Janet and Dick Crawford worked together in their small veterinary practice in Wisconsin for thirty years. They raised five children, grew tons of vegetables, marched for Civil Rights, saw a thousand movies, and traveled to more than fifty countries. The year Dick died was the fifty-sixth year of their marriage- a partnership of opposites, and a honeymoon that lasted through both the rough and smooth years.

In this memoir, author Janet Jackson Crawford narrates the devastating mental and physical experiences of becoming a widow. She describes her odyssey through the "valley of death" and her methods of recovery and rejuvenation. She tells how she learned to feel her emotions, acknowledge her pain, resolve her loss, and live again.

A personal account of the grief and loneliness of surviving the death of a mate, A Widow’s Odyssey offers an idea of what to expect when your lifelong partner dies. Crawford provides insight as well as suggestions to help overcome feelings of helplessness, sadness, and loneliness. This memoir helps those left behind cope as they struggle to overcome the heartbreak.

A WIDOW'S ODYSSEY

From Depression to RejuvenationBy JANET JACKSON CRAWFORD

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Janet Jackson Crawford
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-3877-9

Chapter One

THE PHONE CALL TO AIX EN PROVENCE

"Je suis desolee. Votre fille est dans le telephone."

"Hi Mom."

"Bonjour, Laurie, comment ca va?" I responded, totally delighted to speak French yet disoriented from being suddenly awakened. My heart began to race as I quickly realized that this was not a phone call for a pleasant chat-no silvery thread of laughter in response to my French. I knew my daughter intimately; unlike me, she would be very aware of the nine hour time difference. With her very first words and the tone of her voice, it was obvious that something was very wrong at home.

"Mom," she hesitated, "Dad told me not to call you. He didn't want to spoil your dream. He wanted you to stay in France ... but the doctor told me to call you because he said Dad may not live for more than a few days. You have to come home right away." Her voice trailed off, reluctant to give me the news and also break the promise she had made to her father.

"Of course, Laurie, I'll see what I can do. My ticket is for the first of November." I stammered a meaningless response, suddenly experiencing what shock must feel like. I was struck dumb, totally incapable of imagining how to make arrangements for quickly returning home. Not only that, my thoughts about everything evaporated into a feeling of floating in a vacuum.

"He has a dissected aorta twelve inches long. Do you know what that means?"

The vacuum burst into large fragments. I felt a surge of emotion that came from somewhere in my chest and moved up through the back of my neck. Feeling cold and hot at the same time, I heard Laurie say "dissected aorta" but didn't know for sure what it meant. Later, I would be able to recite an explanation as if I were a professional. I could not imagine Dick in any way but as he had always been-his deep voice that people over the phone could recognize before he said more than two words, his strong hug, his warm hands ... He always had been healthy. I could not believe he was near death. Yet doctors don't use such strong words unless there is a profound reason. It wasn't possible. I insisted in my own mind that they must be wrong.

* * *

Three weeks before, I had carefully pulled my favorite duffle bag down the attic's folding stairs. If you looked closely at that bag, you could see the scars of wear from being tossed onto conveyer belts or shoved into tight compartments. The handle had divorced itself and had to be repaired while Dick and I were in Southern India. One corner of the bag was glued near the area where the wheels were attached. Why I continued to use it was a mystery to some; but somehow, this bag represented the memories and excitement of distant places. I noticed some sand from previous travels in the bottom, but didn't bother to take the bag outside and give it a good shake.

"Let's see. These always travel well, don't wrinkle and dry quickly," I mused as I pulled two khaki pants from the drawer. One pair, with lots of pockets was ideal, with places for the passport and flight information, a small pocket for coins, and another for the digital camera. The best thing about this pair of pants was the elastic drawstring at the bottom of the legs. I could drop my pants over a foreign toilet hole and not have them go past my ankles into mud or heaven knows! I was not a classy dresser; my lifestyle of being with dogs, cats and horses made me a "tom boy." The sweat shirts carried gardening stains and oil paint from my artwork. My days were too full to consider haute couture, too busy living the life I loved.

I typically started packing long before departure. This trip promised to be different, and I was terribly excited about it. I tried to imagine what clothing I would need for a whole month in Provence and I was having a hard time deciding what clothes I should take. Every trip has its unknown elements-weather concerns, the amount of money to take along and gifts for my hosts. The day before I left, I still felt unprepared. Unlike most of our trips where Dick and I went together, this was going to be radically different. I would be traveling alone, not only to San Francisco, but to France. I would be staying with a French family that I had never met.

In the evening before my departure, I let out a big sigh, leaving my bulging bag lying on the floor by the patio door in the bedroom. I walked into the living room where Dick was engrossed in a football game and I sat down beside him. Football was great to watch, but I always seemed too busy doing other things. Watching TV was not high on my priority list. Moving closer to him, I automatically placed my head on his shoulder.

