Widows Support, Coaching for Widows

I cleaned out Mike’s underwear drawer two days after the funeral. I stuffed a shopping bag full of the old, the very old, and the new. No tee shirts, no socks, just underwear. I did it in secret, afraid of my relative’s gaze. Maybe they would think I was glad the fight was over?

I was not.  But I was tired of cancer and the control it exerted over our household. Thinking that unloading underwear would sooth my heart, I threw the bag into the back seat and made for the dump. Of course, it changed nothing.

Two months later it was his suits.  In the parking lot of the thrift store I gathered an armful, shoving my face deep into what he had left behind. And there he was, ready for work, standing beside his Subaru, briefcase in hand, with his trademark grin of anticipation. He waved and I wept.

I saved his wedding suit. Anneke uses it when she needs it for a play.

It took a year for me to go through his personal papers. In our bedroom, I sat on the floor, surrounded by piles. There I was, in the epicenter of his life, but without permission.

There was a lot from his early years, years that hadn’t include me. What would he have thought about me handling these papers?

I was jealous that others had had him longer than me, that they had had a healthy Mike. I didn’t like that I was jealous.

I saved those early papers. They say when you don’t know what to do, do nothing. So I did nothing. His divorce decree, photographs and mementos now lie tucked away in the back of the attic, waiting for me to decide where they will go, if anywhere.

We knew each other for twelve short years.

How was it possible that he was here for all of those years, and then suddenly he was not?

I kept papers that felt like he had breathed on them. Little scribbles, reminders, emails or letters that would tell Anneke more of who he was when she was ready to hear.

Two years later I found his belt. His ugly, weekend belt. I think it came from his first marriage. At least I would like to think so. Circa 1969. A gift from his ex-wife perhaps. It was a fat belt, well worn, suede with curled edges…a hippy-wannabe belt.

I never told him, in all those years, what I thought of this belt. There are certain things you just don’t do. You might think that I would be glad to finally get rid of it, but I wasn’t. I tucked it behind my sweaters.

So now, nine years later, I am again face-to-face with his five-ounce can of Porcupine Peckers. I kid you not. This can of miniature sausages (presumably) masquerading as porcupine peckers landed on our scene sometime around 1995. Now, so many years after purchase, it bulges from both ends and I am sure some horrible bacteria would invade our home if I were to open it. I think it was a gift from his Yooper brother. Or maybe he bought it. Anyhow, I thought it had been disposed of years ago but it showed up shortly after he died and it has been moved from room to room and drawer to drawer ever since.

Why can’t I get rid of this thing? It’s positively embarrassing, this relic, and yet every time I stand poised about the kitchen trashcan, ready to drop it in, I instead raise my arm and stick it back into the basket sitting on top of the refrigerator. It is there now. I cannot say when I will finally be done with it. Hopefully soon.

Pretty much now, my house is my house, not our house. Early on I thought that I would have to move to make the transition from ours to mine. Fifteen paint jobs later, many rearrangements of furniture, the evolution of time and a bit of dating, the house is finally mine.

I have a short list of articles that continue to hang around. I am pretty much OK with this random group.

1. A Diaper pin he used for my stepdaughter Carrie who is now 35 years old. I will give it to her when her first child is born.
2. A gold stay that he used in his dress shirts.
3. His one-year sobriety medallion.
4. His ten-year sobriety medallion.
5. Four pieces of Roseville pottery.
6. His Grandma Leelee’s coffee table.
7. His Grandma Leelee’s music cabinet.
8. One 5-ounce can of Porcupine peckers.

Mie Elmhirst.

The Widows Coach

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