Widowhood thrust me into a world of banks, bills, and budgets — all alone

When the unthinkable happens, widows often find that the financial stress of the present compounds their grief over the loss of a spouse. Lost in the fog of unfamiliar bank accounts, investments, and bills, one new almanah wondered how she’d survive her painful new reality

MY life is a pile of manila envelopes.

Papers spill over the top — pay stubs, utility bills, and life insurance statements — everything that defines my new reality, as I clutch my documents with slippery palms.

The man on the other side of the desk doesn’t stare at the envelopes. He looks at me with a comforting mixture of professionalism and warmth.

“Welcome, Mrs. Wasser,” the financial advisor greets me. “I see you brought all the papers. Let’s go through everything so we can gain a clearer perspective of your finances. I want to see how we can best manage your money together.”

I take a deep breath to orient myself in a reality I never thought I’d face. I know the numbers now, I can explain everything, but all that emerges is a whisper. Heshy’s face lingers in the air, his deep voice floods my mind. And for a moment, while the man waits patiently, my thoughts are dark, and I’m in the white, white room with the blue curtains and another compassionate pair of eyes.

Curable

“It’s usually curable,” the doctor said, handing us a sheaf of papers the size of a New York telephone book. “Here’s a treatment protocol to review.”

His mouth moved, my husband, Heshy’s, mouth moved, but the words slid off the ice that shrouded my mind. The room was so white and clean, the curtains blue with a strange pattern of triangles, and I wasn’t really here because cancer diagnosis stories happened to other people, definitely not to me.

Reality broke through when Heshy scheduled his first chemo appointment. Chemo. The kids. School. Students. Work. The jumble of thoughts and responsibilities flooded my mind in disjointed spurts. Telling the marrieds. Shaindy in seminary. Avi and Yossi in yeshivah.

An efficient robot hijacked my body, called my school and arranged to take time off, soothed my children, cooked a few meals in advance, and arranged for my cleaning lady to accommodate our new, appointment-filled schedule. Every detail was ruthlessly tackled until there was nothing left to do, and the stillness suffocated my strength.

Months of treatment trickled by, less and less effectively, but we never spoke about death. It was too close.

One September afternoon, I finally asked the doctor bluntly, “What are my husband’s chances?”

He paused. “Fifty-fifty. I hope.”

I went in to teach the next day, and mid-lesson, as I was facing the board, the sudden thought hammered my mind: “I don’t want him to die.”

I was explaining the words “gomel chasadim tovim,” and I heard a faraway voice passionately speaking to my 12th graders. “Things happen and we don’t understand why they’re good for us. We ask Hashem for chasadim tovim, so we can see the good, but we accept that it’s not always possible.”

Hot tears screamed for release, but I held them in until the shriek of the bell. As I cried over the black words on the whiteboard, I finally knew what road I was traveling on.

But the grief, even then, was tinged with worry, because during our medical crisis, I’d ignored the pile of bills in the mailbox.

The fact was, I had no idea what to do with them.