The Death Of Dreams

Although Jim and I were happily married, there was one year in particular when I thought we might split up. We argued all the time. The year was 1986 and it was becoming more and more obvious to me that there was something drastically wrong with my husband. His typical "sailor on a ship" walk had changed to one of short, straight steps. Along with that, his arms would no longer swing as he walked, but hang motionless at his side. What's more, his left leg trembled uncontrollably during parts of each day. The symptoms grew worse if he became stressed.

He was a regular jogger, every day coming home from work, changing clothes and hitting the streets for at least an hour. One day he informed me his left leg had been cramping up, so he was going to switch from jogging to riding his bike. I tried to get him to see our long-time family doctor but he stubbornly insisted nothing was wrong and I started to wonder if my mind was inventing problems that didn't actually exist.

About six months after the left leg began seizing, his left shoulder started hurting and since Jim never complained about pain, I took him seriously. "Go to the doctor," I told him. He finally did, though for no other reason than to get me off his back. He came home with a good report. Nothing wrong. The leg was cramping during jogging because of a pulled muscle; the shoulder was hurting because Jim had strained it helping our son-in-law moved a large couch into a second story apartment. Jim and our family doctor had come up with a reason for everything. Case closed.

But I had this growing suspicion in the pit of my stomach that said the diagnosis was wrong. Jim's left leg began trembling more often and so did his left hand. I suspected a neurological disease but didn't want to speak the words out loud. Months passed. We continued disagreeing on whether Jim was alright. By the time 1986 was almost over, Jim's leg spasms had become nearly uncontrollable, as had the trembling in his left hand. He got to the point where he could no longer ride his bike around town, and a couple of times, ended up having to walk it home. Because Jim used exercise as a stress relief from his job, he wanted a stationary bike. We began looking around and finally bought one. When I suggested he should see the doctor again, he fought me, insisting I was hunting for problems where none existed.

We went on like that until early in 1987. Never in our married life had we had so many disagreements and it took a toll on me and I'm sure it did the same to Jim. Our easiness with one another suffered. Our hours-long chatting nearly ceased. A few months into that year, I called our doctor and questioned him about the diagnosis he'd given Jim. He explained exactly what Jim had told me. I listened politely, then told him he was wrong. "I've been married to this man for over thirty years," I said, "and I know something is wrong with him. If you can't diagnose it, then send Jim to someone who can."

Late that afternoon, I received a call from a well-known neurosurgeon's office. The doctor wanted to see Jim the next day. I instantly felt sick to my stomach. I went ahead and made the appointment without consulting Jim, then called our family doctor for added information. He told me he'd conferred with the neurosurgeon and the specialist's consensus was that Jim could be suffering from either a fast-growing brain tumor or Parkinson's disease.

I was too stunned to cry. I was too stunned to pray. I sat down at the kitchen table and told the Lord I didn't know what to say. I didn't know how to pray. I didn't know what to think. I didn't want Jim to have a brain tumor. I didn't want him to have Parkinson's disease. Why were there only two choices?  And both of them bad? Jim had just turned fifty-two. Too young to be stricken with any disease, let alone what many, including myself, had long considered to be an old person's complaint. Parkinson's. The worst was, it was what I had secretly suspected for a long time, all along hoping I was wrong.

The neurosurgeon put Jim through a battery of tests. No brain tumor. No other neurological disease. That left Parkinson's, diagnosed only by ruling out everything else. The surgeon recommended Jim see a neurologist. We went together, asked every question we could think of and the doctor started Jim on Parkinson's medicine, stating that if the diagnosis was incorrect, the meds wouldn't make any difference in Jim's symptoms. The meds dramatically changed Jim back to near normal. We now knew what we were dealing with. It was the beginning of a more than twenty-year uphill battle fighting a progressive and incurable disease that Jim determined would not take charge of his life.

