The Widowhood │Sometimes You Get Things Back

One of the things I had to give up when my husband died was the publishing contract that I had on my middle grade/high school fantasy novel that I had worked so hard on and was so excited to see coming to print. It was a gutting decision, but one that I ha to make because I knew that with three kids on my own there was no way that I was going to be able to fulfill the terms of my contract. I balled my eyes out when I wrote the email that would begin the process of letting it too be a dream I had to let go of.

Sometimes though, after the tragedy and the chaos, the universe and a lot of hard work brings things back to you. This fall will bring back my dream of seeing The Sekrit Keepers of Slay Valley come to life on paper. I am so excited to share my first novel in about 10 years and hope that this signals a chapter in my life where my writing and art are again at the forefront of it.

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The Widowhood │ On the Eve of My 40th Birthday Weekend

I remember the days leading up to my 30th birthday. I had just gotten home from Chicago, having attained topic approval for my dissertation for my PhD. I was living with Phil at the shore and for the most part, life was pretty together, but I was totally freaked out about that milestone birthday. I was worried that Phil and I would just live in sin for forever and that I would never get to be a mom. I felt like I was reaching the accomplishments I wanted professionally but felt like I was going to miss everything I wanted in my personal life and that age was slowly creeping in. I think that is the big difference between men and women, men think their time is infinite while women are all too aware of the seasons that we age in.

If I could go back to ten years ago, I think I would hug that version of myself. I would let her know how absolutely hard and devastating marrying Phil would be. How she hadn’t known it yet, but that she had already begun and would continue to lose herself in Phil’s world and toxic family. And how those patterns would just repeat on and on until you would finally move away and ultimately to the day of his funeral where your mother would look at you after all the insanity was over and say, “You’re no longer married to him. This is now your life to decide.” She was right. It is my life and they are my children to raise. I don’t regret my life with Phil because at the time it was who I loved and wanted and if I had chosen any differently, I would not have the three amazing kids that I do have.

I got to be a mom and I was given the gift of starting over and giving my children a childhood that breaks free of the generational trauma and toxic family dynamics that killed their father. Looking back on the past decade of my life, I see how hard it was. I see how hard I worked for my family and for everything that I have. I also see how much it all burnt me out and how I lost myself in the early to middle part of my 30’s, only to have life hand me the biggest curve ball and find the strength and mental fortitude needed to move forward and start over again.

There’s something to your 30’s being the decade that you learn the most about yourself. About what you want, what you will deal with and finding that inner glow up that brings with it a new level of confidence after surviving some of the scariest moments of your life from giving birth to trying to save your dying husband. To the even scarier stuff, meeting someone new and having those kinds of feelings for them that makes you want to let them into your world. And as you approach 40, you begin to realize that because of your special person that you are awakening your interests and parts of you that you lost being married to someone who didn’t appreciate you or really respect you by the end of it.

To my 20-something self, I would say…calm down girlfriend it’s all going to work out the way it’s supposed to.

To my 30-something self, I would hug and say, you deserved more than you got, but I am proud of you for staying true to who you are despite spending much of your time here in the epicenter of crazy and then in the middle of someone’s deteriorating mental health. You didn’t come out unscathed, but you absolutely came out stronger because of it.

To my soon to be 40-year-old self…man it’s scary to be middle aged isn’t it? Don’t focus so much on the ending of your life. It may even be another 60 years before that happens. Instead, enjoy all of the things you worked so hard for. Enjoy being with the true love of your life and doing all the things you both are passionate about, gardening and nature adventures and traveling. Stay true to your own passions of reading too much and painting abstract vaginas. Hold onto hope that you and your love will get to have your own children and that eventually your teaching career will fade into the writing career that you always wanted…perhaps with a little college lecturing on the side. Just because you’re middle aged doesn’t mean it’s over, it just means a new life has begun and there is still time to do all of the things as long as you make them a priority. Your life deviated greatly from where you thought it was going, but in so many ways it has become better than you ever thought it could be.

Be proud of how well your children are doing and how much work it took both you and your love to undo the years of having been at home with a disengaged father. Be proud of losing 115 pounds from the morbid obesity that three back to back pregnancies and a chaotic over-worked lifestyle brought you. You’re just 20 pounds away from being at your goal weight and you’re still under the two year mark from when you started your journey–that is just amazing. Most importantly, don’t be so afraid or anxiety ridden of the future…especially trout streams.

Here’s to turning 40 and the chapter of life that is yet to come.

Dr. Katherine Kuzma-Beck HartLeave a comment

The Widowhood │ The First Days Back

I had my first contact day with students today. It felt like slipping into an old glove. For the first time in years, my professional life felt good and like I was where I belonged. It made sense.

I stood up in front of over 100 kids today and began setting up what my classroom was going to be like with them in it. It went well and the kids responded positively to me.

I had one student in my morning classes stop me from speaking and told me I was a beautiful soul. That touched me deeply. Sometimes I think that as we grow older, we become so jaded that we can not see or speak of what we see freely. It is something that kids, of all ages, I have felt hold onto and you will get these little quiet moments with them beyond teaching and learning that just hit you right in your heart.

I held onto that for most of the morning until my final class when another student who is severely disabled raised her hand to remind me that God loves me and has a plan for me, and that there is love out there for me that will forever change me. Another sweet moment that was totally unprompted that makes me stop and reflect on my life and day. I am in a season of wondering what God has in store for me and for my kids and sometimes I think he works through people to remind me that even though I do not have it all together, that I am where I need to be and that the hand of God is always near.

