Thursday, October 1, 2026
The last column I wrote was an obituary for my husband, Don, who died in July. This month I hoped to move on to my usual subjects like politics, or the life and times of my grandkids, or the weird and wonderful touchstones of our evolving culture. In 40 years of column writing, I’ve never been at a loss for words.
But this loss is different. I discovered that I’m not myself anymore; more challenging, I’m not sure who I am. When you’re a partner in a 58-year-long marriage, identity becomes somewhat fluid. We were a “we” and now I’m an “I.”
The reminders are constant, some profound, some silly. When would I ever buy one banana? How do I change the lightbulbs? I’d like to step out to dinner, but I’ve never sat across from an empty chair. I walk the dog and realize that no one would know if I fell into the bushes and spent the night alfresco.
I’m not feeling sorry for myself, just observing from an emotional distance how the scenery, the characters and the story have changed completely. And I’m not yet sure what part I’m playing.
I explored not doing what I ordinarily do. I ate a sweet potato and a bowl of Haagen Dazs for dinner. No protein-starch-vegetable pyramid. I stayed up all night and slept all morning. I went to the mailbox in our building and realized I couldn’t reach it. That was Donnie’s job.
Sometimes I find myself wondering where he could’ve gone. How is this possible? We have A.I. Why hasn’t someone figured this out? I see signs in nature and out of nature, like the perfect, long-stemmed red rose that came floating my way in the ocean. I’m a super-grounded person, yet I’m willing to let my thoughts take flight.
Of course, I’m reading all the grief literature and, of course, on Facebook, thanks to its mind -reading algorithms, everything that has ever been published about grief is on my page. I’ve heard more from Elizabeth Kubler-Ross in the past month than in my entire life, and she’s been dead for 22 years. “Uplifting” poetry and exotic mourning rituals fill my page.
Strangest of all, I’ve heard from people out of the past — the way, way past. People I knew in college or my first job, people who heard from a friend of a friend and just wanted to say what a champ my Donnie was. How sweet that so many people stop for a moment and write down words that will land in my mailbox and lighten the weight of these days, even briefly.
This is part of what I do now in these early days: I curate the memories of our life together. My kids and I try to figure out the unfathomable. We distract ourselves with activity and open books we never actually read.
My other job is saying yes. According to the experts, I must say yes to every opportunity to see people, even though they may be irritating nudniks who were never part of my life.
And I need to join widows’ groups, friends advise. But wait; I want to embrace my old friends. I like the couples, the women and men with whom we dined and hung out. They, especially, share my memories. No friendship possibility need be exclusionary.
The categorization of women whose partner has died is problematic. I have always had difficulty with the word “widow.” There is something about the word, which comes from Old English and meant “lonely,” “separate” and “divide.” And, of course, the spider.
I don’t think we need to be identified by our marital status. Recently I was filling out a form, and it asked if I was married, single, widowed, divorced. And I thought, nobody’s damn business. My husband’s death should not change my official identity. Except maybe for Social Security.
For my next column, I promise, I’ll stay anchored in the everyday world. Maybe back to politics. When I wrote Don’s obituary, I received dozens of supportive, loving notes from readers, and I thank you all. This has set a new standard for me. Ordinarily when I open an email, I’m expecting big-time political push back. This was a sweet, healing interlude, connecting with readers heart to heart. Let it be.
Copyright 2026 Randi Kreiss. Randi can be reached at randik3@aol.com.