The first thing that dawned on me is that when one of the mates has a debilitating disease, both have it. I wasn't the one dealing with the off-times leg shaking and hand twitching, but the disease affected me in ways I'd never thought of. I read everything I could find on Parkinson's disease. It was slow moving. It was medically treatable, especially in the early years; less so in the latter years. It was a disease that would eventually lead to impotence, slurred speech, loss of body function control, possible Lewy Body dementia, a wheelchair, and in the last stages, bedridden. The stages would come slowly. And not in perfect order. But they would come.

I kept a stiff upper lip for a long time, encouraging Jim that there was nothing we couldn't handle together. I continually reminded him that the Lord was in control and wanted only the best for Jim as His child and us as a couple. I saw him cry only once and that was shortly after the diagnosis. He was sitting on the couch; I was in the chair opposite him. We were casually chatting when he suddenly put his head in his hands and began weeping. "All of our plans to travel when I retire are gone," he said. "I'm so sorry, Sandy. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to leave."  I went to sit beside him and put my arms around him. "I will never leave you. I promise," is what I said. Tears silently rolled down my face. It was so like him to always think of me first. How could I abandon the one I loved most in all the world? "No matter what, you're stuck with me,"  is what I said. It would be my mantra for the rest of our lives together.

I held myself in check for a long time. Jim was still able to work and as he traveled for the company on occasion, there was a trip to Portland, Maine on the schedule. We decided to make it a vacation and Jim's secretary booked my flight along with making the arrangements for Jim's hotel and transportation for the three days the conference would be held. After that, Jim and I were on our own. I was excited to be headed to the east coast. I'd not been there since childhood. I had great plans for everything we would see and do. I never knew whether it was the travel writer in me or the wife who wanted to show Jim around someplace he'd never been.

Jim and I flew out of San Diego, changed planes in Philadelphia and just as we were coming into Portland, the oddest thing happened to me and to this day I still can't explain the why of it. As our plane began leveling out to land, the full force of how much Jim's disease would eventually affect us landed on me. It rose up inside me like a volcanic explosion, nearly uncontrollable. I felt great, gulping sobs forming inside me. Mental anguish overtook my feelings and spread into my whole being. "Why, God?" I prayed silently. "Why now in a plane filled with strangers? Why does this come upon me here and now?"

I didn't receive an answer. I still don't know why the full knowledge of how Parkinson's would alter our lives dawned on me at that particular moment. What I do know is that the Lord helped me keep things together all through de-planing, car pick-up, and hotel registration. I held myself together till we were in our room. Then I told Jim that I felt so travel weary that I thought I'd take a long, relaxing bath before supper. He turned on the television to catch the news. I went into the bathroom, turned the faucet on full blast, and sobbed until there were no tears left.

That was the day I fully understood what this disease would cost us as a couple. That was the day I began mourning the death of our dreams.

Author's comments:


Dreams don't necessarily die all at once. When a disease is slow moving, dreams fashioned together as a healthy young couple, begin expiring along the twists and bends of the path one is forced to walk. For as long as I could remember, we'd planned on travelling six months out of every year, stopping where we wished and for as long as we wished. From our first days together, Jim had been a saver, relegating every penny possible into stock in the company he worked for. When he retired, he would receive his own contributions, plus the company would add fifty cents to every dollar saved and upon retirement, the whole package would be Jim's  to do with as he pleased.


We were pleased to see the world. But that isn't what happened. In the end, much of the money went to pay for caregivers, for the time came when I was too exhausted to carry on alone and in addition, I'd become ill myself and had ended up in emergency surgery--not once, but twice. All in the period of one year.

I distinctly remember when our first dream died. It was the day I realized that if we wanted to travel, it would have to be before Jim could no longer drive or get around easily. I knew the time would come sooner rather than later and I sat on the couch late one night and cried myself nearly to sleep. With Jim still able to work, I knew vacations would be spent in week or two increments and while we did take a cruise to Alaska, our intents to travel the globe were gone. I'd planned on that almost my whole married life. We both had. If it hurt me, I knew it hurt Jim. I showed it; he didn't. My conservative husband, always staunch. Was he strong for me or is that just how he was? I never knew for sure.

