Tag Archives: Love

Cracked Pitchers and glue

via Google images

via Google images

As the first day of  Joe’s death merged into the first evening and I was alone with my thoughts, I began to ruminate on Joe’s and my marriage.  Round and round, in a seemingly endless loop I replayed situations where I ignored Joe, wanting my “alone time,” moments where I could, and should have thanked him and failed to do so, times when I yelled at him for not helping out enough with the kids and other less than admirable moments.  Basically, I had a tape relentlessly torturing me with my failures as a wife, and there was no stop button with which to end the pain.

Intermingled with my vignettes of failure, and causing the pain to pierce more deeply and with such precision I knew my heart had been punctured and my blood was running free and stealing my peace as it abandoned the heart, were scenes in which Joe had the starring role.  I saw Joe kissing me on the top of my head as he passed by,  Joe regularly and fervently whispering to me “You are SO beautiful” (and although I laughed at him, I surely did feel beautiful in those moments),  Joe as “Daddy”: being at Jackson’s soccer and basketball games and encouraging him (“Run Jackson, run!”, “That’s it!”, “Shoot the ball Son, shoot the ball!”), and Joe, chanting the requisite responsive cheers at Laurel’s competitions and later, hugging her, always telling her she did great regardless of whether her team won or lost.

By the time the sun’s first weak rays broke through the blackness of night, I was a broken, useless vessel.  I was alive, in so much as much as my heart continued to beat in regular rhythm, but I existed as a cracked milk pitcher exists, unable to perform the function for which it was created.  I was overflowing with self-loathe and recriminations, to the point I could do nothing but cry silent tears of anguish as I slumped over the desk having attempted, but failed to begin the practicalities of  burying my husband.

As the tears flowed, the ringing of the phone disturbed the morning’s stillness and I grabbed at it so the children would not be woken.  I heard my sister Kathy ask me if I was ok, and as I tried to explain how badly I failed as Joe’s wife, I was choked by the volume of tears that overtook me and made it impossible to speak.  Kathy began to tell me it was ok, I was not a bad wife,  Joe loved me, and other banalities we feel compelled to say when there really is nothing to say.  And then she told me something which, didn’t stop the tears but did stem them.  She asked me a question, “Cindy, what do you think was the first thing Shannon said to me after Dennis died?”  I knew Shannon had lost her husband a few years back after caring for him for years during his illness.  I couldn’t think of what she would have said and told Kathy so; Kathy responded, Shannon said, “I was a terrible wife.”  I was floored!

After ascertaining she was not making this up in an attempt to help me stop crying, I began a lengthy process of realizing I was not a horrid wife, and Joe did love me; indeed, he treasured me.  It didn’t make the pain go away altogether but it lessened some of the guilt crushing me and enabled me to move forward.  I decided to try to relax with a bath while waiting for Kathy to come over and help me with various details.

The children were still asleep, or at least not up and about, and I was sitting in the bathtub reflecting on what Kathy had told me, grieving the loss of Joe, while tears slipped down my cheeks.  The shower curtain was partially, but not fully closed, to allow light into the tub.  As I was pondering, I heard Joe speak; he was just behind the curtain.  He quietly said, “You will be all right; you are strong.”  Silently I told him I would NOT be ok, and that I was a horrible wife!  He lovingly reassured me, “Puddyhead o’ mine, you were a fine wife!”  I had to laugh among the tears; Joe was the only person who EVER called me puddyhead (he gave me the nickname; I will share the details later for those who don’t know them, and he only called me “puddyhead o’ mine” when he was in a particularly good mood.  Joe’s words took my cracked and useless self and glued me back together; it wasn’t seamless but it held up under pressure.

God sent Joe to me in my darkest time, to give me the comfort He knew I needed from Joe, and the reassurance that Joe was with Him, and was in a great mood!  I treasure that visit, and it wasn’t my only one.  I will blog later on my nighttime visit with Joe and my big blowout with God.  Stay tuned and stay thankful.

Somewhere in the middle

Most stories begin at the beginning.  This one will start somewhere in the middle.  Let me give you a little background.  On April 30th, 2013, I received a call which has changed my life.

I don’t often remember details, especially times, and I guess the time may not matter to you because it doesn’t change the story, but everything about April 30th is important to me.  Our class at preschool has playground time at 9:30;  it was raining that day, or at least messy enough so, rather than go outside, we were playing in the Fellowship Hall.  The kids had just begun riding plasma cars on our “track” when my phone rang.

And here is the middle of the story.  The only indication of anything momentous was the number was unrecognized by my phone.  Now, I generally do not answer unrecognized calls and definitely not at work, but I did this time.  It was a highway patrol officer.

Immediately, I knew something bad had happened to Joe and my heart began beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings.  Joe was my husband and we’d been married 22 years.  The officer asked me to sit down, and like a movie where you know what’s coming, I asked the question I imagine most of us would ask; “Is Joe ok?”  He told me Joe had a heart attack and was in good hands, on his way to the hospital.

I couldn’t process any other words he said.  Something about which hospital, and the address.  My co-worker Mary took the phone from me as I slumped over in disbelief, head down to my chest, curled in a ball on the chair.  Joe was on a one day business trip to Winston Salem, NC (about 1 1/2 hours away), and was due back later that day.  Mary wrote down the name and address of the hospital, and I ran inside to get my purse and my daughter Laurel who is 22 and works PT at the same preschool.

It seems impossible to me that I can’t remember what I said to her, or her reaction; and yet my world was trembling, on the verge of collapse, and so perhaps it is not so hard to understand why I have forgotten the words.  Clearly though, I remember her expression as I explained;  her bright brown eyes, so full of life and happiness changed in a heartbeat to eyes of a trapped animal, desperately seeking safety and a way out of sure doom.  Trying to be brave, just a few tears welled, but she would not allow them to fall.  We went to tell Penny, our director, and she immediately embraced us, and she led us in a prayer of petition to God.  Laurel and I had no sense that the next time we entered the preschool, our lives would be forever altered; we were simply thinking of the quickest way to get to Winston Salem, and figuring out who would pick up Jackson from school.