The hard part of widowhood

I don't mind being a widow.  I like my quiet small life.  It makes life have a certain ease.  I guess because there are fewer decisions to make. 

I try not to let widowhood define my life.  But every time I turn around, there is a reminder - "you're a widow."  Fill out a form at a doctor's office, check off W for marital status.  Try to lift something heavy, oops, there is no one here to help you.  Sad, happy? - there is no one to share it with immediately. 

In other words, I am alone.  I am not lonely most of the time.  I am just alone.  I am one, I am all by myself. 

My experience of widowhood has revealed that no one touches you any more.  My sons are generous with hugs, my parents are kind but not demonstrative.  I appreciate the hugs from friends, I sink into them and want to stay there.  But there is rarely meaningful touch.  And I think it is because I have this persona of independence and strength.  I don't give the appearance of longing for someone's touch. 

Except for one time.  When I had my injections last week the whole  surgical team and I were laughing heartily prior to my procedure because a nurse asked me if there was any chance I was pregnant (since the procedure involved fluoroscopy.)  I told her I was post-menopausal  and to top it off a widow.  Everyone snickered as if to reply that widowhood didn't imply abstinence.  I told them I was saving myself, and they all agreed I deserved it. 

Then the procedure began and the very kind and only person to my right offered to hold my hand.  I thought how sweet.  I assumed it not to be a big deal since I would be asleep from luscious narcotics soon.  However, Dr. Sipple likes to keep his patients partially awake so he can communicate locations of the needles while he burns the nerves.  That meant that parts of the process were quite painful.  I soon realized that the fluoroscopist still had hold of my hand.  I reflexly squeezed his hand during the painful times.  And he squeezed back to comfort me.  And that small act was montumental for me.  That comfort went straight up my arm to my heart.  I was consoled.  We did the same squeezing volley about 5 more times until the ablation was over. 

I hadn't had that type of consolation in over a year and a half.  His grip was soothing and warm and like the hand of God.  It wasn't that man's job to reassure me.  He only needed to assist Dr. Sipple.  But like the rare health professional that intuits a patient's fears and apprehensions, this kind man did more than was asked of him.  It meant more to me than he will ever know.

So I am back to being alone.  On my way to a successful recovery.  Free and easy and celebrating my peace and quiet.  Pain free and optimistic again.  From time to time the memory of that gentle pressure on my hand soothes me.  Such a simple pleasure. 

 Moral of the story, enjoy every single experience of touch.  Relish those memories.