On the loss of intimacy and things related

One thing I noticed in reading about my new role as “widower” is how little the subject of the lost intimacy is treated. It is not THE most prominent facet of my grief, but it is way up there, and I don’t think I’m abnormal. Why so little information regarding how others have dealt with this? Is it taboo to speak of these things?

Kim and I enjoyed a frequent and regular intimate life – as, I would expect, most married couples our age do. We weren’t like foaming-at-the-mouth honeymooners in our intimacy, but we did enjoy each other. And we knew each other and what we responded to, and how we responded to it. We had the consideration that comes with a decades-long relationship to take the care and the time needed to ensure each was satisfied.

And intimacy is more than just sex. Holding each other closely is also intimacy. Coming up behind your partner as they are doing something and giving a warm hug around the waist and a kiss on the neck is a form of intimacy. Knowing what your partner is thinking and responding to it is a form of intimacy. There is so much that is now lost! Over 30 years of learning some (because you can never know all…) of what makes each other “tick”.

But the loss of sexual intimacy is an important aspect of my grief. The urges are still there, but there is nothing to satisfy them – like the phantom pains of an amputated limb that you cannot relieve. For a couple of weeks after Kim passed – and a week or so before she passed – the thought of sex was a constantly recurring, nagging urge that tormented me, particularly at night, but also in the morning.

We had not had relations since before the Folfirinox failed, when she still “felt good,” but Kim was still there – we could talk, hold hands, hug, kiss… The thought of anything more at the time, at least to my mind, was tempered with the nature of Kim’s disease as it evolved: it would be painful for her. The pressure in her abdomen from the tumors and the ascites. Lymphedema, too, causing swelling and pain in her limbs and back. The thought of such contact really did not occur during this period. So, I had a time of conditioning that one would think may have tempered that part of my grief. So why the ferocious “need”? The human mind is a fascinating, but scary thing.

To those treading these same waters, there’s hope: it passes. At least it seems to have for me. It is now just over a month since Kim left, and, about a week ago, I noted that that particular torment seems to have subsided. I still have moments where I can think of little more, but they are just passing thoughts, much as normal males experience under ordinary conditions. I did not have to go out and “find another partner” as some would tell you to do. It just calmed; it passed.

It very well may recur, but now I have the armor of knowing that it does resolve without any form of intervention. Hopefully, this discussion can serve to give you similar armor.

And this, too, shall pass…

Grief is an odd thing. It comes over you in waves, like a storm surge. But as with a storm, those waves subside. Occasionally, after the storm, a large wave will still come to the shore, swamping everything it touches – but most of the waves are smaller over time. And anniversaries of life events – that first date, engagement, marriage, birthdays, death – and holidays are like the tides, bringing surges in at regular intervals.

Most events pass through our lives like ships through the water. Some leave a wake that quickly flattens and disappears. Some: no wake at all. Others pass through like an ice skate cutting lines in the ice. The edges of those lines are sharp and painful, but over time, with wear and warmth, the edges become less defined, rounder – less painful – until they finally disappear.

The death of a spouse is like a craftsman cutting a line in glass. The edges will only dull with time and wear. But they will dull.

Our wedding anniversary was 30 December. It was not as hard as I had expected it to be, so soon after Kim’s passing. Christmas and New Year’s Eve were actually a lot harder. Someone said that the day would be a sad day for me, but I had to disagree – it was still a happy day; the day Kim and I started our life together and our beautiful family.

And that family – our five kids and our granddaughter – are probably the reason why my grief is not the dominating factor in my life after Kim. They buoy me up. They surrounded me from the start, having implemented “Family Friday” immediately after Kim’s diagnosis. A new tradition in which one of the kids is the designated “chef du jour” and concocts a meal for the whole gang that they bring to Kim’s and my house where the whole family gathers to eat and make merry. Some of those events lasted into the wee hours; some just a few hours. Every one is a wonderful gathering for us all.

Kim really enjoyed those Fridays, and we wondered why it took her imminent departure for us to make that tradition. A tradition that, so far, we are continuing.

The kids gathered in force and went to the funeral parlor with me to make arrangements for Kim. They helped choose her casket (Kim wanted a white one with gold trim), vault, and the clothes she would wear into eternity. They surrounded me and were my strength during the viewing, the funeral mass and interment. My son set up shop on my kitchen table and worked from my home every day until Christmas. My daughter took over the Christmas shopping and decorating so that there would still be Christmas in our home as my heart just wasn’t into doing any decorating this year (though I did eventually pull out three of Kim’s homemade decorations and put them on display).

Even today, I can count on one or more of them to come up from behind and give me a supportive hug, or to just be around, keeping me company.

I can’t imagine what this would have been like had I no children.