The day intimacy died is still emblazoned on my heart. How we loved one another and with the disease progressing, more medications and stronger doses were the game plan to keep Jim moving. By now, he'd had to go off on sick leave from work, turning his job over to his next-in-charge, whom he'd worked diligently to train. Jim and I sought out a specialist in all things pertaining to intimacy and after a long examination, the doctor's suggestion was to cut back on Jim's meds. That would resolve the problem. It wasn't an option. Jim could either get around, walk, feed himself, dress himself, or sit in a chair completely Parkinsonian, unable to move or do. I left the choice to him. He chose to live an active life. I agreed. We took a cruise to Mexico. We took our three oldest grandkids with us.


If not for the Lord's faithfulness, I would never have learned how deep and abiding love can be. I thought I knew. I didn't. What I learned is that laying next to one another, touching, kissing, speaking love to each other's ears, gave a comfort to each of us that I would never have learned had it not been for the impotency. I believe God worked in both of us, showing us that although intimacy was given of the Lord, when it was no longer possible, God would make a way where there seemed to be no way. For the last six years of our life together, we remained close and loving. Only the Lord could have effected that in both Jim and I.


Little by little, we gave up our dreams and goals, letting them die by the wayside. One day I questioned Jim if he ever felt anger concerning the direction his life had taken. He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "Why would you ask that?" he said. I mentioned the disease and the things we could no longer do. He shook his head, turned those blue eyes on me and said, "I don't wallow in it. I can't change it. I can't do anything to fix it. I use all my energy to get on with the life I've been dealt and live the best way possible." I wondered if I would have come to that had it been me. Probably not. I'm a complainer. Jim never was.


As I look back at those Parkinson's years of our life together, I see God's wisdom taking hold of our days and years. He knows my way and He knew it while I was yet in my mother's womb, so He says in scripture. He knows I am a wimp, falling to pieces when stress overcomes me. He knows I can't handle more than two things going wrong at the same time. He knows that others see me as being strong but the truth is that only as I hold onto Christ can I face any kind of trauma. He knows I constantly flunk the life testings sent my way and only get a passing grade when I give up going my own direction and purposely set my face toward the Lord.

As Jim and I faced the death of our dreams, he got A's. I didn't. In my heart, I believe Jim was ready for heaven. I wasn't. I think that is why I'm still here, writing what I've learned on the journey I've been assigned. Perhaps when I stop dragging my heels, I'll get passing grades. Perhaps when I have taken hold of the stubbornness inside me, I'll graduate to heaven with Jim. In the meantime, I plug away, day by day, trying to share that which I know with anyone who wants to learn without having to deal with it the hard way. It's what I always told my own children: "If you'd do as I say, you wouldn't have to learn things the hard way." They never listened. What on earth ever made me think I was different?

"But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellence of the power may be of God and not of us. We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed." 

 2 Corinthians 4: 7, 8

He alone knew I could not face the death of my dreams all at once. One at a time was hard enough. I will always be thankful that the Lord never laid on me more than I could bear at any one moment.

Mourning And Memories

Jim and I never had a
real honeymoon. We
visited his aunt in
Pittsburgh and his sister
in Virginia. I didn't
care. At least we
were together.

Jim and I had been married less than a month when he came home from work one day, handed me his paycheck, and told me to pay the bills. It was the wife's job, he said. I stood there with my mouth open and what was surely a puzzled look on my face. I was barely seventeen, had never  paid a bill in my life, didn't know how to write a check or even open a bank account. Guess I'd led a very sheltered life.

"I don't know how to pay bills," I said. "It's your check, you should do it." Jim gave me that slow grin of his and suggested I ask his mom for help. Seems the whole four years Jim had been in the navy, he'd sent his paycheck home and his mom had paid what few bills he'd had and banked the rest. I figured by now he must have quite a nest egg built up. Not so, he informed me. His parents had his permission to use leftover money if they needed it and it seems they'd needed it.

Jim's sister, his brother, and him at the
end of the line, all had to work to help pay
the family bills. Jim delivered newspapers
until he was seventeen and joined the navy.

