Seasoned by Grief
By Carol Davis Gustke
Sitting at a table in the hospital's cafeteria, my minister and I waited
for the doctor's return. There had been an accident. How serious I didn't
know, but the white starched coat had disappeared over an hour ago behind
the swinging emergency doors, doors that now stood rigid, indifferent,
like two statues guarding the entrance to a hallowed sanctuary.
At last the doctor was facing me. Showing no emotion, he began reciting
the litany of injuries as if reading from a medical journal. "Broken
ribs, collapsed lung, internal bleeding," he rattled on. My mind
raced, waiting to hear what room he was in, how long he would be there,
when I could see him. "We did everything we could." The doctor's
words jolted me back to reality. "You mean he died?" I asked
half seriously, still not grasping the extent of his injuries. He slowly
nodded his head. "You mean he's dead?" Again he nodded. The
realization of what that nod meant hit me with a terrifying impact.
Like a picture in slow motion, I felt my body stiffen and lift off the
chair as my arms flung heavenward. "Oh, my God. Oh, God. Jesus,"
I screamed. "God's punishing me He's punishing me."
A long needle suddenly appeared in front of me. "No!" I screamed
again and raised my hands in protest. The ashen face of the doctor stared
into mine. "Carol, you'll have to be quiet. There are patients sleeping
here." "Well, at least they can wake up!" I snapped.
That was June 3, 1975, a day that will live in my memory and the memories
of my four boys. It was on that day that my husband, their father was
killed in a motorcycle accident. Widowed at 38, I faced an uncertain and,
to me, frightening future. With no previous experience as a widow, I'd
have to learn this new role one day at a time. It didn't take long to
discover that of all the roles I had played and circumstances I'd been
placed in, this by far was the worst. In the past when I'd learned of
some woman who had lost her husband I wondered if they had had a chance
to say goodbye to each other. I was very dependent upon my husband, and
the thought of living without him sent waves of fear through me. I remembered
meeting single adults at church and school functions, or parties, but
was totally unaware of any other lifestyle except my own. I discovered
how ignorant, insensitive and naive I had been. A whole new world opened
up to me. It's like when you're pregnant. All of a sudden you notice pregnant
women
everywhere.
The boys, all under the age of sixteen, clung to me. They didn't want
me to go to the grocery store for fear that I wouldn't return. We became
very dependent upon one another and began sharing our feelings in a way
we had never done before. I became more important to them. It almost seemed
as if they reverenced me. Perhaps it was an unspoken fear: What if something
should happen to Mom?
The evenings were the worst. With supper over, the boys would disappear
to play with their friends. I wandered aimlessly from room to room feeling
no interest in anything and no motivation to do anything. But I tried.
I'd smooth out a wrinkled bedspread or check my plants for new growth
until I'd end up staring out a window without really seeing anything.
On one such low-spirited occasion, my three-year old son walked in on
his sobbing, bewildered and brokenhearted mother.
"What's wrong, Mama?" He touched me tenderly on the arm. "Oh,
Luke," I cried, "Mama is so lonely." He snuggled closer
to me. "You got me," he whispered. "I'm here."
I wrapped my arms around him, rocking back and forth. "I know, darling,
I know. And I'm so thankful for you." My road to recovery was slow.
I didn't understand that all these feelings churning around inside of
me were normal. Feelings of anger, depression, hopelessness, confusion
and guilt Some days I felt as if I was making progress. It's been three
days since I cried. However, the following day I'd be harboring thoughts
of suicide. At times it was difficult to swallow, and throughout the day
my chest would heave with deep sighs. I thought I would drop from exhaustion
for lack of sleep. .
Although I kept in contact with my former friends, we didn't have as much
in common now that I was single. It was as if I had some sort of disease.
They couldn't relate to my loneliness or anger or feelings of utter hopelessness.
At the funeral, everyone there promised support. Where were the phone
calls now? The letters? The visits? I felt pressured to hurry up and get
back to normal so I would be accepted. I discovered how difficult it is
for people to handle grief. They want you to get back to normal because
your grief makes them uncomfortable. But at the time I didn't care how
they felt. All I knew was that I was hurting and wanted desperately for
someone to understand what I was going through.
Why couldn't I be strong and full of faith? I'd read articles by other
people who had lost their mates and they practically became spiritual
giants from the experience. Here I was, mad at God and falling apart.
Gradually I became involved with single organizations. Parent Without
Partners, Widows and Widowers club, Christian single's Bible study. I
received piles of reading material on how to cope as a single parent.
Sometimes I'd think, This isn't too bad. I can handle it. Then, I would
wander into a restaurant or attend a movie and see happy, smiling couples.
I wanted to slap them across their faces.
At home, I'd fling myself on the bed and sob out my frustrations. Why
couldn't I cope better? What was wrong with me? After all, if I believed
what the Bible taught, my husband was with God. Shouldn't that comfort
me? Yes, I thought. I'm glad he's with God, but I'm mad that he had to
die to get there.
I knew that kind of thinking didn't make sense, but nothing in my world
did anymore. I missed the companionship, the loving and laughter, even
the fighting. I wasn't important to anyone, not in a caring intimate way.
I felt like an empty, cracked vessel put on a shelf and in need of repair.
A series of learning experiences continued to challenge me.
Living in a rural community, I was used to a small town and a slower pace.
Consequently, when we moved to a larger city, the sign of a divided highway
approaching, sent the adrenalin surging into my already-nervous system.
"Which way should I go?" I'd scream at the kids. Only to receive
four sets of different directions. The day I made it to a large shopping
plaza 10 miles away, in heavy traffic, was a milestone. One week-end I
told my oldest son not to come home from college because we were so low
on food. We lived on Social Security and by the end of the month we were
scraping bottom. Often we are not aware of the healing process taking
place within us. C.S. Lewis, in his book, A Grief Observed, described
it this way; "There was no sudden, striking emotional transition.
Like the warming of a room or the coming of daylight. When you first notice
them, they have already been going on for some time."
As I slowly emerged from my devastated world, I saw a rebuilding taking
place. Working among patients at a state hospital, organizing a singles
group, volunteering at school functions, plus returning to college on
a part time basis, all worked together in bringing my life back into balance.
I had come from wanting to be loved to reaching out and loving others.
What was packed into those years will always be a part of me. I learned
so much about myself. I was proud of my accomplishments and so thankful
for the closeness I shared with the boys. The experience of suffering
made me more sensitive to other people's pain.
The question, Why? Concerning my husband's death would never be fully
answered, but as I reached out to others, filling my life with new experiences
and new relationships, I was able to relinquish the past but not forget
it, to live in the present but to cherish the memories. The time came
when I gently closed the door to the painful loss and turned my eyes to
the future.
THE END
Carol Davis Gustke
Author's Bio.
The author holds a Bachelor of Science degree in Human Services from Western
Michigan University. Her slice-of-life stories have appeared in Woman's
World, Christian Singles, Chicken Soup For The Recovering Soul, God Allows
U Turns and other top selling magazines. Her first book, SACRED HARVEST,
was released in 2002 by AM Erica House. She worked as a Lay Chaplain at
a local hospital in Battle Creek, Michigan where she resides with her
husband, Art.