For now, I am enjoying the quiet in my life as lonely as it is most days. The quiet also gives me more time and focus on my own kids and things that I am passionate about like creating art, reading and teaching myself how to knit socks on my new loom.

That all said, I have enjoyed sharing segments of The Widowhood: A Semi-True Story of Surviving Widowhood Without the Fairy Tale Ending. These segments are smaller pieces of a larger manuscript that I am looking to publish next year, so be sure to stay on the look out for it!

For now, I am picking up the pieces that were left of myself following having my husband die in front of me only to find out he was cheating on me and then to try for love again with a man that decided to simply leave one day, which was something I always feared because I always felt my kids and I were at the harder side of risk than he was. We had suffered a traumatic loss and were allowing someone in again, he was a single man with nothing to lose. What if it worked out, he would say to me when I would talk about it, but in the end he did just that. The hardest part of it was when I had to tell my kids and I sat them down and said how he had chosen to not be a part of our family. My younger two were upset, my younger son even saying, “But I wanted him to be part of our family.” And I did too.

I am very lonely and I am sad quite a bit, but my new professional life and my children are what keep me going and the hope that somewhere out there is a man who will love me completely, my children included. I think the saddest part of my story is the reality that my younger two will have no memory of their dad and my eldest will only have some fuzzy ones. If God does have a life partner out there for me, he would ultimately be their dad and I think that is what keeps me hoping beyond my shattered heart that there is someone out there because they are great kids who deserve to have a dad that loves them beyond measure.

Until that day comes, I find my happiness in being their mom and looming socks.

Dr. Katherine Kuzma-Beck Hart1 Comment

The Widowhood │ The Hand of God

     By the time that Violet was born, I was losing my mind at the idea of having to go back to my job in the Capital City. I wanted to be home with my kids or at least able to be more present for them. However, I never seemed to be able to get something closer. When we lived at the shore, I never got an interview and then when we moved, I would get to the final interview and then not be the candidate. It was a difficult time and I was terrified about how I was going to be a mom of three and go back to a job that because I had been identified as a good, strong teacher would often be given the hardest kids without much support.

     Into my lap fell a long term substitute position at a bougie district that would have kept me paid for the rest of the year and would have turned into a tenure track position. I was ecstatic and so was Phil, I would have an under 10 minute commute to work and I would be present for the kids. I would actually be able to teach kids who wanted to learn my subject. My days would not be spent on mitigating behaviors and getting to some of what I wanted to teach. The relief was palpable in our house. I resigned from the Capital City, I was board approved, I was ID’d and I was being given an email. I left to go to ShopRite and pick up overpriced cheese for Phil and I to eat with the kids as a celebration of my new job and for our wedding anniversary.

     I went to Kohl’s and spent too much money on new clothes so that I could look the part of the English teacher who worked in a more well-off district. I was so excited that I would be able to get my eldest from school. I remember how the day felt like change and newness and I was looking forward to getting to see my new room. I was pulling into my driveway when I saw the school’s number come across my car dashboard. I eagerly picked it up.

     “Hi Katherine, this is Sandra Fellows. I am so sorry to have to tell you this so late on a Friday, but they decided to make this tenure track so you won’t need to report on Monday.”

     I was too shocked to speak. “Wait, what?” I manage to choke out.

     “Your interview stands. I am going to have to interview some other people, but you will hear from me soon.”

     She hangs up and suddenly I am just sobbing in my car, wondering what I was going to do because I was now at the end of my maternity leave and was depending on getting a paycheck. I couldn’t fathom the idea of having to go back to the Capital City even though I knew that was what was going to have to happen and since they never responded to my resignation, it was probably going to be easier said than done.

     I cried harder at the idea of not being able to get my eldest from school and then got myself together enough to go inside and tell Phil. I remember walking inside and going straight for a drink and sitting down in my recliner with it, sobbing and telling Phil through broken sobs about what had happened.

     “And you need to be drinking,” he interjects, not at the right time.

     “Seriously? SERIOUSLY,” I am about to lose my mind. He walked away. He never liked when I drank and would judge me for it exponentially.

     Phil never took care of himself unless I made him. He would make promises about working more or getting a better job, but it never came to be and when it came to paying for our house or for caring for the kids like making sure everyone had health insurance, I did not want to put that into his hands even though I was beyond burnt out from having three kids in four years and working 16 hour days and taking care of him on top of it because I knew he would mess it up which he would ultimately do later that year when I let him have the summer.

     If I could pinpoint a time where I would say it was where I began to hate my husband, it was in that moment. How much more could one person take on for everyone else while they drowned and their husband allowed it? The loss of this also hit my ego hard and I began to believe that the best I would ever be is overworked in an inner city school that was happy to leave me in an unsupported position as opposed to giving me something that better supported me. I began to believe that this was just going to be my life.

     I never got a phone call again from that principal, just a form letter a week later that told me I was not selected for the job. I went back to the Capital City, full of rage and hatred for my marriage and for my job. I was very much over it all and after the 16 hour days ended, I would sit up with a baby and apply to anything I was remotely qualified for that allowed me to pick up my kid from school. It ultimately would lead to my job with the state which would give me the one skill I would add to my resume that would make me stand out to the public school I would ultimately leave the state for. That decision would lead me to be sitting next a woman in a training at the new job that would pick up on our connection to the bougie school district. It would turn out that she had left the same school that had hired and fired me within a week and she knew about the events that surrounded that event in my life.

