Being a Widow – Part 8

My name is Karen, and I am a widow.

It happened again — yesterday, and then today. As I was pulling out of the grocery store parking lot, I noticed that the building where Rich used to work, Vatterott College, had finally been bulldozed. That building sat vacant for more than ten years, and every time we drove past it, Rich would worry about what would become of it. I taught there for a semester or two, but I never felt attached to the place. Rich did. Change was always hard for him, and when something hovered in that in‑between space — not moving forward, not going back — it unsettled him deeply.

When I saw the empty lot, my first instinct was to call Rich and tell him. The disappointment hit me so quickly it left a dull ache in my chest, one I can still feel rising into my throat as I write this.

And then today, something else. Something that brought a sadness I can’t fully explain. The salon where Rich — and Alex, and even Steve — got their hair cut, Gino’s, appears to be closed. Rich started going there in his twenties, more than fifty years ago. After Gino passed, his daughter Gina took over, and everyone in that salon became like family to us. Today was the third time I’ve driven by and found it dark, locked, and without a note on the door. Again, I wanted to call Rich. Again, I felt that shock of loss.

Rich wasn’t just my husband. He was my best friend, my buddy, my go‑to person. Whenever I saw or heard something I knew he’d relate to, I called him — from wherever I was — just to share the moment. Without that connection, I feel unmoored.

Yesterday, when I saw Vatterott was gone, I actually yelled out, “Hey Rich, Vatterott’s gone!” I told him he didn’t have to worry about it anymore. But today, with the salon, I hesitated. He would be sad not knowing what happened, so until I learn more, mums the word.

If you’re reading this thinking, Karen has lost it, what I want you to know is this: I truly believe that when we die, a part of us remains in this world. I think of it as the energy our loved ones leave behind — Rich, my brother Joel, my parents. Their influence is woven into my days, sometimes so subtly I don’t notice it until after the moment has passed.

This morning, for example, I baked a cake for a luncheon. I couldn’t just bake a cake — I had to make it special, because that’s what my mother taught me. I improvised, added my own signature touches, and I know that came from her energy nudging me.

Last night, I was hauling heavy book bags to my car so I could take them to Half Price Books today. Each bag weighed about twenty‑five pounds, yet I lifted them easily because I could hear Rich telling me, You can do it. From the very beginning of our relationship, he filled me with positivity, always reminding me how capable I was — and I am.

As I sit here writing, I can feel the love I shared with each of them. And I can send love back through my thoughts, my memories, my awareness.

Lately, I’ve noticed myself taking small pauses throughout the day — looking at the sky whether it’s clear or cloudy, feeling the temperature, watching the birds, laughing at the squirrels and chipmunks causing mischief in the yard. I’m listening more closely to the sounds around me, especially the laughter of children in the neighborhood. I’m becoming more aware of living life, not just impersonating it. Facing my challenges has become an opportunity to be the best version of myself in that moment. And I want to encourage others to do the same.

Living your best life isn’t about finances. It’s about health, purpose, kindness, connection. It’s holding doors, saying hello, offering help. It’s not about fancy homes, trips, or cars — it’s about building community. And you can do that too!

This is my journey. If you are walking this path too, I invite you to join me.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen
Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com