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"My husband, Scott, was the love of my life. He always smelled of freshly mown grass. Even after he worked up a sweat, the smell remained. I&amp;amp;#8217;d bury my face above his collarbone and tease him about harvesting alfalfa in a previous life. He was Robin Hood. He was Huck Finn meets James Bond. He was the third little pig&amp;amp;#8212;the one who planned ahead and outsmarted the wolf. On a sunny summer morning in 2005, we gathered in our driveway before setting off on a vacation at Lake Chelan, east of where we lived in Washington state. Our children, nine-year-old Meg and seven-year-old Cole, waved goodbye to their dad, who straddled his Ducati motorcycle, dressed in riding leathers. To them, he looked like a superhero. &amp;amp;#8220;Be careful,&amp;amp;#8221; I said. &amp;amp;#8220;Always,&amp;amp;#8221; he replied. I was going to drive with the kids on I-90, while Scott took the scenic North Cascades Highway. We had never traveled separately before, but riding was his passion, so I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t tell him I was bothered by our plan to split up. I gave him one last hug. &amp;amp;#8220;I love you,&amp;amp;#8221; I said. He smiled; with his helmet on, I&amp;amp;#8217;m not sure he heard me. We arrived at the hotel and waited for Scott; I expected him around 4:00 P.M. At 4:30, I was angry that he was late, by 5:00 I was worried, and by 6:00, I started calling the state patrol and every hospital in the area. It was well after dark when a state trooper contacted my brother. Scott had died that afternoon when his motorcycle skidded on gravel and careened into the mountainside; his body was lying in a coroner&amp;amp;#8217;s office. My cell phone rang at 11:00 P.M., and when I heard my brother&amp;amp;#8217;s voice, I knew the truth before he told me: I was a widow at the age of 36. My son lay next to my hotel bed. &amp;amp;#8220;Is Dad dead?&amp;amp;#8221; he asked. I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t know what to say&amp;amp;#8212;how does a woman look at her kids and break their hearts? I sucked in air. &amp;amp;#8220;Yes. He is.&amp;amp;#8221; I will spend my life with the sound of their bare, animalistic shrieks echoing in my head. I held both of them in my arms and told them, &amp;amp;#8220;Your dad loved you more than the moon and all the stars. Never forget that.&amp;amp;#8221; It was a night of torture, a stone-cold hell of fear and panic. The next day we drove home. When I pulled into the driveway, family and friends swirled around us. My husband&amp;amp;#8217;s best friend hugged me. &amp;amp;#8220;I&amp;amp;#8217;m scared,&amp;amp;#8221; I whispered. I smelled everyone&amp;amp;#8217;s neck; the scent of grass was gone. Our trip to the lake was intended as an escape from the chaos at home. Two months earlier Scott and I had begun a major renovation. After years of sketching on napkins and snuggling in bed talking about our dream home, we hired workers to tear the place apart. As I reentered the house without Scott and stumbled around its shredded interior, the gaping holes seemed larger than they had a few days before, the plywood floor rougher. I could see no way out of the rubble. Forty-eight hours later, I finally slept. Our bedrooms were demolished, so I collapsed between Meg and Cole on a mattress in our former family room. Scott and I were together for 15 years, and without fail before falling asleep, he&amp;amp;#8217;d whisper to me, &amp;amp;#8220;I&amp;amp;#8217;ll see you in the morning.&amp;amp;#8221; Never again. My night was filled with restless dreams. I woke with a start just before 6:00 A.M. and, being careful not to wake my kids, made my way through the maze of cardboard boxes. Two thousand square feet of hardwood flooring was bundled and stacked in our former dining area. In the kitchen, I brushed splinters off my bare feet before falling into a chair, where I sobbed like never before. My ribs strained; my throat and eyes burned. I knew my children and I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t live amid the wreckage indefinitely, but I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t want to move forward. At 7:00 a knock came at the door. With swollen eyes and handfuls of soggy tissue, I opened it to a man in dirty coveralls holding a drill. &amp;amp;#8220;Good morning,&amp;amp;#8221; he said, seemingly oblivious to my disarray. &amp;amp;#8220;Did the electrical work get inspected? If so, I&amp;amp;#8217;m going to start hanging the drywall.