Confessions of a Mediocre Widow: Or, How I Lost My Husband and My Sanity
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I spent my 11th wedding anniversary planning my husband's funeral. If I could just figure out how to make that rhyme, it would be the beginning of a great country song.
Involuntarily single. That's the true story of where Catherine Tidd finds herself just three weeks after turning thirty-one. Widowed with three children under six years old, a rusty resume, no fix-it skills, and no clue how to live life as a widow, Catherine can't help but be a little exasperated with her dead husband for leaving her to deal with life on her own.
Catherine's now in charge of her life in a way she never wanted to be, in a way that would have most of us reeling and numb. But she soon realizes that when you call the shots, you can make pedicures one of the stages of grief―and that moving forward might be more fun in a new sports car. Her honest Confessions of a Mediocre Widow is a glimpse into the heartbreaking and sometimes humorous world of a young woman who learns that it is possible to find joy in an unexpected life.
Buffalo Creek to visit Brad. The entire drive up there I could not believe this was actually happening. Taking a date to the cemetery to see my husband? While I tried to make normal conversation, I worried for an hour and a half about what Mike could possibly be thinking, certain that this date (Can I even call it that? Three kids and a cemetery plot?) would probably be our last. I tried not to think about how Father’s Day was one of the hardest days of the year for me because I didn’t feel like
something you hear a lot over the beeping and ventilators because, for some reason, people don’t find death, near death, or comas very funny. But it was suddenly apparent to me that this woman was prepared to take all of my husband’s organs and she had never even laid eyes on him. And the reason I know this is because Brad was bald. Completely. Mr. Clean. Not one hair on his head. So, with a hysterical note in my voice, I replied to her. “From where? His chest?” Exhausted, mentally depleted,
first parking lot I could find, the parking lot of a new apartment complex. And then I took my cell phone out, told the girls to just stay in their seats, and got out of the car to call my mom. “Mom?” I said, hiccuping in hysterics and leaning on my dirty car for support. “I think Social Services will be coming to my house.” “Catherine? Where are you? Do you need me to come get you? What happened?” I gasped, moaned, and cried through the Costco story, while the girls watched me through the
planted firmly around their wives’ shoulders. Maybe it was because, while I had never been raised in a very religious family, going to church was just so Brad that it made it hard. Or maybe it was going to the place, every Sunday, where I said my final good-bye. After months of struggling with this, I finally went to speak with Pastor Teri about it, certain that she would have an answer for me. “I don’t think I can come to church anymore,” I said, somewhat embarrassed to be saying this to a
husband. He was my boyfriend…something that my friends had never had “later in life.” So there was a part of me that felt like they either wouldn’t understand or that they would dismiss these issues because he wasn’t my husband. My voluntary solitude with these problems was made worse by the fact that my kids were getting so attached to Mike. They would crawl up into his lap, hug him constantly, and generally couldn’t get enough of him. Every time I worried that the relationship might be too