Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 73

Oy Vay!

When you have an accident and you’re told healing will take 6–12 weeks, it’s easy to believe you’re “all better” the moment Tylenol makes the pain tolerable. But tolerable is not healed, and today my body reminded me of that truth. What I’m feeling is more than discomfort — it’s my body insisting I slow down again.

I’ve been careful, but over the last couple of days my version of “slow” crept into a faster rhythm, and my body is yelling at me. I’m listening. Movement was encouraged, yes, but movement within limits. When I pushed past those limits, discomfort shifted into pain — temporary, but real.

Yesterday’s doctor appointment was my first sign. The parking lot was full, so I had to walk a distance. By the time I reached the waiting room, I couldn’t wait to sit, yet even sitting offered no comfortable place to land. Afterward, I stopped at the grocery store for a few items, thinking the extra walking would be good for me. It wasn’t. It was simply too much too soon, and now I’m adjusting.

It’s not easy when the mind says “just do it” but the body isn’t in sync with the rhythm of movement. This mismatch is its own form of grief — the grief of physical change, the grief of limitation, the grief of realizing we must evolve into a new phase whether we want to or not.

I may not feel 76 emotionally, but my bones and muscles remind me of the reality. To stay healthy, I must pivot differently. The loss of what I could do yesterday or last year is not a failure — it’s simply part of living. I am still breathing, still moving forward.

Recently I listened to a rabbi speak about blessings and curses. Her words struck me deeply: they exist side by side, and we have the choice to see them for what they truly are. We don’t deny that painful things happen, but we can choose to learn from them and cultivate those lessons into blessings. When we look at life through a lens that seeks meaning rather than misery, grief softens and blessings emerge.

I will always carry sadness that Rich died before either of us was ready. Yet even within that sadness, I can smile, laugh, and hold close the love that lives in my heart and soul. Rich is woven into me; he is not lost, and neither am I.

Just as Rich is no longer physically here, I have lost certain physical abilities through aging and experience. But I am learning not to let those losses diminish who I am or the life still ahead of me. Adjusting is its own blessing.

Turning curses into blessings is a personal choice. I choose to move through life reflectively and intentionally, searching for meaning. I believe adversity can be reshaped into strength. It’s not about perfection — it’s about finding the answers that calm both body and spirit.

A curse is simply an experience that hurts, scares, or limits us. When we see it clearly, we reduce its power. My father taught me to stop asking “Why me?” and instead ask, “What can I learn from this?” Every curse, every mistake, every hardship carries the possibility of clarity, healing, and inner strength. We discover what we need, and we pivot toward it.

On Wednesday (8/26), I entered the eighth month of my current grief journey. But grief is never singular. In September 2025, I began another journey with the sudden loss of my brother. And throughout my 76 years, grief has appeared in many forms. Each loss felt like the worst moment imaginable, yet without those experiences, I would not have had the privilege of loving so many — grandparents, parents, siblings, cousins, friends, and even those who touched my life from a distance.

We are not taught how to grieve. Cultures may offer traditions, but ultimately each of us must find our own way, honoring ourselves as we honor those who came before us.

Please follow me on my journey #yesican Coaching with Karen

Kh.yesican1@gmail.com