I noticed a hole had worn through my flannel shirt at the elbow when I put it on today. The paper thin material had finally gave way and it filled me with dread. This old flannel was there with me the night my husband died, covering me when I turned off the machines and said good bye.
It’s a strange attachment, but I can’t deny the meaning of this faded thing.
Back during that long night, the first responders struggled for a good while to stabilize Gage where he had collapsed on our garage floor. It gave me too much time to think. Knowing that we were headed to the hospital, I changed out of my work clothes and opted for comfort; jeans, t-shirt, flip-flops, and this flannel.
It may seem odd to do this in the middle of a crisis, but it’s how I work. I assess, prepare, and plan, constantly sifting through the probabilities of what-ifs and what I can do about them. Sometimes it’s a curse because I can see right to the end point very quickly. That was exactly what happened that night. In a span of a few short hours, I was a widow.
When my sister drove me home later that night, I sunk low into her passenger seat. I held on to his wedding band so tight in my hand that I had marks there for a long time. I was physically in that seat as we flew by the bright streetlights, but my heart and my rational mind were far away. The shock of his death disconnected me from my surroundings.
Somehow, my flannel made it home with me.
It sat in a pile of clothes on my floor. Weeks later, someone was kind enough to wash it. I found it neatly folded on our bed one day and it stopped me in my tracks. This simple thing was a witness to one of the most horrific events in my life. I was almost afraid to touch it. I felt angry and sad at the same. My heart thumped fast and my breathing was rough, but I couldn’t stop staring at it, sitting in a warm spill of sunlight coming in from our big bedroom windows.
At first I wanted to throw it away. Burn it. But something made me pause and I hid it in my closet instead.
So much of those first months are a thick cloud to me. I can’t seem to conjure up any chronological order of what really happened in those days and nights after he died. Instead, strong memories, like the one of me staring at that damn shirt, stick in my head.
Months after I hid my flannel in the closet, I searched for it. My anger, sadness, and fear had settled into a what was feeling like a normal pattern and I wanted to acknowledge that I had survived to this point.
My resolve made me reach for the crumpled shirt and put it on. The flannel began to symbolize the strength I found that night when I had to make the decision to turn off his machines and let him go. That same strength that kept growing every day, allowing me to keep pushing forward.
For years now I always grab this shirt first. It’s seen lots of home renovations. It’s been on nearly all my travels. I’ve taken out on many lakes with my paddle board as I searched for a bit of peace. Every time I put it on, I know why it matters to me.
Seeing it wearing away is hard. It shows me that the years will continue to stretch on, taking me further from my old life with Gage. Further from those first months and years after his death, where I found my true strength that got me to this next point.
I worry what time will do. Like my flannel, will the memories and lessons fade? Will I forget what I worked so hard for and and I’ll have to restart?
I can’t keep things forever. At some point, I’m going to have to let my flannel go. I just know that I’m not ready yet. I don’t know what it will take for me to be ready, but I know that I’ll have to find some new level of strength to get to that next point.
The Unseen Widow 
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