Trigger Warning: I am going to be talking about MY experience at being widowed. If you are experiencing a different sort of grief and/or widowhood you may be offended or otherwise bothered by what I am going to say.
I woke up this morning feeling pretty damn fantastic, realizing I have been a widow now for 10 years. Becoming a widow probably saved my life because the stress of being married to my second husband had a high probability of killing me eventually. (I did have a couple of mini-strokes a few years later as I was still dealing with the mess left behind by his death.) A lot of this stuff is on ye olde blogge, if one cares to search…
Proof of That Stress…
I had been living in Crazytown (as I called my life then) for quite a few years already (and it was getting steadily worse). I knew my health was being negatively affected by the pressures of living with this man and I was considering getting my own space to live exist survive in, when he was diagnosed with lung cancer. So my plans changed. The next 6 months were a blur of doctor visits and hospitalizations until he breathed his last a few minutes after midnight on November 14, 2013.
A few months later, as I was going through his papers I discovered that he had been having an affair with another woman (who also thought he was true as well as single) for 18 months while he was living with me (before we got married) and making me endure weekly (pointless, I thought) lectures on his thoughts about people who cheated on their loved ones and how awful and wrong they were. Hypocrisy, much? Guilty, much?
She had found out about me and kicked him to the curb but made the decision NOT to interfere in our relationship by informing me that he was cheating on both of us. I know she thought she was doing me a kindness but I deserved to have that information. Remaining in the dark of who this man truly was, I proceeded to marry him.
Did he really want to be with me or was I just the only option available now that the other relationship had ended?
I wonder sometimes how my life would have been different if I had known about his cheating at the time. It might have been better, it might have been worse. I am certain it would have turned out much differently. And my family would not have been so hurt by my relationship with my strange, secretive husband in the process.
This put me in a tailspin of confusing emotions. I had thought that – despite his mental illness (OCD), his love was something I could count on and draw strength from. After all, he spent a lot of time telling me how honest and virtuous and moral and good and Christian he was (subtext: a better person than me, in his mind.) And now that was proven to be false and all the memories that were supposed to comfort me in my widowhood ruined, by this discovery. And the worst part? I couldn’t even confront him with this knowledge and try to get some answers and closure for myself.
I’m truly sorry that my second husband had to die so young and of such a terrible disease as lung cancer. When he died though, my most prevalent emotion was an overwhelming sense of relief and that is the saddest thing, isn’t it? But it is my truth. My ordeal was over. My grief was very complicated and made even more so when I learned of his unfaithfulness.
The first few years of my widowhood were spent dealing with these emotions as I was cleaning up his hoard, selling my place to clear up the debts he left behind, and incurring more debt as I fixed up the decrepit building he left me with, and completed the MBA program we had both started. All while still working full-time at my career. Therapy helped; fixing up the building and making it profitable (finally) helped; becoming my alter-ego The Widow Badass helped (a lot). Friends helped too, although I had kept the knowledge of his infidelity to myself for many months after discovery because it took an awful lot of time for me to process, accept and acknowledge what I had learned and the full extent to which I had been manipulated and duped over the years.
Making the decision to retire at 60 and move to Vancouver Island was also very good for my mental health. I was no longer bombarded by memories every time I walked on a familiar trail or into a different room in the building my husband and I had spent so much time in. It was and is a fresh start and a new beginning.
Today I wake up every morning with a smile on my face and in my heart and look forward to the day ahead. This is me – a widow of 10 years. I’ve done my best to absorb all the lessons that can be gleaned from my travails and experiences so far and I am grateful for them all. I’m pretty sure I still have some revelations/a-ha moments in my future, though 😉…after all, if life has taught me anything it’s that I am a stubborn thick delusional SLOW LEARNER 🤣 per my marriages.
Rock on,
The WB