Kiss me I’m Irish? As it turns out I am only 20% Irish so never mind. Of course that is not the only reason that no one will be kissing me on St. Patricks Day this year. As it turns out no one will be kissing me on the day after, or the day after that. Of course this is because he-who-once-kissed-me has gone away.

I am not sad as I write this. Rather, that last paragraph amuses me just a bit. I have been thinking that we should create a new word for this situation that we call grief. When we consider someone who is grieving I think we expect sadness and sorrow and we stop there. For me I feel like I have discovered a new emotion which encompasses sorrow but it so much more. Not more sorrow, just more complicated. Off the top of my head I think it should include melancholy, a new type of strength, resilience, longing, mourning, transformation, rethinking, overcoming, trepidation, desperation, patience, hope, ludicrous, quiet, bewilderment, reverence…. There is more – those are just the first words that flew through my fingers as I sat typing.

I said that it was complicated. Perhaps we should call it…. grief? Then just know that grief is so complicated.

A couple months ago Kimberly sent me the following quote. She liked it because she also recognized that she was having a new type of experience that didn’t stop at sorrow:

“Grief changes us. The pain sculpts us into someone who understands more deeply, hurts more often, appreciates more quickly, cries more easily, hopes more desperately, loves more openly.”

For me the term, “hopes more desperately,” jumped right off the page and spoke to my soul. I had planned to use it for the title of this post until St. Patricks Day and kissing stole the stage. Seriously it does seem strange to think I could live the rest of my life and never again be kissed?!

I digress…

Several times someone has told me that they have heard that I am doing well. Therefore I know that this conversation is going on amongst my friends… Friend A, “How is Corinne doing?” Friend B, “She seems to be doing really well.”

I have no problem with that conversation. I love that they are concerned and reporting good things. For the most part I am, indeed, doing well. Today. Most days. Three weeks ago I was sitting in this same chair looking lovely as my hands and face were covered with mascara that was flowing as freely as my tears. Here are a few things to consider when you are looking at me or another widow/widower.

When Mark died, I died as well. It took me several months to realize this. We were one another. “I am you and you are me,” was something he tearfully said to me several times during those last few days along with, “You are my everything.” That may sound strange unless you have been in a relationship such as ours. When your “everything” is gone… there is not much left! I am sure that I mentioned once or twice that I felt that my entire insides had been scooped out. This was a mild way of trying to explain (or comprehend) that I had essentially died.

Except that I didn’t die. I wanted to die, but it didn’t happen. I had to keep on living – but living an entirely new life. I have had to be reborn and transformed (still transforming) and this makes for a very fragile form of living. People tell me that I am strong. What?! I have one word to describe how I feel… I feel DELICATE. The smallest concern will keep me awake for hours. I put aside anything that might take too much brain power. I am carrying on and trying to accomplish just those things which are most important, and I respect the fact that it will take time to rebuild a more functional form of living.

That being said, I have to say that I am often going about my day with an awareness of a strength and a peace that is beyond my own. I can find so much beauty in this new life. The Savior is truly the source and I offer a prayer of gratitude over and again. What a precious gift this is!

All in all I am adjusting and doing well. It has been over eight months. My days are mostly happy. Quite happy in fact. Anyone who reads this should know that this is my nature bolstered by my faith. I am glad that this part of me did not die, or was at least quick to revive.

This doesn’t mean that I suddenly have upper body strength and can lift heavy objects.

This doesn’t mean that I am suddenly not squeamish about mice.

This doesn’t mean that I like always driving a truck or that I ever remember to get the oil changed.

This doesn’t mean that I look forward to eating meals solo for the rest of my life.

This doesn’t mean that I look forward to doing almost everything solo for the rest of my life.

This doesn’t mean that I can fix my own plumbing or hang a new light fixture.

This doesn’t mean I can suddenly build my own chicken coop or tool shed.

This doesn’t mean that I can easily dig a big hole in our lousy soil to plant a tree.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t miss being kissed for being 20% Irish.

The list goes on, but not just for me. I just returned from a widow/widower conference and I loved spending time with 400 or 500 individuals of all ages who share with me this unique adventure. Everyone has their own story and everyone grieves in a personal way. I talked with a man my age who lost his wife in January and shared time with a younger friend who was widowed 16 years ago.

Widows and widowers are complicated creatures – be kind to them! And if they are Irish… well, maybe a handshake will have to do.