What I've Learned Since Becoming a Widow

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At 80, I learned how to use a screwdriver and pump my own gas, chase scary spiders in the bathroom and adjust the house thermostat — among many other hands-on tasks I took on after my husband died. These newfound talents were born out of necessity, not choice. Though I was relieved that I could handle such things, I was not surprised.

Handling things is part of my character, but being comfortable with change is definitely not. I have come to believe that the secret to aging well has a lot to do with how easily we change and grow. So, this became my mission — to learn how to change from who I was to who I am now at 85 and at 86 and onward.

As we age, change is inevitable. Our bodies demand more and may give less. Once, I was a blonde. Now, my hair is gray. Once, I did all my errands on a bicycle with a basket on the handlebars, dodging traffic up and down narrow city streets. Now, my young neighbors marvel at how quickly I walk up the few steps to my front door.

Yes, aging changes us, and for many, that means not only what we do and how we look, but also how and where we live. Very often a move late in life results in bits and pieces of our old selves disappearing, like loose items falling off the back of the moving truck.

When I moved to my present home, I was part of a couple, and my husband, Marv, and I established a single identity. No one in our New York country town had ever known either of us without the other. So, when Marv died in February 2020, just three weeks short of the pandemic lockdown, it felt as if I had moved once more, this time from the “we” to just me.

For the first time, I was responsible for the outcomes alone, negotiating the lockdown on my own and doing those chores that filled the role of husband to myself. Credit or blame, it was all up to me, and frankly, I was not used to it.

In the beginning, I admit, I got a lot of help by “playing the widow card." If I forgot to pay a bill on time, I’d try to get some extra consideration by using my unhappy status. When something went well, people often pointed out how Marv’s spirit had helped. “He’s watching over you,” they said, as if he were somehow giving me a helping hand.

But somewhere around the five-year mark, I began to wonder how long I could claim the title of “widow” as an identity. And who would I be in the aftermath?

Socially no longer part of a pair, I was not comfortable going out with other couples. First step? I forced myself to go. Things we used to do together, like a trip to the farmer’s market or berry picking, were even harder, but eventually (with the help of my dog, Pete) I did those too, and found strength, even pleasure, in doing them.

My town is a tourist destination, full of public events and excitement on weekends. One beautiful spring afternoon, I took a big step forward when I decided to go into town and try to enjoy the outdoor kiosks and party atmosphere by myself. I wandered, chatted with vendors, bought myself an ice cream cone and never once thought, “I am alone."

During the pandemic and afterward, without the blessing and obligation of sharing my life, I was able to finish many projects that I had been working on. Some success followed, and a funny thing happened: when people said things like, “He’s watching over you,” I began to resist the idea, realizing that if my challenges were now mine alone, so were my successes.

For better or worse, I am responsible for myself.

When I decided to adopt another dog after the death of my dog, Pete, it was a hard decision to make. I thought it through, balanced the limitations of having a pet with the advantages, felt doubt and thought some more. When I met the shy, beautiful Maltese terrier I named Steffi, I suddenly felt a surge of joy that was mine alone, and that made me take the risk.

I realized then that it was not so much what tasks I have been learning to do that has changed me. It is who I have been learning to be in order to reclaim a central place in my own story: no longer part of a couple, but most emphatically myself.

So, today I am still the person I always was, still handling things, but now filled with renewed energy for the future, and an added perspective gained from years of love and loss. I am learning to embrace life’s changes and respect the things that will never change: weather happens, life and death happen, and the best thing to do is get on with it.

An old friend puts it simply: “I am becoming more of who I always was.”

Have any of you lost a partner? Have you learned to do things on your own? Let us know in the comments below.