     “I was there when that all went down. You were replacing a guy that grabbed a kid and then all of a sudden they pulled a long term sub from another building to be you but she left already. The entire district is out of money and everyone is leaving, be thankful it fell apart for you. You had someone up there on your side because you would have been cut either the next year or this year because the principal that hired you died suddenly and she was the one that was stopping all of it from happening. Once she was gone, the district came in and gutted everything,” she explained.

     My jaw was on the floor. Had I not lost that job, I would have either been struggling more leading up to Phil losing his job or would have been a fresh widow dealing with Phil’s financial mess he left me with and no job to save us.

You would think that with all that has happened to me in the last two years of my life, that things like this wouldn’t be so shocking to me, but it still surprises me when I learn about the hand of God in my life. The first time I truly saw the hand of God was the morning that my husband died. He died in our back yard, out of the house. He died an hour before I wouldn’t have been home and he would have either been at home with the kids by himself or worse, he would have been driving them in the car to what they had planned to do that day. He would have died and potentially killed the kids with him along with whoever he hit in the van that he would no longer be in control of. However, the hand of God protected us.

Then by keeping me in my old position, I was afforded time off to get my family together after my husband died before I went to the state. I think God delivered me to the state because it gave me almost two full years after Phil died to recover. The state was less work than what you do as a public school teacher and for awhile, I enjoyed the break before it was clear it would be in my best interest to return to public school. And in came the hand of God, delivering the position to me that I ultimately took. I do not think God does everything for you, but I think if you are working hard at your life, he has a way of directing you to where you need to be.

After meeting a new friend in training, I went back to my new classroom and began to unpack the bags of things I have had sitting in my garage since the spring from the state. I came to the bag of things for my desk and found the pictures of my kids and one of me and John. After setting the ones of my kids on my desk, I sat back in my chair a little teary eyed and ran my hands over the edges of the brown frame that had the picture of me and John on our first date. I began to wonder if his choice to leave was also another moment where the hand of God was involved. Was it all to lead me to whatever it was that was supposed to happen in my love life? I started to think about what I did not like about John. I did not like how he would be so intensely with me, but at the same time so distant with his own life. I also didn’t like how he would sometimes do things carelessly and when I would react, I was ultimately wrong and selfish for doing so, like when he really hurt me when I brought up a future and then had avoided talking to me about what our life would look like for two weeks and then just decided to throw us in the trash overall. It was beyond hurtful.

With a heavy sigh, I wiped my tears on the back of my hand and put the picture in the bottom drawer of my desk. I laugh when I see the name on the drawer. Apparently, this desk used to be Mr. Love’s. How ironic that a Dr. Hart is replacing a Mr. Love. This was a new beginning and wherever God was leading me, I told myself it was time to trust in the hand of God and build a beautiful classroom for my new students.

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The Widowhood │ The Magic of New Beginnings

 Logan’s last year of pre-school was a difficult one. Everyday at the end of the day if I wasn’t there to pick him up, he would sob. It didn’t matter that Phil was still alive at this time and would be the one getting him, no, Logan needed his mom. Sometimes I would be able to get him if my schedule allowed and if I drove like a crazy person to get back to town from the capital city. It was a hard year for us both and ultimately made me come to conclusion that I was needed at home more than I was needed at a job an hour away.

          This was when my resentment for Phil truly began to build. He was healthy enough to work and cleared to do so by his doctor, but he never really tried to get the kind of job that could make me dial back on the 16 hours days that I had been doing for years. It had been a deal that we had made early on, that once I got us into our forever house, I would be able to dial back on the crazy work hours and focus more on the kids. Only, it never happened and then the summer before he died, he lost the okay-ish job that he had found over a stupid fight about a cup. I remember when the call came in that he was fired as we stood in the driveway, having just gotten back from the lake with the kids. Phil was very good at name calling and put downs when he was mad, but I believe if you love someone you don’t talk to them like that even when they hurt you or are mad at them. Words can do more damage than you think.

          After he got off the phone with his old job, I looked at him full of rage and disappointment as this was the first summer I had taken off and had completely trusted him with the house. “What is wrong with you? You have absolutely fucked us, I hope that you know that.”

          He looked at me like I had said the worst thing known to man and he walked away to call his friends to complain about how I spoke to him and how he was so hurt. I wanted to hit him. I didn’t, but that was one of the times in our marriage where I thought about the satisfaction of punching him in the face would feel like. By the next morning, I was delivering groceries and trying to scrape together any money that I could get my hands on to get us through until I was paid in September.

          By August, I was thankful for the job offer that came in which meant that I was going to be able to pick Logan up from school. I felt like I could breathe again until my old job said that even though I was resigning in August that I was going to be held for 60 days as per my teaching contract. At first, I was rage-filled about it, but looking back I can see the hand of God in that. I was able to go back to work and pack up my things, I got my first full paycheck and then the next morning, I woke up to my husband collapsing and dying at my feet, but because I had been held to 60 days, I now was able to use all of my personal time and be written out for the rest of my holding period. I never went back to the classroom that I had managed for over 10 years.

          And then I arrived shell-shocked and traumatized to my new job. I remember the briskness of the day that I arrived and having to sit in front of my new supervisor and tell her what had happened, asking what paperwork I had to redo since I was no longer married. I was in front of new people, new work and out in the world for the first time in three weeks since our tragedy had found us. I remember how the fuzziness of the world around me seemed to dwindle and for the first time since that Saturday morning, I was looking forward to life again.

