The Dinner Party

Last weekend I was invited to two dinner parties. The one on Friday night was at the home of good friends who have fed me many times over these last few years. Their son was in town for his 30th birthday and my son was also invited. Mark and I did things with this couple often, and they feel Mark’s loss acutely. They are easy for me to be around because they miss Mark and his name comes up often. They also don’t make me feel like a sad ball and chain. To be at that dinner party was easy and felt good.

The next night was a dinner party at the home of Mark’s old boss and his wife. I had been to their house in late spring to split some plants from Susan’s garden, and the three of us got caught up over wine before we traipsed in the garden with our shovels. Gerry called me weeks ago to invite me to this party with their neighbors, one of whom had written a few books of poetry. She was going to read some of her poems and Gerry thought I’d be interested.

I immediately said “yes” and was looking forward to it until that day. I still have a hard time meeting new people, and freeze at the thought of talking about myself in anything but the most generic way. The thought of meeting seven strangers over dinner sent me into a panic, and I debated with myself all day whether to go or not. But Gerry and Susan had been part of mine and Mark’s lives for so long that I decided to trust that they knew what they were doing by inviting me even if I didn’t know what I was doing by going.

Over prosecco and appetizers, I felt like making a run for the door. Everyone was friendly and comfortable with each other while I felt awkward and flung out of my comfort zone. Then a woman started talking to me and it turns out we worked at the same university. Since neither of us were no longer working there, we had all kinds of gossip to share about our experiences.

Soon it was time to sit down for dinner and between soup and the main course, Susan said, “Kathy writes a wonderful blog,” and all eyes turned to me. Someone asked me what I write about and I took a deep breath and said, “I’ve been writing this blog for ten years and it has mostly been a light-hearted look at life and marriage and raising kids, but then my husband died suddenly three years ago and now I write about grief.” Usually this is met with silence but that was not the case this time. There was genuine interest in the subject of grief, what is not helpful and what is, a curiosity about what all of us go through in the course of our life. “The expectation that our sadness should be over and done after a year is not the least bit accurate,” I said. “I am trying to move forward but it is with a complicated mixture of gratitude for life and tremendous loss that will always be part of my life.” From the other end of the table, the same woman I had been talking to earlier said, “That also goes for life-changing health scares,” and I said that is absolutely true. I felt validated for what I knew about the subject of losing one’s spouse, and maybe that’s because everyone there knew they had a 50% chance of being in my shoes one day.

Over dinner I was talking to the guy next to me who happened to be the spouse of the woman I had been talking to before dinner. He told me that she was diagnosed with cancer twelve years earlier, a cancer that was not supposed to give her much longevity. After much research, they found an NIH study for this kind of cancer and she was able to be successfully treated. “I imagine there was a lot of trauma from that time in your life,” I said. “So much,” he said, “it was such a scary time for us. Every day is a gift because you have no idea when it will end,” and then he did something that in these past three years has never happened to me before. He grabbed my hand, squeezed it and said, “You’re doing really good tonight.” Because I was not expecting that, I downplayed it and said that I can rally when I’m out and turn it on. “No,” he said, “you’re engaging and interesting and you’re doing good tonight when this can’t be easy for you,” and I don’t think there is a more affirming thing to say to someone who is working so hard at something that used to come so naturally.

A bit after dessert, I could feel myself hitting the wall and told Susan I needed to get going. Thankfully, neither she nor Gerry tried to convince me to stay later. They walked me to the door and as soon as it closed behind me, I started crying. I have no idea why, I was fine when I was there, but I am always so tired that any energy I expend being social takes its toll. As I was walking down the sidewalk to my car, I heard the door open and someone yelling my name. I turned around and it was the woman who had been sitting across from me at dinner. “Oh Kathy, wait,” she said, “I need to talk to you. When you said your husband died suddenly my heart broke for you. I was with someone for ten years and I know that’s not as long as you were with your husband but he died in a car accident and I want you to know that you are going to be okay.” And she was crying and I was crying and she hugged me so tight I could feel her compassion seep into my bones. “I’m so tired and this summer has been so hard,” I said. “I know,” she said, “but you’re going to get better. I promise you.”

When Mark died, my mom told me to say “yes” as much as possible. “Say yes to help however it looks, say yes even when you want to say no, and especially say yes to invitations. If you don’t people will stop asking you,” and I wished I could call her back at her old house before she had to go to assisted living. When her wit was outrageous and quick, while she watched QVC with her glass of wine, when she’d tell me to turn it on because “This old lady hawking skincare is trying to make everyone believe she hasn’t had plastic surgery and her face hasn’t moved in the last hour.” I’d ask, “Is she the same one whose products are based on the lights captured from the Aurora Borealis?” Mom would say, “Yes, that one. She’s such an idiot,” and we’d laugh and I’d tell her she was right about that and everything else.

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