Sympathy cards poured in after my husband died, some from people I didn't even know. The phone rang constantly, visitors were at the door and I felt surrounded by a cocoon of love and caring.
Time does march on, however. In a few weeks, the mail fell off to advertising flyers and bills, and phone calls dwindled away until a day could pass with no letters and scarcely a call.
What happened? Did my friends suddenly forsake me? Of course not. But children and friends have lives of their own and, as it has to be, they gently retreated from my life, leaving me to find my own way through the grief and the newness of it all.
There is much that is new about fending for oneself. Art, a house builder, did the repair work around the house so we had no list of tradesmen. Despite that, I did manage to find a contractor to finish shingling the roof that my husband had started before he took sick. I also located a painter to paint the house and someone to look after the large yard.
It was the little tasks that almost did me in — things as simple as picking out the weeds along the sidewalk, fixing a leaking tap, knowing when to take the car in for a check-up and a hundred and one other small jobs.
I couldn't do many of them myself because a month after Art's death, I had to have surgery and while recovering, I tripped over the intravenous tube, fell and broke my hip. Recovery from the operation and hip replacement meant weeks away from home and when I finally returned to the empty house, home alone took on new meaning.
The absence of Art's presence was overwhelming but I also discovered how much I missed all the things he had looked after that I hardly noticed before. Most of all, I missed that he wasn't there to look after me. On rare occasions when I was sick, he took care of me, but now, when I really needed him, he was nowhere to be found. “Where are you?” I cried angrily as I limped through the silent house with my walker. “Where are you?”
Other bereaved spouses tell me they, too, find the hardest thing to bear is not having someone with whom to share. You hear a choice bit of news and want to rush home to tell; your granddaughter phones to tell you she's won a scholarship and you turn, expecting to see his proud grin; you hear a funny story and you can't wait to hear him laugh — but there's no one there — just an empty chair.
There are many adjustments and problems. Will I sell this house? If I do, where will I go? A condo, an apartment, a small house? Should I turn in the old car for a newer one? The questions go on relentlessly. Sometimes I think I hear Art's quiet chuckle, “Come on, Gwyn, use your head — it's not difficult.”
Then, of course, there's God. I went from feeling so sheltered in His love right after Art's death to feeling dark despair when I was at my lowest ebb in the hospital. Self pity washed over me. “Let me die too.”
I didn't die, however, but recovered from surgery, healing miraculously. It's true, the house still seemed dark and empty, but soon it was springtime with all its glory. My granddaughter helped me plant pots, a neighbour cleaned up all the accumulated winter mess on my lawn, the trees burst into leaf, the daffodils blossomed. It was good to be alive.
The dark days took on a different hue. There was light. I just hadn't seen it behind the black wall of depression. There were blessings to count by remembering all the good things I had going for me and no point sitting around feeling sorry for myself. I had to take charge and get some positive action going on in my life.
Of course, God hadn't abandoned me even though for a while He seemed so distant. But even Christ was overwhelmed by thoughts of abandonment by the end of his life, so surely we don't need to feel guilty.
The condolence cards stopped, the phone doesn't ring as often and I'm still lonely, but the road ahead looks brighter, because it's true, God sheds His light even in the darkest corners of our despair.