&amp;amp;#8221; I thought back to my father-in-law&amp;amp;#8217;s advice. &amp;amp;#8220;Don&amp;amp;#8217;t tell the contractors Scott died,&amp;amp;#8221; he had said. &amp;amp;#8220;They&amp;amp;#8217;ll worry about being paid and stop progress on the house.&amp;amp;#8221; Through my haze I vaguely recalled the inspector showing up the day before and leaving without signing anything. I said evasively, &amp;amp;#8220;The inspector was here yesterday.&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;Great. I&amp;amp;#8217;ll get started.&amp;amp;#8221; Slouching in my chair, I listened to the muffled morning sounds of my children. Would the county fine a grieving widow for hanging drywall without an electrical inspection? I slogged over the filthy plywood to where the man worked. He lowered his drill. Numbly I pulled a staple from the sole of my foot and blurted, &amp;amp;#8220;The inspection didn&amp;amp;#8217;t happen. My husband died. Someone sent the inspector away. I have money to pay you.&amp;amp;#8221; As I spoke, I wondered if what I said was true. Did I have enough to finish the house? Scott had a life insurance policy. When would I get a check? I was a high school teacher on summer vacation; my salary alone wouldn&amp;amp;#8217;t cover the bills. Through tears and running snot, I begged, &amp;amp;#8220;Please, finish the drywall.&amp;amp;#8221; He looked at me blank-faced, like he was watching a TV commercial he had seen a time or two before and found uninteresting. Then he replied, &amp;amp;#8220;OK.&amp;amp;#8221; I wiped my nose and turned my back. &amp;amp;#8220;You shouldn&amp;amp;#8217;t walk around barefoot,&amp;amp;#8221; he said as I tracked blood over the floor. Time passed in a blur of sawdust, my days full of mundane chores that had turned into intolerable challenges: Who would lift the sofa so I could vacuum underneath? Who would read the kids Hank the Cowdog books and make Hank sound like George W. Bush? There was nowhere to hide. Construction workers tore at two-by-fours while my children scurried around the changing shifts of visitors. I had the keen sense that whenever I left a room, everyone would huddle to talk about me. Family discussed the last time I slept; workmen determined who would tell me about the broken lighting fixture. When I returned, I fielded questions. &amp;amp;#8220;What&amp;amp;#8217;s for lunch, Mom?&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;How high do you want those sconces?&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;Kate, have you called Social Security?&amp;amp;#8221; The worst was the plumber. He was 6&amp;#x27;4&amp;quot; with a barrel chest and was as self-absorbed as a sorority sister. &amp;amp;#8220;Where do you want the bathtub faucet?&amp;amp;#8221; he asked. &amp;amp;#8220;Centered on the tub, I guess.&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;That would be nice, but it won&amp;amp;#8217;t work.&amp;amp;#8221; After a 10-minute lecture from him about the ineptitude of the tile guy, I said, &amp;amp;#8220;OK, then move it a little to the left. He exhaled, shaking his head, clearly frustrated at having to work with someone of such limited vision. &amp;amp;#8220;I wouldn&amp;amp;#8217;t recommend that.&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;What would you recommend?&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;Oh, no, no. It&amp;amp;#8217;s your house, not mine.&amp;amp;#8221; Summoning all of my energy, I screeched, &amp;amp;#8220;I want to be able to turn on the water, and I want the water to fill the tub.&amp;amp;#8221; I stormed out. &amp;amp;#8220;Fine,&amp;amp;#8221; he yelled. &amp;amp;#8220;You know, you shouldn&amp;amp;#8217;t be walking around here barefoot.