by Jai Pausch
Randy and I had chosen “The Rose” because of the hope that love kindles. Now I sat there looking at the red roses covering his coffin. When the pallbearers lifted Randy’s casket, I dutifully followed behind alone. It wasn’t until that moment that it truly hit me: Randy was dead; I was alone. I would now be walking without him beside me. I don’t know how I was able to see through my tears to make it that short distance out of the chapel.
This train of thought led to self-pity. At the graveside service, I reflected how instead of pronouncing us man and wife, Reverend Herndon had committed Randy’s body to the earth, releasing me from my wedding vows “till death do us part.” The crazy thoughts that run through one’s mind at these moments! I admit I secretly patted myself on the back for having fulfilled my marriage vows in my second marriage. Given that my first marriage ended in divorce, I had wondered about my ability to make a marriage work. One of the silver linings of caring for Randy when he was ill was that I learned a lot about myself, including the fact that I could be a good partner, that I could work through the tough times and not be just a fair weather wife. But I had not been ready to relinquish my role as wife to the most caring and loving man I had ever met—the man who truly was my better half. Through knowing him and learning from him, Randy had made me a better person, though we had our disputes. What would become of me now that my better half was gone? What did that leave of me? The lesser half? The worse half? I honestly can’t recall what the minister said at the graveside service. My thoughts dragged me down a rabbit hole from which I could not escape.
When I planned Randy’s funeral, I had wanted to end it with a meaningful gesture, so instead of our minister sending everyone on their way at the conclusion of the graveside service, he invited people to come take a red rose and lay it on Randy’s coffin. I had the honor of beginning. Taking the rose in my hand, I thought about our wedding song, “The Rose.” Making my way to my husband’s coffin, I remembered all the red roses and flower arrangements Randy had sent me when we were dating long distance and even after we were married. Standing in front of his coffin, which was poised over the open grave, I carefully laid a rose on top. I spoke to Randy. I told him I was so sorry he had died. That’s when waves of grief gripped me hard. I was paralyzed—I literally couldn’t move because I was shaking so hard from crying. Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t even move my hands from the coffin to wipe my eyes. I stood there overcome for what seemed like an eternity, all the while telling Randy how sorry I was. I held on to his coffin, using it as a crutch to prop myself up. Finally, my sister-in-law came up to me to ask if I was OK. “I can’t move,” I told her. She helped me pull my hands free from the casket and supported me while we walked to the funeral car. Once out of sight of the grave, I slowly pulled myself together. I was embarrassed by my reaction and by my display of emotion. I hadn’t intended to break down like that in front of everybody, and I have no idea how people reacted to what they had witnessed. Mercifully, my family has never brought it up to this day. Sometime after the funeral, I realized how good it felt to have a good hard cry, to not be strong or have to worry about others. The funeral might have been the first time I felt such heart-wrenching emotions. It wouldn’t be the last.
The funny thing about caring for someone with terminal cancer is that I had a long time to process the idea of Randy not being in my life, of Randy being dead, of being alone in the world without him, of being a single parent. When I was at the pool with just the children while Randy stayed home, I would think, “This is what it’s going to be like when Randy’s not here anymore,” and in such moments, I would grieve for the life I was losing. When I say I was grieving, I don’t mean I would break down in tears. Rather, I was conscious of how dramatically my life was going to change, and I felt remorseful, wistful, and sad. Dr. Reiss, our counselor, had told me it was good for me to allow myself these little moments of grief. That would lessen the blow later on.
For several months before Randy’s death, once his cancer had spread from his liver and spleen to his lungs and peritoneal cavity, Randy began the process of shifting his attention from this life to the hereafter. He slowly lost interest in worldly events, upcoming presidential elections, for example, something he would have read about and debated vigorously. One morning, Randy told me he had seen his dead father sitting in the room with him. He wasn’t upset, but rather curious about the event. I knew from the hospice literature that this was a common experience for people close to dying. We both understood that the clock was ticking away. After months of worry and fear, after living in the shadow of death and witnessing the pain of letting go of life, Randy’s death came as somewhat of a relief to me. I could let go of Randy or at least the role of caring for him. I could stop trying to save my husband by running him to experimental treatments. I could quit obsessing over every change in his health status, stop worrying that even the smallest symptom, like bloating, could be a sign of something more serious, such as kidney failure. The strain of keeping him alive each day, which weighed terribly on me, was now gone.
Caregivers often feel guilty about wanting their loved ones to stay alive, while knowing that only death will bring them peace. We also learn through the media that caregivers and patients alike should appear stoic and strong in the face of pain and death. Ted Kennedy’s battle with a brain tumor was a perfect example. But being worn down by the all-consuming, never-ending demands of caregiving is not a reflection of one’s lack of dedication or love for a loved one dying. I suffered silently alongside Randy. I couldn’t detach myself from the situation—from my job as caregiver—to recharge my batteries and come back refreshed. Caregiving is not a nine-to-five job with an hour off for lunch. My thoughts and actions revolved around Randy, whether we were physically together or not.
