To guilt or not to guilt …

There's really no question

My husband died 17 months ago. I still feel his presence, daily, in part because when we decided to cohabit, and then marry, we lived in his house. And I still do.

To be sure, I began redecorating practically the minute I moved from Ohio to West Virginia. (We eventually went through three major updates of our décor.) The house I moved into had sliding-glass doors in every room – three in the living room! Each was cloaked in heavy draperies, and those window coverings were the first items I took to the thrift store.

Let there be light! And there was light.

And there continues to be light.

I recently completed a project I wish I’d said ‘yes’ to when my husband was living. The center of our home is a hexagon. The kitchen and living/dining area are divided by a wall, and the living room has a large (unused) fireplace – also hexagon-shaped. Behind the fireplace are floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. You can imagine how little light there was behind a brick fireplace that reaches to a vaulted ceiling.

My husband always wished the shelves were lighted somehow. We tried various solutions, but didn’t want to go to the trouble and expense of hard-wiring a lighting option. Remote-contolled light sources weren’t available 30 years ago.

Technology came to the rescue for me last month, when I installed – er, stuck – puck lights to the underside of each of the 12 shelves. I then purged the antique medical textbooks and other volumes that had been useful or important to him, and added plants and mementos that were important to me.

I feel some guilt – how could I not? We could have figured out a way to make this work while he was alive and could have appreciated it. It just wasn’t much of a priority, for either of us.

The priority for me, now, is to make my home my home. Not to erase him, but to be comfortable and present with myself. By myself. In transforming the rooms in his house, I’m experiencing what is known as ‘recovery guilt.’

I’m fine. In fact, I’m doing well. I’m resting, exercising, eating, socializing, becoming involved in some projects, dropping others. I’m discerning what works for me. I’m saving money by eating from my pantry, and spending it on tickets to live performances. I’m tossing his vintage textbooks, while sharing his books on Christian mystics with friends who would appreciate them. (And I’m keeping some for myself.)

The important thing for me to know right now is that the bit of guilt about feeling fine is not unexpected, and it will fade. He’s already checked in with me to make sure I’m all right. I’m pretty sure he would want me to be comfortable and happy in my home.

I know for sure he would have loved the lighted bookshelves. And I know he loves them for me.