&amp;amp;#8221; He was only one of the workers who traveled this path with me. There was Knuckles, the floor installer who called me Honey and marveled at the beautiful lines and grains of the hardwood. Troy, my kids&amp;amp;#8217; favorite, was the carpenter. He stashed meals in my fridge and worked more slowly as the days went on, until my friends pointed out (wink, nudge) that maybe he didn&amp;amp;#8217;t want to go home. And the electricians, Ned and Craig, who took days off to go hunting. Most of these men treated me gently, like a fragile cup of hot liquid that they feared would break or spill at any moment. Poet Ezra Pound wrote, &amp;amp;#8220;You are violets with wind above them,&amp;amp;#8221; and the men were a constant energy blowing through my home, building me and my kids a haven. But in the weeks after Scott&amp;amp;#8217;s death, I didn&amp;amp;#8217;t feel protected. I felt vulnerable, like I was constantly changing in a room without a door. At times that was the literal truth. I had one working shower that was a faucet attached to an exposed pipe. It was in the middle of what would be the new master bedroom, its glass door exposing the occupant to anyone who walked through. Days before his accident, Scott had jokingly called this island of filth and mold &amp;amp;#8220;The Spa.&amp;amp;#8221; I hired a general contractor named Jim to inspect the work every few days and head off problems. He always wore a T-shirt with a different spiritual quip, like &amp;amp;#8220;My boss is a Jewish carpenter&amp;amp;#8221; or &amp;amp;#8220;God&amp;amp;#8217;s last name is not damnit.&amp;amp;#8221; The day friends and family came to help prime the drywall, he had on his &amp;amp;#8220;What would Jesus do?&amp;amp;#8221; T-shirt. When I saw it, I had a sudden inspiration. I stopped my husband&amp;amp;#8217;s best friend and asked him to spray the shower door. I thought, &amp;amp;#8220;I don&amp;amp;#8217;t care what Jesus would do. I&amp;amp;#8217;m going to create some privacy for myself.&amp;amp;#8221; He gave the grimy glass a solid, opaque coat of primer. It was a tiny step in self-care for me, but it felt good. Now I wouldn&amp;amp;#8217;t have to worry about workers walking in at 7:00 A.M. and seeing me showering. It was indeed my spa. As the work continued I pitched in, partly to pull my own weight and partly to save money. The insurance check had arrived, but I worried about the renovation&amp;amp;#8217;s costs. So I forced myself to paint and grout tile. I moved like a slug, slow and sticky, but I crawled forward, day after day. Simple tasks exhausted me, yet sitting gave me too much time to think. Friends suggested I cope by drinking large quantities of wine; relatives advised taking sleeping pills or antidepressants or a combination of both. While I wasn&amp;amp;#8217;t morally opposed to those options, I knew that the only way out for me was to walk pure and clean through my grief. As the master bedroom began to take shape, I purchased a closet organizer. I asked Meg to help me assemble it. The pieces were heavy and awkward, and while I tried to fasten a screw, she precariously balanced a shelf. &amp;amp;#8220;Mom, you should call someone to help us,&amp;amp;#8221; she said. I shook my head and swore under my breath. &amp;amp;#8220;Mom, what if it falls on you?&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;It won&amp;amp;#8217;t,&amp;amp;#8221; I snapped. Then the screw slipped and the shelf collapsed with a loud thud, scratching her hand on the way down. Tears welled in both our eyes. &amp;amp;#8220;We can&amp;amp;#8217;t always call people to help us,&amp;amp;#8221; I said, tending to her injury. &amp;amp;#8220;Sometimes we have to figure it out alone.&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;But it would be easier with help,&amp;amp;#8221; she said, puzzled over my stubbornness. &amp;amp;#8220;We&amp;amp;#8217;ll feel stronger if we build it ourselves.