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. 

Grief, Revisited. A poem

Photo by Maliz Ong

The dying was slow, easing

the family into grief. The contrast 

for me was real. Sudden, violent 
death, catapulting loved ones into 
that same grief, barring
the shock absorbers of
preparation. Bit by bit, months
then years, of grief bolts
slamming into us with no
notice, no warning. Electric
brutality. Their impact abating as
years passed, but never relinquishing
their power.

I watched the wave knock the teenager

down, rolling him across the
bottom of the ocean’s shallow – cutting,
bruising, broken seashells piercing flesh. Swallowed
sea water, swollen eyes burned by
salt, by helplessness, by
regret. If only he’d ridden the previous
wave. If only he’d stretched out on
the sandy towel under the sun’s
warmth before the sea slammed him with
surprise and sting no ointment would soothe.

Watching him, I began to understand this
grief and its power to take me under and
brush burn my heart. What choice did I have as
I moved forward? A steel armor or

an exposed and vulnerable heart? I chose 
the latter. And now I bleed.

~Hana Haatainen-Caye ©2015

And then, she was gone

Throwback Thursday. Hmm. Today, I'm not going to recycle a post. Instead I'm going to travel back through my memories to the mid-70s. 

I'm working at Manheim Community Swimming Pool. My friend, Deb, and I are checking memberships, paging guests, answering phones, and chatting... endlessly chatting about our lives. We are good friends. Graduation from high school took her to Wheaton College in Illinois. A couple of years later, I was gone, too, eventually settling in Pittsburgh. Once we stopped returning to our summer jobs at the pool, we lost touch. I missed Deb, however. We wrote letters, exchanged an occasional phone call, and then, communication ceased. We were on different paths which, sadly, never crossed again.

If it weren't for social media, I wouldn't know anything about Deb's life. As it turns out, we reconnected last year on Facebook. What a joy that was. But it was also surprising, in many ways, for Deb had taken a totally different route than me. 

No longer the conservative Christian who grew up in a small Lancaster County town, Deb had converted to Judaism. She was also deeply in love with her partner, Martha. At first, her profile picture was unrecognizable to me. She'd changed.

But then, I thought, I'd changed, too. Gone was the insecure teenager who lacked confidence of any sort. My profile picture didn't resemble me much, either... I was no longer the 105 lb. skinny, pimple-faced girl of my youth. Had we passed each other at an airport, we would have done just that -- passed each other without an ounce of recognition on either side.  

The changes in Deb's life fascinated me. I really wanted to hear her story. Perhaps more than I'd ever wanted to hear someone's story before. I wanted to know all about who she was now. We planned to meet sometime this summer. I couldn't wait.

This morning, I learned, once again, that life is fleeting. One minute we're here and the next... well, we're not. That was the case for my friend, Deb, on Monday. She traveled from Cleveland to North Carolina to attend a funeral. On Monday afternoon, she was driving when, too late, she spotted a car stopped in front of her on the road. In an attempt to miss hitting the other car, she swerved into the path of a dump truck. The head on collision cost her her life. 

My questions will go unanswered. All I do know is that this vibrant woman is gone from this earth. From her obituary and the many FB tributes, I've learned how loved she was. Here are a couple of lines from her obit:

Debra lived her life with gusto and was passionate about experiencing adventure, new places and new people. She loved many activities including scuba diving, riding motorcycles, singing in choruses, sports of all kinds, and music.

Deb, my heart aches for the opportunities missed. Your life was full and mine, somehow, is less so because you are gone.

Godspeed, my friend. Godspeed.

Hana

Debra lived her life with gusto and was passionate about experiencing adventure, new places and new people. She loved many activities including scuba diving, riding motorcycles, singing in choruses, sports of all kinds, and music. - See more at: http://obits.cleveland.com/obituaries/cleveland/obituary.aspx?n=debra-louise-dunkle&pid=174799112#sthash.OQCqMwMY.dpuf

Sharing a little bit more of my currently broken heart

From my Mary Engelbreit Page-a-Day Calendar

February's here and I'm not quite sure where January went. Being gone for a total of 15 days certainly accounts for some of my wondering. And wading through the murky waters of grief accounts for the rest.


