Why would you say that to me?

When the headhunter called asking for my husband to see if he was happy where he was working, I had to explain that Steve died and please take his resume out of their files. At the end of the call, the woman wanted to know where Steve had been working.

Why? Think there's a job opening you can try and fill?

I've had many family members and friends ask me if I'm alright financially. Did Steve have life insurance? Will I need to go to work right away? It's a difficult set of questions for them to ask, wanting to check up on me without prying. I'm thankful that they do. I rely on them to be my back up brain for when mine isn't working. But I've also heard: "How much are you getting from life insurance?"

Why? Think you deserve some of it? Want to know how much money you should try and con out of me? Are you trying to decide if you suddenly have more time for me?

Today at the bank, a lady looked his death certificate over and asked "Did he know he had diabetes?".

Excuse me? How does that affect me closing out an account?

The next lady at the bank was confused because his death certificate was issued in Washington DC and we live in Richmond. I had to point out that people can die away from home. I understand that isn't a detail people think about, so I was fine pointing out the obvious. But the multiple follow up questions wanting to know all the difficulties an out of state death adds to the family, is prying. It is inappropriate. It is thoughtless. And it is heartless.

When my voice cracks and waivers, my eyes fill up with tears, when I have to look off into the middle distance and take a deep breath before saying that my husband recently died - it is not an act. I am not putting on a night club floor show for you. The simple act of telling a stranger that my husband is dead is enough to flush my day down the toilet. I guarantee I will spend the rest of the day fighting every impulse to simply sleep for the next 12 hours. I will spend that night reminding myself that drinking a glass (or three) of wine while depressed sets a bad precedent. I will yell unjustly at the dog and then hug her for half an hour out of guilt. I will have every intention of doing some small household chore and be unable to get up off the couch. That is what happens on the days when I have to tell someone my husband is dead.

On days when people are thoughtless enough to think they've just stepped into a movie of the week, that they are watching a real life version of Hilary Swank in P.S. I Love You, my day gets even worse.Today when I got home I DID go to sleep for five hours. When I go back to bed I imagine it will be for another eight to ten. I AM drinking that glass of wine. And I damn well may have three more. I also cried. I cried through half a box of tissue. I blew my nose so much it's red and sore. And I screamed. I screamed so loud and so frequently that my voice is shot. It may be recovered by tomorrow.

I am not here to entertain you. The tears. Are real. The pain. Is physical.

I understand we live in a Jerry Springer world. Everyone wants their fifteen minutes and then wants to Twitter it into thirty minutes more. They want to be the center of attention telling the story of the widow and her breakdown in front of them. What I need you to understand is you aren't going to get to see that breakdown. I do it at home and in private. And I won't share those gory intimate details of my husband's death with you. You aren't worthy of knowing about my private pain.

But I may just bitch smack your thoughtless cruel ass with a two by four.