The Widower’s Rant: The Scarlett W

I was talking with a new friend the other day. Because it’s an integral aspect of my 2024 life story, my status as a novice widower came up in conversation. They naturally expressed heartfelt empathy. A few days later, I realized the difference between new and old friends. While this new friend certainly feels sorry for me from this hole in my life, they likewise have no idea what my life was like in the previous times. They never met Beth, and no amount of storytelling can adequately paint the canvas of our exceptional partnership. It’s an abstract concept. 

New friends will come to like me because of who I am today. I’m a better person today because of the indelible impact Beth had on my evolution over the past 40+ years. But they can’t know what my life was like, nor me, in the before times. To new friends, I’m shiny and new. I’m a guy who happens to be a young widower but, from all external evidence, appears to be enjoying life. Aside from the occasional Rant, anyway.

Old friendships are the best, and Beth and I have an embarrassment of riches from our close friendships with so many people. All of whom have shown incredible support. Beth’s death is also a loss I share with all of our friends. Our friends grieve alongside me, both for their loss and their knowledge of the loss of the life Beth and I were so enjoying together. We were supposed to grow old together. So when they see me or think of me, I’m no longer shiny and new. There’s a dent in the roof that no PDR (Paintless Dent Removal) pro can restore. 

I’ve purchased only a couple of brand-new cars in my life. My first new car was a metallic green 2-door Honda Accord. I got a new job with a long commute, so this was a “Dad Car.” No kid seats and no sticky wrappers stuck to the carpet. The dad car even told dad jokes. Why did the snail paint an “S” on the side of its car? So when his friends see it pass by, they’ll say, “Hey, look at that S-car-go!”

At some point, one of the kids, a dog, or a ghost knocked something over in the garage and put a substantial dent in the quarter panel right behind the driver’s side door. Even after polishing out the scratch, the dent the size of my head was the first thing I saw when I walked up to the car and the last thing I saw when I shut the door. It was no longer shiny and new. I was referred to a PDR magician who worked at high-end marque dealerships. After a few minutes of poking and prodding, his feel for the sheet metal honed by hundreds of hours of de-denting Porsches and Bentleys, the dent disappeared. I’m a picky guy with very discerning visual acuity. The dent disappeared. My car looked shiny and new. Well, almost. He had to drill a small hole in the door jamb to introduce his probe. When he finished the procedure, he inserted a hole plug to cover the new portal to the inside of my car. It was like laparoscopic surgery, but the bill was more manageable. But the scar was always there to remind me of the before times when the car was truly shiny and new. But I digress.

I wonder what crosses my friends’ minds when they see or think of me?

“Is he okay?” 

“I feel so sorry for him.”

“I wonder how he manages to cope?”

“I miss Beth; I can’t imagine how it feels for him.”

I’m marked by the Scarlett W. 

In my new novel, there are no characters to prosecute or to blame. It’s just an unexpected plot twist. He goes on because he must. I’m quite thankful I don’t have an infant to care for. Hopefully, like Hester Pryne, I’ll move forward and live an even more exceptional life. My strength and resilience (I’m about as pleasantly surprised as you are) telegraph my healing. The silent questions become more muted, and the conversations about Beth are as joyful as they should be. Questions of how I’m managing will be replaced by wondering what I’ll be up to tomorrow. “Will he survive another descent down the Flume trail in one piece?”

At least I'm not required to wear my Scarlett W on my clothing. You can’t see the scar on my chest where the hole was seared into my heart. Peer inside my brain to see how neurons are rewiring to try to make sense of the abject absence of Beth's constant presence beside me. They form new connections where happy memories replace the sharpness of pain. Sometimes, when I look in the mirror (after the initial shock wears off), I feel the weight of the grief, the sadness, and the longing have pulled down the corners of my eyes a bit. But it’s probably gravity. Even when I laugh—which is frequent—the scar will always be there. I hope it does not interfere with a good belly laugh. Scar tissue does not stretch well. When I ride my bike up through our village to the trailhead, I pass a street named “Dana.” Every time, I say aloud to no one in particular, “There is no Dana, only Zuul*.” And I giggle every time. The scar has not stopped me from enjoying my humor. 

On today’s singletrack ride, I managed an ungraceful dismount that resulted in the pedal slamming into my shin, and the spikes that help keep my feet on the pedal poked a hole into my skin. Perhaps a place for the PDR guy to fix the dent. 

Owie. Was it worth it? Without question. 

I was not offered a choice, but since I had to lose Beth, I am making sure that the scars going forward are worth it. I proudly wear my Scarlett W. I think I’m becoming a better version of myself. 

I miss you Beth. I love you forever.

Donald