That shouldn't have surprised me. Jim, his brother and his sister had all had to work to help support the family ever since they were kids. And while the Keith family was cast of gold, their income consisted mostly of dimes and nickles.  Or so I was told. Jim always insisted that delivering papers taught him responsibility. I guess he was right. One of his  greatest attributes, besides his dry sense of humor, was the way he stepped up to responsibility without ever once dragging his feet or looking back.

During all our years as man and wife, things around our house went pretty much as they do in most houses. I continued to pay the bills in addition to all the rest of "wife" stuff and Jim took care of everything else, plus a few of the things I never seemed to get to. Like cleaning off the top of the refrigerator. I couldn't see it; he could. My rule was, if you can see it and it bothers you, then you should scrub it. So he did. Sometimes being short pays off.

As the Parkinson's disease set in and then progressed, many of the things that had always been Jim's responsibility became mine. Not because he was no longer willing to do them but because it became too dangerous. When he was on a ladder trying to get the Christmas tree out of the garage rafters and his legs gave way, resulting in a nasty fall--which resulted in little more than a sore body--ladders became off limits. When he still insisted he could mow the lawn, then fell with the power mower going full blast, lawn work was scrubbed from his list of duties.

I knew how difficult it was
for Jim to hand over his
keys. He loved driving
and he loved what he
referred to as his
"dream truck."

Little by little, I assumed responsibility for those things Jim had always taken care of. When it was possible, I hired others to do the gardening and mowing and gutter cleaning. Then came the day when Jim handed me his truck keys. When I looked puzzled, he told me he no longer trusted his ability to drive as he had twice pulled in front of vehicles he thought were further away than they were. Even as he gave me his keys, he apologized. "I know how much you hate driving, Sandy, and I hate to do this to you, but if I continue, I'm afraid I could cause an accident and if you were with me and you were hurt or killed, I'd never be able to live with myself. It's just better to quit now."

By the time the Parkinson's disease had progressed to the point that I needed nurses to help with his care, nearly fifteen years had passed and while I've compressed time for the purpose of telling my story, I can look back and see that the Lord was preparing me to be alone. I just didn't recognize it. I've talked with widows who had no idea of how to handle finances or how the health insurance worked or how to keep track of vehicle maintenance or how to fill up the gas tank or even how the home security lights or automatic sprinklers worked. I'd learned all those things because I'd had to.

In the end, I was grateful. I'm still grateful. It has been hard enough to deal with losing half of my heart without the frustration of trying to figure out all the financial things, the life insurance, and all the other stuff that rears its head, demanding to be dealt with in a timely manner. In the last year of his life, Jim made arrangements for me to sign every financial document so I would have access not only to his IRA, but every other asset he had always personally overseen.

Jim had already been
diagnosed with
Parkinson's when this
photo was taken. His
neurologist was able to
keep him working six
more years before Jim
had to go off on
disability.

Sometimes I find myself wondering if Jim suspected his time was growing short. I know I had no inkling. Neither did his many doctors. Nor anyone else who spent any time with him. Yet by the time he moved to heaven, I was fully prepared to take care of the dozens of jobs Jim had always assumed responsibility for. And although I knew how to handle paperwork, I flunked at losing the man I had loved for so long and so hard and so thoroughly.

It's been more than eighteen months since his passing and while I can now speak of him without tearing up every time, there are ambushes that come at me unbidden and at any time of day or night. A  song, a sound, a smell. Some memory of Jim that floods my heart, filling up my entire being. It is then that the tears flow and I just let them.


Author's comments:


While all of these blogs about my journey into widowhood have been difficult to write, this one has been particularly painful, though I'm not sure why. I wept while I wrote it; I'm weeping now. I've put off writing my author's notes for almost a week, waiting for my emotions to settle back into some form of stability, but that isn't happening. 


Every widow I know and have spent time with tells me the same things I'm feeling myself: their husband was one of a kind, the dearest man God ever created, an affectionate lover, a spouse both gentle and strong, a person given more to smiling than frowning, a hero in a white hat. And most important, the love of their life, who loved them back equally or even more.


