The Superwoman of Grief

When it's Thanksgiving Anyway

EDIT: My dear hubby did indeed go to the Emergency Room today and was admitted for either pneumonia or some kind of heart trouble. The doctors are still trying to decide. Thank you all for prayers and cheery thoughts that he’ll be back at home soon.

In our sixth-grade class, Mrs. Guyer gave exciting geography lessons about exotic places, once wearing a kimono, her black hair in an updo with chopsticks. She often encouraged me to write poems and stories. I adored her.

That November in 1963, the day unfolded as usual. We lined up to trek down the breezeway to the cafeteria for lunch. The Burke twins—Bonnie and Connie cut up as a chilly wind blew my hair sideways. John Gibbs, who had been held back and already sported chin whiskers, dragged his holey slip-in boat shoes as we walked, a shooshing sound on the concrete. Irritating.

Mrs. Guyer suddenly appeared at my side. Her face weighted with grief, tears ran down her cheeks. Her lower lip trembled. “Our President,” she said, “is dead.”

President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas Texas.

The wind bit harder as a gaggle of twelve-year-olds plus John Gibbs tried to understand. All we’d known of our president was that he made us do all sorts of physical fitness tests. I’d passed out running the laps for the long-distance test, due to my poor lung capacity. Also, my dad was a Goldwater fan, so the Kennedys weren’t loved at my house.

The rest of that day was somber and muted. Even the Burke twins didn’t act up. Gibbs fell asleep during silent reading and Mrs. Guyer didn’t scold him.  She must have known it was too awful a day to be worried about small stuff.

She’d dried her tears, but her normal sunny disposition was gone. Looking back, I guess she wanted to be strong for us sixth graders. Later, we’d be doing all kinds of civics lessons about the presidency. But not today. We grieved.

Grief is like your least favorite neighbor who drops by without calling ahead. We can’t predict when grief shows up and we can’t hide behind the curtain, hoping grief will go away. It simply waits and then tackles us again when we dare to live our lives.

This morning, all the familiar worries and dread over my husband’s condition roared back to life. A few days ago, he fell while getting into the ride to dialysis and got covered in mud. His knees and ego quite bruised, he refused to go in for his three-hour-plus treatment.

In the past this wasn’t a problem, he could go a few days without treatment. Not today. When I saw him a few minutes before he was set to leave, he was asleep in a chair. He was half-dressed. I rushed to help him, but he kept falling asleep. He was so weak that I had to get him to his treatment using our transport chair.

He’s there as I write this—I’m praying I don’t get a call saying he’s been taken to the ER. I hope he was sleepy and weak from lack of dialysis. If you’ve ever had a cat with urinary blockage, the same symptoms occur as the body fills with toxins. I’m praying and hoping, and fingers crossed that he’ll be fine after dialysis. Still, grief and terror and what-ifs invade my thoughts.

But like my sixth-grade teacher, when crises occur, I steel myself and keep doing the next right thing. Old one-handed me somehow has the strength to hoist up a man who’s like dead weight and get him into a wheelchair for transport. Somehow, in the moment, I keep my wits about me and become laser-focused on getting done what needs to be done. Whether it’s calling the ambulance or hefting his fold-up chair into the trunk, I’m suddenly Superwoman.

And I wonder if this singular focus could be part of grief too. God must have known I’d need strength and courage to calmy call 911 when my husband’s having a stroke, or get him to dialysis come hell or high water. I need to be all there to face whatever comes next.

When you look back at the crises you’ve faced, isn’t it amazing that you did such a terrific job of the next right thing? Even if you’re laden with guilt that you couldn’t do more, see yourself in those crises and think kindly of yourself for what you did and didn’t do.

The grief may never leave. We have one former neighbor who shows up unannounced nearly every day. It’s irritating as a couple of rambunctious twins, but those visits also serve to remind us to be gentle in our grieving. If, like poor John Gibbs, we act inappropriately at times or we just want to sleep, let’s not scold ourselves. Instead, allow yourself to fall into the arms of love and cry your eyes out if that’s what you need to do.

They say there’s no timeline to grief. So if it barges in during the holidays, hiding behind the curtain won’t help. Seeing the empty chair, the loved one lost or incapacitated or of the wrong political stripe may trigger grief you didn’t know you had. Deal with it however you deal and remember to let God and other humans love you fiercely.

When my husband gets home today, I’m desperate to see him back to normal. If he isn’t and there’s an emergency room in our future, I pray that I can transform my grief into action. I’ll take some cues from Mrs. Guyer and that terrible November 1963 day. Maybe I’ll put chopsticks in my hair.

Happy Thanksgiving to all my wonderful readers!