          It is almost poetic in a sense that I am now leaving that job for something new and have had a summer of grief and turmoil leading up to it. During my time here, I started to date, I fell in love, I thought I had a future with someone, got my heart broken, had to give away my dogs, had multiple surprises with cars and my house and somehow, made it through it. And next week, I will be sitting at New Teacher Orientation learning about what the next chapter of my life is going to be. Maybe it’s the hand of God again, maybe it’s the end of a cycle—either way I am hopeful today as I am trusting in the magic of new beginnings.

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The Widowhood │ The Morning After 

“Later that day I got to thinking about relationships. There are those that open you up to something new and exotic, those that are old and familiar, those that bring up lots of questions, those that bring you somewhere unexpected, those that bring you far from where you started, and those that bring you back. But the most exciting, challenging, and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you find someone to love the you you love, well, that’s just fabulous.” – Sex and the City 

When I wake up, it’s to the sound of my buzzing phone. I open my eyes to see the brightness of the Manhattan skyline and John is still next to me. Did I really sleep through the night? I reach for my phone and see my mother had texted me five minutes before and now my brother is calling me because she wasn’t answered immediately. It’s a weird power play of my mother’s that she has done for years, even when I was married. I often wonder why my brother feeds into it, but sometimes I think he likes playing the drama game and so I pick up the phone.

“Good morning,” I say.

“Your mother had me call you because you didn’t answer her,” he says, with little reflection in his voice.

“Yeah, I am just waking up. I’m sorry I missed a text from…six minutes ago. I’ll be there for the kids this afternoon as discussed.”

“Kay, I’ll let her know.”

He hangs up.

“Everything okay, mama,” John asks with sleepy huskiness.

“Yeah, my mom can just make things difficult when they don’t have to be. My kids are fine,” I put my phone back on the nightstand and roll over to face him. “Thank you for last night, that was a really nice first date.”

He smiles at me, his warm sleepy smile. “You’re welcome, it was a really nice first date.”

“You know, I did notice something though,” I say flirtatiously.

“Oh? What have you noticed?”

“You haven’t kissed me yet.”

He smiles at me again, this time his coy smile. “I was trying to last night. I wanted to go back down to the bar, but you were exhausted at that point.”

“That would have been very romantic underneath the little lights,” I say, smiling more than I should have.

“Yes, I thought so too, but maybe this morning I’ll be more like Julia Roberts.”

I laugh, picking up on the Pretty Woman reference. “Well, I guess you are, lured up to a hotel room to sleep without a goodnight kiss,” I say, our faces coming closer together.

And then, he kisses me. It is a kiss that is warm and tender that brings with it an overwhelming sense of peace. It is my favorite first kiss. We separate again and he holds my gaze for a moment before he says, “Happy Mother’s Day, Daisy. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, I am,” I say, trying to break up the feelings of hunger and the feelings of excitement and butterflies.

He hands me the room service menu. “We also have the wine that we didn’t have last night.”

I laugh. “Well, it is Mother’s Day!”

He chuckles and pours a glass of wine for me and orders room service. For a little bit, I sit in bed sipping wine on my first Mother’s Day as a widow and watch the busyness of Manhattan outside the window. John is moving around the room getting ready to start packing up. I would later realize that he tends to focus on tasks when he gets nervous about things. I think it centers him.

“Are you busy next weekend? Would you like to come over and meet my children maybe,” I throw out, not as eloquently as I had hoped.

He stops what he is doing and looks at me. “Yes, I would like that.”

I smile. “I don’t really see a way of continuing this without involving them,” I admit.

“So, what then? A lot of Netflix and chill,” he half jokes.

I laugh. “Well big dates like this are really nice every once in awhile, but I do not expect them to be a regular thing so yes, a lot of that Netflix and chill kind of dating.”

“I can’t argue with that, I may save a small fortune.” He laughs. “I’m kidding and yes big dates are nice every once in awhile.”

John goes back to packing and then my food arrives. He excuses himself to shower and I can hear him signing to himself. It is a habit of his that I will come to love because when I hear him singing, I know he’s feeling peaceful which puts me at ease and makes me feel at home. I begin to gather my things and get myself ready before it’s my turn to change.

It seems very fast but then suddenly we are checked out and back out on the street. John steps away to have a cigarette and I suddenly ask him for one. It is an old habit from art school that Phil made me quit when we were first dating because he refused to date a smoker, but suddenly in that moment, I wanted one and I wanted to stand there with John smoking. And so we did.

As we leaned against the cool brick wall of the hotel, the bustling energy of Manhattan instantly surrounded us—the honking taxis, the rush of pedestrians on the sidewalks, and that ever-present hum of life in the city. In this moment, it felt like we were in our own little bubble, a tiny retreat from the chaos outside. I took a slow drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke curl into the air, and watched as John took his first puff, a knowing smile crossing his lips.

“You know, it’s silly, but I kind of missed this,” I admitted, glancing over at him. “Not the smoking part necessarily, but the… sharing a moment like this.”

He nodded, his gaze thoughtful. “I get that. Sometimes it’s the simplest things that make us feel connected.”

“And here we are,” I joked lightly, “sharing a smoke while the city wakes up.”

He laughed softly and then took another drag, exhaling slowly. “Exactly. Just two people trying to navigate their way through.”

As we continued to smoke, I felt the connection between us growing, solidifying in the shared silence and glances. I couldn’t help but think about how quickly we had gone from strangers to something more; a hint of excitement coursed through me. “This weekend has been an unexpected journey,” I mused aloud.

