I just changed the ink cartridges in our printer.

That may not be such a big deal to most of you, but for me, it was the last of many firsts I’m experiencing as a widow.

There, I said it. Widow. 

David (z”l) was the one who changed the cartridges. He was the one who fixed what needed to be fixed in our home and if he didn’t know how to, he always knew who to call. 

It’s the little and not so little things, the firsts, that remind me how very much he is missed. How we’d always say before one of us went out for something, “I love you. Don’t fall.”

He would erase our previously seen recorded specials and episodes to free up more space for new things to come. 

I learned that from him and now it’s part of my new routine.

But almost thirty-four years ago, it was a very different routine. Under gorgeous Southwestern skies, we stood side by side in the home he had bought from my stepmom. Promising to love, honor and care for each other, we were filled with hopes and dreams. I watched over the years as he became a beloved and respected psychologist, partner, father to our extraordinary two adult daughters, family member and friend. 

Twenty-five and a half years later, though, I never could have predicted what was to come and the pain of his journey. He was diagnosed with Lewy body Dementia. I always wondered where he would go and what he saw with his new far away eyes. I was powerless over how he was changing day by day and astonished at how many tears I have cried.

I wished that I could take it all away and give him back his brilliant mind. I miss the man who he once was. 

It’s not easy for a quartet to become a trio. David was the harmony to our family’s melody. There is a space now between the notes filled with a remembrance of the songs of our history, and specifically, the rewriting of the music of our present and future. 

And so, I am making this new and unwanted routine my own, one tiny step at a time. But I do it and if need be, I ask for help. I am supported by unbelievable villages that have been nurtured over my life on the planet, some going as far back as sixty-five years. My daughters are walking through grief in their own way, as am I. One thing I know is that grief is not linear, and there is no right or wrong way to do it. The process is as personal as the relationships. And I know ~ if we didn’t love as much, it wouldn’t hurt as much.

So, through all of it, I am a grateful widow…. for the years we had together, the exquisite daughters we made with the Holy One’s help, the authentic, respectful marriage we shared and how in many ways we grew up together. And that finally, David is out of his prison.

I know that figuring out the printer was the last of the many firsts in the months to come. As anxious or panicked as I may feel in the future, overwhelmed with having to learn yet another task or experience an empty seat at the table, I will take a deep breath and exhale. Or make a call. Or remember what brought us together in the first place.

And I wonder, as another beautiful butterfly flies outside of our family room window every afternoon, what he’d say. 

I know what I would say. 

Thank you ~ you’ve taught me well.