I thought of this again the other day while listening to a story about a “preeminent historian” who had passed away. That’s a pretty good title, I thought. I would like to be called, posthumously, a preeminent anything. We’ve become a culture that readily, sometimes eagerly, affixes labels to people: democrat, republican, liberal, conservative, feminist, radical, immigrant, helicopter parent. There are labels, like “preeminent  historian,” that are labels to which we should aspire. I can think of a few I will gladly accept for myself: well-known activist, frequently published writer, wise elder (not now, but many years from now). Others are simpler, but good and happy nonetheless: mom, dog-lover, cook, community volunteer.  Most labels we either acquire through cultivation, or they become attached to us by our actions.

I did nothing, though, to become known as a widow, other than to be the one left behind. It is not a title that I like, nor will ever feel comfortable with. I don’t like checking the box on a form under the words “marital status.” A few times I have looked at the “relationship status” list on Facebook, but simply cannot change my status from “married” to “widow” even though, in my rational mind, I know it’s true. Each time I’ve tried, a notice comes onto the screen that says “once you change this, you cannot change it back.” Tell me about it.

This shift actually began before my husband died. Within a year, I went from simply wife, to wife and caregiver first, and then, after two long years, to widow. And I cannot forget the labels that surround my husband’s disease: cancer patient, cancer fighter, cancer survivor, cancer victim. He was all of those things and so much more.

In grief group, we have opted for the title “only parent,” as an alternative to the more common “single parent.” Symantics, perhaps, but meaningful to those of us that it describes. While I have absolute respect for any parent who goes it alone, the divorced parent does have a parenting partner out there, even if in another household or another state. And the mother who has been single for as long as she’s been a parent has known her limitations since day one. 

Widowed parents were part of a two-parent lifestyle one day, and without the second half of that lifestyle the next. Divorced parents don’t necessarily worry about what will happen to their children if they don’t return from that business trip they must take, or if they get bad news at their mammogram. I do. Incessantly. When I lose patience with the young girl at the counter of the dry cleaner because she’s dawdling when I have to be across town to pick up my daughter, I tell that girl that I’m an only parent. I want her to know that there isn’t another parent who can step in when I’m a no-show. Not because I want her sympathy, but because I want her to understand. 

And without the very flexible job that I’m fortunate to have, I would never be able to maintain a house, keep our busy schedule, and remain at all sane. And even with that job, the strains of maintaining a life without a partner to help have taken their toll on my physical and mental health.

And I never wanted to be here.

                 

There was a time when I would have been known throughout my town as The Widow Sullivan and expected to wear black to reinforce that title. At least that has changed and I’m not forced to confront my situation each time I’m addressed on the street or walk past a mirror. 

Labels, titles, classifications. Unavoidable pain that irritates like a pebble in your shoe, though  you know you must walk on.