Delayed Freak-outs and Forfeited Fears

The Crisis that Deflates Whatever Fear You’re Terrified Of Facing

I admit it. I’ve been thinking about death a LOT. As my husband of forty-six years has put me on a yo-yo diet of Gone/Not Gone/Gone/Not Gone, I’ve attempted to imagine my life without him.

He’s been back and forth to hospital, rehab and home again at least three times in the past two weeks. Several “death’s door” convos with those palliative care people later, he’s stubbornly refused to stop breathing. Came close a couple of times, but after all, he’s a jarhead marine.

The last two times he’s suddenly taken a nosedive again, people told me that this was it. Low blood pressure equaled intolerance to continued dialysis. No dialysis meant, well, lights out.

But throughout the whiplash, roller coaster crisis, something strange and wonderful has happened.

Sure, if he passes, I won’t have to kick him and say, “Roll over, you’re snoring again.” I’ll be relieved of trying to find something—anything—that he will eat. I won’t have to feel guilty over whether I waited too long to call the ambulance or if my support of our two live-in sons is what drove my hubster over the ulcer-producing edge.

But the black hole of aloneness quickly overtakes the petty stuff. If the safety of knowing we’re there for each other evaporates, I already feel panicky. As I keep on rowing my boat with one oar, that word, alone, is a capital G-giant maw, sucking me toward the event horizon.

I’m pretty sure only those who’ve suffered great loss can understand the depth of loneliness that accompanies the death of someone you love. Maybe it feels like you’re the only living thing in the universe, alone with misery and longing and regrets. Oh, for the Way-Back Machine—I’d do things differently. Better. I’d save that loved one and myself too.

It's at the junction of relief and utter abandonment that the real hope lies.

Some say they never feel alone, that God is always there. Yet my humanness also feels the gnawing hunger to hear that voice one more time. The bitter separation between the one I built a life with and me is like the way I cross a cattle guard—with the bottoms of my feet tingling as if they are being sucked through the grate.

Or maybe it’s that otherworldly sensation you get when your foot slips off one side of a mountain bridge and it’s a thousand feet down. You manage to catch yourself, but damn if you don’t hold onto those ropes with a death clutch.

Since a lot of my loved ones have passed away in the last six months, I’ve noticed a pattern in how I respond. Everyone grieves differently and there isn’t a right or wrong, but here’s what worked, sorta, kinda, for me.

First, I didn’t go into emotions as the crisis unfolded. While medical folks were yelling “Type and cross match” and hooking up tubes and things that go beep in the night, a doctor told me that my husband has already outlived the average years on hemodialysis. But something kept assuring me that the road trip with my hubby wasn’t over.

Thanks be to God, he was only missing a few pints of blood. After a transfusion, he was his normal, ornery self.

In those critical moments I let others do the weeping for me. It’s not that I didn’t care. But being hysterical was driven out of me early on in my Crippled Children years. Instead I asked myself what I needed to do next. Whether it was to make a jillion phone calls (I did) or just be with the people I love, I found myself focusing on others.

I asked Jesus to carry me while I made decisions, planned logistics or talked to the raft of doctors, social workers or interested bystanders. I did the next right thing as Glennon Doyle says, and then the next.

By now you may be thinking that I wasn’t feeling my feels very well. But like the choicest morsel, I wanted to save my emotions for those lonely times, those times when fears would start drilling on my heart.

I did what I needed to do, whether it was to get that power of attorney, advanced directive or insurance claim started. Later, I gave my emotions free rein.

But here’s the magical part.

By not succumbing to in-the-moment hysteria or panic, I dealt with Fear itself. I wasn’t about to let fear ruin necessary tasks while I fell apart. And later on, when the crisis was past and I was left either rejoicing or mourning, I could bathe myself in memories, fawn over photos and maybe sneak in a good cry.

I realize that I may be the only kook around with this approach to barn-burning life events. But by setting aside fear of what might happen, God can work the miracle without my worrying myself into fear’s prison. And don’t the scriptures tell us not to fear about a billion times?

I sincerely hope you don’t face this kind of life crisis anytime soon. But let’s face it, eventually we’re all heading for the spirit in the sky. When the catastrophe hits (and it will) ask yourself to do the next right thing. Make yourself easy for God to carry and pack your hysteria in your luggage. Fear won’t know where to look.

My husband, Marine extraordinaire, is back from the almost-dead once again. The docs found the source of his internal bleeding that made him leak blood like a sieve. I don’t know how long this resurrection will last, but I’m grateful and thankful and about to burst with joy. God’s feathery wings have overcome fear once again.