And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed (19 page)

And maternal instincts kick into high gear when there is any
impending threat to the family or home. I would have sat on that fire if that’s what it took. I’m not sure it would have helped, but the point is that the depths of maternal fearlessness are inestimable. Open flame, singed hair, and burned arms notwithstanding.

And if you’re looking for a fast ticket to a dinner out, try nearly burning down the kitchen. In all truthfulness, I am humbled by it—by such a close encounter that can occur in a heartbeat. It could have gotten so bad, so fast, and I got a small glimpse of that fear.

And husbands come running when wives are screaming. (Side note that I’m sure he won’t mind as he reads this from heaven: he was in the shower when all the screaming transpired. He ran to our rescue without a stitch of clothes on. The naked fireman.) We are okay. Including my hair, although it was iffy for a while. The smoke stained the ceiling above the microwave, a black souvenir. Robb painted over that souvenir on his final to-do list.

There is grief to this trivet business that is unspeakable, but there is a blessing in it that cannot be overstated. I didn’t have to fear losing him; there was no time to wonder how I would do a single day. I didn’t have these final days leading to his good-bye; we lived life to the fullest, to the very, very end. We dated on his very last day. I didn’t know Robb was sick, and in some ways that has been a blessing. He was suddenly plucked from our home, with one clean, metaphorical slice of a surgeon’s scalpel. We didn’t have months to count down. We didn’t have to watch him deteriorate. My children have no memories of a sick daddy. He was just gone in a matter of hours.

I have come to terms with this fact: Robb isn’t coming back. He’ll never again throw my pillow down the hallway at bedtime just to start a playful pillow fight. I’ll never tag along on his business trip or greet him with his favorite meal when he comes home. He’ll never laugh with me or respond playfully when someone says, “How’d you find your wife?” by answering, “I totally married up. Isn’t God’s will great?”

He’ll never again call it a trinket just to ruffle my feathers.

He isn’t coming back. And today I am sad. Very, very sad.

Grief is not a problem to be cured. It is simply a statement that you loved someone.

—Barbara Baumgardner,
A Passage Through Grief

“Mommy, remember when you let us sleep with you sometimes when it’s morning and you’re not up yet?” asks the little voice standing beside my bed.

I answer without opening my eyes. “Yes. But it’s too early, buddy. I need my bed.”

“But you let Daddy sleep with you.”

“That was … different.”

“Please, Mommy? It’s scary in there.”

I hesitate, gauging my strength to fight this back-to-bed battle.

“Please, Mommy? It’s 7-2-1.” He reads the digital clock. He knows if that first number isn’t 7 or higher, he doesn’t stand a chance.

“Okay. You can.”

“Yes? Did you say yes? You said yes?”

“I said yes.” And this inconsistency is no doubt why we continue to have this battle. He climbs in. His brother follows shortly behind. I am sandwiched between a dozen knees and elbows. There’s really nothing settling about this way to start the day. It’s so abrupt.

Tucker peels open my eyelid. “Mommy, are you dead?”

“No, I’m not dead.”

“Oh. Because you looked like you were dead.”

“I’m not.”

I feel his finger gently tracing the letters inked on my arm that is splayed across the bed. “Mommy, it’s okay. God will heal this.”

“He will, buddy. But it will always be there.” Much like the wound in my heart.

My half-asleep mind wanders to a day when the boys were small, smaller than they are now. Robb and I were fixing dinner, and the boys were having a mutual meltdown. Tyler was in his highchair, throwing a fit. Tucker was spinning in circles around the kitchen, throwing a fit. They were hungry, and we couldn’t get food going fast enough. In the chaos of their noise and melting, I began to throw a fit of my own. One of those they’ve-pushed-me-to-my-limit-and-I-may-lose-my-mind moments. If you’ve been the parent of toddlers, perhaps you know that moment of “slightly elevated” blood pressure.

Robb stopped the meal prep, looked squarely at me, and said, “No, not you too. Tricia, I swear, I will walk out that door right now and leave you three to dinner on your own if you start to lose it too. I need you to do this, baby girl. Think with me. I need you on my team.” He begged me to get my head in the game. And in that moment I did. I stepped up to do my part as the other half of this parenting team.

A new day awaits, another day without him in it. When it’s all more than I can handle—the getting dressed, the planning of the day, the decisions, motions, and the world happening around me—I think of him saying, “Please. I need you to do this, baby girl. Think with me. I need you on my team.”

I open my eyes. Another day. I will get out of bed. Because I’m the other half of this parenting team.

They are leaning across me, arguing over something insanely important to them. “Let’s get up. I’m making muffins,” I decide.

“But I don’t like muffins.”

“Then you can have a Pop-Tart.”

“I want two Pop-Tarts.”

“You never finish two. You may have one.”

They pause at the top of the stairs to question if the security alarm is on. They are like Pavlov’s dogs: they know this trigger, and they are not about to step into the range of the motion sensor unless I can guarantee a controlled environment.

We make the muffins. Six blueberry, six chocolate chip. They help, which really means twice the prep time and twice the dishes. But in the end, the Pop-Tarts devotee decides he’ll eat some after all. But only the chocolate chip ones.

They play Mario Kart while I pay a stack of bills. I’m tired of receiving anything—anything—in Robb’s name. (Extra points to anyone who has taken his name off our record in their system.) After much grumbling and complaining, losses and findings of mittens and gloves, we embark on the day.

