I am terrified of leaving my children before they are fully
independent.
Does anyone expecting a child truly consider the question,
“What if my child is orphaned?” What are the odds, after all? But, when one parent
dies when the children are young, this weighty question becomes much more real.
When I disclosed this fear to a friend, he said. “You have a
will, right?” Of course. If something
happened to me, would my children be raised by loving and good people? Yes. But
it wouldn’t be me, and that would leave my children with terrible holes in
their hearts.
My husband died of complications of cancer treatment when
our children were 4, 6, and 7. He was in treatment for a good part of the 5
years prior to his death. We discovered
he was ill before I’d even taken the home pregnancy test to confirm we were
expecting number 3. The two youngest do not really remember their father,
despite my constant efforts to reinforce memories. This breaks my heart.
One of my friends aptly describes our family as “a pack.”
When your kids are not legally old enough to be left alone, there is no
reasonable choice but to take them with you everywhere. Sure, I could hire a babysitter, but would it
really be effective to get all 3 kids in the car, go pick up the babysitter,
bring them all home, go grocery shopping, go home and unload, pile everyone
back in the car, and drive the babysitter home? Nope. So, they go with me,
everywhere. Efficiency is key when you are time limited.
Why am I time limited? Having 3 children who, sadly, are not
legally permitted to work all day in sweatshops to support themselves, I
must work full time. In the movies, the frenzied life of a working parent involves
arguing with people on a cell phone from home while a child hangs on to your
leg as you load perfectly bleached whites into the dryer, leaving you ample time to make dinner
from organic vegetables harvested from your garden, help Junior with his science project, work out, direct
the school play, coach soccer, deliver meals to invalids, refurbish the house,
march for world peace, and sew the children’s wardrobes from self-designed
patterns. In my world, it involves spending 50 hours a week as a ball of stress
in an office, barely fitting in dinner, homework, and baths before
bedtime; spending Saturdays driving in
carefully orchestrated circles, depositing and fetching children from
various sports activities, lessons, birthday parties, and school events, while
trying to fit in errands, grocery shopping, and an occasional bathroom break; and reserving Sundays for worship, laundry, bill paying, school projects, and (very occasionally) seeing family or friends.
So, we are a pack. Our lives are a jigsaw puzzle of
activities that all must fit tightly together to make the picture. Though I’m
usually exhausted, I wouldn’t trade a bit of it. I adore my children. And, due
to their age and the fact that I am their sole parent, I am, at present, the
center of their world.
Twelve years ago, one of my husband’s fraternity brothers
died of cancer, leaving behind his wife, Julianne, and their two babies. My husband and I did not have children until
several years later. When my husband was diagnosed with cancer, Julianne was immediately on the phone coaching me through the initial
terror. She repeated the words of encouragement that I had offered when her
husband, John, was diagnosed, and told me how those words and my faith in them
had lifted her many times. She told me that my non-judgmental ear when she was
struggling with practical and emotional burdens had offered her relief from the
expectations of others. Indeed, we’d had frank and lengthy discussions about
pressures and awkwardness of uncoupled life and parenthood, but I hadn’t
realized how much it had meant to her. And,
as Julianne disclosed her feelings during and after her husband’s demise, she unknowingly
prepared me for my parallel future experience.
By then, she had become an example of triumph over fear and struggle
that I desperately needed to see. At different
critical moments, we’d given each other exactly the right support.
When last I spoke with her, our conversation led us to
disclose a shared wish, our deepest and most profound desire as solo mothers: To see our children through to full
independence. This was not spurred by
any particular concern. It just came up.
On February 17, Julianne died at home of a stroke. Her
children found her. Their earthly pack was broken. My heart aches for them intensely.
It would be a lie to pretend that Julianne and I were best
buddies. We weren’t. We didn’t call each other weekly or hang out having coffee
on Saturday mornings. We shared a common
bond and engaged in meaningful conversations, usually at social
gatherings. But, that connection of
similar life experience, overlapping circles of friends, and a 20-year history
makes the loss of Julianne very hard for me. She bravely walked down a
difficult path that neither one of us ever would have chosen to tread, giving
me courage with each of her footsteps as I walked a few paces behind. I realize that my grief is based in my
identification with her life. Grief, after all, really is about one’s own loss.
Julianne told me that when people called her “brave” after
John died, she thought, “What alternative do I have? That’s not brave, it’s
just doing what you have to do.” Like her, I, too, learned that lesson the hard way.
Julianne is a powerful soul. One last time, she blazes an
immensely difficult trail, not by her own design, but because that is simply
what is. Her children, during this tragic experience, have shown that the
content of their characters, like their mother’s, includes faith, determination,
and wisdom. They will live extraordinary lives. Through them, Julianne
continues to demonstrate that you just do what you have to do. As I reflect on
this, I do not feel brave, yet my terror begins to recede.
For a wonderful tribute to Julianne, read this article by her former neighbor, Robert Nozar.
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