"I'm going to miss you," I murmured, kissing his ear and placing my hand near his back, a back that craved to be rubbed, all hours of the day and night. He moved forward on the sofa so I would have plenty of room, anticipating five minutes of back rubbing. I had other thoughts on my mind so the back rub was pretty haphazard.

"There won't be that much to do in October. You just have to let the dogs out in the morning and make sure the cat comes in at night." I surely had gone over these words before. It was like packing. I just needed to rehearse the procedure, as if Dick were a stranger taking care of everything. My horse, Hussy, was going to the stable while I was gone, so he didn't have to worry about her.

"Is there anything I'm forgetting?" I half-whispered as I nuzzled my nose next to the soft fuzz on the edge of his ear. "Will you be all right?"

"Hell, I take better care of myself when you're not here," he retorted. I wondered why, since I did my best to keep him happy and healthy. I hoped I had succeeded. We had been married for over a half century and he had never been sick. I made sure that Dick retired from the stress of our veterinary practice when he was fifty. We had moved to Oregon, mostly to please me, since I was determined not to spend another winter in Wisconsin. In Oregon, I cajoled Dick into hiking and cross country skiing, wanting him to stay young, after experiencing the death of my father when he was only forty-eight years old.

Still I wished Dick weighed less and exercised more. His brain usually got the workout as he struggled for hours with the hardest Sudoku he could find. I looked at one occasionally and shook my head. I loved the results of my hobbies, like a painting, quilt or the vegetable and flower gardens. I rode my horse several times a week and trained my dogs to perform in agility shows. Dick would simply finish a Sudoku and toss it in a wastebasket!

All conversation stopped as Richard screamed his approval, when a galloping player threw himself into the air for a touchdown. He laughed, "That was a good one! The Bears are ahead by a touchdown!" You can take the boy away from Chicago, but you can't take Chicago away from the boy. Dick was born and raised there-a die-hard Bears' fan.

"I guess I'm nervous because this is the first time I have driven to our friend's place on my own. I keep hoping that I won't make a mistake and end up in San Francisco or Oakland somewhere!" My thoughts were decidedly not on the ball game.

"Oh, you'll do fine. I'll get you a map and directions from the internet. Just read them over and take them along with you. If I can do it, so can you. Just take your time, leave early so you miss the rush hours. It will take you six hours if you stop in Williams for a snack and gas." Dick had always been so supportive of me.

Traveling in high speed traffic requires great attention and swift action to make sure one is in the right lane at the right time. I admired Dick's ability to navigate the route with aplomb, but it wasn't a chore I especially wanted to tackle. As a passenger, I hadn't paid close enough attention to every turn, every change from one Interstate to another. I secretly wanted him to come with me, at least as far as the Ford's house. I hated to leave him, even if I joyously anticipated spending a month in France. For the last twenty years I had been trying to increase my knowledge of French and hoped that there might be an opportunity to immerse myself in the language. Just practicing out of a book made it difficult to truly remember little more than just the basics of the language. At last, I had this long awaited opportunity, but one that would take me away from Dick.

Still dwelling on the harrowing possibilities of the car trip, I relieved my anxiety on a few more minutes of Dick's back rub. In spite of my fears, I looked forward to continuing our ritual of driving to the Ford's house at the beginning of each overseas trip. The drive took most of a day, but it was much cheaper and easier to fly overseas from the San Francisco airport. Besides, it was always a pleasure for the four of us to spend a few days together, before and after a trip. Bill Ford's friendship with Dick started during their freshman year in vet school. Dick was Bill's best man when he married Norma. Visiting them in the Bay Area was a special treat, yet I had a hollow feeling inside me, because I knew that this time, Dick wouldn't be with me. I had no premonition of what was to transpire within a week, not the faintest idea that Dick, who sat here beside me, would be dead in three months.

Finishing up Dick's back rub, I headed for the kitchen to get out the ingredients for our meal.

* * *

As I prepared dinner, I reflected on a phone conversation with my oldest daughter, months before I had solidified my plans for France.

"Sara, where does desire come from? Do you suppose it is in the genes ... something you are born with?"

"Gosh, Mom, I don't know. You've been interested in French as long as I can remember."

"Well, I keep studying like it was important, as if there was something missing in me, an empty glass waiting to be filled or a blank canvas that needs to be painted. I'm seventy-five years old! What difference could it make? It seems so important, but it's almost like there is a necessity, something that I have to do now, or else ... sort of an obsession! Why in the world would I go to so much trouble to try and learn more of the language at my age?" Pausing to reflect, "Actually, I feel like I am following in the footsteps of my mother. She loved Paris. When I think back, she took French lessons from a retired college professor when she was a little younger than what I am. Maybe I'm doing it for her, or even because of her. I've always felt that she was the one that gave me the `travel bug.' Maybe it is in the genes. Maybe French has more of a meaning than I can imagine ..."