“Every good story has its surprises,” he replied, brushing his hand over his head while he watched the crowd. “What do you think this is shaping up to be?”

“I’m not sure yet,” I said, taking a final drag before letting the smoke drift away. “But I’m definitely curious to see where it goes.”

“Me too,” he smiled, the sincerity in his eyes making my heart flutter. We flicked our cigarettes away, and as we stepped back onto the bustling street, I felt a sense of liberation. It felt as if we had both shed a layer of our pasts, ready to embrace whatever was coming next. “Let’s go grab you that coffee,” he suggested, and I nodded eagerly, ready for the next chapter of this unexpected story.

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The Widowhood │I Wanted to Ask You Something 

August has been a very slow month for me overall, but I have been enjoying precious time with my kids and going on adventures together, creating memories that I will cherish forever. We’ve explored nearby parks, visited the beach, and even tried our hand at baking some fun treats in the kitchen. I am looking forward to the start of school again, as I believe it will bring a renewed sense of structure to our lives. At night, after my kids are asleep, my mind will often wander to what my life was going to become, filled with dreams and aspirations, and if I would ever stop crying all the time, wishing for brighter days ahead. I find myself reflecting on my personal journey, realizing that it’s okay to have these feelings, but I still struggle with them. I am gearing up for another night of telling myself that crying myself to sleep is not the way to go when my phone rings, interrupting my thoughts and pulling me back to the present moment. It’s Sasha, whose voice I know will offer a comforting distraction and perhaps even a bit of laughter amidst my swirling emotions.

“Hey, sorry I know it’s late, but I wanted to ask you something,” she says in a tired voice.

“Sure, shoot,” I say as I sit down at the foot of my bed.

“If you and John had worked out, but for whatever reason, you weren’t getting pregnant would you have left him?”

“No,” I sigh. “I could have made my peace with not having another baby if that happened. I wouldn’t leave a marriage to a man that I loved just because of that. I just don’t want to wake up one day and be 50 and not being able to, and regretting that I hadn’t even tried.” I lay back on my bed. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Something I was sitting here thinking about. You know, how much you would have held onto the dream of another baby over your love and relationship for a man.” She yawns.

“I want the husband too. I want a relationship too, this is not just about another baby, but the person I wind up with will want to at least try for our own, and if it’s not in God’s plan and it doesn’t happen, then so be it. I will make my peace with it. Just like if I never meet anyone again, I will find a way to at least try for that baby on my own.”

“Good. That makes me feel better hearing that because I didn’t want you to go full baby crazy lady.” She chuckles and I do too.

“I am realistic. I just want a chance with a new husband who loves me, loves my kids, and wants to create a family, and if that means we just have my three kids, then that’s okay too.”

“And I think you’ll get that. That is not a crazy wish.”

“I just don’t know why I have to go through John first. Some days it feels like grief all over again, and I am so tired of feeling it and so tired of crying. I really thought when I had that kind of connection with someone again that it would have gone very differently.”

“God has a plan for us all and you are grieving him. He meant something to you, and you wanted a life together. I think it would be weirder if you weren’t grieving it,” she says half-asleep.

The tears that I had been fighting off for much of the night start to flow. “Well, it looks like I am about to have another cry fest, so here is where I say good night.”

“Let yourself cry as much as you need to. It will cleanse you. Good night—one day it will feel better again.”

We hang up, and for another night of the second longest summer of my life, I sit alone in my room crying. I wonder why I had to go through this after all that I went through with Phil. It just didn’t seem fair. If I were a bad person or if I cheated people—I would understand the difficulty level of my life. But I am not those things. All I have ever done in my life is help people, work hard, and want to love and be loved. I cannot comprehend why God has me on this path when I look at the people around me living happy lives. I think, why hasn’t it ever been my turn?

I can usually pull myself out of the pity party thoughts, but tonight, I allow myself to wallow in them and cry as hard as I possibly can. I let the grief erupt from me in choking sobs until I am too tired to continue. As I lay down, the release feels both cathartic and exhausting. To my surprise, I eventually drift off to sleep, hoping that tomorrow might bring a little more clarity and peace to my heart. It’s a cycle of grief and longing that I am beginning to recognize but fear the weight of it still wears heavily on me. What does it mean to love so deeply, only to feel such an emptiness? I can only hope that with time, the answers will find me.

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The Widowhood │ A Sperm Donor

After John left, I had the pretty stark realization that when he left, he also took a year and a half of my life with him which now put me just shy of 40 and further away from my late thirties. It made me sad in ways all over again because when I had made the decision to start dating again, I had done so because I wanted to get married again, I wanted my children to get a father figure in their life and I wanted to have one more baby. I wanted my family dream that I have had since I was little and to my core, I have always wanted a happy traditional family because I think it is important for a woman to have a husband and I think it’s important for children to have two parents.

Between the tears I cried over John that summer, I also found anger too. Anger towards him for taking all that time from me with no intention of having a life with me even though he knew from the very beginning a life with someone was what I wanted and up until that night in my driveway, he had led me to believe that he had wanted that with me too even telling me things like he could never leave me and that he didn’t really understand it but when the kids and I weren’t around, life felt weird. In the end, I guess it was what guys do—feed you a bunch of lines of things they know you want to hear. When I would get to that thought, the anger would become a new level of hurt all over again and new tears would come. It was a very hard summer.

