Ugly tears spill onto my cheeks as the wind whips against the window and Mallow lays curled up by my feet. On a whim, I decided to join an internet group for widows. I join them virtually from the comfort of my couch. We have a Facebook page and we’ll meet on Zoom a few times. This morning I am reading stories from men and women around the world who lost their partners to death.

There are tragedies of others that I can’t even imagine: losing a partner of 43 years, finding out your pregnant ten days after your husband’s death, your dog dying with your partner in a car accident, birthing a child alone mere months after their partners death.

Oh my god how my heart breaks for the women who had to become or continue to be moms after their partners death. I think of my own mom as she navigated this when my dad passed away almost twelve years ago.

Last summer when Ian died, someone said something about it being sad that I was such a young widow. I remember recoiling at that phrase. I’m not a widow.

As if I could get off on the mere technicality that Ian and I weren’t officially married. We were however, committed to each other for life and he died…so, sure. Call me a widow.

Joining this group is a step in accepting myself as a widow. It’s also a tool for me to carve out time to acknowledge the loss. Because I’m in a new partnership that is loving and happy and kind but it doesn’t detract or take away from the heartache and grief of losing Ian. So this group is a tool for me to take intentional time to be alone with my feelings. A good cleansing cry this morning for myself and for these other women that remind me I’m not alone in the loss.

A lot of the time I do feel alone in this loss.

It’s alienating to be young and grieving as a widow while friends my age are still wasting their time with assholes on dating apps waiting for love or fine with a fuck. The frivolity of dissecting a bad date has lost its appeal. Watching friends stay in sour relationships for whatever reason is painful. Boring. While people my age are still experimenting and going to the bars to flirt with strangers, I find myself living in a different reality.

I haven’t met any twenty eight year olds who have lost a partner. I’ve found closer relations with women in their fifties, sixties, seventies. Women who are in the stage of life where death is more expected. One glance and we know what the other is going through. I’d rather sip a cup of coffee and chat about death that look at one more photo on a dating app. I’d rather walk alone through a desolate canyon and find a good rock to cry on. Not things people my age seem to want to do.

Through this widow group, I have now met two women in their 20’s who have lost a partner. And it’s a strange comfort. Strange because I don’t want this to have happened to either of us and strange because I’m glad I’m not the only one. I suppose the old troupe “you’re not alone” still holds power and meaning.

Some women in this group had a whole family with kids and grandkids and post things like: “At least we got to raise our children together. My heart breaks for all you young widows with young children.”

As if we can possibly compare our grief. 

Cancer that kills in seven weeks, car accidents that kill in under seven seconds. A firefighter left in flames. Death from a disease that has a cure today. Cardiac arrest, suicide, cancer, cancer, and more cancer.

Is there any good way to die?

Only one passed in his sleep. A fine way to die, painless. A peaceful passage. But how dreadful to fall asleep as a wife and to wake up as a widow.

Is there any good way to be left behind?

Not really, no. No matter how much community and support surrounds you it will feel disorienting. Some of the most common words used throughout the posts are “blur,” and “moving.” So many people describe time passing in a blur and the necessary upheaval that comes after death. Moving closer to family or away from the home that you shared with your partner. Moving on, moving with sorrow, moving across the country, moving away, moving back, moving into- it’s all a blur.

But I didn’t just join this group to feel more sad. There’s uplifting moments and tidbits of wisdom of that I love.

One man lost his wife and compared grief to weightlifting. It’s exhausting to do every day, but you gain strength as you do it. It’s gets easier as you get stronger but it’s never easy or comfortable. And it’s not healthy to lift weights every day. Some days you gotta enjoy a break.

For the last year, I’ve gone back and forth between feeling cynical, hostile, accepting, peaceful, full of despair, and hope. When I feel cynical I picture myself drunk at other people’s weddings saying things like, “Til death do you part,” and laughing manically. But this isn’t realistically who I am or want to be.

Lately I’ve been thinking: Til death do you part my ass!

Holy moly I can still feel Ian’s love through the veil that separates the living and the dead. His spirit is strong in the desert, his giggle I can still hear so clearly. His outrageous love for the sufferfest of living outside lives on within me. It’s been incredible to learn about loving people through death. Learning how to feel their aliveness within myself and breathe it back into existence.

One of my dear friends lost her sister when were roommates in college some six or seven years ago. When Ian died, she told me, “I know you may not believe it now, but you will eventually feel closer to Ian through his death.” At the time it didn’t resonate but it’s starting to.

That’s why I joined this group- to learn about grief from the people who know it best. From the people who are further along and can look at me where I’m at and offer some slice of wisdom.

The man who compared grief to weightlifting also said, “She deserves every tear.” This is my favorite because it leans so heavily on the love he felt for his wife. It welcomes the tears and the sadness as deep love, not just deep sorrow.

The winds have shifted here in Page, Arizona. Instead of feeling like I live in the path of a hot hairdryer, the air has a crisp cut to it now. Winter is moving in with clouds that obscure Navajo Mountain for days until it re-emerges with a splash of snow. Mornings are cold, hovering just above freezing. Afternoons are glorious in the sun. Hiking season is back. The days grow shorter. The time to nestle in by the fire with a book is rapidly approaching.

Last year at this time I was utterly lost and alone. In shock. Jobless. Aimless. In a new town without a single friend. In a house without any decorations.

This year I am surrounded by plants and postcards from loved ones. Twinkle lights and disco ball hang in the living room with an overflowing bookshelf. I’m in graduate school and I work with elementary school kids outside. I have friends in this community, a partner, and the cutest damn dog. I’m more equipped to handle the ups and downs of grief as the come.

For that- I thank you readers for supporting me. With your subscription, with your words, with your visits, with your heart. Thanks for being one of the ones left behind with me.