on being a widow

zelda and jerry on holiday in france 1962

after all the mad political whirl, here's a bit more about zelda's personal life

Jerry had been happy that Saturday morning. He had been running a fund-raising stall at Friends’ House and just as we were packing up to go for lunch he had a heart attack. Whisked quickly off to the Whittington hospital, he recovered well enough by Tuesday for Sister to tell me he could go home by the weekend. Yet by 3.30 the next afternoon he was dead, from another massive heart attack. It was such a shock to me that I became very angry and screamed at the doctor “How could it happen? You told me he was better.” The doctor kept repeating over and over, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Thus I became a widow. My daughters, my sister and my friends rallied round, but despite this cushioning, I knew I would have to face up to the problems ahead some time. People warned m of the loneliness ahead and advised me to keep busy to counter it. But loneliness is not the prerogative of the widowed. The harsh truth is that most couples live together in shared loneliness, in shared busyness that keeps them from facing it. They remain together whatever the quality of their relationship, clinging to the warmth and comfort of any human presence, unable to face a lone existence. [Although this is written in a general way, I am sure Zelda is talking about herself and her own marriage here.]

From that knowledge I drew the strength to live alone. And soon I found I was enjoying the freedom of having my own space and of not having to be responsible for another’s happiness or comfort. I gave myself permission to be selfish, to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, but I have to admit I haven’t managed it yet.

One problem you face when widowed is dining out alone. It takes a lot of courage to walk into a restaurant by yourself, and, as it that isn’t enough; you then have the waiter lead you to a small table right at the back, in a dark corner, where you won’t be seen. The final insult is then they serve you quickly, so that you can be pushed out fast, or else ignore you.

You become very aware that couple friends don’t seem to like odd numbers at their dining table, so if you do get invited, you are likely to find yourself coupled with some quite inappropriate character. And then, when it’s time to leave, everyone tries to get out of giving you a lift home. What an embarrassment you are to them all.

I know several widows who have rushed foolishly into a second marriage just to acquire status again or to avoid that moment when you shut the door and you’re alone. Personally I savour the moment more and more. I may talk back to the television or dance alone to the radio, but I am enjoying myself on the whole.

Holidays were a problem at first. But I was saved from having to worry about that for a while by my daughter Joan, who took me off to Tunisia for a week and by the Jempson family, who took me under their wing and whisked me off to Malta. But I couldn’t expect them to be there for me all the time. After 39 years of marriage and shared holidays it was difficult, even a year after Jerry’s death, to venture forth alone. I gave it a lot of thought and decided a coach trip might be the answer, so I booked for a week’s tour of Andalucia.

My coach companions were mainly couples, but there were also three women on their own and an American man, Harry, with his student son. By the first lunch stop in Jerez, Harry asked me if I would care to join him and his son for lunch. For the rest of the trip we were constant companions. At that time he was 66, just the same age as Jerry would have been and though Harry was a Jewish New Yorker from the Bronx, I was surprised to find how similar his background was to Jerry’s.

We had much in common, from the books we liked, the community work we did, and the politics we shared. He had been head of the New York family services department and was now lecturing in a community college on social work.

We had a good week together. Each night we danced and by day we talked together without pause. At the week’s end we were quite sad to leave each other. He had another week’s holiday left in Spain. But on returning home via London, he knocked on my door and before I had time to say “hallo”, he was propositioning me.

He told me how much he missed me in his second week in Spain, and begged me to go with him to New York. Flattered and greatly tempted by his invitation I said I would think about it. Later I did take u his invitation, but it took only three days of living with him to be sure – quite, quite sure –that I could never live with anyone again. I valued my independence too much. I left New York and went home, happy in the knowledge I would be living alone. But harry did not give up easily. He pursued me, and each year for about four years, he visited me. To this day we still correspond.

Naturally there are times when living alone becomes lonely living. It is then I feel most grateful for the wonderful friendship, understanding and support I get from my friends. I can count on them too, for constructive criticism and help to find my way through problems. My daughters are still a great source of pride and pleasure for me, and my grandchildren give me great joy. I am very close to my sister and to some of Jerry’s family, so I am not short of people to turn to when sad.

Most of the time I’m far too busy working (both paid and unpaid) to have much time for feeling sorry for myself. I’m certainly never bored. There always seems to be a new avenue opening up for me whenever I feel I’m getting stale, always a new challenge. Life is good to me.