Snippets from my life -- Waiting

September 1989

Photo by Linnaea Mallette

Pushing aside the gauze curtains, I glanced out the back window and watched as my seven-year-old shuffled down the driveway. She reached the street, looking to her left and then to her right, waiting for her friend to come and play with her, to distract her, to make her forget for a while.

I don't think she heard me approaching as she sat cross-legged at the end of the driveway. I assumed her position and we sat quietly for a while, side-by-side. We were both waiting. The nightmare that had begun two short endless days ago was ever present. My husband, her daddy, was gone and tonight we had to go to a service where he would be eulogized.

"Did Daddy have on his old shoes?" Her question disrupted my thoughts. 

"What?" I asked. 

She repeated the question. 

"What do you mean, Bethany?"

"Well, if Daddy had on his new tennis shoes, he could have run faster and gotten away from the fire."

I didn't know what to say. I, too, wanted answers. 

Again, Bethany spoke. "I wish he would've worn his new shoes."

I still had no words for her. We went back to waiting, side-by-side. She was waiting for her friend. I was waiting, hoping, praying for the alarm clock to ring and for my husband to say, "Hana, it's time to get up."

The hardest thing I've ever done

After only a few hours of sleep, I woke up to a 7 a.m. phone call from my friend, Trudi. She'd heard of my husband's death and was offering her heartbroken support. It was 1989 and my husband had died a short six hours prior.

I crawled out of bed and started wading through the fog of early widowhood. I was 32 years old and in no way prepared for what lie ahead. My mother, who had traveled across the state and arrived at 9:00 the previous morning, was in the kitchen making coffee. I asked for a cup of tea as I slid onto the counter stool opposite her. She asked questions I didn't feel like answering. "How are you this morning?" "Did you sleep okay?" "Who was on the phone?" 

I wanted to be alone. But I'd have plenty of alone time soon. My husband was dead.

The day was filled with phone calls and travel plans for family and friends making the obligatory funeral trek. There were local visitors bearing gifts of food and flowers. I was beyond grateful to my friend, Kathy, who spent the previous day cleaning my home (not an easy task... it looked like a disaster area when I'd rushed out the door at 3 a.m. to get to the hospital). After learning the prognosis (Jim had zero chance of survival), she hugged me tightly and headed to my home to clean. What a gift that was for me.

Sandy, another cherished friend, answered the phone in the middle of the night and didn't hesitate to say yes when I asked her if I could drop the children off so I could head to the hospital. At least it was a Saturday and no one had to be up for school in the morning.

But all of that was the day before and I was up and facing the day ahead. My mother had retrieved the girls from Sandy's the previous afternoon, so they were safely tucked into bed. By 8:30, I knew it was time to face the hardest thing I've ever done.

"Do you want me to go with you?" my mother had asked. 

But no. This was something I had to do on my own. Dragging my weary self down the hallway to their shared room, I stood at the door and watched their breathing (their blessed breathing) as they snuggled together in the double bed. 

As I sat down on the edge, my 5-year-old opened her eyes. "Mommy!" she nearly shouted, wrapping her arms around my neck and squeezing tightly. Tears fell swiftly down my cheeks. She sat back and looked at me. 

"What's wrong, Mommy?" she asked.

By then, her 7-year-old sister had awakened. There was no shouted greeting, no hug. She lie there looking at my face and she knew. 

"I have some really sad news," I said, trying to maintain some kind of composure. How had this happened? Why was I here telling my girls their daddy was dead? There had to be a mistake. Where the hell is the rewind button??

"Remember I told you Daddy was in a fire yesterday?" I continued.

"Is Daddy okay?" the little one asked. "Is he coming home today?"

The older of the two rolled over, turning away from the inevitable.

"No, honey, Daddy's not coming home. He was hurt too badly and he's in heaven now." By now, there was no stopping the tears. It took a moment or two for my words to register in my baby girl's mind and heart. Then her tears joined mine. 

"I want my daddy," she cried. "I want my daddy."

Her older sister just stared at me with a blank expression. She knew what I was going to say and was determined not to cry. So she didn't. Not for a very, very long time.

