Grief: Losing Two Wives

     In addition to the simple loss of a member of the family, when a spouse dies a love relationship is lost. This can be a bigger hurdle to overcome than the simple tragic loss of a life. For me, this part of loss took me to a deeper level of hurt than simply missing someone I loved.
       “He (she) was the love of your life. You must really ache now,” is a better statement than, “You must move on now.” Having a friend or relative acknowledge the love lost aspect helps the griever feel understood.
      “Till death do us part…” I repeated. Those words seemed to echo throughout the huge college chapel following my promise and then my bride’s commitment. The witnesses of our wedding stood by smiling. Our parents sat with proud looks on their faces. In all honesty, however, I only viewed those words as a symbol of commitment. I did not really think I would experience that part of those important words, let alone do it twice.
     Twenty-one short years later, I watched Ruth take her last breath. I didn’t know a human could hurt so much. Within days I became aware of this hole in my soul that seemed permanent.
      Friends that would cry in my presence helped more than they knew. I was still struggling a bit about embracing the grieving process, thinking it a weakness. People who cried with me gave me freedom to mourn. Positive comments about Ruth’s life were also encouraging.
      Most people simply said, “I am so sorry.” That did help.
      The grieving process was really foreign to me. I quickly learned that in much of the mourning I had no control, let alone actually causing it by some sort of weakness. That was freeing to understand. Some of my attention was diverted from my needs in order to help others deal with her death. All around me were the kids, her parents, many close friends and church folks going through various levels of grieving her loss — mother, daughter, friend. But I alone was her spouse.
      I remember a few of the feeble comments different folks shared with me. The ones I remember most were the simple, honest statements about my present pain or loss. “I really miss her, too,” one friend expressed. That empathy hugged my soul. Another had three Bible verses and a mini-sermon on God’s will for me. I cringed during their comments. Being sensitive to the current need of the grieving takes care and discernment. Often their need revolves simply around their human pain at the moment. Simply stating or allowing them to state the obvious can release some of that pain.
      A comment that was particularly disconcerting to me was from a well-meaning friend who told me that, “If you had had more faith, Ruth would not have had to die.” Others were nearly as hurtful — the ones who AVOIDED me. I felt rejected by them. It would have been better to send a card or simply say, “I am sorry for your loss,” than to say nothing and stay away.
      The next year, a widow lady came to the school where I taught who absolutely swept me off my feet. I mean, I don’t know what I thought about “love at first sight” before that, but the fact that it happened to me was for sure. I thought all those feelings had died. What a beautiful lady!
      The following year Judith and I found ourselves in a large church in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, with six sons on one side and two daughters and Judith’s sister on the other. Again, the room echoed our vows, “Till death do us part.”
      These words had much deeper meaning to both of us. We had both experienced this hard reality of that truth to the fullest. However, even with that, we viewed the actuality of it happening again as being a life-time away.
      Twenty years later, while visiting family, Judith suddenly had symptoms resembling a stroke. An MRI revealed a mass on her brain. We were told it had to come out. During that surgery, the doctor called me in the waiting room. He said, “Mr. Knapp, I am sorry. I am seldom surprised but much to my surprise, I found a very mean looking cancer tumor on Judith’s brain that came from somewhere else.” I immediately knew she was going to die. I sat down and sobbed uncontrollably for nearly an hour. My sobbing continued daily from that day in August until Christmas day.
      The next day a full-body scan exposed cancerous spots on her lungs and a large, stage four tumor on her pancreas. With that news Judith asked, “Does that mean I am going to die?” I teared up and nodded, “Yes” as I leaned over for a long, sobbing embrace. I had never heard Judith cry like that before.
      Just as Judith and I talked about everything, this would be no different. The next four days in the hospital afforded us time to mourn her impending death together. Few visitors were allowed in. It was our time to fully say goodbye and discuss the possible events of the coming months. As usual, we tackled even the hard questions. Through our tears we discussed issues like helping the kids and grandkids through the mourning process, what her memorial service would look like, would she want to die at home with hospice, and her even insisting that I, again, consider remarriage.
     On an early Sunday morning late in October, Judith leaped into the arms of Jesus. She was free from the pain. My mourning plunged to the deepest level I had ever experienced. I felt like I was a no-body with her gone.
My grief was inconsolable. Marsha and Kathy, wisely, simply hugged me and proceeded to take care of physical needs in the house.
       Several people since have asked me if it was easier or harder to mourn the loss of a spouse the second time. My response is that it was harder for me. I cite two reasons for this conclusion. The first time the mourning process was new to me and each stage was a bit of a surprise. This time, I knew how much I would have to hurt before I could heal. That was hard. My relationship with Ruth was “text-book” in many ways. Our marriage had developed well from our youth to age 41. However, neither one of us had really experienced deep hurt.
      Judith and I entered our marriage having both experienced the deep pain of grieving well. This made it possible for us to love deeply which becomes my second reason. My emotional loss was deeper due to this deeper level of love Judith and I enjoyed and pursued.
       I was alone again. This time was different. The first time I had an empty bed but a house full of kids to keep caring for. This time, I came home to an empty bed and an empty house. The loneliness was deafening.
      A few friends offered in passing, “Dave, if you ever want to talk, call me anytime. I mean it, anytime.” Well guess what? It didn’t happen. I knew they had lives and families. I probably could have called. I probably should have called. But it would have been more helpful if they had said, “So, Dave, would it be better if I came by Saturday at 7 p.m. or Sunday?”
      I knew from previous experience to expect my friends to begin to pull away after about three weeks. They did. It did not hit me with surprise because I understood more this time. So, like before, I intentionally did things to allow the grieving process to happen instead of hiding or stuffing it. I would plan to go out in the evenings, even if it meant going to the mall and watching people go by while eating an ice cream cone or going to a movie … alone.
      One reality of being widowed was the challenge of thinking of myself as a whole single person and not a half of a couple. My friends struggled with that as well. Some struggled with it so much that they have pulled away from me. And for some, in a subtle way, they viewed me as a threat when it came to their wives. It sounds strange, but it is often true for both widowers and widows in social settings. Somehow being single is often associated with being promiscuous in some way, or at the very least “available.”
      Finally, don’t be afraid to educate yourself about the grieving process. Most people mistakenly think the mourning process is purely an emotional condition, ignoring that it is a physical condition as well. If you are married, it WILL happen to one of you, eventually. My case is unusual only because it happened during younger years. Dying happens among the elderly every day.

(Portions quoted from the book I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY: Being A Better Friend to Those Who Experience Loss, Chapter 3) Book available at www.ididntknowwhattosay.com/book