Is widowhood a question of black and white?

How does one be a widow? I am one, but I don’t know how to be one. It’s a horrible word, isn’t it, conjuring up images of black, spiders, weeds and danger. Things that are dark, mystical and to be avoided. But I don’t want to be avoided.

In the olden days, widows dressed in black mourning clothes – widow’s weeds – for the rest of their lives. It’s a dreary thought to me as I sit here writing in my fuschia coloured jumper, but I can also see that at least those women knew the script, what was expected of them, how to behave, and how their future was likely to pan out. They stayed at home initially for months following the recognised period of mourning, and then if they felt able they could gradually re-enter society, usually accompanied by family and friends, but always wearing that badge of darkness with maybe a frill of white. If they were young or rich enough they might attract a new suitor, someone who knew their situation and could either accept it or take advantage of it. A repressed life, yes, but they knew where they stood.

As a widow of more than two years now, I have no idea where I stand, and the more I think about it, the more I find myself wrestling with the idea of what widowhood is, means and represents.

First of all I hate the word. It’s an ugly, frightening word which reeks of failure. One of my saddest moments was the first time I had to use it to describe myself. I could barely get the word out and the second I did I wanted to snatch it back again and shout: ‘But I don’t feel like one!’  Society needs to find something more sympathetic to describe bereaved spouses, both male and female.

Second of all, how should I act? I’m single but I’m not. I’m not a carefree singleton, a dumped lover or a divorced ex-wife. I have a lot in common with each and all of these, but for me the extra element is the overwhelming sadness of a relationship that has only ended because of death. The reality that your husband is never, ever coming back, that you’ll never, ever see them again, is a tough one to take. It hits you in tidal waves when you least expect it, knocking you off of your emotional feet. And it can send even the most gung-ho of characters, the most ‘life’s for living so get on and live it’ into a pit of despair, and when you’re down there it’s hard to keep perspective, maintain relationships, and see what positives the future holds.  

The lasting effects make it difficult to tread a consistent path forward – your expected future has been stripped away and you’re creating a new one from scratch as you go along, with no foundations to build on. The last time I was single was 33 years ago, when I was full of drive, ambition and excitement for what lay ahead. Having achieved most of those ambitions (one of which was marriage) and with a wealth of life experience behind me, I’m suddenly single again. It’s as though I’ve traveled through time and crash landed back where I started but having lived a life in between. So what do I do now?

Then there’s the outward sign of marriage – wedding rings. I’m no longer married, so should I keep wearing them? Yet I love my wedding rings. I have two – both slender gold bands, one studded with small diamonds – and I chose each of them because I loved them. As they don’t fit on any other finger, if I want to keep wearing them, they have to remain where they are.

And finally, there’s the question of surname.  I kept my maiden name for work, passport and financial matters, and only used my married surname in a few circumstances, including my medical records. However, I’ve recently had to revert to my maiden name entirely so that my passport and official identification documents match my vaccination records. As I’m now no longer known anywhere by my husband’s surname, I feel as though the married segment of my life has been washed away, and even in name I’m back to where I was. Only I’m not the person I was then. Which brings me to my original question – how does one be a widow?

I can see that society has moved on so much that probably no-one really cares a jot how widows present themselves any more, but my question and my confusion stems not just from what’s acceptable to society, but from what’s acceptable to me.

Does taking off my wedding rings, adopting the lifestyle of a (not so young!) footloose and fancy-free singleton, and signing up to Tinder (I never will) wash away the 33 years I had with my husband, all the things we did together, the happy (and not so happy) times, the things we achieved, the things we planned to do? Does it blank them out as though they never existed?  I feel that it does, and that’s a huge loss to bear and feels disloyal to him.  On the other hand, I appreciate that as the lucky one, the one who’s still alive, I should make the most of my life, have fun, wear pink, abandon work and play tennis instead. 

Maybe I’m suffering from survivor’s guilt, or perhaps I haven’t come as far in processing this terrible event as I thought I had. Or maybe I’m clinging to sentiment, over thinking things, and letting it stop me from going out there and living. For now it’s a question unanswered…