Yesterday was a particularly bad day. I did okay at church and at lunch with the kids and grandkids. It was on the drive home with my husband that I started to grow distant. I headed out to do some shopping after dropping him off. I think I just wanted to be alone for a bit. The shopping didn't help. I wandered around the store, dropping an occasional item in my cart, and I felt loss. My mother died. I couldn't seem to get past that thought, although it had variations. My mom died. My mommy died. Mommy! Tears veiled my eyes, but did not spill out. It was that kind of surreal experience. This is not really happening. I almost resolved to take out my cell phone and call home. Not my current home, but the home I grew up in. The home I could return to anytime in the 38 years since I left. The home where my mother lives... lived. I wanted to dial that oh-so-familiar number and hear her say "Hello." I wanted to erase this past month. I wanted. I wanted. I wanted. 

Laying in bed last night, I started thinking about the last time I walked this path. The time when my 34-year-old husband died. How did I do it? How did I survive the pain? I must admit, I'm amazed that I did. 

And here we go again. The journey of grief. The pathway of longing. The gateway of regret.

And that was my Sunday. I trust yours was much cheerier. I would love to hear about it. So tell me, what made you smile yesterday?

Sharing my heart,

Hana

Something more important than being green

Photo courtesy of Kim Newburg

When my kids were little, I had the best friends ever! Since I lived 250 miles from my closest family member, the need for reliable friends was really important...and God provided just what I needed. I had a few really awesome friends who didn't just tolerate my kids, they loved them. Kathy and Sandy B. were like second moms to my girls, and Sandy W. and Judy were there for me whenever I needed them. It was like having a great big extended family. Bethany and Jessica were raised with a bunch of surrogate brothers and sisters and it was wonderful.

After I moved away 19 years ago, I lost track of Sandy B. My last Christmas card to her was returned because she no longer lived down the street from my previous address. I tried to find her, but kept coming up with dead ends.

Then on Friday night, I finally found her kids on Facebook. Bethany, Jess and I have been doing FB searches on a regular basis and we simply couldn't find them. When I found Sandy's oldest daughter, I wrote an upbeat message to her, expressing my excitement over finding her at last! I told her I couldn't wait to get the families together again. I clicked send before checking out her friends' list. It was small and I spotted her dad's page. Opening it, I was stunned by the wall post I saw there. It was an announcement for Sandy's viewing and memorial dinner to be held on September 15th. I sat at my desk, stunned, unmoving, simply reading his post over and over again. Sandy died? I thought to myself. That's not possible. So I googled the obit and sure enough, there it was. She died suddenly two weeks ago at the age of 49. I missed the funeral.

But that's not all I missed. I also missed the chance to tell her how much she meant to me and my girls. I didn't get to thank her for being a lifeline after my husband was killed. I didn't get to hug her for all the countless hugs she gave me girls.

We carpooled together. The kids rode the bus together. She came to the women's Bible Study I taught in my home, while my husband walked over to her house to watch her 3 kids. Sandy died? That's not possible.

Remember the returned Christmas card? I still have it. Inside the sealed envelope is a letter I wrote to her, expressing my heartfelt gratitude for all she did for me back when we were neighbors and close friends. I can't bear to open the envelope.

I also can't bring myself to popping the video of my kids' 5th and 7th joint birthday party into the VCR (yes, folks, I still have a VCR!!). It's the one where my late husband and Sandy grace the screen several times. Sandy died? That's not possible.

So here we go again with me reminding you that life is short. Sometimes it is way, way, way too short.

Should we care about the environment? Absolutely!

Should we watch what we're feeding our kids? Of course!

Should we read labels? Naturally.

But before we do all of that, we should hug our kids, kiss our spouses, call our parents, spend time with our friends...and thank every one of them for the treasure they are in our lives.

So let me close by saying I treasure you, my GG family. You enrich my life.

Hana