“I wish we had danced more” was one of the last “we” things that Jimmy said to me. Less than a week later, on April 13, 2006, my high school sweetheart and husband of 33 years died of Burkitt’s Lymphoma.  He was sick for barely a month.  He was just 56. While I was waiting for his death to sink in,  I’d  sit on the floor of my closet, talking directly to my husband’s shirts and pants. They were unresponsive, but I knew in my heart that his Dockers missed me very much, too. Soon I found myself writing a blog about being a widow. In between the pain was humor, lots of it. The blog became a book; POOR WIDOW ME: Moments of feeling & dealing & finding the funny along the way. It’s a collection of 84 moments that define my life as a widow.

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Jimmy & Me at Jamaica High School Prom 1968

Excerpts from “Poor Widow Me”

One More Time

A few months after Jimmy’s death, our nephew Chuck was in my kitchen, reminiscing. “I keep thinking about how Uncle Jimmy would sit right here, and I couldn’t pass his chair without him expecting a back rub. I didn’t always want to.  But he was pretty demanding. Now, if I could do it one more time…” I thought to myself, I know what he means. I feel the same way about the blow jobs.


Sex & Jewelry

This evening I wore that stupid bracelet that’s impossible to take off by myself. Jimmy used to bargain with me. With a sly smile he’d say, “I’ll help you, but how much is it worth to you?” Some wives have sex to get jewelry.  I had sex to get jewelry off.