Towards the end of it, I found myself in the same spot I was in when I had decided to start dating again. I started thinking how I could make my family be what I had always wanted it to be without a man involved in it. I was excited that my job with the state had ended because it meant that I would be eligible to be a foster mom if I chose to be. Only after nearly two years of working with kids in the system, I pretty quickly realized that I did not want to be a mother to a kid that had been in the system, and I did not want to deal with the constant presence of a social worker in my life until the adoption was finalized.

I thought back to earlier times in my life where I wasn’t convinced that God was leading me to physically create the children that I knew in my heart I wanted, and I thought back to private adoption. It had been something that I had looked into briefly before Phil and I had gotten married, and I remembered how expensive it all was outside of the cost of raising another child on my own. It was not going to be a viable option for me. Which then led me to googling sperm banks in the quiet of my bedroom after my children had gone to sleep and what I continued to do the following morning when I got to work. I was pretty invested in it when my co-worker came in to check in.

“What are you doing,” she asked.

I shut my laptop and looked up at her. “Good morning. Promise not to laugh?”

“Maybe?” She sits down in front of my desk and eagerly awaits my explanation of what I am so engrossed in.

“Sperm donation.” I flip open my laptop and show her the website.

She doesn’t laugh. “You must have an interesting search history,” she adds as she starts scrolling through the list of potential options.

“Oh, never look at the search history of a widow. In the early days, I was so obsessed with what was happening to Phil’s body that I was constantly researching body decomposition because I couldn’t fathom the idea that he was dead let alone no longer Phil and, in the ground, becoming a skeleton.”

“And now you are here. You have had an interesting life.”

“I guess you could call it that.” I take back my laptop. “It surprised me how easy it is to knock yourself up if you decide to.”

“You know most people find a friend that they trust and make some sort of arrangement for this kind of thing.”

“No, if I must do it alone, then I will do it alone. And look how easy it is. For up to $1500 you pick your baby daddy and how good of a sample you want or need, they send it to your house or to your doctor in your ovulation window and bam you try to knock yourself up.”

           “That is very…expedited. Are you going to do it?”

          “I don’t know, I think it is kind of weird and I still hold out hope that I do meet someone, but now I am even more afraid of allowing someone around me and my kids for them to get attached to a man again only for him to decide he doesn’t want us.” I grab a tissue and dab away the fresh tears that have come.

          “You’re not ready for this if you want my unsolicited opinion.”

          “You’re right, I’m not, but at least I am starting to think about it.” She nods. “And then I also think about my luck with things. Knowing me, I would commit to doing this, knock myself up and then meet the man of my dreams and have to explain how I got pregnant.”

          She laughs. “That would happen to you, yes.”

          “And then he wouldn’t want to deal with that level of crazy and I would once again get hurt and become a hermit with my three and a half kids.” I exhale and force myself to stop tearing up. “Then I also think about that episode of The Golden Girls where Blanche’s daughter decides to go to a sperm bank to get pregnant and every time, she has to say sperm back, she cringes and whispers it all awkward.”

          “That’s a pretty good episode. I also like the one when she has the baby and Blanche keeps calling the baby Oreo.”

          I chuckle. “I always thought it was weird that she had a son named Skippy but made fun of her daughter for Aurora.”

          She agrees.  “Maybe look into having your eggs frozen and then that way if you do meet someone you bought yourself back some time.”

          “I don’t know what’s weirder to me, a sperm bank baby or a petri dish baby.” I grab another tissue and dry my leaking eyes. “Alright, enough of this, I have to get it together to get through the day.”

          My co-worker offers to make some coffee and I gladly accept it, eager to be away from my depressing thoughts about the state of my life and the weird things I find myself looking into.

When I was younger, I used to like that my life wasn’t planned out and that the uncertainty of life brought with it exciting surprises, but now after being widowed and after John, I found myself not liking that aspect of life so much and I really began to crave comfort and consistency. And I had begun to realize that as much as a good relationship brings that, you can also bring it to yourself. I began to out more things into God’s hands by the end of the summer and began to truly believe he does have a plan for me even if it meant I was alone with my kids for the rest of my life. It just hurt to think about it that way, never getting to have a husband or raise our child together along with my kids I had with Phil. The loneliness of it all really began to sting even though I knew I was going to figure it out either way in the end even if it meant, a sperm bank.

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The Widowhood │ Sure, What’s My Dating Handle Going to Be?

One of the things that I like about my job is that one of my co-workers is in her middle-20’s, without kids and is actively dating and trying to meet someone. She keeps it real with me and I appreciate it because while I am not actively dating, she keeps me thinking about it and working over one day trying again and seeing if there is someone out there for me to build a life with.

          The other day she comes in and sits with me by my desk, scrolling through her dating app and becoming increasingly more frustrated with it. Has modern society really made it this hard to find someone? Probably.

          “Did you ever sign back up to e-harmony,” she asks me, flicking down her phone and over whatever app she was on.

          I sigh. “I started to do the personality test and then I just started to cry so I figured that I was probably not in the best mindset to be doing this and I was not ready to try again.”

          “That’s fair. My best guy friend told me last night that my profile was horrifying and that’s why I wasn’t getting anyone interested in me.”

          I paused what I am doing. “Well, do you think he was right?”

          She begins reading to me her profile. I last a couple of seconds before I put my hands up. “Yeah, he is absolutely right. That sounds crazy and demanding and not at all what you should have in a dating profile.”

          “Well! I AM JUST SO TIRED OF IT! I am so tired of something starting and it just falling apart. I am so tired of putting myself out there and it being nothing in the end. How do you start yours when you’re doing it?”

