New friends

I remember the first new friend I made after my mother died – it was a remarkable experience, extraordinary in its simplicity.  I sat down beside a woman at a Little League baseball game and we began to chat. Our sons were both nine at the time and playing on the same team, both of our husbands were coaching the boys and both of our evenings were soon to become focused on RBIs and double plays and batters-up.  She was a lovely person, easy to talk to and friendly. She had no clue I had recently become a motherless daughter and I had no plans to enlighten her.  She was like a fresh page upon which to write – we had no history.

That was over thirty years ago, I’d stepped back into the world after months of grief, I was tentative and terrified.  There was something unnerving about letting someone meet the new person I had become, something vulnerable and yet there was also something intriguing about letting myself be that new person without explanation.

The loss of my mother had been overwhelming; I was thirty-six years old and had three children under the age of ten; grief pummeled the bejeesus out of me, I could hardly function. I knew my eyes reflected the emptiness I felt, that my posture revealed the weight of what I carried – I wore my broken heart on my sleeve.  I was reluctant to step outside, sympathetic glances were like spotlights on the hole in my life… everyone knew, everyone walked on eggs around me.  And then I made a new friend.

It took a while for me to realize that losing my mother had redefined who I was, that I couldn’t keep waiting to be the person I’d been before she died.  I had been reborn with her death.  I needed to get to know the new person I’d become before I could confidently introduce her to anyone else.  My new friend helped me realize that although I was changed I was also still the same – my sense of humor was intact, albeit neglected, and my enthusiasm for life still simmered. I was capable of making a new friend, capable of carrying on. 

You would have thought a lesson of this magnitude might have stayed front and center in my memory – it didn’t.  I’ve recently been tested again – forced to come to terms with another new me – the widow.

Accepting the widow has been a challenge.  Where the loss of my mother forced me to become the adult in the room, widowhood left me alone in that room.  I felt like I was suddenly cast adrift – I couldn’t see land, the grey of the horizon melted into the grey of the sea – days drifted into nights and my future was stuck somewhere behind me.

It’s taken awhile to get my bearings, to get reasonably comfortable in my new skin, but it’s happening. I’ve made a couple of new friends since I moved to the beach, lovely women who have no idea they have been part of a coming-to-terms. To them I’ve always been this person, this widow, and they seem to like me just fine.  Again I’ve discovered that a person can change and yet stay the same.  I’ve discovered this new person is capable of making new friends – capable of carrying on.