I'm not so far out of my widowhood that I don't remember those triggers of grief that struck without warning. A lyric from a song could be a dagger to the heart, whether the song was about bereavement or not.
I learned during my widowhood that James Taylor's "Fire and Rain" was about the death of his girlfriend. Every lyric in that song took on new meaning for me during my widowhood, especially that line: "I always thought that I'd see you again." But Taylor's song "It Used to be Her Town," dealing with the tragedy of divorce, also squeezed my bereaved heart when I heard, "Well, people had gotten used to seeing them both together. But now he's gone and life goes on; nothing lasts forever." It became in my heart, "Now she's gone," and I cried. I remember how isolated I felt taking walks or eating alone in a restaurant or attending church. I felt like I was walking through a thick fog of pity, an odd character with whom people didn't know how to relate.
Singer/songwriter Jewel probably didn't imagine that her song, "You Were Meant for Me," also describes the pain a widowed person feels going through the ordinary tasks of the day--alone:
I
hear the clock, it's six a.m.
I
feel so far from where I've been
I
got my eggs, I got my pancakes too
I
got my maple syrup, everything but you
. . . .
I
brush my teeth, I put the cap back on
I
know you hate it when I leave the light on
I
pick a book up, and then I turn the sheets down
And
then I take a deep breath and a good look around
Put
on my pj's and hop into bed
I'm
half alive, but I feel mostly dead
I-I
try and tell myself it'll all be alright
I
just shouldn't think anymore tonight 'cause
The most painful song of my widowhood was Air Supply's "I Can Wait Forever." The mournful lyrics and melody expressed my pain during the first couple weeks after Linda's death. What do I do now? How can I go on with out her? I wept and sobbed and the sentiment of that song gripped me for a couple of weeks:
"I can wait forever,
If I know you'll be there, too.
I can wait forever if you will.
I know it's worth it all
To live my life alone with you.
In the depths of my grief, that sentiment made strange sense to me. I'll live my life alone, I decided, and--paradoxically--with her. Living a memory. Living a mystical presence.
But I soon realized, as I lay in my empty bed each night and sat alone for meals, that I was alone without her. I saw my decision as unhealthy, as unhealthy as "the defective detective" Adrian Monk, who continued to wear his wedding ring and insist, years after his wife's death, that he was married. That's when I began to pray for another mate.
That Air Supply song does not hurt like it did then. I have someone else with whom to share my life, someone whom God had prepared for this stage of my life, someone who could help me finish my course with joy.
All those songs, and many more, have lost their sharp edge for me, but I listen to them now with empathy for those who have lost a spouse. I hope I never lose that. My wounds have healed. My widowed friends have helped heal them, and I pray I can continue to offer a healing balm to those still suffering.
