That Little Voice

That Little Voice

“My husband just died,” she announced when we met on the street. The confused look she gave me was sad, and her voice sounded perplexed. After a hug, she shook her head and lamented, “I don’t know how I feel.” Her husband had dementia for 20 years, and had succumbed to a respiratory infection while in a nearby nursing home.

“I’m relieved, heartbroken, sad, adrift,” she continued. “and feelings begin to run together. One minute I’m crying, the next smiling knowing he is in a better place, then I feel alone, although I’ve lived alone for several years.”

I could only nod with understanding. My husband died 18 years ago, and that memory of loss, abandonment, and uncertainty brought tears to my eyes as I recalled the emotional roller coaster I rode diving toward the unknown, holding on for fear I would be tossed out and never recover.

I wanted to tell her about my dreams of walking naked around town, feeling exposed and vulnerable, wondering why people went on with their lives as if nothing had happened, while my life was shattered, broken in unrepairable pieces.

I wanted to assure her she will survive, the pain will ease, the tears will fall less often, and she will remember the smiles, the laughter, the intimate moments, and the everyday activities they shared.

But all I could do was hug her, as she clutched a bottle of wine she had just purchased intending to toast her husband in a solitary salute to his life.

I watched her walk away, hoping she didn’t feel exposed, unprotected or unaided for very long on her road to adjustment.

Loss is hard to explain, even harder to live through. Thank goodness the sun does come out, just a patch at a time, and suddenly she will get a glimpse of a rainbow making her smile.