For me, the anger that built into volcanic proportions and finally blew was not directed at God for taking Jim, but for leaving me behind. That became the root of the anger that followed. Had that intense anger not resided within me, I likely would never have taken offense at those well-meaning friends who spoke without thinking as to how their words would hurt me. I pray that they may learn how to comfort the bereaved, for if there is nothing else I've learned, I've learned how to do just that. And had that anger not coupled with my original anger, I likely would have shrugged off my long-time friends email as her opinion but not necessarily truth.


But that isn't what I did. And so it festered. Until that night I threw myself across my bed and sobbed out to God to deliver me from so much anger and bitterness. I could not carry it any longer; I didn't want it to be part of me anymore. Grieving my loss was all I could handle and if I were ever to heal, the anger had to go and the peace of God needed to flow into me. I wanted more than anything to stand clean before the Lord that He and I might get on with my journey into accepting widowhood.


Because I believe that God already knows everything, it's always been my nature to be honest with Him. The morning after sobbing myself to sleep, I got up to my usual routine of coffee and more coffee and maybe some toast. When I felt my brain was sufficiently awake to think straight, I took my bible and a notebook, sat down in Jim's recliner, and asked the Lord to meet me there. I had some things I needed to discuss and some people I needed to forgive. I turned to 1 John 1:9 and read "If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."


I'd been forgiven before, maybe a zillion times. I trusted the Lord to forgive me yet again. One by one, the people who's words had stung came to mind and although I'd forgiven them time and again, this time I forgave and consciously let the hurt go. As each face came to mind, I did the same thing. I felt like I was making progress, yet I knew something big still sat on my heart. I asked the Lord to show me what was left to do. As I sat in that chair that was way too big for me, I heard the softest whisper in my spirit and the words sounded like "Now forgive me."


Knowledge filled me and while I sobbed almost uncontrollably, I heard it again. "Now forgive me."  I knew exactly what God was asking. Yet I had questions. "Why did you make me watch him die so unexpectedly? And why does that gut-wrenching video loop my mind stored play over and over again?" It came to me that denial is the first step of grief, yet I had bypassed that step because of the reality I'd witnessed. I had not denied Jim's death. I knew with horrid certainty that he was gone. I asked the Lord to be gracious to me and remove the video loop from memory. What I heard in my heart was that the video would remain as a part of my memory, but the pain of it would diminish. And from that time on, the loop stopped playing and when it came to mind, the agony of it was gone, replaced by a sort of sadness that I could bear.


I'd been sitting in Jim's chair most of the morning, going step by step as the Lord directed. Yet I still heard those same words in my spirit. "Now forgive me." I thought about what that meant, knowing it was God who was in the forgiving business, not me. It was then I saw myself, alone for the first time in my life, trained by circumstances to go on alone, but dragging my heels all the way. "God, I don't want to be here," I said. "You know I want to be with you, I want to be where Jim is. I'm not afraid to die. You know that about me."


"Forgive me for leaving you behind," was what kept floating through my mind. "I have work for you to do." Stubborn that I am, I tried one last time, pleading with God to take me home. Yet I knew that wasn't going to happen. At least not anytime soon. I opened my bible to no special place, laid my hands on God's word, and forgave Him for making me stay on earth without the other half of my being. And even as I cried, I physically felt anger leave me and peace fill my heart. That peace has remained and I've been grateful, for the widow's path is strewn with many difficult situations and in order to heal to the point where I would again be useful to the Lord, I needed to continue walking through that dark valley until I came out into the sunlight. I wondered how long it would take.

"For I know the plans I have for you says the Lord, plans for peace and not evil, to give you a future and a hope. Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you. You will seek Me and you will find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart." Jeremiah 29:10-13

The Despair Of Anger

Two years before Jim's unexpected passing, he looked at me and said he'd like to get a dog, in particular a Golden Lab. I was thrilled. I love animals and we'd always had either cats or dogs or both since we'd been married. But in the eight years since our last animals had gone one by one on to animal heaven, Jim had said, "No more." When I inquired as to why, his answer was that I treated them like children rather than pets. "It's too hard on you when they get sick or die," he said. "I can't stand to see you in such misery." 