And so it was for us. Years of shared tears between my youngest and me that did not include my other daughter. She took on the role of fixer and tried to care for her grieving widowed mother the best way she could. It was a responsibility no 7-year-old should ever bear, yet I mistakenly allowed it for far too long. I depended on her, yet worried about her seeming lack of emotion over her father's death. It was a difficult and trying time.

And that was what it was like for me 26 years ago today. It was the beginning of my journey as a widow and single mother. It was the beginning of growth and learning, of self-discovery and lots and lots of pain. 

I pray that none of you ever has to face this type of journey as a young widow. But if you do, I hope you will be kind to yourself as you stumble over mistakes and bad choices. And I hope you will contact me. I'll be more than happy to help you navigate the turbulent waters that stretch out before you. 

A not so happy anniversary

Honeymoon 1981

"The horror of it was only compounded by my having to tell my seven-year-old and five-year-old daughters that their daddy was never coming home."


Twenty-four years ago today, I lost my first husband. Rather than write about it yet again, I thought I'd just post the link for the story, written on the 20th anniversary of his death. If you want to know a little bit more about my life, I invite you to read it.


Tears in a bottle

Playing the hand I was dealt

Jim and me on our honeymoon June 1981

I like to play cards... especially games that involve a little bit of luck along with a little bit of strategy. While we all have some control over the game with the strategies we use, unless we cheat, we have no control over the hand we're dealt.

Life's a bit like that too. Sometimes you're dealt lousy hands and it's up to you to make the cards work for you. 

As I've mentioned other times on the blog, September 10th, today, is the anniversary of my husband's death. Jim was killed in 1989 in a chemical flash fire where he worked. With third degree burns on 98% of his body, he lived a horrific 23 hours at the burn unit at West Penn Hospital in Pittsburgh. He was 34. I was 32. Our children were 7 and 5. 

He died at 1 a.m. on a Sunday morning. I clearly remember driving home from the hospital (yes, I drove. It was one thing I had control over as my life was falling apart around me) dreading the task of telling my children their daddy was dead. 

I crawled into my empty bed and slept for a few hours before the phone rang around 7 a.m. It was my friend, Trudi, who was devastated by the news. I remember trying to comfort her, assuring her I would be okay. She was the first of many for whom I did that. No one had to worry about me, because I would be alright. I was strong. I was resilient. I was a Haatainen girl after all, and we had the right genes. 

A couple hours later, I walked into my daughters' bedroom and sat down on the bed to do what no parent should ever have to do... I told them their daddy was dead. Even now, as I write those words, tears flow freely. It was one of the worst moments in my life. I can see Jessi's sweet little face... her confusion. Her tears. And Bethany's staunch resolve... she didn't cry about it until 9 years later. I had my challenge laid out before me. My cards were dealt.

It is now 23 years later. Somehow during that time, the cards got shuffled and re-dealt again and again. There have been lousy hands, just okay hands, and some pretty darned terrific hands. I'd like to think I've played them well.

Through it all, Jesus was at my side, comforting me, cheering me on, and chastising me when I started to play the wrong card or simply skipped a turn. He was my coach and my hero. Most of all, he was my friend. 

Did I ever question him on why this happened? A thousand times. I yelled at him, screamed at him, shook my figurative fist in his direction. But I always knew it was okay to do that, because he was God, after all, and he could take it. When I was done with my rant, he would gently nudge me to let me know which card to play next. What a gentleman. 

Even so, I struggle every single year when this anniversary rolls around, although I must admit, the past few years have proven to be easier and easier. Watching the man I loved die one of the most brutal deaths imaginable is something I will never get over completely. The sight and smell of burnt blood dripping off the sheets into puddles on the floor overtakes me still at unforeseen moments. I suffer with little snippets of it from time to time. I believe that is God's way of protecting us when we're faced with horrendous realities, for if I'd grasped it all 23 years ago, it surely would have killed me.

Time moves on. Life continues. Change occurs. 

Shuffle the cards. I'm ready for the next hand. I can only hope I'll play it well.




For more about this story, read:

Tears in a Bottle
Recycling Memories