Waterproof Mascara and the Celebration of Life

The morning of February 21st, 2018, I awoke with a panic.

I hadn’t been sleeping well anyway due to reasons that will soon be clear, but this particular day started out with me worrying about the strangest thing:

I had no waterproof mascara.

Just ten days prior, on February 11, I was admitted into a very special, not-exclusive-at-all club. This is a club that most everyone who is in a committed relationship, married or otherwise coupled, will eventually have to join.

I’m talking about The Widowhood Club.

I was only 43 years old on that cold, dreary day when Bret, my beloved yet complex husband of nearly twelve years, ended his life.

As I fell to the ground wanting to join him, I wondered how I would ever laugh or even smile, again. The tears wouldn’t stop falling, and my body physically hurt, like I had been in some kind of accident.

The only sounds I could make were curse words, and I think over the course of the next year, I would say them all, repeatedly, and maybe even invent new ones.

Widowhood pretty much has its own language, and it’s usually very colorful.

Over the days following Bret’s death, my usual coping mechanism of dark humor and sarcasm started to emerge. I realize that not everyone will understand this behavior.