I had never been single before. I was barely 19 when I married Denny, an old man of 23, and I went straight from my parents' home to my husband's bed.

After Denny died, I had to learn how to put gasoline in our car. I was not freeway-literate. I had never used a computer. Income taxes were what other people did, and I had never paid the bills myself.

When I looked at a billing statement, I didn't know what a minus sign by "amount due" meant. Some amounts due were mysteriously higher each month, but I paid them anyway. When I finally called, the cell phone company said that I was so far ahead that I didn't need to pay the bill for at least three months. And the business manager at Mervyn's said, "Mrs. Auchard, please stop sending us money."

I felt like Mrs. Stupid.

I didn't know it then, but I know now that I wasn't all there. My memory was shot and I prayed all the time. My daily plea was "God, please keep me afloat."

What helped even more than praying was having someone listen as I babbled. I talked endlessly and only those who understood tolerated it. By retelling the events of Denny's death, I was finally able to absorb the reality of my loss.

But there wasn't always someone to listen, so I started to write on anything that would take the mark of a pen. I waded through grief the best way I knew--head on. I cried when I felt like it and laughed whenever I could. I spent each evening reading bereavement books as I scribbled in the margins.

I grieved. I laughed, and I wrote so I wouldn't forget what it was like. Writing affirmed that I was alive and that my experiences were important.

I also joined a support group, which may not be for everyone, but it helped me. I didn't mind crying with others as we shared our sadness, regrets, and sometimes anger. We were comrades in shock, nursing broken hearts.

I never consciously thought about how I got through grief, but my gut told me that I couldn't avoid the pain that was ahead. So I wrote my way through six years of life and beyond grief. My stories now fill a book, Dancing in My Nightgown: the Rhythms of Widowhood.

To my surprise, that writing has become a vital connection to others who are alone. My book is a collection of the sad and funny stories that I wrote after Denny's death. These stories show how I dealt with the life-altering experience of losing my soulmate and what I did to start over.

I learned to embrace the rhythms of widowhood, which wasn't easy, and I finally realized that my old life no longer existed.

Denny was gone for good and nothing would ever be the same again. It took a few years, but I came to view widowhood as an opportunity to find out what I could do on my own.

One thing I did on my own was write stories, and my passion for telling them went deeper than I imagined. I discovered a change of positive energy between myself and my audience. I get as much as they do from the experience. So I'll continue to accept every speaking invitation that comes my way whenever possible.

I'm still learning and making mistakes. The road to recovery and self-sufficiency has been filled with laughter, creativity and new people. It has been a transformation from tears, self-doubts, and lonely nights.

Now I'm doing so well that I sometimes feel guilty. But I have learned that after suffering a loss, surviving it, and thriving once more, recovery needs to be celebrated.

I'm more than content, and eager to see what's going to happen next.

Betty Auchard, a Los Gatos resident, is the author of 'Dancing in My Nightgown.' Her book is available at Willow Glen Books, 1330 Lincoln Ave. and available on Amazon.com May 30. For more information visit www.bettyauchard.com.