And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
My first marriage lasted seventeen years. Our relationship started as my first date ever when I was sixteen years old and so was he. We were married when we were twenty, in between our junior and senior years of college. It ended when I divorced him. On the day our divorce was declared final, he and I stood outside the courthouse, each of us in front of our cars. My tears wouldn’t stop, and I told him, “If I’d known how hard this was going to be, I would never have gone through with it.”
He crossed his arms. “Oh?” he said. “Well, if I’d known how easy it was going to be, I would have done it much sooner.”
There was a lot of pain, before, during, and after.
My second marriage, to Michael, lasted 24 years and 8 months. Our marriage didn’t end by either of us making a choice. Unless you count my decision, as power of attorney, to withdraw life support and sit and watch Michael in hospice. Where he lasted not quite 5 days. I told him I loved him, right before his last breath. He didn’t answer, but he exhaled and relaxed, and that was it.
Also a lot of pain, before, during, and after.
A couple months later, when I was on retreat on the Oregon coast, I ran into a couple on my morning walk. They told me they were there to celebrate their 35th anniversary. “Oh,” I said. “My husband just died. Four months shy of our silver anniversary. I guess I’ll never get to experience that.”
They quickly moved away.
It’s a thought I’ve had often since Michael’s death. In total, I’ve been married for 41 of my 66 years. But not to anyone long enough to experience that silver anniversary.
My ex-husband, a couple weeks ago, took his family, which contains our children and our children’s families, and his second wife’s family, on a cruise to celebrate their 25th anniversary. The silver anniversary.
So I’ll sound like a child for a moment. It’s not fair that he and his wife got to celebrate a silver anniversary, and Michael and I didn’t.
Lot of pain.
The first anniversary that Michael was gone, which was our 25th, I truly only remember one thing. I went online and ordered a crystal ornament, for a Christmas tree. Our anniversary was in October, and so I thought it could be a new ornament for the year. I had it engraved, with our names and our wedding date. The ornament itself said 25th Anniversary. When it arrived, it lasted for all of a half hour before a cat knocked it from the counter where I’d left it to show Olivia. It shattered on our concrete floor. Hoping this wasn’t a commentary sent from Michael, I ordered it again. This time, I hung it on a wall in our bedroom. It’s still there. It never made it to the tree. But I never packed it away with the Christmas stuff either. It’s always where I can see it when I go to sleep and when I wake up.
It would have to do.
A few days ago, I went along with two of my kids to a large thrift store. I wasn’t really looking for anything in particular. But I love thrift stores. They’re like gigantic treasure boxes, filled with things that you might see as treasure, or things that others see as treasure. I eventually wandered down several glassware aisles, displaying, well, glasses, but also plates, serving dishes, cups and saucers, vases, and on and on. Partway down an aisle, on the left, I saw a silver number. 25. I stopped by it. The number was on top of a lovely china figurine, and it was for a 25th anniversary. I touched it.
Livvy stopped beside me. “Twenty-five,” she said. “Like you and Dad.”
I nodded. “But we weren’t married for 25 years,” I said. “Dad died four months shy of our anniversary.”
She shrugged and wandered off.
I’ve wondered a lot if I’m still married. I feel married, even though I haven’t seen Michael for a couple years now. Whenever I have to fill out one of those stupid forms that asks if you’re single, married, divorced or widowed, I have a very hard time. Legally, I’m a widow.
But I feel married.
I guess I’m a married widow.
I walked away from that little figurine. But then I pictured it, sitting on top of Michael’s urn, which sits on top of my piano in our living room. So I turned around and went back. I nestled it into my cart; I had a blanket and some shirts in there, and so it was easy to keep it safe. I bought it and brought it home. I wondered if the checkout clerk would ask me about it, but she didn’t. That was a relief. I found that I didn’t want to explain myself. I just wanted to bring it home, and, in a sense, share it with Michael.
Every night since, after I turn off the television, prepare the coffee for the morning, and make sure the cats have food, I stand and look at the figurine and the urn. When I climb into bed, I look at the ornament on my wall. Then I look at the empty side of our bed, Michael’s side, of course. I rest my hand on his pillow.
I simply can’t imagine Michael saying to me, “If I’d known how easy it was going to be, I’d have left you much earlier.”
Yes, this is a Moment of Happiness. I feel like I’ve done something for Michael, and for me. I’ve acknowledged who we were, and who we are, together.
I gave us a silver anniversary.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
