When Things Get Back to Normal

When things get back to normal

When things get back to normal

M. T. DOHANEY

Copyright © M.T. Dohaney, 1989, 2002.

Foreword © Helen Fogwill Porter, 2002.

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any requests for photocopying of any part of this book should be directed in writing to the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency.

When Things Get Back to Normal first published by Pottersfield Press, 1989.

This Trade edition published by Goose Lane Editions, 2002.

Cover photograph: Eyewire Inc.

Cover and book design by Julie Scriver.

Printed in Canada by Transcontinental Printing.

10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1

National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

Dohaney, M.T., date

      When things get back to normal

2nd ed.

ISBN 0-86492-338-4

       1. Dohaney, M.T., date 2. Bereavement.

     3. Widows – Newfoundland – Biography. I. Title.

HQ1058.5.C3D64 2002       155.9’37’092       C2002-900468-3

Published with the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program, and the New Brunswick Culture and Sports Secretariat.

Goose Lane Editions

Suite 330, 500 Beaverbrook Court

Fredericton, New Brunswick

CANADA E3B 5X4

www.gooselane.com

For Walt

I wrote this journal for you and for me

and because my friend Anne said I should

put my sorrow into paper words.

FOREWORD

Helen Fogwill Porter

In my youth I read every book ever written by Lucy Maud Montgomery. Even today, in what I like to call my oldth, I still reread them from time to time. As I prepared to write this foreword, I recalled an incident in Anne of Avonlea. One stormy day early in Anne Shirley’s teaching career, she asks her students to tell her what they want more than anything else in the world. To be a widow, says ten-year-old Marjory White. She claims that if you aren’t married, people call you an old maid, and if you are, your husband bosses you around. If you’re a widow, there is no danger of either.

In Dorothy Speak’s recent novel The Wife Tree, a seventy-five-year-old woman named Morgan Hazzard describes the widows in her neighbourhood: "[T]hey’re content to be released from cooking three square meals a day, from the smell of a man in their bedsheets. From Hockey Night in Canada, all the while enjoying their husbands’ pensions." Harsh judgments, but perhaps true in some cases. I wonder about the bedsheets, though. Years ago an elderly widow told me she took her husband’s unwashed undershirt to bed with her every night. After I was widowed myself, I understood the need for that physical reminder.

In When Things Get Back to Normal, M.T. (Jean) Dohaney has written a straightforward, moving account of her life in the year following the death of her husband, Walter. This book began as a journal. That’s why there’s such immediacy to every section of it. Walt died suddenly on November 22, 1986, after playing hockey. He was fiftyfour. Less than a week later, Jean wrote these words: "I have been daughter, sister, wife, mother. These labels covered only part of me, yet increased all of me. ‘Widow’ covers all of me and decreases all of me. I learned yesterday that the word widow is derived from the Latin viduus, meaning empty."

I first picked up When Things Get Back to Normal a few years after my own husband, John, died suddenly of a massive heart attack at the age of fifty-three. I read it compulsively. Here at last was somebody who understood my situation perfectly. This was no cloying self-help guide that talked about God’s will and a mystical eternal plan but a fearless summation of how it feels to lose the person you love most in the world.

You’re a widow now, my daughter Anne said to me shortly after John was pronounced dead. For some odd reason that bald statement helped me more than all the platitudes I’d be hearing over the next several days. People mean well but find it difficult to put their feelings into words and often resort to the tried and true. I’ve done the same thing myself. Anne’s stark confirmation of my new status gave me a strange kind of comfort. As long as no one called me a relict! I’d had a horror of that word ever since I first read it in an L.M. Montgomery novel. In A Tangled Web, Aunt Betsy Dark, shortly before she died at eighty-five, announced that she was not to be called a relict. The dictionary defines relict as a widow. Archaic. It makes me think of someone left over and useless. Apparently it was never used in reference to a man.

The vultures are circling, reads Jean Dohaney’s journal entry for December 3. Will I be selling the house? . . . Am I interested in a monument? If I place an order before Christmas but agree not to have it installed until the frost goes out of the ground, I can take advantage of a special bonus: my name and age engraved for free. I remember a similar offer. The gentleman I talked to at Muir’s Marble Works was more tactful. You’re a young woman, he said. (Was I? I was fifty-two.) You could move away, make your home in another part of the world. He didn’t say marry again, though I sensed it was in his mind.

If he had coaxed me the other way, I might have given in. That was a vulnerable time for me. As it is, only my husband’s name and dates appear on the simple marker I selected, along with the three words Love Never Faileth. When I visit the cemetery now and read names and birth dates, with only the survivors’ death dates to be filled in, I’m glad I resisted an early impulse to bring myself as close as possible to my own burial. Caitlin Thomas, the wife of the famous Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, wrote a book after he died. She called it Leftover Life to Kill. That title has meaning for many widows, especially in the early stages of grief. Caitlin was probably feeling like a relict, or a relic, when she chose it.

My memory refuses to function, Jean says on December 10. I miss appointments, mislay documents and forget house keys and car keys. I did all those things in the winter months after John died. I had never imagined that such mundane mishaps plagued people following bereavement. I had pictured widowhood as a sombre, grief-stricken time, but I had not foreseen the small, insistent irritations. I fell down a lot. Always a bit clumsy and uncoordinated, I had relied on John to keep me steady and would link in to him even if we were walking only a short distance. But it wasn’t just my congenital awkwardness. My mind wouldn’t stay on what I was doing. It had a life of its own. One night I tripped and fell flat on my face walking home from the corner store. For a while I looked almost as bruised on the surface as I felt inside.

In May, the merriest month of all the year, Jean ran into an acquaintance she had not seen since Walt’s death. After offering her condolences, this well-meaning woman uttered the words Jean had been dreading – Life goes on. I wanted to shout at her, Jean wrote that day. Maybe it does for you, but not for me. Instead she replied, So they tell me. For a few weeks after John died, I hated meeting people who would feel that they had to express sympathy, or, worse still, who had missed the news of John’s death and asked about him as if he were