It's Day 68 for me. That's 68 days since my beloved Frank died. He died, at 61, of pancreatic cancer in the VA Hospice Unit at the Togus Veterans Hospital in Augusta, Maine.
It's been 68 days of sameness. Get up, shower, get dressed. Eat something, try to do something. Watch the hours pass. Eat some supper, go to bed early. Cry. Cry more.
I am a widow now. and it doesn't feel very good.
I hope to become a window. A window with lightness and openness. A window with clarity, not fog. Something that helps me see more easily, and something that others can see into more easily, too. A window that doesn't block things, but allows things.
I never thought this way about who I am, and who I can become, before today, before Day 68. I lived Life With Frank like a blizzard -- living and loving well, but allowing little time for reflection. Now, Life Without Frank is like a relentless rainstorm. You can't see much through a relentless rainstorm.
But ... a window. This widow can become a window. Remember how windows shine?
We'll just build a blog out of that thought, Widows to Windows. I hope this gentle place can become a place for other widows, far beyond my small town in Maine -- full of stories, resources and support. Becoming a widow sets us on a journey, alright. We are bound to become windows. We can travel that journey together, okay? Day, by day, by day.
