Life in the (Widow) Hood: Bursting with Delight

I’ve been very blue throughout the pandemic. Not the I-wish-I could-go-to-the-movies kind of blue, but the I-don’t-know-what’s-worth-living-for-anymore blue. I’ve inhabited this hole before. I always find a way out. But I have to admit that this moment in time has definitely pushed me to new depths of existential mournfulness, much deeper than something a best pal can pull you out of with a hug and a gentle intervention. It's all wrapped up with trauma and grief and triggers and it's just a lot. 

But I soldier on (what a terrible cliché.) I get up on time every morning, shower and pull on clothing that can pass for daywear. Sometimes I even put on earrings, which seems like a tribute to optimism, since no one will see them. I walk the dog, feed him breakfast, feed me breakfast. I do a few puzzles and word games to wake my mind up and then read the news, which leads right into my daily primal scream practice. I work a good portion of the day, virtually, with clients who are giving me interesting problems to tackle, so there, too, my mind is engaged. I stop late in the afternoon, have a glass of wine, and consider dinner for me and the two of my three adult children who are willing to sit at the same table in the same room at the same time with me. The third is lost in his own miasma and rarely leaves his room. At the end of the meal, the dog and I take another walk in the sticky gloam of the evening, I read a little or watch a show and then head up to bed, where I can shut my mind off for a few blissful hours. Except when there’s a bad dream. Which is often.

I have a lovely house and plenty of fresh air. I have food. My loved ones are safe, for now. But I find very little joy. There is nothing to look forward to. There is no upcoming travel, no dinner with a friend, no show to see. There is no trip to a museum, a bookstore, a farmer’s market (except masked and quick, eyes darting around to make sure no one is coming within six feet.) There is anger and rage and political evil all surrounding us. But there is very little daily living being done, at least in the way of the before times.

When my husband was first diagnosed with glioblastoma, the doctors tossed around the concept of “quality of life.” It was an abstraction to us, and seemed like a negative pull on our focus in those early days, when we were all about fighting and beating the scourge. By the end of his life, we understood the concept all too well, and he made the brave decision, when the quality of his life had completely disappeared and he was left with no ability to do anything for himself, to withdraw life-prolonging medication and let nature take its course. Which it did, and two weeks later we were planning his funeral.