The Unexpected Triggers of Widowhood

I'm nearing the two-month mark. Two whole months since I spoke to him, heard his voice, felt the warmth of his touch, and savored the comfort of his presence.

On May 19th, I woke up a wife and a caregiver. Hours later, both roles hitched a ride on his last breath, taking my world with them. Unless you've lost a spouse, you can't know. You just can't. I've lost many loved ones, including my father, a brother, and two best friends. I miss each of them, but their deaths didn't strip me of my identity, didn't send me into isolation and silence. My husband's death did. My world is unrecognizable. So am I, if I'm honest.

I have wonderful friends and family. They offer to visit and take me places. They call and text. But it doesn't matter how often I get out, how much company I have, or how many bodies surround me. I'm lonely. All the time. Nothing can fill my hollow center. And that love I had for him? It's still there, but with nowhere to go, it's cruel now, gnawing at my insides until I barf stomach acid.

I listen to podcasts and videos about grief. I read my Bible and pray. I've established a routine and threw myself into cleaning up all of the jobs that piled up during his illness. And that's where I keep finding triggers. A dropped chisel in the flower bed, beside the steps he was fixing. Wood rounds that he intended to turn into bowls. A chisel that I remember him polishing. Rogue potatoes that sprouted from last year's harvest. The half-turned spindle on his lathe.

This, though . . . this one undid me. This is the woodstove at our cabin.

Woodstove at the Cabin

Throughout 2023 & 2024, immunotherapy left my husband feeling pretty okay, so in late 2024, he set out to finish this room. That involved leveling the concrete pad. Not a fun job. Next would be the "glory work," as he called it--laying the subfloor and laminate--the enjoyable part and his reward for doing the rough stuff.

In the picture above, you can see that he wanted everything ready for his return. The dirty work was finished. The materials were there. He just had to get his coffee, drive out, light a fire, and get to work.

He never returned.

That's not a stack of kindling you see in that picture. That's actually the dreams of a husband who left everything ready, envisioning his return, a man anxious to swing open the door and present the wife he loved with the cabin of her dreams.

I had to clean that up, because I hired a contractor to finish the job. I saved the kindling, though. This winter, I hope I have the strength to build a fire with it -- the one my husband never got to light.