The Ambivalent Widow

At first, sleeping on Tommy's side of the bed seemed like a good idea: It was a quicker trip to the bathroom and would eliminate the nightly toe stubs endured during my darkened path from my side.

But, in this new space, I hadn't had a full night sleep since my husband died November 2. At first, I blamed it on a sort of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder following three demanding events: my hip replacement surgery, 10 days in the hospital with Tommy, and finally an additional 12 at home with him in hospice care

Then, I dismissed the PTSD theory and fixed on this: Tommy, despite his journey to heaven, wanted his side of the bed back. The 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. wake-ups I'd been experiencing were really my husband elbowing me over to my side.

So, last night I obeyed. I returned my iPad to a charger on my bedside table, and lined up on the nearby windowsill, my water bottle, Melatonin pills, Tylenol, and Neutrogena hand cream -- the same setup prior to my switch. I arranged a mini-memorial on Tommy's bedside table with his portrait, his beloved AM/FM earphones, the 40-year-old wallet he refused to replace, his wristwatch that displayed date along with time, and his wedding band.

Then, I scooted onto my side, pulled up the covers, and bawled. My partner was gone. His side of the bed was empty. He would never return for our nightly spooning, or our ritual of him patting me on the tush and me returning a mild pat to his head, and finally, our exchange of “love you,” before falling asleep.

On my side of the bed, I continued to wail as my stored up grief filled the room. I realized I'd been so intent on getting my life back together, that I hadn't allowed myself to mourn my loss. Oh, I had cried each time I left his thinning and weakening body while he was in hospice, and I cried when he finally gave up his last breath, but I hadn't cried over his absence.

After I could sob no longer, I turned over, clicked on iTunes, and slept for 8 hours. There were bathroom trips cautiously tread, but I willingly took this longer route, then snuggled into my old spot hugging his pillow as substitute.

This new role for me as Widow has me ambivalent. There are times of dark loneliness and sorrow. But there are also times of relief that my husband's suffering has ended, and there is glaring awareness I have gained new freedom.

While Tommy's death was sudden and unexpected, my caregiving for him was long and challenging. He was diagnosed with FTD/PPA in 2009, but there were signs my husband had the illness years before.

As Tommy's symptoms worsened, he relinquished his car keys and I became his chauffeur. I feared letting him venture out alone, or even being in the house on his own. Trips to my out-of-town daughters ceased, because he would not be able to call 911 if he got into trouble. My calendar revolved around him. On Tuesdays, if his golfing buddies had a game and took responsibility for him, I was free to make plans with friends. When the boys bailed, I'd take Tommy to practice golf, and then we’d lunch together. I did not want him to be alone, to be without company.

Now, with my husband gone, and my job as caregiver canceled, I’ve booked tickets to Boston in November and Los Angeles in December. I’ve made lunch plans on days of the week that aren’t Tuesday. I take my time returning in the morning from the health club, unlike in the past when I made sure to get back before Tommy woke.

Tommy and I would have celebrated our 15th wedding anniversary January 13, 2013 -- an occasion we looked forward to. We planned to grow old together. It was the second marriage for both. We were content and happy. We rarely argued -- we were satisfied sitting on our facing couches, watching our favorite television shows, and early on, taking turns on the crossword puzzle.

My new solo routine is this: before I go to my side of the bed, where I evidently belong, I pause at Tommy's picture. I bring my fingers to my lips, then place them on his photographed face. "Love you," I say. I hear his response, clear as day, "Love you, too!" 

Then, I imagine my husband giving me another pat on my tush, this one indicating, “You go, girl. It’s your time now.” Anyway, that’s what I imagine.

Learning to Un-Drive

Tommy and I were stalled in traffic, classical music was playing on the car radio. It seemed a good time to finally ask the question.

“Honey,” I said, turning to my husband, silent in his passenger seat. 

“Do you miss driving?” 

That question had been a pest in my brain ever since I took away his car keys. I knew I had to force it out, place it before Tommy if the guilt ever were to leave. 

Needling in my conscience: How could I have deprived him of driving, of a skill he had worked so hard to accomplish? How could I have robbed him of his independence when so much had already been snatched way? 

Tommy turned towards me, shook his head “no.”  Then, he raised his hands and turned two thumbs down. 

“You don’t miss it?” I said. I wanted to be sure I understood his meaning. I wanted to cleared of my crime, off the hook. 

Another head shake, “no.” 

I thought it ironic I was the one who took him off the road, when I was the one who had put him there. 

It was 1999, the second year of our marriage. I was in the driver’s seat; Tommy a passenger because he didn’t own a car, had no license. 

“You’ve got to learn how to drive,” I had said. “I’m tired of doing all of the driving.” 

He was 64 at the time and took up the challenge as if he were a teen yearning for a shot at his dad’s wheels. 

After a series of lessons, Tommy got his license. I watched as he placed it in his wallet,  tender and proud as a dad tucking his newborn in for the night. 

For a time, we shared my car, but soon, like that teen he resembled, he wanted his own. To dealerships we went, inhaling new car scents as we circled autos, debated exterior colors, interior upholstery, and the wisdom of a sunroof. 

Finally, Tommy choose a champagne-colored sedan with power steering, power windows, a fob keychain that unlocked and relocked the doors, and cup holders. 

“I love it!” he had said, sitting upright in the driver’s seat of his new car, hands at two and ten o’clock as instructed. I was happy for him, and for me. I’d now have my car all to myself. 

At the beginning, when we’d go out together, we’d use his car. We were like many married couples; husband in the driver's seat, wife a passenger reading the map, tuning the radio, or day dreaming out the side window. But, after awhile, I couldn't abide Tommy's driving, 

"Red light, red light!" I'd shout and stamp my foot on my imaginary brake. 

"I see it, I see it!" he'd say, and we'd both bounce towards the windshield as the car came to an abrupt stop. 

Eventually, I took the coward's way out. When Tommy was at the wheel, I'd settle into the passenger seat, close my eyes and keep them shut until I heard the ignition switch turn off. 

As the years passed -- without me alongside harassing or zoning out -- he started to have a few scrapes. Then three red light tickets in a row. And finally, the brain degeneration he was diagnosed with in 2009 slowly began to rob him of speech. 

I worried, how could he explain himself to another driver if he were to have an accident? To a police officer? Neighbors who knew of his condition and had witnessed him leaving the scene of a fender bender, worried about their young children. I insisted he stop driving. 

Of course Tommy protested, who wouldn’t. He surrendered when I threatened to have his car battery removed. And, when I promised I’d drive him whenever and wherever he wanted to go, he fished his keys from his pocket, held them in his fist for a second, then dropped them in my palm. 

The following week we sold his car, the champagne-colored, full-featured, with sunroof, sedan he loved. 

True to my word, I now drive my husband whenever, wherever. In my car, with me in the driver’s seat and Tommy in the passenger’s, I chauffeur him back and forth to the YMCA three days a week, to the golf store for putting practice, drop offs at the bowling alley or golf course to meet his buddies, to Home Depot or the garden shop for his supplies, and to doctors’ appointments. 

Although I had once complained about being at the wheel full-time, and I have returned to that role, I’m not resentful. Tommy said he didn’t miss driving. He repeated it with two thumbs down.