He had me pegged pretty good. So how was it that he'd changed his mind? I asked. His answer stunned me. "I don't feel like I can be your protector much longer," he said. "And I don't feel like I can guard the house."  I had noticed his evening routine was becoming more hit and miss than it had ever been in our entire married life. For all of those years he had made his nightly rounds, making sure the garage doors were closed and locked, same with the front and back doors to the house. He turned on the security lights, closed any open windows, and shut the drapes or blinds. He'd done it ever since we'd said our "I Do's."

Even as the Parkinson's disease progressed to the point where Jim needed a walker on good days and a wheelchair on bad ones, he continued his evening check to make sure the house was secure. Sometimes he'd already have gone to bed only to get up when he remembered he'd not checked things out. When I told him I'd do it, he commented that it was his job. Besides, I was too short to be any sort of threat to a intruder. 

I always laughed when he said that. I am a little over five feet tall; Jim stood six feet and even stooped with the Parkinson's, he was still a formidable presence and his upper body was strong, even if his legs weren't as steady as they used to be. I figured it was all that exercise he did everyday plus the three-mile walks he prescribed to so religiously. It was so like him to keep going forward. I have always believed that his determined spirit and faith in Christ is what kept him functioning with an incurable disease that took him long before he actually became bedridden.

We wished to adopt a shelter dog, but Golden Labs just didn't show up. Then one day I checked the Humane Society website just for the heck of it and discovered there were two Golden Labs. One was a purebred; the other a mix of Golden Lab and German Shepherd. Both were only two years old. We hopped in the car, hoping they'd she'd still be there. The purebred was already spoken for; the mixed breed wasn't. And while she was definitely shy with Jim, much preferring me or the attendant, Jim didn't care. So it was that we brought Bonnie home.

She destroyed our newspapers, a couple of paperbacks, the shearling on Jim's and my Ugg slippers, three throw rugs, my bed of Japanese iris already in bud, and on her down time, dug a hole under the fence nearly big enough for her to get through. The gardener found it and blocked it just in time. She barked at anyone who dared come to the door, walk on the sidewalk, or ride a bike on the other side of the road.

She slept by the front door and wouldn't budge, even though we wished her to sleep in our room. Jim had gotten the guard dog he'd wanted. Well, not exactly a guard dog. Just a noisy barker, alerting us to anything that moved anywhere outside. We were alright with that because she was sweet and gentle and quiet as a mouse the rest of the time. And she was smart. Little did we know how intelligent she was. It took many months for us to discover the real reason God had sent her to us.

Author's note:

In my mind, I'd lost not only my husband, but my protector, my confidante, my lover, and my best friend. Perhaps I was the only one besides the Lord who understood why so much anger built inside me. I tried telling those closest to me about the volcano I was becoming, but  even those who listened didn't hear what I was saying. And rather than trying to understand, they offered gentle lectures on how a Christian should be thinking and acting in the face of loss and it finally dawned on me that since none of them had ever walked in my shoes, they could not begin to comprehend what I was trying to tell them.


The few who heard my rants and raves tried to give advice rather than just sitting and hearing me out--which is what my heart wanted them to do. I didn't want to be told the  typical condolence messages: "He's in a better place now," or "You should be happy he is no longer diseased and debilitated," or "You should be grateful he went fast," or "It may take some time, but you'll be fine." In my book, all those were fighting words. And the more I heard them, the angrier I got. I didn't want words. I wanted someone who would sit on the couch and cry with me. 


One young man Jim and I had known for several years, and whom we thought a lot of, called two days after Jim's graveside service to remind me that I had missed my birthday and we should have a party. I was aghast and barely knew how to answer. Still in tears most of each day, I thanked him for thinking about my birthday but that I didn't wish to celebrate. A week later he phoned again. "Are you better now?" he questioned. Doing my best not to let loose a diatribe of rage, I said I didn't think I'd ever be better. He reminded me again that I'd missed my birthday and a party was due. I told him there would be no birthday that year and to please forget about it.


