Sudden Widow, A True Story of Love, Grief, Recovery and How Much It CAN Suck!

—CHAPTER 1—

LIFE BEFORE

People speak about adversity as if it’s a good thing. I’m not sure that’s the case. Many think the worst part of becoming a sudden widow is losing someone you love, but it isn’t only that. Dealing with the ramifications that branch out in every direction, recognizing that life as you knew it is over, sucks!

Paul was by far the light of my life—gorgeous, funny, sweet, helpful, and as reliable as the sun rising and setting. He was an even better father than spouse, and easily impressed others with his kid-skills, not only with our own children, but entertaining most he knew or spent time with. Even dogs and cats liked him.

Don’t get me wrong. My husband could be stubborn and a royal pain in the ass. He was not easy to live with, but given all of him I was way happier to put up with his shortcomings than live without him. We were together for twenty-one years, and 99.9 % of the time I would do it all over again, even knowing the outcome.

I didn’t love my husband because he was perfect—he wasn’t. But I wouldn’t trade a minute, an hour, a day, or a year we spent together for anything. Even if I fleetingly thought about divorcing him every three to six months, and I would frequently tell him I was so angry I wanted to kill him, in truth, I could never.

Paul often joked about killing me (humor was by far his best quality). In fact, when one of my clients once threatened to hurt me, his response was, “There is no way he can want to kill you. That guy only spent eight hours with you. I’ve spent twenty years with you—who is he? If anyone has a right to take you out, it’s me.”

He joked about ending me after our second child was born. Barely two hours after I gave birth, his best friend came to visit. Without saying a word, Paul took the baby ever so gently from my arms and his friend approached me with a pillow, as if to smother me. They both said now that Paul had his two boys, my usefulness had expired. Then of course, they roared with laughter.

Paul and I met in a park, in 1994. He was riding his bike; I was jogging. We had each flirted with people we were interested in, and after seeing him around for a week or two, I noticed him standing on the side of the track with his bike.

My assertive personality took hold. I walked right up to him and introduced myself in a business-like fashion. I put my hand out to shake his, said my full name, my job title, and where I worked at the time.

He looked at me, kind of in shock. I think he would have preferred for us to smile at each other for a couple more days (or weeks), then let things happen organically; not a formal business introduction. He didn’t know then that I have no patience. I prefer to plow to the next step, no tiptoeing.

Organically let it happen? Really?

He was gorgeous, and as I jogged away from him I remember concentrating to make sure my butt looked good. I had no idea how to do this or if it worked, but it was my sole focus at the time. About ten minutes later, Paul rode up beside me and started chatting. His question was ridiculous; something like, “I see you like running, how far do you usually run?”

We spoke the whole time I ran and then spent the next few evenings together after work, meeting in the park and talking for an hour or two.

The next week, I hurt my knee and missed some evenings at the park. I remember the smile on his face when I came back a few days later, and in the sweetest voice, he said,

“Where’d you go?”

I kept thinking, I don’t know if this guy will ask me out on even one date, but if he does, I’m getting a picture, because he would be by far the most gorgeous man I’ve ever dated. He had the body of an underwear model, a beautiful smile with perfect white teeth, and sparkling hazel eyes against tan skin and dark hair. He was definitely my type.

He asked me out that night, even though we were both sweaty and disgusting from exercising, we went to a fast food place to get acquainted. Paul asked me what I wanted out of life. I gave him an earful—dreams, ambitions, where I wanted to live, etc. When I asked him the same question, his answer was simple.

“I want to fall in love, get married, have kids, and be happy.”

What a line! Seriously, I couldn’t believe he really meant it; it was too good to be true.

Obviously, I was a bit cynical, because… fast forward… he meant it. After our first date, we saw each other almost every day until the day he died.

Paul liked me the way he met me, with no make-up and in yoga pants. Even on our wedding day, he looked at me sweetly and said, “What happened? Where’s my bride? Why do you have all that stuff on your face? Why is your hair curly?” Yes, I wanted to punch him, but I thought, being myself without anything extra was beautiful to him, and that was an incredible feat. It made me feel wanted and appreciated both physically and as a person, emotionally and cognitively. That’s why I married him.

I admit, it was a little disappointing on our wedding day that everyone was talking about “what a handsome groom” instead of “what a beautiful bride.” Even so, it was perfectly fine with me. I always joked that he was prettier, and it was true.

He wasn’t only the most handsome; he was also the favorite uncle, son-in-law, and brother-in-law. My family would tease me and say, “If there’s a divorce, we’re keeping him!” I was fine with that, and when there were hard times in our marriage, I always expressed to him that no matter what, he had me and my family. He didn’t have a family of his own to fall back on; friends, yes, but not a nuclear family. Even if we were ever to divorce, my family and I would always be there for him.

