Don’t Call me a Widow – Part 70  

Another Sunday

I’ve never truly appreciated Sundays. Growing up, Sunday always signaled that school was waiting on the other side, and although I didn’t hate school, I often felt like a square peg in a round hole. I’ve tried to look back and pinpoint why, but there isn’t one clear memory that explains those uncomfortable feelings.

From a very young age, Sundays meant Sunday School — another early morning, another responsibility, another expectation to listen and learn when my mind wanted rest. After class came homework, and in my young mind, boredom, as Monday crept closer.

Still, there were bright spots. Visiting my grandparents and enjoying their treats. And on some Sundays, Mom and Dad would take us to Green’s for hamburgers — and if you’ve ever had a Green’s hamburger, you know how unforgettable they are. On rare occasions, we’d go out for Chinese food, and those Sundays felt like magic.

Today, Sunday is simply another day and has been since I began working independently from home. I no longer feel the pressure of Monday looming, and I’ve learned how to balance my time and appreciate it. Sadly, many people don’t have that luxury. Full‑time jobs rarely stay within 9–5 anymore, and many of us take on side gigs to meet ever‑growing financial demands. For years, both Rich and I juggled full‑time work with additional jobs.

Now it is, Sunday again. If not for my accident, I’d be strolling down to the pool to soak in the sunshine and the last days of summer. But that isn’t an option right now. I’m two weeks into a minimum six‑week recovery. Each day is both easier and harder.

Easier because the discomfort is more manageable and requires less medication. Harder because restricted movement causes muscle fatigue that drains my energy. I need more breaks between simple activities — showering, dressing, eating, even sitting at my desk to write. I know this is temporary, but it still plays with my emotions, and I’m learning to stay mindful of my attitude.

In May of 1974, I had thyroid surgery and complications that led to a blood transfusion. From that transfusion, I contracted Hepatitis C and spent an extra week in ICU. Even then, I was determined to feel better. Each day, I asked the nurses to help me shower and put on makeup. Covering my yellowed face helped me feel almost normal, and that encouraged me to heal. That experience taught me how to find the silver lining — a lesson I’m using again now.

Today on social media, I once again saw people expressing how deserted they feel by family. I understand that sentiment. My family doesn’t live nearby. One son is two hours away, the other more than six. My niece is eight hours away. Even my closest friends who live locally are still 45 minutes to an hour from my door. This could make me feel lonely, and it could slow my healing — but I refuse to let it. I’ve made new friends, and I’m learning how to be resourceful. When we need help, we must ask for it. Whether through a church or synagogue, a community center, or even social media, support exists.

I encourage you to seek what you need with honesty. There are wonderful people in every community. You can be one of them — someone who supports, someone who guides.

As summer winds down, begin preparing for the colder months, especially when darkness arrives earlier each day. Start building connections for yourself, and for others who may be more vulnerable. Let’s create communities — like the virtual one many of us participate in — and form local circles of care. We don’t need to be related by blood to become family.

Join me on my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com