How my World Market table showed me that a new life is possible as a widow

Have something to say? Lookout welcomes letters to the editor, within our policies, from readers. Guidelines here.

Those first few days after Michael died really are difficult to recall. Like looking at the rearview mirror while driving on a foggy night. Looking ahead is challenging as well. Visibility is nonexistent. 

One morning, after everyone had gone home and I was alone in the house after a fitful night, I stepped into the shower and simply stood in the downpour, knees locked, holding on to the new bar we had had installed to help Michael, and attempted to quiet my mind. To just go blank. 

I don’t know how long I stood there, but when I rotated and stood with my back to the waterfall I jumped. The water was scalding. Much too hot to enjoy. 

Stepping out, I looked at my reflection in the mirror and realized my entire front was tomato red. Blisters would not have been a surprise. I had stood there accepting the hot-enough-to-brew-tea water beating on me and not even recognized the pain. This, I realized, was a perfect example of truly being numb with grief. 

I put on some clean pajamas and climbed back into bed and stayed there most of the day, promising myself I would do better the next day. 

When Michael was still with me, he spent weeks lying on the couch in the living room. The big blue couch. He kept all of his medications on a small blue table that stood behind the couch, and we both wished we had something more spacious for his collection. When I got out of bed the day following my jalapeño-hot shower, I decided to do something about the table. 

I set a goal for myself that had nothing at all to do with paying bills, filling out insurance forms or dealing with Social Security. I went online to look for library tables. Those long, narrow pieces of furniture that are perfect for a hallway or behind a couch. I wanted to tackle a job I felt confident I could complete. Paperwork is my weak spot. Shopping I am very good at. 

Within a short amount of time, I saw a photo of the perfect table. I measured the space where I would place it and read the dimensions listed and knew it would work. After calling the local store where the table was advertised and making sure they had one in stock, I drove to downtown Santa Cruz, parked in the World Market lot and went in. 

There she was. Standing in the middle of the store, just waiting for me. 

Except not really. I could not, the clerk said, buy the floor model. I would have to buy the pieces of the table and put it together myself. 

Well, why not, I thought. You have said goodbye to your best friend, your life partner of more than 40 years and you are still standing. Wobbly at times, but mostly upright. So how difficult could this be?

After lowering the seats of my car, we stuffed the large box into the back. When I arrived home, I asked my kind neighbor to help me get the awkward, heavy cardboard container out of my car and into my house. Then I thanked him and sent him home. 

After asking Alexa to play some Willie Nelson, I stared at the label on the box. It stated that this was a two-person job. Well, I was insulted. What are all of us “one persons” supposed to do? Never have a table such as this? And how many more tasks will I face that will tell me I need a partner to get the job done?

After wrestling all the packaging to release all the pieces, I laid out the hardware on the kitchen table along with the instructions, poured myself a tequila and grapefruit juice and began to follow the directions. 

I did not rush. I stayed in the moment. Everything else could wait. It was just me, Willie, my cocktail and the puzzle pieces which, if put together correctly, would become the first new thing I had accomplished in my new life. 

Hours passed and packing materials and cardboard piled up around me and at the end, a library table was born. There wasn’t a single leftover anything. I had calmly followed each step and at the end, this one person did the job of two. And it is perfect.

Oh, it doesn’t need to hold all of Michael’s medications, but instead it has room to display family photos, books, wine and a reading lamp.

I don’t always sleep well. Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night as though an alarm has gone off. It is much too early to get up and start the day and yet I can’t remain in bed remembering my life before. It makes me too sad. I can feel my heart where it is torn. My hands begin to shake. My tears begin to fall. So I climb out of my nest and go into the living room. 

And there it is. 

Proof that bit by bit I may be able to build this new life.