Loss, Fourteen Months Later

The song “Live Like You Were Dying” was on the radio this morning. In the song, a man in his early 40’s finds out his dad is dying. The son decides to start living more purposefully and do things that he’s put off doing. Among other things, he decides to forgive and be a better friend and husband and go fishing and sky diving.

I was in my early 40’s when I found out my husband was dying. I didn’t start living like I was dying. Instead, I went into survival mode, where only the Lord can lead one who needs to survive. I have two girls, a great life, great friends, and my Lord and Savior. But, let me tell you, that song has a meaning all its own for me. Living, more like surviving, became enough. I wanted to make sure the stuff that really counted got done, including making it through the day and being there for my girls. The song also reminded me that I only have the time I have and to not put off what I want to accomplish.

Since the fateful day we found out my husband was sick, I have tried not to sweat small stuff - so cliche, but I’ve learned what is important in my girls’ and my life. We have always prayed together, but I make a point to pray aloud, asking God not just to deliver us, but see us through whatever challenge we are facing. I remind us that we can make it if we hold fast to him. I make sure my girls hear me thank God too, for all of the blessings he has given us. When they come to me with troubles on their heart, I stop everything, write down what is bothering them, and then we pray.

They are a new kind of needy. They lost their dad, one half of their foundation. The “Go To Guy” has now become the neighbor, their uncle, their cousin, their dad’s son, and their girlfriends’ dads. If something were to happen to me, what would they do? Who would make them feel better? Who, in their lives, would be able to tuck them in and replace the only parent they have left on earth?

I don’t know if they can even utter the thought. It must go through their minds. In any case, it comes out in the form of concern. It is important for them to know their mom, me, is O.K. They are protective…”Mom, it’s really slick here.” “Mom, are you O.K.?” When they hear me yell. “Mom, I love you more…” “Mom, I’m sorry I yelled at you.” “Mom, can you…?” “It’s O.K. Mom, if you can’t I understand.” “Mom, if you’re going to cry, warn me so I’m prepared.” “Mom, Dad would be appalled at the shape of his garage.” When really, they just wish that the garage was in order, as Dad would have kept it.

There’s more stuff I do sweat. I make sure my girls are safe. They need to check in when they go out. I call to make sure there is an adult at home or expecting them at their friends’ house. I try to make sure they know where I am. I try to give them the feeling of security by being up and having my coffee in hand before they come downstairs. I try to make good meals often, and sit at the table as a family to eat. We use a lot of our vacation time to visit relatives and we call our family often. I insist they speak respectfully to me and are kind and respectful to others. The thing is, one learns what they live, and I’m their number one point of reference.

All of these things were routine before my husband died. But, when he died, our family felt so broken. All of the routine became extraordinarily difficult to maintain. Everything seemed like gargantuan stuff. I gained 20 pounds between the time I found out he was sick through the six months after he died. Before he died, our bedroom and bathrooms were always clean and orderly. Our bed was made 99% of the time.

Especially the first few months after he died, my bedroom was rarely orderly and our, now my bed was hardly ever made. The kitchen counters didn’t get cleaned. There were usually piles of laundry and stuff on the furniture. I didn’t wear make-up regularly as I didn’t feel like putting it on. I didn’t cook often. If it weren’t for bean and cheese burritos, maybe some milk and carrots, my girls would have been physically hungry. As it is, today they’d rather stay home and eat left overs than go out. They’ve sworn off fast food.

I came to dread bedtime. After brushing teeth, I’d often go tuck the girls into bed. We’d say prayers, (which we still do, even at 11 and 14 they like me to say prayers with them). Then, if they weren’t sleeping in the same bedroom, I’d be asked to “sleep with me for a while.” In the safety of private time and the dark, the tears would come from each of them. “How are we going to get through this?” “When will it stop hurting?” “I’m ready for Dad to come home.” Those were the conversation starters they’d use.

I found that if I cried, they were less likely to open up because they didn’t want me to feel sad. So, I’d hold them and hold my tears and not talk too much.

Posted on May 18, 2009 10:34 AM