          I chuckle. “I keep it light and honest. I think when I met John mine had said that I was a widow with three kids and that I was looking for something meaningful.”

          “What is light about being a widow with three kids?”

          “Not a whole lot, but it’s honest and I didn’t want someone to be surprised by that because—” She cuts me off.

          “Because you didn’t want someone who was going to leave over the kids and hurt you and the kids,” she says, having listened to me cry many times over the summer about the state of my life.

          I’m teary eyed again. “Yeah, pretty much and then that happened anyway so here we are. I guess I don’t know a whole lot about dating either.”

          “Have you thought about using a free app? Might just get you a couple of dates and gets you out of the house a couple nights? Gives you a break?”

          I snort. “You mean one of those sites that you need to even create a handle for? What would mine even be? Something like widowedmomofthreewithfreshexboyfriendbaggage,” I say flippantly.

          She looks at me and busts out laughing and then suddenly I am laughing with her, a real laugh. One I haven’t had in many weeks and then we’re both laughing so hard that we are in tears, and it hurts to breathe.

          “What,” I manage to choke out, “Is that too crazy and pressure filled?”

          “Yes,” she laughs. “But it is also so perfect all in one.”

          “Do I need a handle for whatever app that you’re using,” I ask, regaining my composure.

          “No, but this one has you answer questions like what is your favorite cry to song.”

          “What is yours,” I ask, tucking my feet up underneath me on my chair.

          “Well, my best guy friend told me I need to set it to ‘Back That Ass Up’ and that would make men message me because it’s funny.” She starts humming the lyrics.

          “And did you?”

          “Oh yeah, I did, and you know what? He was right, men are messaging me asking me why that song.”

          “Maybe we should just have him write our profiles and see where it goes,” I laugh. “I don’t think my issues are the profiles though. I think mine will always be the dead husband, the kids and my John created trust issues over my insecurities about the kids and the dead husband.”

          “The right guy is going to love those kids though and the dead husband is kind of a blessing really, they don’t have to deal with an ex-husband.”

          “You’re not wrong. I just don’t think I’m ready.”

          “You’re not. You’re just out of your first long relationship after being widowed and it’s pretty clear you still love John.”

          I nod, teary eyes returning.

          “But when you are ready, please use that handle and let’s see how it goes,” she says laughing.

          “Maybe we can just do a social experiment.”

          “Don’t tempt me.”

          Ultimately, we decide against doing a social experiment and we sit scrolling through her free dating app and looking at the messages that she got from turning her cry-to song to “Back That Ass Up,” while she sings it loudly.  

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The Widowhood │ Manhattan

John and I aren’t in the part of our relationship where he knows about my life in my early 20’s. He doesn’t know about my love for the city or the life I was set to have there at that point in my life. Back then, I was a senior at Rutgers University and I was graduating with a dual degree in art history and journalism and media studies. I had been accepted into some of the best programs for art business and curating, including a new program being offered through Sotheby’s. And that spring I fell head over heels in love with a boy that was several years older than me and we had a very intense relationship that ended in him one day telling me that his love for me had stopped growing and so I broke up with him. For years, he would talk to our former mutual friends about me and I would avoid relationships all together because of that hurt that Landon had left me with. 

        This was in 2008 and at a time where the economy tanked overnight. Within days I had a choice: was I going to fight for the loan that I had to go to my dream masters program or was this the universe telling me to pursue graduate school elsewhere and be closer to the boyfriend that I thought was it for me. I chose to begin to look at graduate school closer to him. And within a couple of months, the relationship was totally over. I often look back at that time in my life as a crossroads where I could have had a life of Manhattan, but instead my life brought me to teaching and in turn to Phil and to my children and South Jersey. I do not regret that crossroads because my children are the loves of my life, but I sometimes do wonder if I had chosen differently, what my life would have become?

        Once I was with Phil things like Manhattan trips stopped all together and I was very much swept up into his life and his friend circle. I had lost myself in my relationship with him and then again in motherhood and becoming his caretaker. Standing just outside of Penn Station with John, looking at the big buildings and the craziness of the streets, brought a little light back inside of me that had been dimmed for many years. This moment in time felt like a return to myself and a day that I hadn’t really known that I needed until I was living it. And I was there with John, a man that I was trying my very best not to stare at. 

        We walked from the station to the hotel that we were going to be staying in for the night. We faded in and out of small talk as we walked.

        “Are you still nervous about the hotel room,” he asked me.

        I probably blushed somewhat. “No, I don’t think you’re a serial killer.”

        He laughed. “Ok, well let me know we can always get another room or separate keys…or whatever, whatever makes you comfortable.”

        I am taken with John in a multitude of ways. There is physical chemistry between us, but I am also taken with him for the way that he considers me. This was our first actual date with one another and he had gone out of his way to make it extra special for me. Despite myself, I had already begun to feel myself falling for him over our late night phone conversations, but since we were together I was feeling that pull even more and it surprised me because as artistic and romantic as I am, I am also very logical, but being with John, logic seemed to be leaving me quicker than I could try to grab it back. 

        When we get up to our hotel room, I put down my bag and walk over to the huge window overlooking the city. You could see the statue of liberty very faintly off in the distance and I just stood there and took all of it in. This weekend in so many ways was the return to myself and to the possibility of new beginnings with John. Eventually, John finished getting himself in order and I turned around to face him. 

        I laughed when I turned around, because the bathroom was totally illuminated and showcased the open shower to the room. A design feature probably included so that whoever was staying here could shower and still have a view of the city. John’s eyes follow my gaze and he too now sees the shower.

