Crazy Widow: No, I'm Not a Punk Singer

I'm normally a very inspired person. I look for signs everywhere, I keep my eyes and ears constantly alert for new ideas. But when it came to title a column I've been wanting to start, no title seemed worthwhile.

You see, I'm a 24 year old widow. Crazy, I know. Wait a minute, how didn't I see that word before? Oh well! World of widowhood just was horrible: Way too close to the famous computer game, and the dictionary listings for 'World' and 'Widow' were just too fatal for my liking. Existing beings combined with dead husbands were one too many ironics.

I give props to my widow friend for helping come up with a name. I was randomly quizzing people, asking them to give me 1 word replies of anything. I got 'China' and 'Yeah', before I was offered up 'Crazy'. As soon as I read it I thought, well, it's going to sound like a fabulous punk band, but it's going to be an even better column.

I'm 24 in South Central Pennsylvania. I am the lonely, angry, grieving, depressed, overweight, poor, procrastinating, devilish, sarcastic, goofy, clutzy, and outspoken crazy widow. Here is my story.

My husband died. October 28, 2008 my dear husband took his last struggling breath after succumbing to complications of an insanely rare Angiosarcoma tumor. Angiosarcoma is a type of blood vessel cancer that effects just 100 people a year, and has no known survivors. He was 36 when it took his life, despite treatment, surgery, and prayer.

It has been just over 6 months since his passing, and only now am I truly grieving. Numbness is no longer my protector, reality is ever present, and bitterness is a daily emotional fight. I don't eat just one powdered donut, I eat 6 (not that it was different before he passed of course). I have become an overnight expert at replying with a courteous, "one day at a time" or "hangin' in", when asked how I am doing. I can hold tears in like a soldier at war, yet beat my pillow with my clenched fists at night while wailing. My friends and family all think I'm doing o.k., but they don't know about the depression that has swallowed me whole. I put on a good game face, and sometimes, I even believe it's really ok.

Sometimes.

Becoming a widow at such a young age doesn't allow you the things that some of our grandmothers get, like overlowing pensions, life insurance, grandchildren. I have no children, a pension that will pay off a 6 month overdue, interest accruing funeral bill, medical debt, no life insurance payout, and a beat up jeep that costs as much per month as a new car.

Young widows, well, we've become a new staple to a society that has no clue what to do with us. Due to all these freakily horrible diseases, and numerous wars throughout the world, younger widows are entering society in higher numbers than ever. And you, yes you, the general public, are scared to death of what to say or do.

Crazy widow is going to be a regular column on my journey. I can't speak for all the young widows of the world, but I can say that many of us deal with similar widow scenarios such as scarlet letter syndrome, people with horribly bad manners, friendships that have disappeared, and a suffocating amount of loneliness.

I hope you'll check into this column regularly, and I hope that it reaches those who really need it. Even if you aren't a widow, we're all a little crazy.