THE STORY ABOUT WIDOWER

I really thought I would never write this article. It’s a kind of eulogy, and during the last five years, I’ve been obliged to write far too many of them. For the most part, I can write with ease and effortlessness. I just relax and let go, letting my fingers follow my thoughts. just not right now. It’s not the same as before. This time, it’s extremely and bizarrely personal. Now, there’s an odd term for me. widower. I detest the term. It’s a terrible term, maybe a good description, but nevertheless disgusting and unwelcome. But that’s what I became on February 1, 2023, at 12:09 a.m., in this chaotic world of entropy and random occurrences governed by the absurd juxtaposition of incompatibilities. The “plan” wasn’t for that. I was (or rather was) six years Kay’s senior. Women outlive males by an average of almost six years. We estimated that she may remain a widow for twelve years. We determined that such a result was probable throughout our talks on the matter; this was our “plan”. Have you ever observed that there is a consistent group of widows who hang around among churchgoers? Rather, widower. I am that. Deep inside me now, there’s a darkness that has vanquished joy and replaced it with a sticky black stink. What endless anguish, what amazing irony!? The nasty, sneaky joke is on me. My decision to alter my marital status was not well-reasoned. It seemed like space trash hitting you as soon as you walked out the front door. not possible? No. very unlikely? indeed. It was the worst outcome conceivable, similar to winning the lottery except in reverse. When a loved one passes away unexpectedly, it may be quite upsetting, but when it happens suddenly, improbably, or prematurely—? I don’t think I will ever be able to come to terms with what the world has handed me. When Kay went that morning to volunteer at a food bank where she had generously worked for five years, she was vibrant, fit, healthy, and full of life. She usually got up at six in the morning, left by seven, went shopping at one, and returned home at about three. She did, however, phone that day at 11:45 a.m. to ask if I needed anything from the shop and she got home at 12:30 p.m. The attitudes of some of the receivers, who complained, demanded, and claimed they were entitled to special treatment because of their race, really irritated her, unlike any previous outreach day. She mentioned giving up. Usually upbeat and generous, I’d never seen her like this. a portent? I wasn’t paying attention, if it was. She eventually became peaceful and curled up with a book. We had a short conversation about going to the March PNC Parabas Tennis Tournament in Indian Wells. She expressed her impatience. I vowed to come back in an hour when I headed to the gym. Yes, I did. I didn’t give her complaint about being chilly any thought—men and women have different body temperatures. She had remarked feeling colder than normal more than once in the last week, it occurred to me. In fact, for the first time in our seven years in Arizona, we raised the house’s temperature. She lay down to rest, complaining of nausea and stomach discomfort; was it a clue? She alternated between dozing and expelling green bile for the next several hours. I prepared a tiny overnight bag for her since she had to go to the hospital after making a 9-1-1 call. I anticipated hearing that the illness had been identified, that the therapy was having an effect, and that she would be hospitalized for the night for monitoring when the attending physician called me. Instead, I heard that “her heart has stopped.” It was followed by “we’re so sorry” and other consoling words. I can’t recall much more. I felt numb. It was just not feasible. On February 1, 2023, at 12:09 a.m., she passed away. Half an hour later, I said her farewell with a kiss. so what happens next? With my new undesirable status, what should I do? I mean, I am aware that almost everyone in human history has experienced some kind of spousal breakup. It’s not as if my experience is the only one. Why does it seem that way? I didn’t sleep for more than four hours for almost a month after being up for 36 consecutive hours. I guess it’s better for her to pass away quickly than to endure a protracted death. For me, it was harsh and strange since I wasn’t prepared. I still shout “hello!” as I walk in the door out of habit, looking for an answer that never comes. There is a cold quiet. nevertheless, I can still hear her response in my mind. Our son and daughter were here for a few weeks. I hated to see them depart, but I realized that eventually I would have to confront life on my own terms since they had their own lives. It’s interesting how a warm and inviting place can have the sensation of a solitary, frigid tomb. The house’s vitality has vanished into thin air. I eventually understood that Kay was my true homecoming rather than the house. Well-meaning people assure me that this will pass and that I will once again experience joy and a life of sorts. I spoke to the widow of one of my closest childhood friends while keeping that in mind. Five years ago, he passed away. “Does it get any better?” I inquired. “No, but you learn to be a good actor for their sake,” she said. I’ve been seeing him every day, talking to him, and crying ever since. The same thing was described by another widow who lived nearby. The fact that we were (are?) madly in love with our spouses was, of course, what the three of us had in common. These days, our experience could be the only one. Who knows? Will this then pass? Will I find love or a good diversion once more? To put it another way, I’m not interested in. Furthermore, it would be unfair to someone fresh in my life to constantly compare. The most frustrating thing of all is that, around Christmas, Kay began passing blood (stools), but she only informed our daughter. It’s likely that she may have received treatment before sepsis claimed her life if she had examined her blood for c-reactive protein. That, my friends, is the everyday setback I face. shall the huge darkness never end, or shall I see her again? Kay was quite religious. I’m hopeful. I’m hoping she’s correct. I believe this to be my final essay or article, having authored nearly 200. Finally, enough is enough. I thus wish you all adieu, using the phrase the French reserve just for that last farewell.