Recently, my cousin Keena’s husband of nearly thirty years died after a two-year fight with colon cancer. I was glad to attend the funeral and spend time with her and the family afterward. Mourning with those who mourn is a command we ought to take seriously, for it carries its own blessings, even if we don’t feel we have the words to comfort well. In comforting as in so much of life, it may be said that showing up is ninety percent of success.
Yet, I always ask myself, what ought I to say? How ought I to behave with those grieving, especially those grieving a beloved husband such as Keena’s Mark? When I returned home, I dug from my files the essay below. Penned by my paternal aunt, Deane Elizabeth Marshall (1920-1995), and published in a local Indiana newspaper in 1989, it gives a glimpse into a heart that is broken, and contains suggestions about how to accompany those who mourn.
Aunt Deane had lost her beloved husband, John, whom she always called “Marshall,” in 1987 and moved from her longtime home on Koontz Lake into Bremen, Indiana, just blocks from our house. I used to mow her lawn and do chores for her, but the money she gave me was worth much less than the time I spent with her afterward. I would sit on her couch while we talked, always glancing over at the framed quotation from the legendary British advertising man David Ogilvy on her wall: “Develop your eccentricities while you are young. That way, when you get old, they won’t think you’re going gaga.” I think she had done that herself. It is a motto by which I have tried to live.
Here in this essay is everything about her that I loved: honesty, humor, attentiveness to herself and her surroundings, and well-spoken gratitude amid trial. The ending is filled with all of that in her wry observation that she responds to friends who inquire as to how she is doing, “Fine, thank you,” so that they can feel comfortable, but the truer answer, which she lets the reader in on, is that she is “coping, after a fashion.”
Deane’s daughter, my cousin Elizabeth, the poet, reminds me that grief takes a very long time. I’d say a lifetime. Elizabeth says that when her mother was dying, Aunt Deane claimed she saw her beloved Marshall in the hospital room. And though Elizabeth doubted it at the time, she now thinks differently: “I believe Dad was there to welcome her into eternity.” I wouldn’t doubt it. Christians grieve for each other with hope. And hope does not disappoint.
On Living as a Widow
by Deane E. Marshall
Have you lost your life’s companion? How are you? Are you coping well? Barely coping? Or not coping at all? My husband of forty-five years died fifteen months ago. Two years of knowing his health was waning were no preparation at all. It was a shock. It probably always is. It’s like a balloon. We know it may break with the next inflation, but when it bursts, we are unprepared.
With a lot of help, I’ve done the paper work; disposed of material memories. I have moved, even bought a different car. I do the tasks he always did and I hate them. I’m doing some of the things I said I’d like to do someday. I’m coping. I may be coping well. I don’t know because the bad times come unexpectedly and privately.
I had ten more miles to travel in the fog to reach home. An animal trotted across the misty road. “If you see a deer,” my husband said, “slow down. There’s usually another one.” I heeded the memory and slowed. Sure enough, another one, and then another, and one more deer crossed in front of me. An oncoming car also slowed as that driver and I peered into the field to see the white tails on the four deer disappearing into the gloomy woods.
Resuming my trip toward home, I was exhilarated. “Wait until I tell him what I saw,” and the fact hit me again. He isn’t here to tell anymore. It’s a pain as sharp as ever. The wound hasn’t healed at all.
The day I came through the alley and surprised five male cardinals on the drive into the garage was a real downer. We never had so many at one time despite all the sunflower seeds he supplied them. It made me so angry. But my head says I should not be angry with him or God, and all that’s left is the same pain, plus an unreasonable urge to scream at the cardinals, “Go away! How dare you congregate for me alone?”
The day I decided a major credit card would be an advantage for me, my brain ran a replay of every comment he ever made pertaining to credit cards. I heard, “Don’t buy it if you can’t afford it”; “People get in over their heads with credit cards”; “The interest is too high.” My brain countered with “I don’t like to carry a lot of cash”; “I want it for emergencies only”; “If I use it, I’ll pay it in full monthly.” I won the mental argument but I was overwhelmed with feelings of disloyalty. I wanted to explain and I wanted his approval. That comfort is gone forever. It’s up to me to be wise with that piece of plastic to know he’d approve.
My husband was not given to sharing his inner thoughts and I used to complain. He’d sigh, pat me, ask some small question to indicate he was trying to please me, and go on about his business. Maybe without bothering to wait for my answer.
He’d pat me. With my typewriter I’ve done it again. How I miss the touch of his hand. It was a physical reinforcement of forty-five years of love, marriage. children, family. It was affirmation that it was the two of us through war, sickness, PTA and braces on teeth.
Such little things—deer, birds, remembering a touch—trigger such anguish. Talking about it to our friends makes them nervous and they change the subject quickly. Without our friends, so many shared memories of my husband would be lost with him. Yet, they carefully refrain from mentioning his name. I’m sure they think they are helping me. Not so. Hearing his name is comforting pain because I know they have not forgotten him. One of my happiest moments since he died occurred in a fast food restaurant. For reasons we never understood, my husband had boycotted it one day. Knowing him, it could have been a joke, but from then on we did not stop there. This day the three of us went there because it was convenient. As we sat eating, the husband of the couple said, “I can’t see what’s so wrong with a square hamburger.” We burst into laughter. We shared an instant memory of my husband and it was good.
Of course, my eyes may fill with tears momentarily, but tears can be healing. Since I need my friends to be comfortable, when they say, “How are you?” I know what they mean. My answer is, “Fine, thank you.”
Yes, I’m coping, after a fashion. How are you doing?
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The featured image is “Inconsolable Grief” (1884), by Ivan Kramskoi, and is in the public domain, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
