Dear widow police, I’m keeping my widow membership card, thank you very much. Almost six years ago, I was thrust into one of the most challenging clubs imaginable. On October 9th, 2009, I transitioned from being Sarah, half of the duo Sam & Sarah, to becoming a widow.
At just 36, with a one-year-old and a nearly three-year-old at home, I had a lifetime of memories and dreams ahead of us. Your club? I never wanted to join. I didn’t ask for this, and honestly, it’s unbearable—so take your card back and give me my wonderful husband, Sam, instead. PLEASE!
Coming to terms with my membership in this dismal club wasn’t easy. No amount of pleading, crying, or anger could reverse my situation. I am a widow.
Facing Unimaginable Experiences
As a new widow, I faced unimaginable experiences that no one should endure. I was left to decide which parts of Sam’s body could be donated to help others. I methodically went through a list that included everything from his corneas to his skin, discussing it all over the phone with a donation center representative.
I sat down with my almost three-year-old daughter and composed a gentle script to explain her father’s tragic accident. I knew emotions could overwhelm me, so I carefully chose my words to protect her from additional pain. She was already coping with far too much.
After a bedtime routine filled with baths and stories, I felt as if I were hovering above my own life, detached from the harsh reality surrounding us. The shock was so intense that I hardly felt any real pain then. I wrote his eulogy, shared it at his service, visited the site of the crash, and inhaled the acrid scent of charred materials scattered around. I spread his ashes in places that he loved.
I held his grieving mother as she mourned her son. I was warned against viewing his body because the smell could scar me for life. It’s hard to forgo saying goodbye to the person you love most.
I read police reports, the NTSB findings, and stared for hours at the envelope that contained his autopsy report. To this day, I have never opened it, fearing the heartbreak it might unleash.
For nearly six months, I lay awake in bed, lights on, feeling an emptiness that no one else could fill. I continued to raise our children, striving to provide them with the love they needed to counterbalance the profound effects of loss.
I faced harsh judgment from those I once counted as friends, and I no longer fit into the social circles we had enjoyed together. The list of experiences I lived through as a widow could fill pages. Perhaps that will be a chapter in my future book. Each moment was more painful than the last, intricately woven into the fabric of my emotional existence.
Without a doubt—I am a widow.
Finding Strength in Community
Yet, I discovered that those who share this unfortunate membership are some of the most remarkable individuals I’ve ever met. They have endured profound pain and emerged from their struggles more resilient and beautiful than before.
Grief teaches us invaluable lessons. It provides perspective, patience, and a depth of love we didn’t know we were capable of. It fosters kindness, tolerance, acceptance, and an appreciation for the present moment. Grief is arguably the greatest teacher of all, albeit at a steep cost. I often say I wouldn’t wish my pain on my worst enemy, but I would share my perspective with the world.
Over the years, I learned to embrace my membership in this difficult club. While widowhood doesn’t define me, it has significantly influenced who I am today. I’ve forged priceless friendships with those who understand my journey. I’ve reshaped my life according to new philosophies and adjusted my goals.
I’ve cried. I’ve laughed. I’ve learned. I’ve grown. I’ve transformed as a person and as a widow.
Embracing Change
And yes, I’ve remarried.
Wait! What? You remarried? Hand over your widow membership card! You’re not a widow anymore! Forget everything you’ve lived through—the grief, the lessons, the memories. Because I chose to share my life with someone else, I’m expected to erase my past.
Let’s pause for a moment. Sure, I’m not a widow in the traditional sense. I’m married to Keith, and I hyphenate my last name to Jenkins-Baumgard. I chose to seek happiness for my remaining days, sharing my lessons and love with him. This decision isn’t always easy, but it is mine to make.
I’m Keith’s wife.
I’m Sam’s widow.
These identities coexist. I’m allowed to love my current husband while honoring the memory of the one I lost. People often ask if I ever stop missing Sam, especially now that I’m remarried. The answer is a definitive no. I don’t ever stop missing him or thinking about him.
People aren’t interchangeable. One love doesn’t replace another; they are distinct. I believe that great love expands our capacity to love even more. Love has a way of enlarging the heart, even when there’s a void that remains.
Refusing to Conform
So, I won’t relinquish my widow card.
I won’t bow to those who insist I must stop identifying as a widow.
I won’t conform to others’ narrow perceptions of life and love.
I won’t fit into a box.
I won’t see things in black and white.
I will embrace the complexity of my life.
Life is messy. Love is messy. Death is messy. I’m not here to fit into anyone else’s mold or make them comfortable with my existence. I am a wife. I am a widow. I am my own unique person who has loved deeply, grieved profoundly, and persevered. I’ve paid the ultimate price to discover who I truly am.
In summary, the journey of widowhood is filled with complexities and emotions that shape who we are. Embracing both identities can coexist and reflect the richness of our experiences.