A friend asked me today “What has been the hardest adjustment following Susie’s death?” I appreciated the question for a number of reasons. First, it showed a willingness to walk in the darkness with me for a few moments, a willingness to understand at a deeper level what our experience has been like. But, secondly, there was an inherent recognition in the question that there are a multitude of changes we’ve had to absorb, some much more difficult than others.
As I’ve thought about this question, there’s a number of things which stand out.
Change in Identity
This has been the hardest adjustment for me personally. Until four months ago, all of my adult life had been lived in reference to Susie. In terms of human influence, she held the primary role in shaping me into who I am. I loved being her husband. I loved introducing her to people as my wife. It was a badge I wore with great pride. And our marriage was something I treasured greatly.
Adjusting to the fact that our marriage is now over; that she is no longer my wife and I am no longer a husband; that I bear the labels “widower” and “single dad”: all of those “identity” adjustments are terribly difficult to get used to.
Dinner time
The first night the kids and I spent alone in our house was particularly difficult. Her absence was very noticeable all through the house. All the colour had been removed from our life.
She was not there in the kitchen. She was not there on the lounge doing her crocheting. But where her absence was felt most was at the dinner table. The empty chair at the other end of the table, and the monstrous silence that comes from it, is a difficult adjustment.
Not having her by my side
Suse and I were very social. Hospitality was a big part of what we did. We’d have friends over, or go over to friends’ houses all the time.
I’ve really struggled to do that without her by my side. I feel dull without her there, and am conscious that I cast a bleak presence over social situations. I feel very much like I have lost my spark, socially, mainly becasue I have.
Waking up with unruffled sheets next to me
I’m greeted every morning by unruffled sheets beside me. Every day starts with that fresh reminder of her absence. Someone has said that grief is like waking up into a nightmare, rather than from one. It certainly feels a lot like that.
The quietness
I used to associate quietness with peacefulness. Not so any more. The quietness and lack of daily adult conversation in the house is terrible to me. From the deep and meaningful to the shallow and silly, Suse and I used to talk freely and plentifully. And she was a wonderfully encouraging conversation partner, as many others would attest to.
But now, when the kids go to bed, the house falls into a horrible quiet. And that is a very big and difficult adjustment.
Not having someone to discuss the bible and ministry and life with regularly
An extension of the last point, we used to spend a lot of time nutting out bible passages together, whether it was preparing for a bible study or for me preaching. So much of our time was spent working through things to do with the bible or ministry.
Making Decsions on my Own
I used to love talking out pros and cons of various decisions with Suse. Having different perspectives was always helpful. Doing that by myself now, especially in the realm of parenting decisions, adds to the extreme sense of loneliness that I feel almost all the time. It also significantly impacts my confidence in making the best choices, as I’m conscious that I am lacking her additional insight.
The confidence she used to instill in me
Talking of confidence. Suse was a great encourager of people, and none more so than me. She was my number one cheer squad in life and ministry. She’d encourage me and instill me with confidence, especially if I was doubting myself. That’s going to take a long time to adjust to, I fear, not having her there to urge me on.
Not seeing her mentor and teach our children and others
I loved the way Suse used to sit with our children and help them learn something new or understand a complexity in their homework. I’d love how she’d get alongside them. She’d do similar things with others at church too, though in different ways, obviously. I just loved seeing her interact. I miss that very much and it’s hard to adjust to not seeing her “work her magic” like that. I didn’t realise how much I enjoyed watching her encourage others until it had been taken away.
Lack of physical affection
“Give me a hug big guy”. Every day, without fail, I’d hear that. Sometimes several times a day. When we’d wake up she’d often ask for me to cuddle her, “just for two minutes”. Usually she’d fall back to sleep, and two minutes would turn to twenty. Not having those moment has been a difficult adjustment.
Really, it’s the daily rhythm of life, and the lack of her joyful presence within that, which is the hardest to bear. She was always there. Now she is always not. And above all that’s the hardest adjustment to face.
