Rarity

I was at a church function a few weeks ago, and was introduced to a young widower by a mutual friend. In conversation, she turned to me and said something along the lines of "I thought it would be good for you two to meet, because being widowed at your age is so rare."

"Actually, it's not as rare as you might think." I calmly informed her. She looked at me, somewhat surprised, and the conversation quickly dropped.

I've thought a lot about that comment since then, and the perception-shared by so many-that being widowed at my age is rare. I think it's a common perception, and I understand the desire to believe that as a whole, young people don't die. Of course, I know that to be a falsehood-a myth that is hurtful and alienating. Since I became widowed nearly 2 years ago, I have learned that there is a vast network of other young widows surrounding me. I have met them everywhere-at school, at church, at the grocery store. I'm part of a large online network geared specifically toward young widows, but I have come across them in almost every other walk of my life as well.

The young widowed don't talk much. We rarely go around shouting about our status, and oftentimes I will know somebody at least casually for quite some time before we will discover the bond we share. I've noticed that the times I am in a group of young widows, we occasionally have people ask why we are together. The response is almost universally the same-the questioner stands silent waiting for a response, while the widows shoot looks at each other and weigh possible responses. Almost always, somebody will offer a half-truth, and attempt to leave the crimson 'W' out of the equation entirely. People-as a whole-are uncomfortable with death. It's like the question-I understand why people want to know how he died. It fills a need for the brain to categorize and make sense of something that doesn't make any sense at all. People who haven't been touched intimately by death don't want to think about the ease with which a human body can cease to sustain life. Those of us who HAVE been touched by death are too aware that a single moment can steal away life. I envy the naivete of the un-grieving. I wish I could go back to the days where bad things happen to 'other people'.

Every day we hear about traffic accidents. You can't turn on the news or open a newspaper without reading about a murder, an industrial accident, or some other terrible event. How many people die from cancer every year? How many heart attacks? Strokes? Every single one of these deaths leaves somebody behind. It's easy to grumble about an accident that ties up the interstate and disturbs our evening commute. What I can't forget is the family whose lives were just shattered. I'll never forget driving to Tennessee last June for a camping trip with the boys and a group of young widows. Alongside the interstate, I passed by the aftermath of an accident.

Burned into my memory is the sight of the the red minivan on the side of the road. The emergency crews, for the most part, were gone. I can only speculate about the inhabitants of the vehicle based on what I saw. In the back of the van, the detritus of a family vacation was piled above the seats. Sleeping bags, stuffed animals, pillows. The windshield of the van was smashed in a way that sent my heart into the pit of my stomach-smashed in a way that ends lives and destroys families. With my heart in my shoes, I pressed the accelerator and quietly gulped back tears while we went along the road, muttering a fervent prayer that the inhabitants of that vehicle-and the family of who wasn't there-would be okay.

Every time an ambulance comes screaming up behind me on the highway, or drives past in the opposite direction with lights and sirens blaring, I say a prayer for the family that now has unspeakable sorrow to bear. I've been at the scene of the accident, waiting for the ambulance to come and work a miracle. For many people, the sound of an ambulance screeching into existence would bring about relief-for me the thought of an ambulance pulling up near me gives me enormous anxiety. Ambulances, fire trucks, and Sheriff's cars bring bad news. They accompany death, heartache, and pain.

These accidents-these illnesses-these nameless people who die quietly of cancer or heart failure in the hospital downtown-they each leave behind a family. A wife, children, siblings, parents. I wish with all my heart that being widowed at my age WAS a rarity. Unfortunately, it's entirely too common, and there is nothing-NOTHING-I can do about it.