Ambivalence
We had had some time to kill on our way home from soccer. I’d taken the stroller in the morning so that Joey could relax and maybe nod off on the way home, and I could take my time, enjoying the rare, low-humidity and pleasant walk back to Midtown past tree-lined streets and window shopping the interesting little boutiques. Joey had been happily teaching me a new “dum de dum dum” song, and I had been dutifully copying his examples, surreptitiously browsing the little shops that line Columbus Avenue on the Upper West side.
Then I saw it in the window display. I’d walked past without taking my eyes off of it, pretending not to notice, but doubled back just for a second look. Just for a ‘quick glance.’ Basically, I hate shopping for clothes. I’m always between sizes and like the rest of the global population, shaped unlike any mannequins in this or any other country. Occasionally a sale will tempt me, and I’ll gather a bundle of clothes that are age-appropriate and inappropriate into a changing room, and for 20 minutes I toss things on and off, disgusted at the ill-fitting reflection before I walk out with nothing.
“Mummy’s going to just pop in here for a minute and try a dress on.” After he’d worn himself out on the toddler’s soccer pitch, Joey had been happy to accommodate and continued to hum as he’d settled lower into his stroller; flashing his big blues at the shop assistants to pass the time.
The dress was easy to spot on the rail with its bright blue and white stripes, and they only had it in my size and it was the only one left.
It had taken a minute to slip out of my clothes and into the knitted dress. I then looked in the mirror and paused. When I was a single CEO in another lifetime, I wouldn’t have thought twice about wearing this little number to the office on a non-appointment summer day. The only accessories it needed to convert it for evening drinks was a pair of sharp shoes and a clutch bag. But now, maybe it wasn’t so fitting. I’d stared at my reflection. Had I looked like I made off with the life insurance and was playing Merry Widow? How could a dress suddenly bring up all these feelings to the surface? It was just a dress.
My sister-in-law had recommended I start dating again after three months. Others suggested that I should marry again soon, to give Joey a father. They’d flatter me by saying I was still young and attractive. They’d talked to me as if I needed a pep talk after a divorce to get back into the dating pool.
Bereavement doesn’t work like that. At the time, the idea of being with anyone else seemed abhorrent. I’d waited 40 years to find the love of my life, and I’d chosen someone so unique that nobody could fill his shoes. It is one thing carrying a torch for someone still alive, but if your torch is burning for someone who died, its gonna take one helluva firefighter to put out that baby, or even temper the flame.
My son doesn’t need a new father. He has a father, one that he can be proud of. Although his natural, young memory is sadly fading, I want to preserve his memories and keep his father alive for him with photos, home movies, and friends who can help him grow up knowing who his father was. Our home is full of memorabilia of my husband and our family. Dog and Joey still sleep in my marital bed. It’s our home, no environment for any kind of budding romance.
“So, why am I even contemplating buying this dress? Why do I bother giving my toes a French pedicure? Have my hair colored? I don’t need these things.”
“Let’s face it – you’d let yourself go pretty badly for a while there.” One of the things I hate about inner communication is that ‘SELF’ is rarely polite to you, and is often far too honest for your own sensibilities; although SELF will claim it is for your own good.
SELF continued, “You made more effort to make the dog look good!”
“Yes, but can you blame me for not caring”
“What changed then?”
“You tell me.”
“That’s not what I’m here for. I’m supposed to make you confront yourself. Which is me, SELF.”
I pondered before starting the justifications. “I know it started with me wanting Tommy to be proud of me. I also connected more with other widows and widowers. I realized no one else truly understands. They are kind and sympathize, but they can’t empathize.”
Without admitting it to SELF, I remembered a few months after he died, looking at myself in the same full-length corner mirror that Tommy used to watch me in. I’d lost 18lbs on the un-recommended Widow’s Diet, and was looking like pre-pregnancy me. I’d been trying on some old clothes to see whether I should throw them out, and found a favorite outfit of Tommy’s. I’d closed my eyes and imagined him there.
“YOU’RE STILL SEXY!” He’d say to me; looking me up and down, wrinkling his nose, and grinning as he walked out of the room to go to work.
“What’s that got to do with the new dress?” interrupted SELF, rarely letting me indulge my Tommy-still-alive fantasies.
“I don’t know. Maybe I realize it’s time to join the human race again. I think people started crossing the street to avoid dealing with my sorrow. People can only take so much.”
“You can only take so much of your own sorrow. That’s why I’m here, to take back some of the bad stuff for times when you can handle it, and to remind you of some of the good stuff about yourself.”
“But the pain helped me hang on to Tommy”
“Yes, and now even Tommy wants you to let go of that”
“So, now you’re going to tell me that you have insight into Tommy’s dead thoughts?!” I was starting to get angry with SELF’s arrogance. My eyes were welling up.
“Yes, I do. Because you do. At least your subconscious does. You know he wanted to make you happy. He always promised you that.”
“Yeah – great job he did by dying on me.”
“But he still made sure you had everything you needed even after.”
“Yes, I realize I’m luckier than most in my situation. Thanks for reminding me.” I muttered, disheartened with guilt for being left comfortably, when I’d rather have been broke and living in a cardboard box with Tommy.
“And love?”
“Yes, he taught me to love unconditionally, and to be happy with my lot. Happy just to be.” I smiled to my inner SELF, “and he made me laugh. A lot.”
“Remember that, and know that he wants you to laugh again. Maybe its time people stopped seeing Tommy’s widow and start seeing the woman he fell in love with. And maybe someone else will fall in love with her. She’s still in here, you know.”
“Hold your horses, SELF, otherwise I’m sending you back where you came.”
“How about we start small? You keep looking after yourself, and treat yourself occasionally. Whether it’s for Tommy’s memory, for Joey, for the world, whatever, but mostly try and do it for yourself.”
“Meaning?”
“Small steps. Be as kind to yourself as Tommy would have been. Time will tell what else life has in store for you.”
Joey had got bored of the pretty shop girls and turned his attention back to me. I had been staring at me and SELF in the mirror; still wearing the dress, lost in my inner conflict.
“You look pretty, Mummy.”
I bought the dress.
Debbie Green writes as ‘MomThingz,’ part of the ChildThingz website she set up to re-love used kids clothes, toys and thingz. She covers many issues, including single parenting, bereavement, and the journey to reconstruct her life after loss.
