“You’re not crazy, this sort of thing is normal for someone going through this.”
I hear that a lot, but it doesn’t make me feel any less crazy. I think it is okay for anyone that is going through the complete and unexpected upheaval of everything familiar to call herself crazy. I think a lot of my personal crazy comes from questioning myself and my decisions.
I used to classify myself as a decisive person. If there was a problem, I had a clear opinion of what should be done. Now, someone asks me something as simple as “Do you want me to help wash these dishes?” and I am baffled. Should the dishes be washed? I don’t know. I guess it is good thing dropped off in the initial days was paper plates and plastic ware so there are not many dishes to make a decision on. It’s ridiculously absurd.
There were a lot of decisions that had to be made early on. Within hours of his death, I had to have a 20 minute phone call consenting to allowing my husbands heart valves, tissues, and eyes to be donated. I consented to everything they asked for and tried not to picture it as they described in detail how it would be collected and what impact the collection would have on his appearance should I opt to have a viewing. To be clear, intellectually I know without a doubt that donation was the right thing. He would have wanted it. But as soon as I got off the phone, I immediately thought “Oh no, what if this upsets his family?” It of course didn’t upset his family, they were happy I did it. When someone hears donation however, they picture someone getting a needed heart, lung, or liver. That was not an option for me to consent to so I was put in the awkward position of having to explain that they could only take certain things, not major organs. After a while, I just stopped correcting people because I was so tired of explaining someone could end up walking around with parts of my husband’s beautiful hazel eyes with new sight.
The next major decision was what to do with his body. This one was really tough. We hadn’t had too many of these discussions and there was no will left behind. He had said once he would want to be buried, but it was in the context of being old and gray. So, say I went with the burial option. Would I have to pick somewhere in the southwest where I live or should it be near his blood family in Pennsylvania? Both had downsides. If he was buried near me, I would feel forever tethered to where I live now. We often talked about moving away and having an adventure, and such a tether would make me feel obligated to stay here for the rest of my life. If he was sent back to Pennsylvania, I would need to fly across the country to see him. It would also feel almost like he was a library book that I checked out for while and then returned back. He is not that at all. He was and still is my entire life.
Another consideration with the burial option would be whether I would want to be buried beside him when my time comes. The idea of purchasing a plot next to him felt almost like I was already giving up on my own life and just starting the clock on waiting to die. I didn’t think he would want that. So, after discussing it with his sister, I made the decision to have my husband cremated. This way, he will be with me no matter where the rest of my life takes me. Also, he and his sister were so incredibly close I was able to get a smaller urn for her so he could also be with her. That part felt right, but cremation in general? I still don’t know. I’ve been haunted over the past few weeks with visions of him being burned, his flesh blackening and disintegrating, and leaving behind evidence that his soul was once housed by matter, and in the end, that matter let everyone down.
My crazy widow moment of the week was also based off of doubt, but not doubt in my choices exactly. I wasn’t able to sleep and my mind started concocting stories to make it make sense that none of this was real and all a huge misunderstanding. I do use the phrase “make sense” loosely. I had myself convinced that since I couldn’t make myself see his body, it wasn’t actually his body at all. There had been some sort of mix up and somehow that was someone else’s body sitting in my urn. So what was my explanation for where my husband was? Well, obviously he was a John Doe in the hospital that was probably in a coma or had memory loss and couldn’t communicate to anyone that I needed to come to his bedside and nurse him back to health. I almost called the friend that took me to the hospital that horrible night and was brave enough to go see his body to tell me if who he saw really was my husband. Ultimately, my intellect took over and told me I was being ridiculous and yes, this was real and yes, that was him, and no, there would be no cheesy soap opera return from the ether.
I miss me. I had confidence and wasn’t afraid of making mistakes. Now, I avoid as many decisions as I can because falling down when I’m already in this hole would be unbearable.
Finding the pieces 