Quick Take
Lookout columnist Claudia Sternbach continues to navigate her grief after losing Michael, her beloved husband of 40 years. Since his death, she has been inundated with flowers, food and love – reminders, she says, of how much Michael meant. She has also been plagued with thoughts of what is next. Should she change her life? Sell her house? Escape or embrace the memories?
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“What can I do?” friends asked me in the days following Michael’s death.
They were eager to help. To bring me food, or to stop by for visits, or join me on walks down at the beach Michael loved so much. Kindness surrounded me. Comforted me. And in the end, it confused me.
I could not figure out what helped. Scrumptious meals were dropped off, and I had no appetite. Containers filled with soup and pasta and sushi began to pile up in the fridge. I became overwhelmed by the kindness and the quantity. I shared with neighbors until finally I sent out word that I didn’t need the two or three times a week drop-offs.
And I felt as if I had failed at being a grateful recipient of such bounty.
Next I believed that having a constant stream of friends dropping in just to hang out might be exactly what I needed. And for a brief time, that was helpful. And then, once again, I felt I had made an error in judgment. Through no fault of my generous visitors, I began to feel pressure to entertain them.
That was all on me, but I couldn’t tamp down my feelings of inadequacy when it came to welcoming guests. Again, all on me, not them.
I began to be unable to manage the sumptuous flower arrangements which were delivered two or three times a week. Where to put these gifts sent with love? These reminders of how much Michael was adored by so many. I felt overwhelmed at times. Not just by the roses and lilies, but by the realization that so many friends missed Michael and wanted to show me love and concern.
I came to realize that my friends were struggling as much as I. I didn’t and still don’t know what will ease the pain and neither do they. We are all trying, but realize there is no magical fix for this. What comforts me most is knowing that everyone is doing their best.
The other afternoon I was taking a neighborhood walk and a gentleman I don’t know stopped me and asked if I was the woman who recently lost her husband. I nodded and smiled when he offered up his sympathy. He went on to tell me that each time he walks by my house he thinks about how sad I must be and hopes I’m doing OK.
I told him I am.
But it made me sad to think that I now live in the house where something terrible happened. It took me back to being a kid growing up in my Oakland neighborhood. Just down the block from us lived a family whose mother had died suddenly. I didn’t know them well, but all the neighborhood kids heard the story and that house became a symbol of grief.
We avoided walking close to it. Crossed the street to put distance between ourselves and the family who remained in the house.
Do I now live in the sad house on my block? Is there a dark shadow cast over it?
Eventually the neighbor’s house was put up for sale. Perhaps they felt it would be an impossible task to create a happy home if they stayed where all of the memories were held. I wonder if a fresh start did in fact help them navigate the next chapter in their lives.
Friends have asked me if I think of moving out of the house Michael and I shared for more than 40 years. So far I have no intention of slapping up a “for sale” sign. I am familiar with the “don’t do anything big for a year” rule and am trying to abide by it.
However, it is true that I never imagined living out the rest of my life alone in this little cottage filled with our history. This is where I felt the first pangs of labor before rushing to Dominican Hospital to give birth to Kira. This is where we brought her home. Our front yard was the setting for birthday parties and piñatas and our backyard, overgrown right now, was the scene of barbecues with friends and evenings spent by the fire pit.
As I sit in my kitchen, I gaze around and remember Kira learning to walk, holding on to the backs of chairs and falling down again and again, but laughing. This is the kitchen where I baked chocolate chip cookies for my daughter and her friends, always saving the beaters for licking.
This is the living room where kids gathered to watch Disney movies and where up until Michael’s death, the two of us sat side by side watching “Jeopardy!” and guessing at the answers.
This is the house where Michael, love of my life Michael, took his last breath while I held his hand.
There is comfort between these walls, even though the heartbreak often outweighs the good times. I feel as though my life has been a long story and the final chapters took place here.
But there are more pages to write. More chapters ahead.
What they will contain, I have no idea. But I am trying every day to turn a new page and see what comes next. I am trying. Some days, I fail completely and am only able to look back. To remember what we had. And the loss of that life hits me so hard I can’t breathe.
But I am here. In the home Michael and I created with luck, hard work and lots of love. And for now, I’ll stay put.