I read a post by a fellow widower, and find us of the same age and nearly the same time into the the aftermath. Me, I took many paths to try to divert myself and gain an instant life, and presto-chango, problem solved. I could've saved myself a whole lot of money, time and heartache had I just decided to ride my grief out to its conclusion, whatever that end may have been. I started too soon, but I freely admit to having forged ahead no matter what the cost once or twice before in my life (see Scottie's nose grow). Headstrong would be the polite word to describe me the old me, so I will leave my self-description at that. As for how long this grieving process takes, I can only tell you that it takes what it takes. I've managed to find a happy place right now 2 years in, but seems the more at ease I become with my new life forming around me, the more I am also starting to see the old Scott poking up his ugly head. Never again do I want myself to be misunderstood. Only my wife got me because she knew my heart. But have no doubt about it. The old Scott is still in here. My point, if I have one, is that we are not the one who died. The love of our life died. But our life continues with but one constant, the same me, myself, and I that stares each of us in the face every morning.

A big part of my healing was trying to figure out not only what happened to me as a result of her death, but more important, trying to figure out who the hell I am. Getting to know yourself is a long difficult process. I'd venture to guess that most of us here did not have a need to get to know ourselves except in a skirting way (meaning, around the skirts.) It's when we get down to the bare scoobies (meaning underwear) of ourselves that we can either find the peace we are searching for. And if we're lucky, we might just be able to make some sense out of the non-sensable. It is only because we knew the "us" we belonged to in such an intimate way that there became no need to know ourselves. My "we" was good enough for me. My "we" was a happy life. My "we" had a happy bubble going from beginning to end. Didn't matter what life threw at us, we tackled it together and always came victorious. And bruised.

You see, the love of each of our lives loved us for who we were, warts and all. In my case, I know my wife saw me in a whole different light than others for the sole reason that she knew the real me. No one else did. I know I didn't. She alone is the one and only person I let into my hardened and scarred heart.

As a man, I can tell you that having a fine woman love you is the best life possible. I imagine the same holds true for women as well. For so many years, I freely spoke, "I have no friends except Juanita and Jesus. I need no others." I realized very early in my grief that theory was blown to hell. Everything changed when she died, and I knew at some deep level that I had to change or die. And it was in that process (despite all my knuckleheadedness sprinkled throughout) that I was able to arrive at the place I am now. Trouble is, I know not where that is. But I'm there. Unfamiliar territory. Doing pretty well. Wondering if this is as good as it gets. Always aware that this might only be yet another calm before the storm. Somehow expecting somewhere in the recesses of my mind that the other shoe is going to drop. But it hasn't. Again, unfamiliar territory.

So I find myself sitting here typing my thoughts to you. I have a peace about the "now" I find myself in. Peace sitting here. Peace sharing my thoughts. So often since my wife died, I found myself to say, "we are whoever we define ourself to be." And to a great extent during my grief, I was able to redefine myself to who I thought I wanted myself to be. But that happened only after I found myself to be sorely imperfect, able to recognize some of my many faults, and owning it. Where I go and who I am from this point on in my life will be determined by the choices I make. Perhaps I could continue to keep defining myself as a grieving widower for the rest of my days. That's as good a choice as any so long as you have peace in that. But as for me, that just is not the life I chose for myself.

No doubt, there is going to remain some kind of a residual grieving widower within me. And he will not be easily forgotten. More likely, he will continue hitching a ride in my life until I also meet my end. My grieving widower is liken to a Chevy Chase shoe-string relative that just refuses to leave despite the strongest of hints. And so I came to a point where I learned to just ignore him as best I could. At some point, we all should find the ability to control our grief, (or maybe it just lets us think we are controlling it, I don't know). But it does seem we all reach a common point of being able to choose the where and when of our grief when we sense it coming. And come it does, but on our timetable, not grief's. We have gained power over our grief when we control it to a time of our choosing, not it's choosing. That is a huge turning point. And hopefully we also learn a few things about how not to feed our grief. Beware, grief has a voracious appetite the nearer to our loved one's death we find ourselves to be. And that grief must be feed. And in the beginning, it consumes us. But as those that came before me have said, You’ve gotta go through it to get through it.

When will it end? That's the question of the century. And there is no answer to that one that I've been able to find. Seems it just diminishes with time, some sooner, some later. For most, it never goes entirely away, It just diminishes. I had hoped that somehow my life would be able to disprove my diminished theory, having the pipe-dream of ridding myself entirely of the grieving widower inside of me. But I think I’ve reached that point where I am able to tolerate that shoe-string relative from hell I find inside of me that just doesn’t want to leave. ~~~ Scottie