Acquaintances phoned, asking "How are you doing today?" What I wanted to do was scream at them: "How do you think I'm doing today, you idiot?" Instead, I pursed my mouth tight, asked the Lord to give me grace, and told them I was doing alright but that I was still crying most of the time and that I thought it would take years to work through the grief I was feeling. The usual comment was, "Really? Years? I got over my mom's, dad's, cousin's, aunts, uncle's death in a few months." 


You know what I wanted to shout at them? "You didn't sleep with them or snuggle up to them or create children with them or sit on their lap and cry when someone told a huge lie about you at church and then passed it around as truth. You didn't hold their hand when you were scared or passionately kiss under a star-filled sky or zip your sleeping bags together on camp outs. You didn't flirt with them or tease them with your eyes or fight with them, knowing that when it was time to make up, it would be good." I wanted to add, "I've buried my parents, four aunts, three uncles, a sister-in-law and a child. Trust me, we are talking about two different worlds as far as grief is concerned."  But that isn't what I said. Instead, I blamed myself as being a slow learner, unable to process hard things in a quick manner and that it would probably be a long time before I was ever "fine" again. 


In my heart, I could hear molten rocks beginning to bubble, adding to the smoke plume already visible to my inner self. Six months after Jim's death, it was time to do something about my hair, for I'd pretty much ignored it for a long time. When I sat down in my hairdresser's chair, she commented that I certainly was due for a cut and color. "No color," I said. "Let it stay gray. I've no one to look pretty for anymore, so who cares?" She asked how long it has been and when I said, "Six months," her comment was, "Oh yeah, I thought it had been a long time."  I bit my lip to hold back tears. A long time? It felt like yesterday.


Nine months after Jim's demise, I received a long email from someone I'd been close friends with since we were both in our early twenties. It was the most devastating email I'd ever gotten. The woman whom I'd always considered to be my best friend announced that I had behaved badly toward her for the few days she'd stayed with me before Jim's graveside service. She remarked that I'd treated her as though she were a maid rather than a house guest. She went on to say that in the six years since she'd moved to another state, I'd called only four times, and never just to see how she was but for a prayer request. I was a bad friend and had always been moody and she just couldn't handle it anymore. She concluded by saying I was self-absorbed, thinking of no one but myself and while she'd said nothing for years, it was time now to speak her piece.


The volcano blew. My mind reeled with emotions. "Why now, God, I sobbed. "Why now when I'm already so far down I am having trouble just seeing the top of the pit?" What felt to me like her betrayal of our long-time friendship was the final straw. During those six years she'd mentioned, I'd devoted every minute to my husband, wanting to spend as much time with him as possible because I knew Parkinson's was progressive and I could see with my own eyes that the disease was taking a toll on his body.


In all honesty, I'd phoned no one to see how they were doing or just to chat. Not even my two sisters whom I love dearly. I waited a few days to calm myself, then emailed her an apology, explaining that I had almost no remembrance of the three months following Jim's death and that I was truly sorry for anything I'd done or said that was unkind. Would she please forgive me? What I received as an answer was that she needed time off from being in touch with me, at least a year, and would I please not contact her anymore.


That evening, I threw myself across my bed and sobbed. Not with grief, but with anger so encompassing I felt as though it would choke every breath out of my being. I could not think to pray. Words eluded me. I laid myself upon God's mercy, able to say nothing more than "please help me." I eventually cried myself to sleep and when I woke in the wee hours of the morning, I felt completely spent. Yet inside was this tiny glimmer that an answer was coming. Exhausted as I was, I changed into bed clothes and crawled under the covers. The last thought before falling asleep was that tomorrow would be the Lord's time to set me free from all encompassing anger. Little did I know that God was after some things in me that needed to be resolved before the release would be effected. But right now I needed to sleep, so like Scarlett O'Hara, I determined not to think about it until tomorrow.

"Call upon Me in the day of trouble; I will deliver you, and you shall glorify Me." Psalm 50:15