rainbow and light will be that much sweeter once it comes, I know.

So, I'm waiting it out with you. I'm here.