Benumbed, Battered and Bewildered

Somehow, I just got around to watching And Just Like That... I loved Sex and the City and so naturally, this would be the next chapter. Albeit, almost 20 years later. Since I didn’t read up on the new show before watching, I wasn’t aware of the “Big” loss covered in the first season. Having seen several episodes, I want to now prescribe this as a must-watch for anyone who has lost a life partner. This obviously happened to whomever wrote these episodes because Carrie could have been me, sans 100 pounds and children.

When I lost my beloved wife, Pepper, on November 13, 2019, I was gutted. I wasn’t blindsided or shocked like some whose partners had heart attacks or unexpected deaths. I was on this wild ride for years and saw it coming as things progressed.

“I don’t know how you did it?” I often heard about being the primary caregiver for my wife. “You’re a saint.”

I’m not and I wasn’t. I was just getting by day by day. I didn’t have time to stop and think and never considered, “I can’t do this.” Now, this shouldn’t be confused with the stress and times I was beside myself. There were plenty of those days. How hard it is to watch the person you love more than life slowly disintegrating before your eyes. Not being able to do much of anything to relieve their pain while trying to remain hopeful for them. But, you do it.

Now that all the physical work was done, I was left with this void. What do I do now? It would help if I could think but that was out of the question. The foremost symptom of my grief was foggy brain. The scientific term is accurately “widow’s brain.” Those moments, days, weeks, even a year, are just snippets of recollection. I watch a lot of Court TV and completely get those witnesses who say, “I can’t recall.” In moments of chaos, trauma or sorrow, our brains go into protective mode.

After the mortuary took Pepper’s body, Cory, Shea and I were standing together in the family room. The silence was deafening. Why was it suddenly so quiet? Ah, the whirring machine that pumped oxygen into her lungs 24-7 was suddenly still. A metaphor for my life at that point.

Cory began to make the calls I could not. Shea made me a hot tea because she understood the Lane formula.

“ Mummy,” I cried. “I lost my job, my husband ran away with the babysitter—and we don’t even have children, I can’t find my dog and I think there’s a nuclear warhead headed our way!”

“Here, dahling,” she’d say in her lilting Irish brogue. “Have a nice cuppa hot tea.”

The house and backyard were suddenly blanketed with people. But I wouldn’t be able to testify as to who, exactly. It was like a movie scanning across blurred faces, streaked with tears. Humming noises of vague voices. Life-affirming hugs of support. And, still, laughter because that’s what we do.

The LAFA family—Lanes/Adams/Falconer/Abbott—were a mainstay for a couple of months so I know they were all there. I remember leaving the house every morning and walking aimlessly through my neighborhood for about an hour. It was as though I was hoping to leave behind this crushing grief.

I also recall that young people from the Theatre, TV & Film department at UCLA arrived at some point and gave us a few hundred dollars’ worth of Door Dash credit. The people who could barely afford rent pooled their money to support us.

I remember a curious drum of spaghetti sauce that sat for days on my counter from the nearby Italian restaurant because, apparently, that place became a favorite of our group.

We decided to have a celebration of life for Pepper early in December to steer clear of holiday parties. We scheduled it at UCSD, where our family shared so many great memories together and because it was convenient to get there and park. Always, conscientious even in our haze.

We seemed to be able to come up with a program and speakers, and though we didn’t share our scripts with each other beforehand, no one duplicated a memory or testament to her. My dearest friends at Show Imaging covered all the AV needs and my events team, and dear friends, Jill and Adrianne helped coordinate with the facility and the crowd--and I use the term, literally. It was standing room only. With tears and laughter and even a sing-along at the end, we gave Pepper a proper sendoff. I don’t recall getting there or standing up and speaking—but it’s on a tape so I guess I did. And, I was actually vertical.

I don’t remember eating, but I do remember drinking. A lot. But, hey it was the holiday season, so I was not alone. We got through the first Thanksgiving, the celebration of life and the first Christmas and New Year. A few of the first-year requisites that must be checked off.

Eventually, it was just Shea and me. LAFA had to get back to their jobs, families and well, lives. I had no idea what that was going to look like for me. But, Cathy called the Elizabeth Hospice and had them give me a call about a grief group they sponsored.

“Maybe,” I said unconvincingly when the volunteer called me, wondering how on earth I was supposed to manage anything like this.

“Well,” she said. “There’s a group starting this afternoon.”

Cory and Shea both called out.

“Go!”

I was late because of course I got lost. I was lost. When I arrived, the room was filled with about 20 members of a club of which no one ever wants to be a member. Somebody patted the empty chair next to them. Most were my age or older and considerably more women than men. One by one, they introduced themselves, named their dearly departed, how long they were married and how they died. When it came to me, I dropped my head and sobbed. I could feel hands touching mine, a box of tissues placed in my lap, and pats on my back as they moved on to the next person. This continued for about three weeks. Finally, I mustered up the ability to say her name.

