Widow

I hate the word "widow".  I hate the label.  I hate being a widow, and I've fought using the word.  I've refused to allow myself to be labeled a widow.

I recently met a man in a bereavement group.  His wife was diagnosed two weeks after Brian.  She died in July.  Grief has bonded us in friendship, and we have spoken often of our pain, and shed many tears together. 

He has questioned if he is still married, and until this morning, I never have.  He asked, "what does it mean to be a wife or a husband when your spouse is dead?"  What does marriage to a dead person mean?

Of course hearing him struggle with these questions and answers forced me to face them as well, and, of course, that brought on tears.  I didn't divorce Brian. He didn't leave me, he died.  And I still love him, and I still feel like his wife, but what has become of our marriage.  We can't talk, we can't laugh, dance, hug, make love, share a meal, keep each other company - we can't share anything new.  

I know that if he could be here with me, he would be.  I know that he would have done anything to live, but he's gone, and I have to face the reality that I am a widow, and that my marriage will always be so dear, but it is over.  And I don't know how to face that, and I don't know what to do.  And if I'm not Brian's wife, who am I?  What am I? 

I am a widow.