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Excerpt from Chapter 28: A Life for a Life
I can't blame God for Doug's death. He didn't kill him. A man anxious about a job interview killed him. But after Doug's death, I was broken, and couldn't participate in anything that in the past had brought me joy. For a year I wouldn't sing at church, or teach children, and I told the preacher, "I don't feel up to it."
Sometimes we think others have it easier, that they can cope with their struggles. Don't fool yourself. Grief is the hardest thing you or anyone else will experience in a lifetime. And grieving one time, doesn't mean it'll be easier the second time. It's not. I lost a child and that is one kind of grief, but losing a husband is quite different. Not all grief is the same. It depends on the relationship.
I cannot explain Ricky's death. I can't describe the grief I felt. I was devastated, but that doesn't capture a mother's grief when her child is killed. The words have not been invented that can describe any mother's misery and suffering. I can explain losing Doug. It felt like half my heart, half my being had been wrenched from me.
Was one death worst than the other? When Ricky died, Doug and I comforted each other. When I lost Doug, I didn't have my partner, my best friend, my soul mate, to go to. I felt deserted, and lost. But you can't compare the losses. One was as brutal, as horrific as the other.
Ricky's death brought me closer to God. Doug's death created a distance, and I no longer wanted to pray and spend time with my devotions. I didn't want to feel that tugging in my heart.
When Ricky died, I questioned God and said, "Why God? Why did you take him?" But I didn't live there. I didn't dwell on the question or feel betrayed. It didn't own me, invade my every thought or possess me. I believed God was my only hope. It was quite different after Doug died. I wanted an explanation. I wanted to know why this happened, and I wouldn't let it go.
When I lost Ricky, I accepted God's will. When I lost Doug, I refused to accept it. The Lord could've stopped the pickup truck. He created the world. Saving Doug would have been easy for Him.
The year that followed my husband's death became a bitter and unstable time for me. After twenty-four years of marriage, I came home to an empty house, an empty bed, and a night filled with terrors. For a person mentally and spiritually injured like me, nighttime is the enemy. I'd wake in the middle of the night alone, lonely, exhausted from not sleeping, and scared. The house whispered and groaned, and every sound was a fright.
At first, I didn't want to live. Not that I wanted to die, but I didn't want to live a life like this. I'd loved going home and talking about my day and finding out about Doug's day. Without Doug, I had nobody to share my life with. I had nobody that knew me, and understood and loved me the way Doug did. I had no center, no place to walk where my feet touched the ground.
I've always been a people person. I love people coming to my house, taking care of them and making them feel good. I'm always doing things with people, and can't stand being alone. It wasn't that I wanted my kids to move home or wanted a man, I frankly didn't like being alone and single.
With no one to anchor me, I became a wanderer, and got in the car and drove for days by myself. At times I coveted being alone, and other times I craved company. I visited relatives and friends in several states, and didn't want to go home and nobody be there.
When I didn't drive, I flew. Before, I'd call Doug and tell him when I was arriving and he'd pick me up at the airport. Doug loved playing games, and sometimes when I arrived at the airport, he'd hide behind a pillar and run up behind me and scare me. I'd scream and we'd laugh. The first time I flew after Doug was gone, there was nobody to call and nobody to meet me. After I left the plane, I kept looking around, my heart pounding, expecting him to run out and grab me and make me yell. I knew he was dead, yet I had that anticipation.
Sometimes he pulled the same prank when I was shopping. Because he worked late, and I wanted to be up when he came home, I usually went grocery shopping at midnight. I was shopping at Fry's one night, the only customer in the store, picking frozen juices out of the freezer, and all of a sudden somebody seized me from behind. I let out a bloodcurdling scream. It was Doug. Who else would do such a thing? The staff came running to see what atrocious thing had happened, and all they found were two laughing idiots.
He was always acting goofy and doing funny things. He made up songs and sang them to the kids on the way to school in the car. "If I was a little bitty runt, I'd get up and be a grump," and the kids rolled their eyes and laughed.
I remember one of many incidents when he was in the bathtub. He was 6' 2", the tubs are not that long, and his feet were sticking out. He asked me to get his socks. I asked him what for, and he said, "Just give me my socks." I got them, and he put them on his feet, in the bathtub. "When I was growing up," he said, "I wanted to be like Lloyd Bridges in Sea Hunt, and wore my socks in the bathtub, and they were my fins." Then he pushed his face under the water and blew bubbles. That was his underwater diver impression.
I missed him. I missed his nuttiness, and I missed his smile. I missed his complete acceptance of me. He saw me when I was sick, when my hair wasn't combed, when I wasn't wearing makeup, when I wore my grubbiest clothes-and he loved and accepted me at my worst. If other people see you dressed like a street person with your quirks and insecurities, they might not like you. The person who loves you accepts all of you.
Without Doug, I was a ball of pain, the pain from being unhappy and missing my husband. We'd shared everything and I saw myself through his eyes. Without him, I looked in the mirror, and the woman staring back was hollow-eyed.
I was depressed, and sought to alleviate my depression by buying things. After Ricky died, I bought things for Misty and Justin. This time I bought things for myself. I bought clothes, kitchenware, specialty foods, exercise equipment, shoes, and jewelry. As a matter of fact, I bought the same ring and necklace twice, and when I got home, I thought, Gee, I must have really liked them. The truth was my mind was in a fog. I was having trouble remembering things I did.
I understand that buying stuff is common with people who have experienced a life-altering trauma like losing a husband. It makes you feel better, but only for a moment. And now when I visit the widow of a police officer or firefighter, I tell them about the ridiculous things I did, and they laugh because they're doing the same things. It helps them accept that they're normal.
Buying jewelry, in particular, is common with widows. I thought nothing of plunking down a hundred dollars on a ring I liked. I bought more rings than I can wear in a lifetime. I have ten watches and only wear one. Before Doug's death, I would never have thrown money away frivolously. The unfortunate thing is most widows cannot afford to buy this stuff. They often receive government money in a lump sum, which is more money than they've seen in five years, but it goes fast.
Shopping is a coping tool, and not a good one. I said to somebody recently, "If you get the urge to go shopping for jewelry, shop in my bedroom drawer first. I've bought every piece of jewelry you can think of."
Shopping aside, I was a sad, demoralized person after Doug's death. I was adrift in a flat sea, floating aimlessly toward a horizon I could never reach. Nothing had much meaning, and I alternated between crying for days and feeling nothing for days.
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