&amp;amp;#8221; She nodded, and I wrapped her in my arms. In those months after Scott&amp;amp;#8217;s death, I couldn&amp;amp;#8217;t hug my kids enough. I was perpetually awestruck by their resilience and their capacity to find joy amid devastation. It took three days, many expletives and a handful of Band-Aids, but we declared victory over the organizer. It may have been a simple space-saving device, but to me it was a work of art. The day the wood floors were all laid was another milestone. After five months we could finally move back into our bedrooms. My daughter had chosen paint the color of a tropical sea; my son, a green called Happy Camper. That night the three of us sat on his bed to read a story. Looking around, I marveled at how far we&amp;amp;#8217;d come. &amp;amp;#8220;How are we going to send our love to Dad?&amp;amp;#8221; I&amp;amp;#8217;d been asking my kids this since after the funeral. &amp;amp;#8220;Like monkeys swinging through trees,&amp;amp;#8221; said Cole. &amp;amp;#8220;Like waves,&amp;amp;#8221; Meg said. &amp;amp;#8220;And Harry Potter.&amp;amp;#8221; &amp;amp;#8220;Like Harry Potter, too,&amp;amp;#8221; I agreed. I tucked them in, went to my room and sat on the bed, built from Scott&amp;amp;#8217;s meticulous sketches. It was exquisitely beautiful and achingly lonely. Later Cole slid between the sheets, into the spot his dad used to occupy. &amp;amp;#8220;Lava,&amp;amp;#8221; he whispered to me. Sometimes it was meteors, sometimes hurricanes. Since his father died, there was no end to the horrific nightmares that Cole conjured in his sleep. A slow burn held in my throat; a tear caught on the rim of my eyelid. I contemplated crying. &amp;amp;#8220;No,&amp;amp;#8221; the word formed silently on my lips. &amp;amp;#8220;I&amp;amp;#8217;ll cry later.&amp;amp;#8221; I scheduled it like a dentist&amp;amp;#8217;s appointment or a trip to the supermarket. Monday at 2:15, I&amp;amp;#8217;ll have a 20-minute cry; right now I&amp;amp;#8217;ll sleep. Grief is like war. You can&amp;amp;#8217;t understand it unless you&amp;amp;#8217;ve experienced it, unless you&amp;amp;#8217;ve sat alone in your foxhole and wondered whether you&amp;amp;#8217;ll be alive in the morning. I&amp;amp;#8217;ve been filled with sadness and rage&amp;amp;#8212;at God, at Scott, at the man who sold my husband his first motorcycle, at the highway workers who didn&amp;amp;#8217;t clean up the gravel. I&amp;amp;#8217;ve felt my anxieties swelling like balloons. Will my kids and I get through this? Am I destined to be alone? At the same time I&amp;amp;#8217;ve been overwhelmed by the generosity of my friends and family. There have been countless meals delivered and offers to babysit. Dozens of people traveled hours to be with us. Last but not least, a circle of girlfriends&amp;amp;#8212;Alex, Deb and Krista&amp;amp;#8212;remained by my side, saving me with their love and confidence in my ability to heal. I survived my first Thanksgiving and Christmas without Scott. For the New Year, I resolved to walk fearlessly into my new life, and in January, six months after Scott&amp;amp;#8217;s death, I went out on my first date. It was uneventful, but I felt powerful doing it. I sprinted past Valentine&amp;amp;#8217;s Day. And somehow I made it through Father&amp;amp;#8217;s Day. I&amp;amp;#8217;ve had plenty of lessons in self-reliance. For the first time I jump-started the battery on the truck and lit our furnace. When I had a tree cut down, the man asked if my husband wanted it for firewood. I stood straight and said, &amp;amp;#8220;I&amp;amp;#8217;m a widow.&amp;amp;#8221; The word stuck in my throat, yet I said it, without drama or tears. I told him to chop it; I&amp;amp;#8217;d stack it myself. There have been other liberating moments. I bought raspberry- colored pillows for my bed, knowing Scott would have hated them. I started jogging and hired a trainer who&amp;amp;#8217;s worth his weight in Prozac. I still have evenings spent dodging meteors and lava, but tonight is a good night. The sky is clear; the house is warm. My kids are supposed to be asleep, yet I can hear them giggling upstairs. Yes, tonight is a good night. I could cry for the miracle of it all, but I&amp;amp;#8217;ll cry later, when I&amp;amp;#8217;m not so tired, when the house is empty, when my work is done."^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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