Widowhood 101 - Starting over

Punta Sur Isla Mujeres.   

"No one prepares us for this, at all, although I'm not sure that a book titled Widowhood 101 would become a best seller. Who would want to read it? No one wants to think about it, even after it lands in their lap," wrote Sherwood Freeman Anders.

That recent heartfelt comment from a Facebook friend got me thinking last night about what I have learned about myself this year. Sherwood and I have never met, but we have bonded through grieving for our spouses. September 3rd was the first anniversary of Lawrie's death, and I have survived. It doesn’t matter if you are male or female – losing your life partner rips your world apart.

Charles, Gary, Dave, Barney, and Lawrie 

It hasn’t been a fun year. It has been a year of discovery. I have discovered I am strong and resilient, and I can cope with the devastation of losing one-half of my universe, my partner of almost forty years.

I have slowly adjusted to my new reality. In the past, he and I unconsciously divided up the household chores depending on our preferences. He enjoyed grocery shopping, especially on Isla, where he would run into the same group of guys and have a thirty-minute social visit right in the store. I only like to shop when it is absolutely necessary, and since Sparky can’t drive, choose items, push a shopping cart, or pay the cashier, that means I am in charge of keeping our fridge stocked. Yesterday was one of those I really have to shop " days. Nothing in the fridge, nothing in the cupboards. Sparky and Boo looked at me with ‘what the hell?’ expressions on their fuzzy little faces.

The one time he helped paint a house.

When it comes to painting a whole house or just a room, that is my specialty. I love the instant gratification of fresh paint. The very first time we painted a room together, Lawrie conveniently kicked over a full can of white paint on the dark brown bedroom carpet. “Oops! Sorry,” He insincerely apologized. 

He never had to endure that chore again, unless of course it was to restore a car; that was his pleasure, his stress release. I was the lowly tape-and-paper assistant for his many restoration projects. I'll amend that; he hated painting with a brush, but spraying was okay. When we put our Bowen Island house up for sale, he rented a huge commercial sprayer and we took turns painting the rambling pile of buildings. 

Lawrie, painting another car.

Lawrie was never a detail person when it came to banking or paying bills. That was my job, except for the American Express invoice that went to his email, and he would tell me how much and when it was due. Now, Am-Ex has an automatic debit system in place. Thankfully, my Kindle purchases from Amazon are magically paid.

Then there is gardening; I planted. He watered. Now, I look out my kitchen window and realize the flowers are wilting in the tropical heat. I remember this is my job; along with maintaining the golf cart, polishing the stainless-steel sign for our house, raking the beach sand, and adding water to the swimming pool.

Lawrie, patterns in our beach sand. 

In Canada, Lawrie and I had always shared remodeling jobs. He liked to do the electrical and plumbing, while I enjoyed the dirty, messy tile work and painting. 

This year, I decided to change a few things around the house. I added a security gate and replaced the two aging palapas with concrete structures. I discovered that overseeing a renovation project while stumbling along in my limited Spanglish was easy. I am very pleased with the results.

Garage palapa replaced by concrete.

The most important thing I have learned about myself is that I still enjoy writing books. 

I originally thought that perhaps without my muse, I would experience writer’s block, freeze up, and doubt myself. I didn’t. I used my grief to push on and create two more novels since his passing.

Temptation Isla was launched on January 23^rd this year, and Terror Isla on September 3^rd. 

I deliberately chose September 3^rd in commemoration of my love for Lawrie, and to keep my brain occupied with something other than grieving.

Sparky, publishing Terror Isla 

It’s been an emotional and very odd year. At times, it seems as if he has only been gone a day or two at the most, and other times it seems to be an eternity. Son John and his family, Lawrie's many family members, my family, and our friends are still grieving for him. Conversations are teary, and telephone calls are difficult. 

But I frequently talk to Lawrie. Sparky sometimes gives me a look, if you know what I mean.

The listening apps on Facebook, WhatsApp, and Google probably are confused by my one-sided conversations. I recently saw a message on my Kindle Reader: this conversation is not intended for Alexa. That’s what prompted me to include the listening apps in the storyline of Terror Isla.  

I am not lonely for people, I am only lonely for Lawrie.

Strength and peace to all of you who have lost your life-partner.

Lynda & The Sparkinator

Isla Mujeres Mysteries - 7 books

Death in the Vineyards Mysteries - 4 books

Musings from our swimming pool

It’s been one hundred and ninety-four days since I last used our swimming pool on Isla Mujeres. The last time I was in our pool was August 28^th — about a week before my love, my life, my universe died on September 3^rd.

Today I poured myself a glass of wine, dangled my feet over the edge, and thought about my life — my life as Lawrie’s widow.

It’s a tough job.

He was so well-known, so loved, so happy, and so easy to love that just seeing me brings tears to the eyes of our friends. They don’t know whether to cry, to hug me, to talk about him, or to just pretend that life is really fricking lovely. 