"When you go to France, perhaps you'll find out. It should be a great experience whether you find all the answers. Remember, Mom, with all your kids, the practice, art and gardening, you somehow became a professional Belly Dancer. I remember when Dad drove you around on Saturday nights when you had gigs at different night clubs. Maybe it is the same thing. You wanted to become a dancer back then, and now you want to become an American who speaks French."

"I must admit that I have to accept your logic." We both laughed. Little did I know how this experience of travelling alone would give me confidence to travel later once I had lost Dick.

* * *

I had a French acquaintance, a teacher in Paris named Anne who had worked with me over the internet to help two students in Ethiopia. I had emailed Anne, explaining that I wanted to perfect my French and wondering if she knew anyone who could tolerate an American for a month. One of Anne's two sisters, Pascale, lived in Aix en Provence in Southern France with her husband, Guy, their son Vincent, and a little white dog, Tatine. Pascale seemed amenable-just the kind of situation I had wished for. I immediately began making plans.

"What do you think, Dick? Do you want me to go? Can you put up with me being gone for a month?" I found myself asking permission. After all, we had always been partners in everything we did so it was natural for each to ask the other for his or her opinion.

"Janet, it hasn't escaped my notice that you have been devouring French for ages. Of course I'll miss you, but this has been a dream of yours for a long time," Dick said magnanimously. "Stop thinking that there's something wrong with you. Lots of people go to countries to learn a foreign language. You've just had a lot of things on your plate. Now it looks like a good time to go."

I had given the time frame a lot of thought. The garden was nearing year's end. Dick was in good health. At seventy-eight, he might not be so healthy by the next year. And besides, I had always worked from the principle that if moments of opportunity were not seized, they might never come again.

Over the next several weeks, I made arrangements with Anne and Pascal. I checked with Bill and Norma Ford before buying a ticket from San Francisco to Paris, making sure I could stay at their house before my flight departed. Typically, the Fords would take us to the airport and pick us up on our return. Often we would drive down to the waterfront in San Francisco, where the cable cars start up the hill. There, we would find a seat in the crowded Buena Vista Bar and hoist an Irish coffee or two to make a toast for a great trip, and later, to celebrate a successful return. Next month, Dick planned to drive down to the Ford's house to meet me after I came off the plane. The Buena Vista tradition would top off my trip and a happy reunion with my

Chapter Two

THE EXQUISITE DESIRE

In spite of my pre-trip anxieties, I felt empowered as I drove the rental car down through California. I clutched the steering wheel, as though holding the reins of my beautifully trained horse. With just a touch, the car leaped to obey. On the last stretch of Interstate 5, I glanced down at the speedometer to find I was going a shocking 100 miles per hour! I managed to get to the Ford's without a single mishap, obviously making good time. As I walked into their home, only my cramped hands reminded me of the stress and concentration required to get there. The trip to the airport the next day was also unbelievably flawless. With ease I found the car return building, caught the shuttle and entered the airport. Soon I was finding my seat on the nonstop flight to Paris. Managing to accomplish all of this without Dick was indeed stressful, but I was proud of myself. In spite of trepidations, I had solved many problems that I was unsure about. Because of my desire to speak a foreign language, I had mustered up the effort and had overcome my fear of failure.

* * *

Charles de Gaulle is a huge, but user friendly airport, and I quickly passed through customs. After a sleepless night, I rallied my logy body and dragged my favorite old duffle bag down two sets of escalators, watching for the signs to the TGV station, as Anne had instructed over email. She had arranged to leave school as soon as the lunch hour began and catch the metro to the airport. As I sat waiting for Anne, whom I'd never met in person, I zipped up my grey sweater against the wind, which steadily blew from the end of the building where the trains sat waiting for their departure time. Sleep would have felt good, but my anticipation outweighed my exhaustion.

Slowly, a warm feeling came over me as I tucked the collar of my sweater up to my chin. I could almost feel the warm embrace and sweet kiss Dick had given me as we said our goodbyes. He had such great kisses! I wished he was here with me, but what would he do while I sat in someone's house trying to speak French? At home, at least he would have our daughter, Laurie asking him to meet her for lunch or an evening movie.

While sitting there, I could feel a sense of accomplishment at getting to Paris alone, and yet also found myself anticipating my return to San Francisco when Dick would drive down, visit with the Fords and then be at the airport to greet me. I imagined rattling off some French while they admired my new-found vocabulary. Returning to the Ford's house, I would unpack a bottle of Gaillac wine, the kind Dick had raved about when he and I were in Southern France two years earlier. I would pull out some wonderful goat cheese and a baguette for all of us to share. I shivered with excitement just thinking how pleased Dick would be, knowing that I had brought back that special brand of French wine. Thinking of this scenario brought a smile to my face. It was even more worthwhile to take this trip alone, if only for the joy of greeting him after a month's separation.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from A WIDOW'S ODYSSEYby JANET JACKSON CRAWFORD Copyright © 2010 by Janet Jackson Crawford. Excerpted by permission.
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