It is not an exaggeration to say these people saved my life. Prior to attending these sessions, I was seriously considering just driving my car off the road. This misery would be over in a minute. But, I knew how much Cory and Shea were suffering and they still needed me. So, instead, I would drive to the loading dock at the back of the supermarket and scream.

The Grief Group understood what no one else could. How it feels to lose your life partner, and ostensibly your life. There were others who were feeling Pepper’s loss greatly, but they all had other lives. Jobs. Husbands. Wives. People with whom they could continue to make plans and dreams. Someone to steady them as the floor was giving out beneath their feet.

One of the “assignments” was to journal. No one would read it, but it was an exercise that apparently helped. I never kept a diary or a journal or anything like that. I’ve written for as long as I can remember, but nothing telling or personal like that. I never saw the need. But I was forcing myself to do whatever it took to feel better. I read all the grief books recommended and listened intently to everyone’s story. I remember asking “Will I ever be happy again?” And one of the wise, older sisters, as I referred to them, said “Yes. It will never be the same, but it will eventually be okay.”

I simply couldn’t take the paralyzing and excruciating pain that was literally shredding my heart. Our family doctor set me up with a heart monitor because I was having such chest pains. He indulged me because he knew why.

Here is my first ever entry in the journal I entitled, “The Widder Lane.”

They say not to make any big decisions for at least a year after a death. You know, like move. Or buy a house. Unless, of course, your lease on the rental you’ve been living in ended in a couple of months. Yeah, that. Pepper and I knew it was coming, but I just thought it would be something the two of us would be doing together. Even if she was physically incapacitated, I could still depend on her to help me make the right decision. But, once again, life laughs at us.

I may have mentioned how numbers played an interesting role in our lives. Often mystical and inexplicable. Like how in the beginning of our relationship, we would give each other cards and sign it with something to the effect, “I’ll love you for 33,000 years…” Just a random, sweet thing we came up with. After a few years, we shortened it to 33 years. When she died, we were two months short of those 33 years.

Her favorite number was “232” because it was the classroom number of her second mother, mentor and former teacher, Lessie “Wash” Washausen, who died unexpectedly on the day Pepper and I met at Cal State L.A. When everything was settled after Pep died, I unexpectedly received a life insurance check from UCSD. For $232,000.

It was March now and we had two months to find another place to live. You may recall around this time was when the Covid pandemic was raging and the shutdown began. What we thought would last a few weeks turned into about two years. This put a little hitch in getting anyone to help us pack and move when we did find a place.

Pepper talked about moving up to north county San Diego when we looked ahead. But, she always said “Cathy Brendel is there. It will be a good place for you.” And, I would correct her and say, “for us.” And she’d just nod.

My real estate agent sent me to a couple of places he found in Vista. The properties were dismal. Not to mention, I was able to break into them, without having to wait for the agent to open the lock box, which told me I didn’t want to live in any of these places alone with my daughter. I was getting a little discouraged and again, I was still dazed and confused. As I drove away from the last prospect, I began to get telepathic messages directing me. Drive up the street to the next light. Make a left. Remember? Shadowridge, where we used to live.

I held the wheel, but it was as though someone else was steering.

A little further.

As I approached a corner, I noticed a for sale sign and pulled over. I called my agent to ask about it.

“That place is in escrow. But, if you drive a little further up to the end of the cul-de-sac, there’s another one. I’ll meet you there.”

When he opened the door for me and I stood in the open space of the connecting living room, dining room and kitchen, my heart lifted. A low maintenance, fenced backyard, surrounded by rich succulents and a huge bougainvillea draping one whole side of the fence, all overlooking a golf course with large pine trees. Just perfect for us and our two dogs.

“Shea,” I said, calling her at school. “Can you come look at this place with me?”

“I trust you, Mama,” she replied. “If it feels right to you, that’s all that matters.”

And just like that…we had a new place to live. The first place I ever bought on my own. And one that had the blessing of my dearly departed.

Unlike like most widows, I was forced to go through the clothing and belongings of my darling long before I was ready. I have no recollection of whom or where they went. But I’m sure they made a lot of people happy. I saved one T-shirt for each member of our LAFA family so that my niece, Tyler, could have pillows made from them.

With Covid in full swing, Cathy and Steve Brendel, and her cousins Kelly Cullen and Patrick Cullen became our pod. They helped me unpack and arrange my kitchen, something I never gave a moment’s thought to since Pepper was the keeper of the house, and I just said “yes.” to whatever she wanted. They were also our Sunday night dinner guests for well over a year.

Unlike most people, I was grateful for Covid because it allowed me to hide away and not feel guilty about staying inside when the sun was shining. Or not going to a birthday party or other special occasions that I just couldn’t do. It was as though the whole world was mourning with me. And there was comfort in that. But, I distinctly recall being seriously annoyed by people who complained about having to spend so much time with their spouses. If only…

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© 2025 by Judy Lane