The Second Year

My first year of widowhood was nearly unbearable. Would the pain ever go away?

- Paula Dyer

EVER TRUE IN LOVING BE. I RAN MY finger over the engraving on my late husband’s wedding band. It was the first anniversary of John’s death. I’d put together some special things to honor the day: my favorite photo of him, our wedding bands, two rose quartz hearts, his watch, some books, a love letter he’d given me and a white candle to burn. Earlier that morning, I’d gone to a Mass that had been said in John’s memory. Still, the day seemed empty. I just couldn’t find any peace.

After a year of widowhood, I was feeling worse, not better. I was going to grief support groups, talking about my experience and listening to other people share their struggles, but nothing seemed to help. I still cried every day. My heart broke when John died, but now it seemed as if my life were broken too.

My bereavement counselor, Diana, told me, “There’s a saying in the grief world: The first year is horrible. And the second year is worse.” She’d suggested that I keep a gratitude journal. I’d started one, dutifully noting a funny e-mail, occasions when I felt as if I’d helped someone at work or when something about the changing seasons caught my eye.

But so often it felt like straining to come up with something—anything— to write down. None of it could give me back John, what I wanted most.

John had died in June 2015, in what the ER doctor said was a sudden cardiac event. He was only 61. He had no history of heart disease and had already survived cancer. We’d planned on growing old together, taking trips, volunteering at church and just sitting at home with a good book. John was everything I wasn’t—outgoing, hopeful. He seemed to make friends wherever he went, while I always held back. I wasn’t good at small talk, but he could talk to anyone.