This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Julia Krispeal. It has been edited for length and clarity.
I was on vacation with some friends in Miami when I got dressed up, danced and enjoyed myself.
"Wow," someone said. "You're really going for it!" they added. It felt like an odd thing to say. I'd always been the life and soul of the party. Yet the person seemed surprised that I was letting my hair down. After all, I'd been recently widowed. Perhaps they thought that I should be wearing black and in mourning.
My husband, Solomon, died of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (ALS) on August 25, 2022. He was 46 years old. He was diagnosed with the incurable, progressive neurodegenerative disease — which causes loss of movement, muscle wastage, and eventual paralysis while the brain stays alert — six years earlier.
Some friends and family stick around after your loss. Others don't.
My love for Sol was infinite. I cared for him, cried with him, and accompanied him on his heartbreaking journey toward the inevitable. When he died, it was me who told our sons, then 11 and 8. "He's not suffering anymore," I said.
A lot of people were around during the first two months. They followed up to make sure the boys and I were OK. Then I learned that, with death, many of them wither away. Certain friends and family members stick around. Others don't.
A few of them didn't know what to say. Above all else, although I hadn't asked for this life, I didn't want pity. I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want people to feel sorry for me,
"You know what? It was meant to be." I'd say. "Unfortunately, I didn't have control over it." I knew that I wasn't going to sit there and think, "Why me?"
I sometimes felt judged for getting on with my life
But I felt guilty too. I didn't feel ready to discuss it at the time, but Sol's death was a relief to some degree. I'd been solo parenting for years. I was already essentially a widow. The anticipatory grief once he'd died was partly a sense of freedom.
I was lifted both physically and emotionally. It's not to say that I was happy it was over. But I no longer had to worry about reviewing his medical bills, the doctors, the social workers, and the constant questions about Sol's health.
At the time, I felt ashamed. I was starting to live my life again. People told me they were surprised how I'd gotten out and made it to the other side. Sometimes it felt a bit judgmental.
But I knew that, for the sake of the boys, I had to keep going. I would love for my husband to be here to see them grow up. I'd love him to be able to take them to school and drive them to activities. When I go to their baseball games and see all the fathers at the sidelines, it kills me inside. But I hold a strong face.
I try and help other young widows like me
I enjoy my job as a realtor and a good social life. As for dating, I'm not quite sure yet. Sol had a very strong-willed personality. He would want me to meet someone that will respect our children, respect me, respect our circumstances, and respect his memory. At the age of 42, after the PTSD from everything we've lost along the way — physically, mentally, and financially — I don't have time for bullshit. I don't want to waste my time with the wrong type of guy.
It benefits me to help young widows because of the tragedies and triumphs of these past years. They reach out to me because they know I can relate. We find a sense of peace knowing there is support and common ground.
You don't have to die with your spouse. You just need to find another path.
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