It’s strange to always be walking around with Kenny. I named it Kenny, because if something is going to hang out for this long, it ought to be named. I also asked Google, my therapist, and ChatGPT about it, all of whom said it was just fine.
Why Kenny? Who knows. Kenny from South Park always dies, so that’s just where my brain went. Is Kenny just my inner narrator? Maybe, but he didn’t show up until after Jay died. What is he? He’s the analysis to my story, the realist in this strange simulation called life, the “heavy shawl,” the “weighted blanket,” or any of the other adjectives and similes and metaphors people use to describe the sensation of grief. He’s Kenny.
“Are you going to brush your teeth today?”
Shut-up, Kenny.
“It’s not healthy.”
It’s 6:45 on a Saturday morning, Kenny.
“Also, Toby and The Jerks are hungry. Are you going to get up and feed them breakfast?”
Seriously, Kenny.
Toby is my 9-year-old, very overweight, Australian Shepherd. I call him my fluffy potato, my Toblerone, my furry bus, my handsome boy, and sometimes just Tobes. He sleeps on the right side of the bed, where Jay used to sleep.
When I wake in the black of night clutching my chest, mouth agape in silent wails from a fit of heavy sorrow stabbing my chest in pulsating pangs – Toby army crawls to me like a soldier in a foxhole and drapes his entire 86 pounds over my chest, as if applying pressure to a fatal wound. You see – it’s just easier to say that Kenny disrupts my sleep, and Toby tries to help.
Who are The Jerks? My three cats who paw at my face and bite my messy bun when I’ve slept for too long, and by too long, I mean, anything beyond 6AM.
In dog language – “Kenny has a point, Mom. I’m kind of hungry.”
Somehow in the last five years of widowhood, I have come to understand dog language. I can tell when Tobes is frustrated with me, when he’s disappointed, when he’s hungry, and when he is saying, “I love you, Mom. It’s gonna be okay.”
I keep getting up earlier and earlier each morning, trying to find the right time where morning feels like quiet peace, but no matter what time I open my eyes (even at 4:30AM), Kenny is waiting like a toddler two inches from my face.
“Isn’t it strange that your husband is dead, and you just keep waking up and living your life like it’s an average Tuesday?”
Good morning to you, too, Kenny.
He’s right, though. It’s peculiar to me that I even still get hungry. I didn’t expect to still want to eat, to take in nourishment, after Jay died, but here I am over five years later, still getting hungry and even taking myself out to dinner to enjoy a meal while Kenny sits in the booth beside me.
“Hey, get a to-go box for later when you have one of those unexpected grief bursts and need to eat your emotions again.”
Maybe don’t remind me that I still haven’t learned how to function on a healthy level.
“I’m being realistic, thank you very much, and you’ve gotten better. Remember when you used to dive into a bottle of wine, but now it’s just leftovers. See, progress.”
Screw you – adds wine to grocery list
The world thinks I have healed and moved on, but it’s more like, I have Kenny now – this invisible jerk walking around yapping in my ear while I do normal things like grocery shopping or getting my oil changed, or laughing with a colleague, or cooking dinner.
“Can you believe you’re just walking through this store concerned with the price of avocados despite your husband being dead? What a trip.”
Well, that is kind of weird. Also, avocados are $3.99ea. What the hell.
I have not healed. I have moved beyond the shock of Kenny’s existence, and I have grown used to Kenny always yammering on about things, but I have not healed.
When I post a funny meme on Facebook –
“Look at you, posting funny things like you didn’t just struggle to function on a basic level today.”
Yeah look at me. I’m hilarious.
It’s enough to scramble my head, and it makes me have this weird expression, like confusion mixed with shock. I make small talk with the cashier at the grocery store, like a zombie with a personality. That’s the look on my face. That’s Kenny.
It was last year I think, around Thanksgiving, when I gave up trying to overcome the dichotomy of living with Kenny. I’m just split now, alive and moving forward in the face of devastation – an instinct I didn’t know I had.
I think that’s what it is – instinct. It’s instinctual for us humans to be drawn to one another, towards helping and engaging and laughing and experiencing joy and loving. Not even extreme loss can keep us from pursuing these things. I am proof of that.
This human spirit of mine seeks to form social and emotional bonds, even in the midst of profound and continual suffering – even while Kevin is blabbing on about it.
