Sunday, April 12, 1998

New widow celebrating the gift of life

By Sharon Randall

When I told my sister I was going to Hawaii alone, you'd have thought I said I was going to hell in a hand-basket.

"You are not!" she said.

"Am, too," I told her.

"Isn't it too soon?"

"It's never too soon to go to Hawaii," I said. "It's open all year 'round."

"Don't get smart with me," she snapped. "You know exactly what I mean."

Yes. She meant that I had just lost my husband; that I'd been a widow less than two months; that I still cried so often, so copiously and unpredictably, that I'd given up on mascara; that I needed family and friends in ways I'd never needed them before.

"It's my anniversary," I said. "I was married 29 years ago this month. I figure, I can celebrate here in the rain or there in the sun. Which would you pick?"

"Aren't you scared?"

"Yes," I said, "I am scared to death of jellyfish. And sharks. I hate sharks."

"Be serious," she said. "Won't you be lonely alone?"

"Probably," I said. "But I can be lonely even when I'm with people I love. Might as well do it in the sun."

Dead silence.

"Don't worry," I said. "If gets too bad, I can always call you. Collect."

I had similar discussions with several friends, my mother-in-law, my three young-adult children and the clerk at the drugstore where I bought sunscreen.

Everybody knew something about loneliness. In the end, they all agreed I might as well go to Hawaii. And the clerk added, "Reapply your sunscreen every four hours, honey, and drink lots of those fruity drinks with the pretty little paper umbrellas."

Maui was sunny. The hotel was fine. The fruity drinks had pretty paper umbrellas. But the beach was posted -- and I'm not making this up -- with warnings about jellyfish.

As if I needed warning.

I stayed out of the water until the morning of my anniversary, then I swam out past the breakers with my husband's snorkeling mask. We'd come here on our honeymoon, two skinny kids with our lives ahead of us, like the ocean, as far as we could see. I'd been afraid to put my face in the water.

"Relax," said my husband, "try to breathe slowly and see what you can see."

Good advice, then and now.

But this time, I didn't see a thing. The water was murky. Thick with jellyfish, I bet. I decided to call it a day.

So I crawled up on the beach and ordered myself a fruity drink with a paper umbrella. (I don't drink alcohol, and I think it's tacky to say "virgin" in reference to a beverage, so I just asked for a $5 Slurpee.)

That evening, I had dinner at a table by the water. I watched the sun melt into the ocean, felt the night rise up cool on my neck. I dined alone, but ate enough for two.

I celebrated 29 years of a marriage that had been a study in grace. We'd been made better people by having been together; our world had been made a better place.

I rehearsed a few memories, good and bad, to tell our grandchildren someday. And I felt grateful as never before for the gift of life.

Then I went back to the hotel room to call my sister.

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards.

Scripps Howard News Service