First stop: the bank. I need to get a page notarized, one more detail that involves a death certificate. The woman behind the counter mistakes it for a marriage certificate. Her eyes light up, and she nearly congratulates me. No. It’s not that. It’s the end. She had almost been cordial, but now she’s afraid to misstep. So instead she becomes entirely procedural. I want to scream inside the bank, stomp my feet, and shout like a toddler wanting a lollipop. I want everyone to look and notice. I want to say, “Do you know that he mattered to me? Do you know that he was more than a stack of paperwork and signatures?”

I cry in the car. I do this often.

We pack up their motor scooters and find an empty parking lot. I let them loose to do what they do—Tucker with amazing balance and tricks, Tyler with careful and slow steadiness. I take videos, and I nickname them Speed Rocket and Blazing Flame. They pretend they are in the circus, a team of daredevils. I teach them how to ride with one leg elegantly extended behind, like a ballerina on wheels. Only I don’t use that analogy, because, by the way, they have spent this day in costume: Spider-Man and Optimus Prime. One has a cape; the other has a mask.

We have lunch. They disobey. They want root beer. I give them apple juice. There is kicking and bickering. This day is going so slowly.

It is 12:10.
Arthur Christmas
begins at 12:20. If we hurry, we can make it. We hurry. We make it. (Assigned seating is stupid in a movie theater. There’s no reason for it, I say. Especially when we have narrowly arrived before the movie starts, the lights are dimmed, the previews are rolling, my children are distracted by the silver screen, and I must diligently look for Row H, seats 3, 4, and 5.)

I bank on the hope that nobody will arrive later than we do, and I claim three seats in the back row, tippy top. (Hidden motive: if the movie gets too, you know, underwhelming, I can discreetly read the book in my bag.) The boys and I settle in.

The movie ends. It’s only 2:00. For real? This is the longest day in the history of ever. I’m sure of it. Some kind of solstice must be on this
day. I tell the boys we are going home, I need to rest for a bit, and these are their options while I am sleeping. Tucker whispers, “Yes! We can do whatever we want!” And so I list the options again.

I wait until they are captivated by their favorite something, and I fall into bed. I am uncomfortable falling asleep while they are awake, but I simply cannot finish this day without a break. I pray for their safety, and I wonder if I reminded them that they absolutely must stay in the house … but I don’t worry too long. Because I am too sleepy.

“Mommy, can I have a Popsicle?”

“Yes.”

“Mommy, can my brother have a Popsicle?”

“Yes.”

My phone alarm rings. My hour is up. Just ten more minutes? Can’t I have ten more minutes…

In I-don’t-know-how-many minutes, an iPod is blasting on my bedside table. Tyler has awakened me to music. Also, he is standing on my hair. I don’t want to be angry. I wanted to sleep so I could be more patient. I come downstairs. Spider-Man is throwing snowballs into the kitchen through the open sliding door. There are swimming-pool toys all over the living room floor. (Pool toys?) I find a purple Popsicle melting on my coffee table.

I sit at the dining table while they play with bungee cords. I know not where they found these. But they are giggling at their masterful creativity, pretending they are go-go-gadget arms. My parents swoop in and save the day, my children, and me from one another. My parents leave with the boys. I leave with no intentions. I drive, drive,
drive. I am nearly to the mall before I realize I don’t want anything to do with the mall. I drive, drive, drive back from whence I came. I settle in at Nicolo’s, the pizza shop around the corner. Maybe in another life stage I’ll eat things other than pizza. I sit alone. I wonder if I look dreamy or dazed or simply absent. I don’t really care. I bring a book with me; Elizabeth Berg makes me want to write. Her storytelling makes for excellent conversation with myself. Just my pace.

I order the alfredo pizza with mushrooms and onions. Robb and I had an honest-to-goodness fight over this pizza when I was pregnant. He hates mushrooms and onions, and I was craving them both. I felt entitled and thereby became irrational. I truly did.

On this evening I eat it alone.

I dreamed of him that night; he stood in the doorway of our bedroom. He was dressed for work as if he were leaving on another business trip. I opened my eyes to see him watching me, a gentle, adoring smile on his face.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” I asked.

His smile faded. His sadness mirrored mine.

“Not tomorrow, baby girl. But I’ll see you soon.”

He stayed until I fell back to sleep.

It is Christmastime, I am told. My spirit is numb. In some moments it has felt as though I walked with someone else through the loss of her husband a year ago, not that I lost my very own. Only three stockings hang on my mantel. I haven’t wrapped a single gift yet. Wrap without
him? I haven’t done that in twelve years. Wrapping without Robb: that is the metaphor for anything good that’s lacking the very best part. And yet, two little boys are sure they’ve made the Nice List and Santa is bringing some amazing things. Indeed he is. Mommy needs to wrap them. And then perhaps I can wrap a neat and tidy bow on this neat and tidy year.

As the clock ticks, I feel afraid. Afraid of 2012. Afraid that the one-year mark will somehow lead others to believe I am stronger than I am, that this matters less than it does, that time heals all wounds. It does not, by the way. It helps, but it does not heal. I feel deceived. Like I’m in the homestretch, the last lap, the end of the journey. Like December 23 is some kind of finish line. I am near none of those things.

I find myself thinking and writing in third person. I’m learning that it is far easier to think about how to write about this season than it is to actually live it. It is far easier to think about the story of a widow at Christmas than it is to actually be one. The professionals call this dissociation, a crucial survival mechanism that protects you during a crisis and afterward. It helps you stay on task so you can protect yourself. If you are able to function without fully experiencing the emotional impact of an event, you can accomplish tasks until it is safer to face your emotions.