In one of our worst fights ever, Paul started grabbing his clothes to pack and said, “That’s it! I’m moving in with your parents!” I actually started laughing, and then we both laughed. I joked that he could get a great new life if he wanted to, but I wasn’t going anywhere. He was stuck with me, for better or worse.

These moments were thankfully infrequent and fleeting in our marriage; maybe a few times over the years. When you truly love someone, you always try to think of them, what would be best for them, what would keep them safe and make them happy.

When I think about it now, I realize the decision to bury Paul alongside my parents made a profound statement. He alone, among their ‘children’ is buried with them. As I write this, I’m crying and smiling at the same time.

It’s funny, as I think back, Paul was elusive at times. The first time I asked him for help, I needed a ride home from the train station, my unreliable car was in the shop. I let him know what train I was coming home on and he was supposed to be waiting. When he wasn’t there, I thought to myself, I knew he was too good to be true. No one that gorgeous could be that nice!

I began walking home to my parents’ house, hoping I could hitch a ride with them. As I crossed the street from the train station, I was walking past a building with mirrored windows and in the reflection, saw my Adonis… Paul was there.

I ran a marathon when I was in my late twenties. I had rage built up from earlier times in my life, and I was working it out by running. The marathon was a catharsis, some closure on that part of my youth. Paul was supportive. I trained for over a year in rain, cold, heat; it was a mission.

The day finally came, I was going to finish no matter what, and I was so proud of raising money for childhood cancer. In your body, every cell has memory. I don’t know if everyone knows this, but they should. I ran almost a perfect nine-andchange-minute mile for 26.2 miles. Paul and his best friend were riding all around the city, following me intermittently. I remember seeing the finish line and wondering where I was going to find them. You’re tired after a run of that length and I probably wasn’t thinking clearly. I just wanted to see him.

I kept looking at the finish line poles, saying it was close, almost there, don’t stop, don’t stop. All the time, I was thinking if I did stop, I wouldn’t likely start again! As I came within two feet of the finish line, I saw him from the corner of my eye. He had been tracking me for some time and we crossed the finish line together; me running, albeit slowly at that point, with him on his bike just outside the finish line bars. This is still by far one of the best moments of my life.

Paul was almost always an angel in my life. He was the one who brought me food at 4 A.M. when I was up writing my thesis, then dissertation. He was the one who would shut off the lights during midterms and finals and say, “You’ll still get an A. Go to sleep already.” He held my hand during difficult transitions, rough waters, challenges in graduate school and at work.

We waited to have our first child until I completed graduate school. Of course, he was there when I received my degree certificate. We had a party and it honored him as much as me, because it was clear that without him, I couldn’t have accomplished this. He was my rock, my muse, my strength. My achievement in graduate school was ours to share.

Paul helped constantly when the boys were first born and afterward—changing diapers, staying awake endless hours when they were sick, entertaining them during the day and night when necessary, cleaning, shopping, whatever was needed. We truly worked together. Life wasn’t easy, and who is it easy for? We both worked a lot.

The boys of course were a joy, well, if you have kids, obviously, I mean a joy sometimes. I thought Paul felt like they were a joy even more than I did. He was able to look at them with pure love, whereas I was marred and saw them in a loving yet realistic way. We were both full-time parents, but he spent more playtime with the boys than I did, especially after they each turned three and four years old.

No matter what, still in love after ten, fifteen, twenty years, Paul was still pinching and chasing me in playful ways, always professing his love in front of the kids. Despite arguing and disagreements, we always made up, and we were happy more than not.

There were no major issues between us—no infidelity, no alcohol or substance use, no selfishness or lack of caring. We only dealt with occasional differences of opinion, and that isn’t enough to leave the love, friendship, and passion we had for each other. We both knew that.

When people ask about Paul, the smile on my face is so bright, they say it’s remarkable. When I speak about times we spent together or funny things he would say, sometimes I still laugh out loud! He truly is the gift that keeps giving.

I recently saw the movie The Boss Baby (2017) and could almost hear Paul convincing the children that I came out of the womb wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, with no apparent sense of humor, all business. He would likely attempt to convince my mother of the same, and as she has dementia—no joke—she would be easily convinced. I can hear her giggle as he would say it.

As for me, I have a Ph.D. and best qualify as a geek or nerd. I am studious, and if I had my druthers, I would go back to school despite having already spent more time in school than most people ever do.

My extensive time in the world of academia definitely influenced how I approached becoming a widow. Obviously, I don’t like being a widow, but however you look at it, Paul was a gift to me for twenty-one years, and despite a sudden and unexpected, dreadful outcome, he provides me joy to this day.