Our Story - Part Five

The Void

There is a void that's deep and vast
Where temporary joys are cast.
My lame attempt to fill the space
That was once your own special place.

There is a love you helped to grow,
Still in the void, nowhere to go.
It can't be shared or returned,
Or disregarded or even spurned.

It hovers there, a lingering ache,
Needing you, but it's too late.
This cold and lonely empty pit,
Will it ever fill, a perfect fit?

Life is never as it seems,
There are no more hopes and dreams.
What's good today, it soon will pass,
For nothing really good will last.

There is a void, I feel it still!
Without you I know I always will.
I try so hard to fill that spot,
My pain reminds me that it's not.

Within that void where my love stays,
Remembering the joys of yesterdays;
I hold you close within my heart,
Where my love lives, we're not apart.

In loving memory of Chezzy and Tony.

All who had attended the grief seminar were invited back in the fall for a one-night meeting on how to handle the holidays. Cheryl and I were there. Like everyone else, we had wondered how we'd get through those first holidays without the one who had been such a big part of them.

Tony and Chezzy really got into Christmas. Cheryl and Tony had a tradition of sitting in the floor around the tree on Christmas morning and taking their time with the gifts. As each one was opened, a story was told about why that particular gift, the shopping spree, and all the excitement that surrounded the giving of that gift. Chezzy usually brought his gifts in on Christmas Eve, each uniquely wrapped, and so many of them that I was opening gifts long after everyone else had finished. It was not the absence of gifts that concerned us, but the love and attention of the one who had shopped for them. That Tony and Chezzy were missing an important family celebration tore into us, too.

Weeks before Chezzy died I happened to think of his Christmas stocking with "Dad" on the cuff. I burst into tears over a simple stocking. It would not be hanging on the fireplace with the others and that thought was more than I could bear.

Another concern we had was Christmas cards. How were we going to send out holiday greetings without putting our husbands' names on them? That very subject was brought up in the seminar. Our counselor said that if the thought of omitting a name hurt too much, don't send cards this year. How simple! We hadn't thought of that and it relieved one burden for us. No Christmas cards from us that year.

Cheryl and I had other ways of helping each other with the "firsts". Angela and her Daddy would shop for our Christmas tree every year, and decorate it while I busied myself with Christmas shopping. Cheryl came over on that first Christmas and helped Angela and I trim the tree. And, on Cheryl's first wedding anniversary without Tony, I sent her three roses to her work. She'd told me how he sent a rose for every year until it got so expensive, and then he would send three every year. I enclosed a card with the flowers that read, "I know Tony would want you to have these."

I've mentioned how pampered Cheryl and I were. Although it makes for a wonderful life and marriage, there are negative consequences. Being carried around on a rose petal does not prepare one for the solitary life of a widow. Tony had always enjoyed paying the bills, had his own organized system, and Cheryl never had to worry about it. Now, she did. Chezzy had always filled my car, taken care of simple things out of love, and was the backbone of our business. Cheryl and I now had all the responsibilities that we once shared with our partner. The adjustments were both agonizing and rewarding.

I picked up the phone one day and heard Cheryl's excited squeal. "Peggy, listen to this! I bought a new vacuum cleaner today and I assembled it all by myself!"

One might think it silly to sit on the phone and listen to the roar of a vacuum cleaner. I didn't think it was silly. The sound I heard meant that Cheryl was taking steps to build her new life. It meant that she had accomplished a job that Tony would have done had he been there. It was progress that I heard, not a vacuum cleaner.

Some time later, I called her and told her I'd ordered Caller ID and connected it to my phone all by myself. Cheryl ordered one, too, and called me with the same announcement. It was during this time that I began to give myself a weekly challenge. It usually involved going to dinner by myself, or any other activity that made me uncomfortable. I felt awkward going to a nice restaurant and asking for a table for one. It's such a simple thing, but it was a challenge I needed to meet. In time, I was able to boldly ask for a table for one.

Cheryl introduced me to Yahtzee and it quickly became our favorite game. We'd sit at her table and play for hours. We still do when we take our annual vacation together. In those early years, we'd play our game and it was often interrupted with conversation and we'd forget whose turn it was. It was often interrupted by tears, too, and we'd sit there and revisit the beautiful life we once had.

Here's a sample of some of the conversations we'd have:

"When I was growing up in Michigan, I had this dog named Kookie . . ."

"Kookie?" I'd ask with a shocked voice. "I had a calico cat named Kookie!"

Another time I told her I had asked my parents for a sewing machine as a graduation present. Cheryl's mouth dropped as she told me she had also received a sewing machine for graduation. It was mentioned because we thought it an odd request for a gift, but we'd asked for the same thing.

"Chezzy loved to read," I told Cheryl. "He read mostly biographies or history related books."

"Tony did, too. He was especially a World War II buff and had a collection of books on it."

"Chezzy had a biography on Hitler, and other books about the war." We just stared at each other, shaking our heads.

"I used to be a bedwetter," I confided.

"I was, too," Cheryl said.

"I stopped at age seven. How old were you?"

By the look on Cheryl's face, I knew the answer before it left her lips. "Seven."

"Why are we still surprised?" I asked her.

The depressing task of sorting through medical bills and insurance policies, probating a will, and sending death certificates to everyone who required it, was another chore Cheryl and I shared. And sharing it made it so much easier. Cheryl had one insurance company refusing to pay Tony's medical bills. Because of his disability, he was also covered by Medicare. As often happens when two insurance companies are involved, one wants to put the burden of paying on the other one. When it didn't happen, the hospital was demanding payment from Cheryl.

"Don't pay them," I told her firmly. "You have paid every premium and that insurance company has to cover the medical bills."

To our relief, the problem was finally solved to Cheryl's satisfaction and she was relieved of the debt. Discussing these issues with someone going through the same thing is very comforting.

Thankfully, the time came when the phone calls in the middle of the night were less frequent, and we could be heard laughing instead of crying. Healing was taking place. There were still bad days ahead, but we were making progress. We started spending so much time together doing fun stuff like shopping, eating out, and having sleepovers with many games of Yahtzee.

A really delightful evening was one we spent being frivolous. We had pictures made at Glamour Shots. They did our hair and really caked on the makeup and we looked flawless through the filtered lens. We really strutted our stuff in feathered boas and jewels. Afterwards, we went to dinner at Spaghetti Warehouse. While waiting for a table, we were able to examine ourselves in the big mirror mounted near the entrance. This might be the first time that real laughter erupted from us. I don't know if the lighting in the restaurant was different or what, but Cheryl and I looked like we'd just gotten off work. And not very reputable work, at that.

And, although we felt as if we had discovered every similarity between us, we soon found out that if something happened to one of us, it would happen to the other one. This wonderful, comfortable, solid friendship, at times, looked like one big joke.