Our Stories so Uniquely the Same

by Kitty Hinkle

The day of the funeral we wore that dress we wish we could forget about. Some of us wore stylish dresses, as though our husbands would be comforted in Heaven if we tried our best to not look as awful as we felt. Some of us wore the simplest of black dresses—after all, the occasion wasn’t happy—why attract attention to ourselves? Some of us hate black and purposely chose navy blue. Some of us borrowed dresses from our sisters, and then asked them to take it back and never show it to us again. Why use our own dress, which would sit in the closet as a constant reminder?

All of us cried. We cried heavy, even howled—never holding back—drowning in wet tissues for hours on our sisters’ laps. We cried soft whimpers when no one was looking. We cried silent tears—staring blankly at the empty world we faced without them. We didn’t cry at all at first, and even wondered if everyone thought we didn’t love our husbands. Of course we did—more than life itself—it’s just that we’re not criers—or so we thought. In private, it all came loose. We drowned our tears in wine until a friend plucked us up and sat with us so we wouldn’t drink alone. We cried in waves, like a roller coaster—fine one minute, calm, even kind of detached about it as we sorted through things in the house—wondering why on earth we’ve been given this strange peace, until the wave crashed and then boom—we dissolved into inconsolable tears.

We got through that first month. Some of us were thrust into crisis mode—”He had a business with customers banging at the door—who else but the widow would be expected to close up shop?” Some of us fought with the insurance company—”what do you mean investigation? I thought our life insurance was secure!” Some of us couldn’t stay in our homes—without him the rent couldn’t be paid. Many of us refused to think about it. The kids were so confused—how could we even have a moment to think about ourselves with our kids asking so many questions? Some of us got busy—cleaning, trying to make order somewhere even with the chaos in our hearts.

Then we had to deal with his belongings, unless we expected to live with the constant evidence someone should still be there. We had friends sort through his belongings for us—bagging up his clothes and taking them to Goodwill right away. We wouldn’t let anyone touch his belongings. Their closets became unbearable to touch, a sort of shrine to their existence in our lives. We organized his belongings into nice little boxes and moved them into the attic. Hopefully we can eventually have the courage to reopen them and decide what to do with it all. We left certain belongings untouched. That receipt from Blockbuster he taped onto the side of the refrigerator stayed there for years. Even visitors seemed to know it would be sacrilegious to remove it.

We announced to everyone we would never remarry. We left half of the headstone blank—certain we’d want to be rested next to him forever. We dedicated the entire headstone to him, recognizing twenty-seven is too young to assume there will never be another. Some of us admitted to ourselves we’d want to remarry—sooner than later. Some of us knew this would be it, that kind of love won’t repeat itself in our lives. We wore our wedding rings for two years straight. We wore our wedding rings for six months. We’re still wearing our wedding rings after twenty years. We kept our rings on for the first year, then added them to chains around our necks, and then finally stopped wearing them altogether. We took some of the life insurance money and bought for ourselves beautiful diamond rings because we knew they always wanted to give us them and never got around to it in their lifetimes. We wore their wedding bands on our thumbs. We wore their bands on necklace chains. We hung their wedding bands on our vanity mirrors. We buried them with their bands on their hands. We buried them with our wedding rings placed in their hands. We saved both rings for our children.

The aching for a man started. Some of us felt vulnerable right away. Some of us felt it within a few months. Some of us still don’t feel it. Some of us were ashamed of the impure thoughts we had for the men we see each day at our churches or behind the counters at Starbucks. Some of us knew that was normal and went home and cried about our husbands. Some of us confused it for love and were taken advantage of.

We tried counseling. We loved it—we were finally able to get why we loved him so much and yet in some ways felt relieved not to have the same arguments repeated. We hated counseling—felt like we had a better grip on loss than the trained counselor. We dragged our children to counselors against their will, and were later glad we did—what would have happened with that grumpy teenager had we not gotten him to vent? We dragged our children to counselors and found out dragging didn’t work at all—the teenager only dug his heels in. We brought our children to a counselor who won their trust and got them on a healthy road of grieving right away. We got our kids to a counselor just in time. We got our kids to a counselor too late—but is it ever too late? We started counseling and thought we didn’t need it anymore and found ourselves later crawling back when life without our husbands got really rough.

We blamed God. We didn’t blame God, but had a handle on how to just trust Him and accept. Maybe we’d already been through some pretty rough blows in life and knew bad things just happen and in the end it all fits into some part of His will. We didn’t blame Him at first, but then life got harder. The bills mounted. The kids got squirrely. We got lonely. We’re still learning how to stop blaming God. We know we don’t really blame Him, we’re just plain mad.

We took on our husbands’ legacies. Some of us opened that coffee shop he always dreamed of starting, only to find it was too overwhelming to handle without him. Some of us started that summer camp he dreamed about on the property he purchased a year before the accident. What purpose it gave me. I can’t imagine I’d have survived without something to focus on! We raised our stepchildren that now had no biological parent to raise them. We struggled with a stepchild’s loyalty issues—loved by us, but still feeling like an orphan.

We started over. Some of us started new careers. Some of us started to date. Some of us started new marriages and families. Some of us started sinking further into loneliness, refusing to start over. Some of us needed more time for grieving than others. Some of us wondered at others of us who move on too quickly for our comfort. Some of us wondered at others of us who we wanted to see moving on and living life more.

But all of us do… live life more. Whether it’s through grieving more deeply or actively starting life more quickly, we live life more. Our tragedies are parallel and the ripples from our tragedies go in all different directions. And somehow, always lead to redemption.

Thank you, sisters, for continuing to share your stories with us. I marvel at how strong each of you are, and how the Lord has taken the horrible loss in your lives to transform you and glorify Him.