The Imperfect Parent - Articles || Growing Pains

PUBLISHED April, 2005
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Growing Pains

But then again, what else could I say?

by Elizabeth Thompson

The endless rain left us little choice; it was well past ten in the morning and we were all still messing about the house in our pajamas. I don’t plan much for the Saturdays that my husband works and I felt blessed to have children who were perfectly happy with spending a quiet day close to home, and who were at that moment scattered throughout the house without complaint.

I poured a fresh cup of coffee and picked through the pile of sale papers my husband left in the wake of his reluctant departure for work. I deeply inhaled from my favorite “I Love My Mommy” mug while I bare-footed my way to the living room, hastily stepping over the clean laundry pile and sinking deep into the couch next to the dog. I tried not to think about all of the things that should have been done or the turmoil that would undoubtedly prevail, because at that very moment, I wanted nothing more than quiet.

Then the telephone rang and I almost didn’t answer, but my father was recovering from surgery and I still hadn’t heard about my brother’s diagnosis…so, I reached for the receiver reluctantly nonetheless.

We weren’t close, but our daughters are. We didn’t see each other socially, but we were cordial and she had an honest way about her that was hard to dislike. She usually spoke in a high pitched voice and in slow measure that, in a surprisingly short matter of time, could quickly become grating when I am in a hurry -- which was usually the case -- and I awkwardly responded upon hearing it that morning.

“I have some sad news.”

My daughter’s birthday party was for the following weekend, so honestly thought she was calling to decline our invitation, so I smarmily answered, “What, on a Saturday?”

She sighed heavily and said barely above of a whisper, “My husband died.”

I felt the bile rise in my throat and swallowed hard, “What?”

I couldn’t believe her. I just saw him…when? Not that long ago. I teased him about rushing home from a business trip abroad and throwing out his back in order to attend an exciting night of parent/teacher conferencing. What could have happened from then to now?

I listened to her voice, the careful almost robotic way she spoke, which I no longer found irritating; it was frightening. I hung on every word for even the slightest hint of deception and even now don’t why I would have thought it to be a practical joke.

“You’re kidding me, right?”

It was stupid, I realize that now, but this was something I didn’t want to think about, let alone talk about, and I honestly didn’t know what to say! What could I say, besides the fact that I was so sorry, that wouldn’t sound moot or artificial? That losing your husband at such a young age sucked…leaving you to raise a 3 and 8 year old daughter, alone, sucked ass.

I offered my condolences along with whatever support I may perhaps give a mom who, in less than 24 hours of our last conversation, was now a widow and promised what I could.

I slammed the phone down and paced the floor as I strung a line of curses that would have made my mother blush. Understandably, I felt deep sorrow for this woman, but I was also angry that fate had robbed her young children of their father and forced her to make decisions that she never thought she’d have to make…not now. I would also have to tell my daughter that her best friend’s father was dead and reassure her that her daddy wasn’t going anywhere so soon, when I wasn’t feeling so convinced myself. I was, quite frankly, surprised to feel a profound sense of grief, but I did not dare to imagine myself in her shoes…and I was relieved when my husband picked up the phone on the third ring.

A friend and I called on her the next day. We sat at her kitchen table, cluttered with empty grocery bags and half written to do lists, and watched silently as she went from one emotion to the next. We gathered information, exchanged phone numbers and longingly watched her daughters as they spoke of school and showed off their cat. We didn’t say much. But, then again, what could we say?

A fleeting glance and we decided it was time to go. We both took turns offering a sympathetic hug and promised to be there for her. Turning the corner of her street, we sipped our diet colas and wondered how in the hell she was going to pull it off? We said that we would take our daughters and go together to the funeral, because perhaps it was okay for them to see people cry.

A few minutes later, I pulled into my driveway and quickly wiped my eyes as I walked into the front door.

My husband was drying his hands in a dishtowel and the kitchen table was cleared of the breakfast dishes. My two youngest children came running from the back of the house smelling of clean clothes and damp hair. The washer and dryer banged noisily as the dog chased the cat under the desk where my oldest daughter calmly played one her many computer games; I could faintly hear my 8 year old singing to the radio loudly playing in the bathroom and I found myself totally at peace among all the chaos.

“So, is everything okay?”

I put my keys and sunglasses into the basket by the front door, turned to face my husband and simply said, “I love you.”

But then again, what else could I say?