Don’t Call Me a Widow – Part 35– End of the Week

When Fridays Begin to Mean Something Again

I remember a time when TGIF carried weight — when Friday felt like a small celebration. But that hasn’t been true for me in a long while. For years, I worked Monday through Friday and often straight into Saturday and Sunday, juggling two, sometimes three jobs to make ends meet and save for a rainy day. Rich worked weekends too, so “Thank God it’s Friday” never really applied to our lives.

In recent years, neither of us officially worked weekends, yet we were out of practice when it came to enjoying time off. I used to think we “wasted” those days, but I’ve crossed that word out in my mind. We didn’t waste anything. We spent time together — quietly, simply — and I cherish that now. No planned excursions, no weekend getaways. Just Rich in his favorite recliner watching MeTV or scrolling through the History Channel, and me beside him, holding his hand. I miss that more than I can say.

Fridays haven’t held much significance for me since he passed. But when my sons visit, they arrive on Fridays, and suddenly the day feels special again. Last Friday was one of those days — lunch with my brother and cousins, and later an evening of reminiscing with family. It reminded me that meaning can return in small, unexpected ways.

And today is Friday. I’m preparing for company tomorrow — my new Mahjong friends will be gathering at my home, and I feel genuinely excited. This Friday matters. It’s the end of the week, and I’m smiling because I can feel myself evolving.

Mahjong and the Sound of Sparrows

Mahjong has woven itself back into my life. I grew up watching my mother play with her friends, the tiles clicking across the table like tiny sparrows — fitting, since the name itself comes from the Chinese word for sparrow. The game dates back to the mid‑19th century in China, and the National Mah Jongg League was founded in New York in 1937. Each year they publish a new card outlining the hands players aim for, and depending on the group, the game can be fiercely competitive or beautifully communal.

The women coming tomorrow fall into the latter category — conversation, laughter, noshes, and connection. That’s the part I love. Rich never enjoyed games; he preferred watching from the sidelines. I’m not overly competitive myself, though I do love to win. Mostly, I enjoy being part of the action. I played Mahjong over fifty years ago, then let it go dormant until recently. I’m rusty, I make mistakes, but I enjoy every moment of the camaraderie.

When Does It Get Easier?

This week I saw many posts from widows — and a few widowers — asking the same question: When does this get easier?

It gets easier as we grow. As we evolve. As we allow life to carry us gently into the next realm of ourselves.

I remember my first miscarriage. The grief felt unbearable, like I might not survive it. I couldn’t function; anger consumed me. But time carried me forward. The sadness still exists, but not with the same sharpness. I chose to heal. I chose to live for what is in front of me. The past remains part of me, but it no longer has to wound me.

I will always remember Richard. Forty‑two years of marriage is my history, my story. And these last six months of walking a new path are part of my story too. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting — it means placing things in perspective. On our 42nd anniversary this week, I found a simple, gentle way to honor it. I gave myself grace to feel my emotions in a healthy way.

If I Could Offer One Piece of Advice

Allow yourself to feel what you feel in the moment. Let your emotions speak to you rather than frighten you. Be aware of them and let that awareness become strength.

Healing happens from the inside out — quietly, steadily, and in your own time.

Join me as we walk this path together.

#YesICan Coaching with Karen

Email: Kh.yesican1@gmail.com