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Toronto Star,
INSIGHT
Friday, May 17, 1996
They say 'the
worst is over.' Naively, I believe them
NOVEMBER: I'm
trying to get used to the idea that my close childhood friend
died of cancer on Nov. 23. Her four kids are heartbroken but
resilient. They had time while their mother was ill to come to
terms with the physical problems of being alone and running a
home without a mother. The fact that their mother, my friend,
was larger than life and a very strong influence in their lives
does affect their getting used to the loss. One consolation
people offer is that the worst is over. Naively, I believe that
is true.
I consider myself
lucky that my friend and I had a very close and meaningful
relationship spanning more than 30 years. As a result, the
children are very attached to me. I tell them they have to be
strong for their father's sake. I tell the father he has to show
courage for the sake of his children.
I can't seem to
put my friend out of my mind. She cries to me in my dreams and
asks me to look after her kids. I think this is because there
are no other relatives to give support and assistance. I call
the husband and tell him about my dreams and suggest he be extra
loving to the children.
DECEMBER: The
holiday season is especially hard on my friend's family. She
loved to celebrate Christmas and New Year's by decorating the
house and cooking a turkey. There is no celebration this year
and the house remains dark. I talk to the kids regularly and try
to cheer them. They have ups and downs; the father has only
downs. He is having difficulty coping with the loss of his wife.
I understand the extent of his grief but am concerned about
the
children.
JANUARY: The kids
tell me the father is losing it. He does not want to spend time
at home - it haunts him. I call him and berate him for not
setting a good example for the kids. I suggest a break in
Canada. He agrees the change will do them all good.
Each time I ask,
"How are the kids?" he replies, "They are fine,
they will cope." I wonder about the 15-year-old son - he
was born after three daughters and was spoiled by my friend. I
wonder how much he misses his mother's cuddles and special
attention? When my own sons come to me for a hug, my heart aches
for my friend's son. Still, I console myself, they do have a
father and they are a
close-knit family.
FEB. 4: My
friend's 23-year-old daughter calls at midnight. I know
instinctively something is wrong. "Dad is dead," she
says.
It does not
register - how can Dad be dead? "That's not possible,"
I say.
"Dad is
dead," she says in a monotone. "I just returned from
identifying his body. He was driving and had a heart attack. He
died in the car." I can't speak with her. She is calm and
asks if I'm all right. Am I all right? I don't really know. I'm
rather numb and something in my mind keeps saying,
"Lightning does not strike twice. Why these kids? How could
this tragedy happen? What will happen now?"
I tell her I will
call back, because I don't want to break down. My family shares
the news in stunned silence.
Never in my life
have I faced such a profound tragedy. In nine weeks two people I
knew and loved died. Two people who loved life and living, who
entertained with a vengeance, who lived for their four children,
who were larger than life. My thoughts are for the children, who
are unnaturally calm.
My husband goes
to England for the funeral - he was a close friend of the
husband, which is one reason we have a close affinity with them.
He comes back and tells me the house feels haunted. The children
are with friends in London and waiting for me to come and take
them home. The burden of responsibility weighs me down.
My spirit is
really low.
MARCH: A week
before the school break, I fly to London and meet my friend's
kids. We travel to their house in Birmingham where my friend and
her family lived for 30 years. For the past 20 years, I spent
every summer there, sometimes with my family, sometimes alone.
My friend and I
used to talk non-stop for the first 24 hours until I'd lose my
voice, and then her husband would give me throat medicine (he
was a doctor) and laugh at us. He called me a sister-in-law and
treated me like one of the family. He would cook while we
chatted. After our marathon session of catching up, we'd invite
friends over, and every day would be a party.
This time the
house is empty - barren of sound. The kids were forlorn but
strong. We go through the dismal and difficult task of sorting
out their parents' personal belongings. There is her wedding
dress that we designed together, her wedding pictures, all the
presents I gave her over the years, little cuttings I sent her -
the process is both painful and soulful. It warms me to see she
treasured my friendship, and it pains me she is not there to
share any more. The kids and I cry and laugh and, at times, just
sit and wish it were the same as before.
The kids settle
into a routine. I cook their favorite dishes for them. Other
times I roam around, helpless and lost, seeing two shadows in
every corner and hearing two voices in the dark.
My visit ends. We
go to the graveyard where my friend and her husband lie side by
side as though sharing a bed. I tell them I am trying to cope
with the responsibility they have left for me; I apologize for
whatever I may be doing wrong. I tell them I miss them
desperately. I tell them I will never believe anyone who says:
"The worst is over."
Copyright
© 1996 Toronto Star, All Rights Reserved.
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