        “I’m sorry, if I am honest I had help with booking the room. Geez, that is one heck of a shower,” he adds, clearly embarrassed and nervous all at once. 

        I lightly touch his arm. “It’s okay, we will figure it out, but that is some shower for a weekend where no sex was agreed upon.”

        He laughs and smiles at me, it is his coy smile that he would go on to give me many times over the nearly year and a half that we would be together. It is when I know that he is humored, but reflective at the same time and the flash of his eyes that would always follow that coy smile of his, that would make me want to do everything and anything with him. 

        John excuses himself from the room to give me some privacy so that I can get ready to go to dinner. A new wave of excitement has found me and I eagerly take off my jeans and slip back into the dress with the pretty underwear that Sasha said all went well together. I feel beautiful and I feel like myself in those moments. John eventually comes back up and changes and then suddenly we are back on the streets of Manhattan walking to the Irish pub. 

        The food at the pub is not the greatest, but I am thankful for my first rum cocktail in many months and picking apart the tacos that were the only slightly appetizing thing they had to offer. We send back the flavorless mozzarella sticks and make a joke about how food in Manhattan and especially places like this are always hit or miss. John got a steak sandwich and after a bite, he immediately takes some off of his plate and puts it onto mine. It stops me for a moment because I am taken back to one of the many conversations that I had had over the years with dating and finding the right guy for you before she passed away a couple years before. One of the things she always told me about dating was to wait for the man who feeds you off of his own plate. To my grandmother this was a sign of both respect and care, because it showed that the man would want to provide for you and cared for you enough to take something away from himself and to give to you. I try to stop my mind from wandering into things that it is too soon to think about. 

        John pays for our food and drinks and we begin to walk towards the theater. He is attentive and talkative and constantly making sure that I am near him, not in a controlling way, but in a protective way that once again strikes something deep inside of me and I find myself beginning to fight with myself about how far I was going to allow this to go. In the back of my mind, I always think about my kids and that they too are part of the deal with whomever I wind up with. Will it all be too much for a single man used to his own life and the way he likes things? Despite myself and the reality of my situation, I allow the soft feelings and little butterflies to take over because at that moment, it is just John and I and my kids are a state away enjoying their first sleepover with their grandmother. 

        The broadway version of The Notebook totally butchers the book and the movie that I had loved for years. It gave into the need for wokeness that entertainment has turned to in recent years and both John and I leave confused as to who people even are in it as they frequently changed actors based on race in each scene. In one scene Noah was the black man, but in the next he is white again–it served no real purpose to the story and made it hard to follow. By the end of the show, neither John nor I stood for the ovation. 

        Turning to me, John asked, “Why aren’t you standing?”

        Knowing why, but not wanting to hurt his feelings since this was our first date and I knew the kind of planning that he did for it, I hesitated. 

        “I am not standing because it was awful.”

        I exhale with a smile. “Yes, I feel the same, but I really enjoyed being here with you.”

        His smile widened. “Yes, the company was made for a standing ovation, but not the singing by screaming at the top of their lungs.”

        I nod. “And I don’t know about you but I was confused as to who was who in every single scene change.”

        “Exactly! What was that?!”

        Afterwards, we meandered around the city in search of coffee for me and things to do. We find ourselves in Times Square, John buys both of us a New York hat. My body begins to feel the end of the excitement and the toll of a day steeped in travel and activity. I am growing tired as the night begins to unfold. 

        “Would you like to go back to the hotel,” John asks me. 

        “I would, but I would still like to do something when we get back there.” 

        “Well what should we do?” He stops walking for a moment and I follow suit. “Do you know how to play UNO? Or any card games?”

        I smile. “Yes to both. And I hate to brag, but I am one heck of a game of war player.”

        “Sounds like we better stop at a drug store and get UNO and some cards then.”

        We walk a couple more blocks and find a store that has both after a creepy elevator ride into a New York store basement and questionable people all around. Afterwards we walk back to the hotel and John excuses himself so that I can shower and change. When he comes back he readies himself for bed and we sit in our hotel room with Manhattan lit up behind us playing several games of war until I feel my eyes fighting themselves to stay open. There is heavy banter flying between us as we play war and make jokes about the physical tension between us. 

        Towards the end of our last game, John stops joking for a moment and looks at me. It is a gaze that he won’t go on to give me often, but when he does give it I know he wants me to clearly hear what he has to say, it makes me feel loved and protected. “Katherine,” he says, my name always sounding like honey from his mouth. “In all seriousness, I know how to be a gentleman and I will be one until you tell me that I no longer have to be.”

        I can feel my face flush ten different shades of red while my body can’t decide what it wants to do with itself. I clear my throat, trying to hold onto my composure and these sudden waves of intense feelings that have come sweeping into me. “Well then, do you like to cuddle?”

        He smiles and cleans up the rest of the cards. “I am a very good cuddler.”

        John slides into bed next to me. My head is all over the place. I am still breast feeding my youngest and I think to myself what if my body ultimately betrays me and I have to explain soaked sheets in the morning. Or worse yet what if one of the panic attacks that I have frequently been getting since Phil died takes over in the night and I wake up into it again, terrified that Phil is dying all over again. Then I look over at John and the noise in my head seems to stop. He invites me to lay down next to him and I let him hold me for the first time. 

A warm and peaceful feeling washes over me when he touches me for the first time and within moments, I am fast asleep and beside John, I sleep through the night for the first time since my husband died.

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