It’s not a club I clamored to join. In fact, none of the members wanted to join it.

We were recruited in the harshest of all possible ways.

The initiation was almost as difficult as any street gang’s—we had to experience the death of the person most of us would call “our best friend, lover and life partner”—our husbands.

My inaugural date is coming on its third anniversary this August—the day Dan died.

I now know  that joining this club has helped me to make sense of all that happened in the eight months preceding my husband’s death. I’ve had many opportunities to share stories and memories, and I’ve received empathy and sympathy, but never pity, from the other women.  Knowing these women who have experienced what I did, and have continued to thrive, encourages me.

I see the common threads that are woven through all of our experiences: the feelings of loss, of being adrift, the anger, the sadness, and the confusion that follows the death of a spouse or partner.

Through the sharing, I’ve felt a lot less alone than I did before.

And on a more upbeat note, I’ve had some fun with my widow friends. We socialize, enjoy one another’s company, and have bonded individually and as a group. I’ve even learned to laugh again.

Losing my husband was a trauma. But I am grateful that the Widow’s Club was here, so when I went into my

 free fall, there was a safety net.

Picture courtesy of Pixabay