For over a year I thought I was learning to live alone. My wife Fran passed away after 48 years of marriage, leaving me alone for the first time in that time. We ate on the coffee table in the living room while watching the news and Netflix. I moved my office from her downstairs to her office on the main floor. I converted the guest bedroom, the room that housed the hospital bed where she died, into a meditation chapel. Even though she wasn’t here, I raised the blinds to a level she liked. I cooked, did the laundry, and did the ironing. I inherited her family’s bookkeeping, but not her meticulous notebooks, which she maintained for her 48 years. I started doing jigsaw puzzles. It was her hobby, not mine. I slept alone.
I was learning to live alone.
But something went wrong. So I spoke to people who have lived alone longer than me, and they were very helpful. My cousin, who lost his wife five years ago, said his dog enriched his life. But we had never had a pet. His priest friends gave him practical advice on cooking and daily life, but he never had a wife.
I took other steps. Thankfully, I was able to integrate more deeply into my son’s family, and that deep involvement continues to be an enriching experience. But they are a generation or two removed from my life history, and even now, when I come home, the house is empty. My friends are great people and I enjoy being with them. But in the past, they used to spend that time as a couple. My meditation room opens the door to my inner beyond, but it does not yet take me outside its four silent walls.
Living alone is a difficult life lesson.
Then the little voice in my head, or the Holy Spirit in my soul (either way, I call her) whisper), I was told to change my way of thinking. I haven’t learned to live alone. I am learning to live with absence. There is a difference.
Living with absence implies a previous presence. Living alone means being alone. Presence is hidden in absence. More precisely, I am learning to live with absence that incorporates presence.
My first reaction was that it’s a distinction that doesn’t make much of a difference. In terms of real life, it makes no difference whether you live alone or absent.but whisperAlthough sometimes more of a nuisance than a comfort, I argued that there was a big difference and that it was in my best interest to figure it out and get on with my life.
She rarely makes mistakes and always leaves difficult tasks to me. And what she tells me often applies to others, even if their specific situations are different. After all, we all experience loss and grief.
I followed her lead and dove into absence. Just as there are many types of presence, I learned that there are many more levels of absence than I thought.
We all know that there are varying degrees of intensity of presence. Sometimes we can be in the same room with our loved ones and barely notice they are there. We can feel so close to the same loved one even though we are miles apart. Sometimes, when we are in a crowded room, we feel closer and more present to some people than others. Sometimes we are only slightly aware that others are there. We can be completely connected to someone at the end of a phone call, email, or text message, yet barely notice the other person 3 feet away. We all experience presence to some degree.
The same variation applies to absences. But we are less aware of the diversity in absence. Absenteeism strikes us more commonly, especially when it is more intense.
Fran’s absence was always heavy. Something as small as hanging my shirt next to her in the closet or something as big as not cuddling in bed at night can all trigger feelings of sadness, loss, regret, and sadness. However, the intensity of absence does not necessarily correspond to the severity of a particular loss. Just as we distinguish between different kinds of presence, we need to distinguish between different kinds of intensity of absence.
I relied on a system that Fran and I have created and used for decades when making some decisions together. It was simple but effective. I ranked my feelings about the issue. Was it 1 (very important), 2 (somewhat important), or 3 (slightly preferred)? Comparing the numbers solves many minor issues, some major issues, and eliminates potential conflicts. I was able to avoid stress.
When I applied this system to the absence I felt at her death, I was able to differentiate between the heavy and the light, and I knew where to focus my emotional and mental energy so my grief could be better. It became easier. She one absence at a time until her presence balances her absence. Naming my loss as “absence” rather than “aloneness” makes it easier to cope with this newly diversified interpretation of absence.
It’s better now. whisper Agree.
