How Is She?

Since Mark’s death, family, friends, and frequently the curious, want to know how I am doing. In the beginning I was so shocked and overwhelmed I couldn’t even put words together to answer the question. In the weeks and months that followed, there were big and small things to tend to that never occur to you when you have a vibrant, living spouse beside you. Most of the time I couldn’t begin to tell you how I was doing.

People who care about me and Mark desperately want me to be okay. I’d be the first in line for a heaping dose of that, but it will be a long time before I am okay. I still have entire days when I think this has all been a terrible mistake, and that with a change of mind Mark can fix this situation and by dinnertime his biker legs would round the corner as he coasted for home. I know that isn’t true but the mind does strange things in the midst of trauma. There are chunks of time that I cannot recall. I remember parts of the funeral, the holidays being hard, and January and February being horrible, but I can’t recall many details about any single day during that time. The only thing I consistently remember every morning when the alarm goes off is that Mark is not here.

What I learned at a very young age by watching my mother and grandmother, both of whom had their share of heartache, is that when life has knocked you flat you open up your compact, look yourself in the mirror, and dust your cheeks with an abundance of stoicism before you walk out the door. They showed me that nobody wants to see you wearing your overwhelming sadness like a cloak, so if you happen to run into me in the grocery store or meet me for coffee I will probably seem fine. The outside, though, doesn’t match the inside, and so you don’t see me sitting in my driveway resting my head on the steering wheel, trying to talk myself into getting out of the car and going into the house.

In these months since Mark died, I tend to get observed a lot. I’m not entirely sure why but I think I am an unnerving reminder that on a regular Tuesday afternoon a close-knit family can have their lives blown to kingdom come. I am proof that all bets are off in the best-laid plans department, and that leading a good life somehow makes us immune to who is here one day and gone the next. I have often walked into gatherings with my unsteady courage, only to feel a room full of eyes on me and the hushed whisper of “how is she doing?” Rather than make me feel cared for or supported, it makes me want to run for the nearest exit, as this new life of mine is so much more complex than any observation can determine.

The people most frequently asked how I am doing are the kids. All of us uniquely and fiercely loved Mark, and for them I wish they were asked what they liked to do with their dad, what lesson did he teach them that stands out, what was the happiest day they ever spent with him, what makes their days just a little bit easier. To me it seems like they are often treated as eyewitnesses to a horrible wreck and are being asked for details when they have their own gaping wounds. I wish I could shield them from some of the shrapnel from Mark’s death and lay to rest the question they get asked most often.

How is she?

She is sad, she is lonely, she is afraid, she is bewildered.

She is exhausted.

She misses him every waking minute of the day.

She loves them.

She is trying.

She is here.