I sleepwalk to the kitchen each morning and turn on the electric kettle. The cats like their food warmed, so I set the can of cat food in hot water to warm it up – and that matters, somehow.
“Look at you caring about the happiness of the pets. Who knew you would still care about the temperature of the cats’ food.”
Yeah who knew.
The cats’ preferences, the flavor of my coffee, of which I add cinnamon and cacao because it tastes like goodness and warms my chest. It’s weird that it matters.
In the movies, characters’ deceased loved ones come back like ghosts who hang out – but I have Kenny, and I’m starting to think this is what grief is.
It’s not about trying to move on or heal or accept or let time pass – it’s about getting used to Kenny, and getting used to the strange realization that I still care about things. I’m not talking about the love I hold for my children and grandchildren (that has only ever increased). I am talking about the other stuff.
I still want to enjoy a nice meal, watch a good movie, take a hot bath, do my makeup. I still want to join conversations at work. I look forward to volunteering in the cafe at church, and I spend time googling new recipes and watching YouTube tutorials on crochet patterns. Last week I learned how to do a puff stitch and crocheted these cute little daisy flowers that you connect. I made a hot pad out of it, and it made me smile. I enjoy interacting on Facebook and commenting on my friends’ posts. I still want to smile. I still want to laugh. I still desire companionship.
“Look at you living life and stuff,” Kenny is always saying.
It’s kind of amazing, actually, that we are built this way. We, as humans, can experience total annihilation yet still innately desire to engage in joyful experiences with others, even if that engagement poses the risk of additional loss. I have a will to not only live, but to thrive. Where does that come from, and why does it feel like the secret to healing after loss?
It’s starting to feel incredible that, even with all this painful grief, I am still here connecting with people, making memories despite the scar tissue that’s encapsulated my spirit. I didn’t have to “find the will” to do this. My body just does it, like a cat knows how to give birth, like a squirrel knows to hide nuts, like wolves instinctively knowing how to cooperate within a pack. I just know I need to engage. I understand without understanding that relationships are key.
Nothing inside of me feels capable of moving forward, and yet I move forward, as do so many other widows I know – some universal thing, embedded in our cores that not even grief can keep us from pursuing.
And you know what’s even stranger? I would never have realized how beautiful this all is, without Kenny.
About Sonney Wolfe
Sonney Wolfe is a writer, educator, mother, nona (grandma), and widow. She holds a Master of Arts in English, teaches academic and professional writing for the University of Maryland, and writes features, press releases, blog posts, and personal essays for various news and social media.
Widowed in December of 2019, she soon joined the masses in COVID lockdowns, which deepened her understanding of grief as she witnessed widespread loss, especially among students. Now, she integrates grief support in her college classrooms by addressing pandemic disruptions, community loss, and mental health challenges. Her autobiographical teaching philosophy, born from her own grief journey, provides a platform to share her experiences and support students who have also lost loved ones.
In her professional writing, she sheds light on the human experience of loss and grief, particularly for widows. She explores the complex societal shift they face, transitioning from wives to widows and often single parents. This sudden change forces widows to navigate not only grief, but also a landslide of challenges: income loss, economic strain, relocation, career shifts, altered healthcare needs, and declining mental health.
Her Blog WIM Dispatches (Woman in Motion), https://sonneywolfe.com, chronicles her personal grief journey and advocates for the needs of widows, along with her IG: @WIM_Dispatches – and Facebook page: WIM Dispatches Life After Jay.
I enjoyed your story and how you managed to name that nagging pain that exists within and serves to remind us of our loss. Our little Sambucca and all the other things that must be done, like paying bills or attending my volunteer job spur me up off the couch even when I want to just stay there forever. I haven’t advanced to all those healing places you have, like going out to dinner but I like a glass of wine too often now. Although I haven’t named the nag it’s always with me reminding me that I’m the survivor and I’m not acting like it to well at times, like when I cry every day because reality steps in and reminds me he’s really gone. All the things I do, crocheting for charity, pretending that I can do this are my Kenny trying to keep me sane.
that was absolutely beautiful, I felt every word deep within my soul. Kenny is with us all every day, but somehow we manage to get on with things and imagine they are looking down from heaven with a smile as we get through another day without them. sending you so much love and blessings, thank you for writing what most of us can’t. I write to my partner every day but I wish I had the words like yours to say how I feel. you’re amazing.