It’s been two months now since my husband died, and yesterday was literally the first day I didn’t get a sympathy card – or several – in the mail. For the first six weeks, they flooded my mailbox in such great numbers, I could barely keep up.
Turns out Jeff was a minor celebrity around here. I did not know that before he died, and I’m quite certain he didn’t, either. I think he’d be tickled, but also stunned, that so many people admired and genuinely liked him. And the fact that the Beaufort Gazette published an article about him when he died? I’m sure that had him dancing a jig on some celestial barstool. As publisher of The Island News, he always harbored a grudging respect for our rival paper, and I know he got a heavenly kick out of their tribute.
So, anyway, the cards and letters. Oh, how they’ve flowed. And I’ve read every last one of them, cover to cover. Every afternoon, I bring them in from the mailbox and immediately sit down to read. And I cry. Every single time. All the personal stories about Jeff, the funny little incidents you’ve shared, the conversations you’ve remembered. I so love knowing that people loved my husband.
About a month ago, I noticed a whole new wave of cards pouring in after I published my column describing the tragic circumstances of his death. A new wave of flowers and donations suddenly appeared, too.
Speaking of which… When writing Jeff’s obituary – just one of many cruel chores a new widow is tasked with while still in abject shock – I asked that people make donations to The Island News in lieu of flowers. It occurred to me later that the request probably seemed odd and, well, maybe even greedy. After all, most folks name their favorite non-profit, not their own family business.
So I feel the need to clear something up: Though Jeff and I bought The Island News over six years ago as a business proposition – and it certainly is a business – it pretty quickly became a “non-profit” for us, and still is for me. When we asked our readers for donations for the first time, just last Christmas, it had been several years since we’d paid ourselves, and we were, in fact, struggling to pay our employees and our print bills.
Along with this paper, The Island News was Jeff’s pride and joy. He had such ambitious dreams for it, and he made most of them come true. With vision, hard work, and a great staff, he turned TIN into a real community newspaper – heart-warming and hard-hitting – even as he held fast to his goal of keeping it free. “Everybody deserves access to the news” was his unyielding mantra.
By the time he died, I think he’d come to terms with the likelihood that it would never be a money maker for our family – though he never admitted that to me – but there was no way in hell he was giving up on it. Last year, when I had the idea of soliciting donations, he wasn’t too keen on it. I think the notion hurt his pride. Fortunately, I don’t have any, so I forced the issue – and those donations kept TIN afloat last holiday season. For my part, I kept track of every donation that came via snail mail – the website conjures its own thank-yous – and I made sure each donor received a thank-you note.
But the donations since Jeff’s death? I’m afraid the niceties have gotten away from me. The donations have been coming to so many different locations – our P.O. Box, our office, and even my house. They show up in cards and letters and sometimes in gift bags. They often come to my bookkeeper, who makes the deposits, then eventually gets the cards to me. I have a large box of those cards, some that once contained checks and some that didn’t. I had a system going for a while – the checks and no-checks cards were separated – but at some point, my system started breaking down. The cards started to mix and mingle. I lost control.
Widow’s fog is real, y’all.
Eventually, I will get a handle on this situation. And all the other situations. I hope.
But I don’t know how long it will take. Chances are you won’t be getting a thank-you note from me in the near future. Please do not tell my mother. She would be mortified. Frankly, I’m mortified. All I can do is throw myself on your mercy.
If it’s any consolation, I know who you are. If you donated to The Island News in Jeff’s name, I made a mental note of it. And I probably cried.
I’m a big crier from way back, but I cry even more now. All the time, in fact. And not always because I’m sad, either. I cry over the kindness of people. The generosity of people. The beauty of their souls.
I cry at the sound of the wind chimes outside my front door. (Thanks again, Connie.) At the rainbow colors scattered across my floor by the crystal hanging in my kitchen window. (Thank you, Marca.) I cry over the dog who soulfully stares me down when I’m out walking on Wilson Drive – (you get that one, Louise!) – and over the perfect, autumnal gold of the marsh at Pigeon Point Landing. Autumn, itself, makes me cry, in fact.
My daughter and I agreed that if one must mourn a profound loss like ours, we’d rather do it in autumn than any other season. Everywhere you look, fall whispers that letting go is natural… even beautiful. Fall doesn’t fight your feelings, doesn’t mock your grief like, say, spring or summer might. It burnishes your melancholy, reflects your sorrow back at you in dramatic shades of russet and amber.
Some people have emotional support animals. Fall is an emotional support season.
This Thanksgiving, as I continue to nurse my grief and navigate this new life I never wanted, I am full of gratitude to all of you who’ve reached out. Thank you for your support, from the bottom of my heart. And I’m sorry about the thank-you notes.
