$108.63. That was the amount on the last check I wrote. My daughter had dozed off on the way back from preschool, and I gently carried her into the living room, allowing her to nap in the large red chair while I tackled some pre-dinner chores. I started a load of laundry, played fetch with the dogs, and then settled down at my desk to pay bills. First up was a credit card statement, followed by a receipt for a propane refill that had been stuffed in the handle of my storm door.
As I filled in the amount, I jotted down my account number at the top. Then I tore the check along the perforation, just as I had done countless times before. Check #1300 trembled in my fingers. I had anticipated this moment, but it still struck me hard.
I opened a drawer and retrieved a small cardboard box, placing the new checkbook in front of me. Check #1301 was ready, my name alone in the top left corner. Meanwhile, check #1300 marked the end of an era, the last one I’d write with my late husband’s name.
Six months before his passing, when his condition had started to decline yet we were blissfully unaware of how soon he would be gone, I had reordered return address labels. They were light blue, adorned with a small tree design we had embraced for years. In a misguided attempt to save money, I ordered two batches, neglecting to update them to “The Carters” instead of “Steve & Emily.” By the time I realized my mistake, it was too late, leaving me with a surplus of labels that no longer matched my reality.
Following his death, I continued to use the labels, but only for bills and other impersonal correspondence. I didn’t want to send mail from a deceased person, knowing it would be a shock to others. I adjusted to receiving mail in his name daily, but I refrained from using the labels for birthday cards or thank-you notes.
After seeing the stack of checks with just my name, I felt overwhelmed about how significant something as simple as a checkbook had become, a stark reminder of what I had lost. I completed the bill payments, affixed those lovely blue labels, and set aside a sheet for a plastic bin in the basement filled with mementos from my past. The rest went into recycling, and surprisingly, instead of feeling devastated, I felt a sense of acceptance. It had been 15 months, and I had crossed off yet another milestone in the long journey of widowhood.
The “firsts” of grieving extend well beyond the initial year and the first holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. They come in waves, both predictable and unforeseen, much like the first blooms of spring pushing through the last remnants of snow. I’ve stopped trying to predict triggers and no longer judge my responses. I find solace in the emotional ebb and flow of grief, allowing myself to mourn in whatever way necessary—even if it means shedding tears over checks or holding onto a single sheet of address labels.
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In summary, dealing with the “firsts” of widowhood can be a complicated journey. Each milestone brings its own set of emotions, and embracing the process of grief allows for healing and acceptance.