It’s okay. Just hug me. I cry every damn day, at least ten or twelve times. I am happy that you remember him with such love.

Many of my male friends are reluctant to speak his name because they are afraid of crying in public.

Well, there is one thing you may not know about my funny, capable, smart, and very tough guy. He cried, and I loved him more for the ability to publicly express his feelings.

The first time I saw him cry was in 1982 when we were watching the original movie ET at the old Stanley Theatre on Granville Street in Vancouver, BC. He had tears streaming down his face. 

He never felt the need to apologize for his feelings, and to me, that showed me his strength. He knew he could cope with a lot of shit, and crying in public wasn’t going to diminish his abilities in the slightest.

As one dear friend said, “When I look at you, I realize a piece of the puzzle is missing.”

Yes! A huge piece is missing.

July 1st, 2017,  Isla Mujeres, before we knew he was ill

The power of grief

July 1st, 2017, before we knew he had ALS

Anyone who has spent any time around Lawrie and me has heard the stories about our years as volunteer ambulance attendants and firefighters in a small Canadian community similar to Isla Mujeres.

Over time, we developed a very black sense of humour about death. It was our protection, our coping mechanism. 

When you frequently take friends on their last ride, you need a way to deal with the grief.

“It happens to everyone,” I would say with a shrug.

Lawrie’s favourite was, “No one gets out of life alive.”

It’s what you do when you are a firefighter, an ambulance attendant, a nurse, a doctor, a caregiver, a hospice worker, a police officer, a mortician, an undertaker, a medical examiner, or anyone working with the dead or dying. You cope or you turn to drugs, alcohol, and physical abuse of family members.

Belatedly, after Lawrie’s recent death, I learned how deep the pain can be when you lose your lover, your spouse, your adventure partner, and your best friend.

I was very familiar with grief. My dad died when I was seventeen, but our family didn’t talk about it. It was always the undiscussed elephant in the room. My mom died when I was thirty-six. She had been completely miserable since my dad’s death, so in a small way, it was a blessing that she didn’t have to suffer any longer.

And now I understand her grief, her anger, her pain.

Every single day, I miss Lawrie’s killer-gorgeous smile, his touch, his voice.

I miss his laughter and good humour. He never saw the negative, only the positive. I miss the smell of him. I kept his bottle of D'Issey just so that I can remember.

I miss him cruising around the Soggy Peso bar on Isla Mujeres, at least once a week, regaling the newcomers with his stories of living in paradise. I admit, I had heard the stories a few hundred times and eventually tuned him out. Now, I desperately wish I had a video of the Social Butterfly doing his meet-and-greet and making newbies feel welcome.

I miss his never-ending need for adventure, and another damn British car. I can’t tell you how many times I cursed the 1971 DBS V8 Aston Martin, nicknamed Ashley, for just stopping with no warning. The engine was so huge that the gas would boil out, and she would stop. Eventually, after she had cooled down, she would consent to continue our journey.

I miss him asking me, “Where are you and Sparky going this morning?” He always wanted to know in case I had a mechanical problem with the golf cart. Sometimes I would respond, “For heaven’s sake, sweetie, it's a five-mile-long island. I can't get lost.” But he had to know, every single day, where I was headed. I really miss someone caring that much about me.

I miss bringing his morning coffee to him in bed for most of those thirty-eight years, and recently being reminded, daily, that he liked more caramel syrup drizzled on his coffee than I did.

I miss him noticing that the container of sugar was getting low, and invariably, he would ask me, “Do we have more sugar?” He wouldn’t drink his coffee without three teaspoons of sugar.

I miss his company at mealtime, and I even miss his quirky dislike of most vegetables, especially broccoli, asparagus, and Brussels sprouts.

I miss that he refused to eat foods that started with ‘y’ – because his dad didn’t like them. Think about that one: yoghurt, and yams. That’s all there was in our Canadian food world at that time that started with ‘y’.

I miss listening to his frequent chatty telephone conversations with his son, his grandsons, his sister, his brother, old friends, and new friends. He also had weekly conversations with a feisty woman, Edie Parker, whom he has always referred to as his ex-almost-mother-in-law. She is the second wife of his ex-father-in-law. She is healthy, alert, lives in her own home, and still drives. She will be ninety-seven on her next birthday. Edie is a little pissed off that Lawrie is gone, and she’s still here.

I miss him teasing his then-teenage son, John, and later his two grandsons about anything that would make teenage boys squirm and blush.

I miss his company for evening cocktails. I loved it when he could still pour me my evening glass of wine. I miss being able to reach across the bed and hug him. I even miss his snoring!

I miss his daily proposal to me, “Will you marry me?” He asked me every single day for thirty-eight years. But most of all, I miss dancing with him. That’s how we fell in love, dancing.

To our many friends who have lost their loved ones, I apologize.

I had no idea how difficult it would be.

Lynda