Widows Support, Coaching for Widows

Last night it was cold and damp here on Cape Cod so I lit a fire in the fireplace and invited Anneke, my 15 year-old to join me. She had her laptop and I had mine. She did her homework and I did mine. It was quiet and lovely and I felt gratitude. I have come to a place of deep peace since my husband died. It took years and a lot of help.

But, every once in a while I forget that my daughter is 15, and I assume she grieves as I do. I forget how profoundly different it is to lose a father than it is to lose a husband.

When Mike died we lost our footing. Nothing made sense. I remember feeling as if I were caught up in a vortex and I wondered when we would fall and if we would land on our feet or if we would land, broken into little pieces.

Anneke grieved, because she was 7, in short, deep spurts, bereft one moment and playing happily with her friends the next. She was a child, and because children grieve so differently, she seemed to roll with it better than I did.

Although I could count on regular meltdowns from Anneke, especially after the rare occasion when I needed to resort to discipline, these meltdowns were brief.

I would go something like this…

Me, (after a minor transgression).  “Honey you need to go to your room for a little while and think about what you did (or said)…”
Anneke. “I waaaaant myyyyyy daaaaaddyyyyyy……”

It wasn’t simply that she was a manipulator and knew how to get me to soften.

We had been a three-person-household, instead of now two, and discipline from one parent always meant that Anneke had the other parent to lend support and balance.  I was the stricter of the two parents and Mike’s laid-back attitude was a wonderful stabilizing force for us. We relied on him for this. His absence was deeply felt by Anneke when she and I did not see eye-to-eye.

Now, eight years have come and gone since Mike died. Anneke and I see eye-to-eye more often than not. She has now known more years without him than she knew with him. Anneke has matured into a gorgeous, articulate, balanced young woman. I have no question that Mike continues to have a strong hand in her up bringing.

I want to put a period on this story. A period that goes something like this.

“I am in a good place, I am dating, I love my life (finally, due to some really good coaching), I am taking voice lessons, I have learned how to dance, I have a good job, I know that I will meet my special someone at some point and I have no big worries. Therefore, Anneke is fine also. Period.”

But that is not how it works. Yes, I am fine.

But last night, I got up from the fire and went to get ready for bed. After an hour or so, I called downstairs to say goodnight. Anneke’s response was a somewhat muffled “goodnight” so I knew something was up and I went downstairs to investigate.

Anneke’s grief continues in a way that mine does not. The man in her life who was supposed to tell her that she is a princess, that she is beautiful, that he is so proud of her musical performances that he might burst, and that she can do anything she wants to do, is gone. The man who was supposed to teach her about boys, to tell her that she is a desirable young woman and who was supposed to interrogate nervous young men as they came to pick her up for a date, is gone.

But her need for him continues. In fact, her need for him is greater now, perhaps, than when she was seven.

For teens, the missing of a parent seems in some ways to get harder. As the years pass, the events in their lives increase in significance and his absence becomes more profound.  But even as this is true, the world around these teens assumes they miss him less, that they are done with their grief.

My daughter, as many teens do, has a smile on her face most of the time. She would be described by anyone as happy, upbeat and positive.

But at night, when alone in front of the fireplace, she grieves. And there is nothing I can do. My job as a parent is NOT to hug those tears away, not to shove tissues in her face, not to make her feel better as I so want to do.

My job is to be with her if she wants me. To cry with her if I have to, but mostly to witness her. To witness and respect her need to grieve, even eight years later. And to let her know that this is just the process, that this will not be the last time she cries, that it will happen again, and that between tears she can and will live a full, remarkable life. My job is to teach her to not fear but rather accept her continued sadness.

I try hard not to be afraid of my daughter’s pain. Like all widowed parents, I don’t want her to have any. None. But he died, and she does have pain. My consolation is in knowing that at her tender age, she is learning a lesson that took me 47 years to learn; that no matter how hard she cries, she will laugh again.

Mie Elmhirst. The widow’s coach. Coaching, Support and Help for Widows.

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