Whose loss?

I ran into the market on Thursday between appointments. My hair appointment was due in 10 minutes and it seemed a good idea to pick up a sandwich, since I hadn't eaten for 8 hours. As I scurried down the first aisle, Irma came meandering toward me. I had not had contact with her for about a year, since I sent her a condolence card on the death of her husband. She is in her 70s and works in the campus building next to my office.
"Oh Barbara, I must tell you how hard it is to be without my husband." She is Eastern European and has a very direct way of opening conversations.
"No one understands how hard it is." She continued without waiting for my response. "After 45 years together, he is gone and I can hardly believe it! I talk to him all the time in my house but he is not there and I realize it and I'm shocked all over again."
I nodded.
"Now, I'm alone all the time. And I'm so lonely."
That sounded familiar.
"You have no idea what it is to be alone for my holidays, going to church alone, and making all the big decisions alone, too." Her eyes searched my face.

Indeed, I do know what that experience is like, with the exception of missing someone who was there. I, and a number of single friends, have lived this for years--more than most widows will ever be called upon to endure.

"I have sons, but no daughter to talk to about this. My son is a good boy and he tries to understand but he doesn't."
I reached for her and hugged her to me. "You can talk to me, then!"
She smiled blankly and kept on. "Do you know what it is to feel stigmatized--a "widow?" An awful name and I don't like the word. I would have come to hear you speak at the Widow's Luncheon last year but I didn't want to be labeled a widow."

I had spoken to about 60 women in our church last year, all who had lost their husbands. One man from Romania showed up because didn't know that he was a widower, not a widow.
"You know," she continued, moving close enough to my face so I could smell her denture adhesive, "I feel sick if someone tells me that I am young enough to find someone else. When you lose someone you love, you don't want to try again. I had a gift from God for 45 years and no one can compare."

My heart felt as though it was sinking into my boots.

Irma went on and on--for 15 minutes. I indulged her because I like her, but I didn't get a sandwich and I was late for my haircut. I also marveled that while I was single for so many years there seemed to be very little concern for the fact that my holidays were often spent alone, or that I had to be proactive in order to avoid being alone for church, leisure activities, meals, Friday nights, ad infinitum. In fact, I was the butt of numerous jokes in private and public because I was single. People placed bets on whether or not I'd ever marry and when I did send out announcements, two people thought it was an April Fool's joke. My own father told my mother that he had given up on me "ever attracting a man." That stung because in my father's mind and in his generation, a woman who isn't married is truly less desirable. It just isn't good.

Walking around like a sad sack while I was single was something that I tried not to do. I wasn't sad all the time, nor was being single such a horrible thing. But there were aspects to it that were extremely painful, one being the aloneness issue. Not necessarily lonely, but I did get sick of being alone. I talked about it from time to time with people who would listen or who inquired, but what can you say after years of saying the same thing and having the same experience? So I tried to keep quiet about any issues I had about being single--at least, with some people who didn't want to hear about it.

Irma's words irked and surprised me in a way. Actually, in the same way my mother's words in recent years have annoyed me. Now that they are widows, they want and expect condolences and support--a level of understanding and empathy that they did not have toward me as a single woman for years and years. Part of me wants to shout, "See! How do you like it now?!" And yet their loss is a more keen, acute loss than anything I've experienced. But my losses were different in quality and chronicity than anything they have. Both are extremely trying, perhaps for different reasons. It would be nice if both kinds of losses received the warm, attentive, caring responses that are needed.

There is a hidden loss and grief that lifelong single people have. They may be happy and fulfilled people with good jobs, a strong sense of purpose in life, and satisfying social networks. They may have come to terms with being single, not having children, being sometimes quite marginalized. But if you dig deep enough, there is a kernal of pain that is not recognized by society. It is about a global sense of rejection and undesirability, loss about childbearing, and an attempt to avoid asking that awful question, "What's a nice person like me doing single?" It is about all the hopes that have been dashed, all the ups and downs as we waited to see what relationship might develop with this or that one. It's being accused of being "too picky" but when we try to stay open-minded and give a chance to certain men because something may be workable, we are teased for "scraping the bottom of the barrel." It's being treated badly by socially awkward men who are looking for someone to take care of them; it's being chased by desirable married men and having to muster the gumption to rebuff them, even though they seem to be able to see and appreciate the qualities that available single men completely miss. It's questioning whether we did too much, too little, something dorky that turned him off from us, whether we were too set in our ways, spoke too freely about ourselves and our ideas, are too educated and thus intimidating, and the continual knowledge that some people had written us off as unmarriageable. It's about loving the fact that as a single person you can lie in bed until 4:00 in the afternoon if you feel like it, but that even this freedom can be described as "self-centered" and "irresponsible" because you don't have husband or children to put first. It's about hearing prayers in church for the children, parents, and elderly--and waiting to hear how the prayer can be applicable to me.

I saw that and heard this hidden sadness in a workshop I gave at a national single's conference yesterday. It was mostly women listening to me, ranging in age from about 30 - 70. The tears and comments that came from well established professional women about how they sometimes feel left out, invisible, undesirable, misunderstood--this was heartwrenching. It just struck too close to home, and I remembered so much, so many instances...

About a year ago, our pastor gave a wonderful sermon on the values and gifts that single people give a congregation. I had been bracing myself for a pulpit tirade such as the (horrendous) one I heard in the Midwest, charging single women with "not needing a man" because of militant feminist ideas that were "against nature and against God," and citing that misunderstood and misquoted statistic that a woman over 40 years of age has a greater change of being hijacked by terrorists than getting married. I remember sitting in that congregation with two other single women, all of us with eyes widened by shock as the pastor maligned and impugned our lives, our motivation, and then parrodied us. I did not believe that I had done anything "wrong" that had caused me to be single, and none of his descriptions of single women fit me. Or any of the others, for that matter. In fact, my life was the happiest it had ever been and I really had enjoyed being part of the church and community there--good friends, great academic experience, some good social outlets, etc. Apparently, we three single women were a burr under the pastor's saddle for some reason. Many in the congregation were mortified by his remarks.

So I was unsure what my pastor would come up with. Simply put, his sermon was incredibly healing. It affirmed my value as a single woman all those years. He clearly stated that we serve the church in such creative and useful ways, due to having a greater liberty than some of our married friends. And he pointed out that Jesus was single, and that we have an obligation to include single people in the life of the church in much more intentional ways. I heaved a sigh of relief and thanks to God as he offered the final congregational blessing. I had hoped to hear a sermon like this for 25 years and was thrilled to finally hear something useful, accurate, theologically supported, and helpful.

During the postlude I hopped up from my seat and started over to thank the pastor for his sermon. As I stood up, without warning tears began rolling down my cheeks and I got a huge lump in my throat. I doubt I could have even spoken. So I sat back down and had a good cry, right there in the pew. It was shocking to me that even being happily married and content with my life, that such pain and loss still remained inside of me about some difficult life circumstances, losses, and challenging years.

That same discomfort tapped me on the shoulder yesterday once again as I looked into faces of capable, bright people, some who looked lost, confused, and others who looked pained at times.
It wasn't always easy to be single.

So as I looked into Irma's face, I wondered if she would even get it if she could be told about the numerous experiences that I and my friends went through for over 20 years as single adults. She is still grieving the loss of a dear, sweet husband, so this is not the time to even try to move in that direction of conversation. I understand that losing a loved one is painful--wordlessly awful, beyond comprehension.
But so is the loss of dreams, hope, and social status.

Single people do not want to be pitied.
Just understood and supported.