Luckily, I had a friend to whom I could talk about my feelings without fear of being misunderstood. Her husband was dying of cancer around the same time as Randy, and she shared with me her own struggles coping with the new, intensified battle her husband fought as he was slowly losing his grip on life. “When will the suffering end? When will God be merciful and take him home?” we asked each other as the pain and complications increased exponentially during the final several months. It wasn’t that either of us wanted our husbands to die, but it was so hard to watch their slow decline as cancer advanced through their bodies, causing a loss of physical and cognitive functions. Every week there would be another health complication from either the cancer or the chemotherapy, compounding the growing list of ailments and issues Randy experienced: gut pain when he ate led to his eating less, which in turn led to fatigue, which in turn led to depression and sleeping, which suppressed his appetite even further. The cycle only intensified. There wasn’t any respite from the changes in Randy’s health status, leaving neither Randy nor me time to adjust to his latest condition. We tumbled together downhill until finally death released both of us from this horrendous embrace and Randy was finally at peace.
Even though I knew his death was imminent, even though I had thought about it and tried to imagine what my life would be like after Randy was no longer there, I was unprepared for the forceful blow with which grief hit me. What a misperception I had of the magnitude of the emotional response I would feel in the hours, days, and months following Randy’s passing! Those little, gentle waves of grief I allowed myself to experience before his death turned into tsunamis of sadness that would roll in, crash over my head, and drag me underneath. I remember comparing the viselike grip grief had on me to labor contractions. During labor with Chloe, my body followed its natural rhythms and responses—muscles contracting, unbelievable pain that took my breath away, and exhaustion. How strange that giving birth should feel to me so similar to losing a loved one.
With my young children constantly around, I didn’t want to be overcome by emotions and have them witness my intense bouts of weeping. I didn’t want to scare them or upset them. So I tried to find a way to vent my feelings in a more controlled w
ay. For example, in the weeks and months after Randy died, I would turn on the computer after the children were asleep and click on an interview with Randy just so I could see his face and listen to his voice. The first time I did this, I remember being shocked by how healthy he looked. He had been so physically ravaged by his cancer at the end. Maybe that’s why Randy wouldn’t let me take pictures of him at the end of his life: he didn’t want me or anyone else to remember him that way. It was wonderful to push aside the final images of him being sick and instead see him as he had been during most of our lives together. But viewing those interviews came at a price. Seeing him alive and healthy tore the scabs off my tender wounds. I bled anew each night as I heard his voice and listened to him formulate responses in the way that only he could do. My heart and body ached, and tears released once again. The grief bottled up inside me needed to come out like a poison.
This was the best time for me to tackle my grief—when my children were asleep in bed and unlikely to see or hear me crying. This was also the time of day when Randy and I had shared uninterrupted moments as a couple, when we would catch up with each other, holding hands and cuddling on the couch. Now that he was gone, the silence and absence after the children were in bed screamed to me that I was alone now; the videos of Randy I watched were the perfect ingredients for creating my grieving brew. I drank long and hard from that potent elixir many nights until finally it had worked its magic. I could bear the evenings once again, and my sadness was in check.
Grief manifested itself not just in crying jags—that would have been too kind, almost manageable. It also took on a physical form. I described it to my family doctor as heartburn, as if something was lodged in my lower throat. It made my chest feel sore. I didn’t think I could take deep breaths. My nerves were also frayed—I was on edge so much of the time that I was close to tears. I found myself yelling at the children. My attention to daily life waned. Before Randy’s death, I was always on time in paying our bills and keeping up with domestic demands. Afterward, though, paying the bills seemed like an overwhelming task. I began to miss the little details that kept the household running smoothly. The petty issues of life caught me on their hooks, snagging me and bringing me down. And the scariest part was that I didn’t want to get back up. Normally, I’m a fighter. I try to identify and solve problems. But now, I didn’t care—and yet I had to, because I had three little people depending on me.
At that moment, the world seemed cold and unkind, always demanding and never giving back joy. My counselor and I had been looking for signs of depression so we could address the situation as soon as possible. I needed to be strong for myself but mostly for my children. I couldn’t take a three-month hiatus to descend into darkness, to sit in a chair and retreat within myself until the wounds had healed and I could come out into the light again. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I agreed with my counselor and my best friend that I was depressed and anxious, and I began taking antianxiety and antidepressant medication a couple of months after Randy died. The medication worked, and no longer did I have the tightness in my chest, nor would I cry at the least little thing. I didn’t feel angry or overwhelmed. My children and I were happier. I was managing. Not that I didn’t feel sad at times, but sadness wasn’t my default mode. The dark emotions churning inside me seemed to have quieted. The medication was a short-term fix. I needed that extra help until my mind and heart healed enough for me to carry on.
I also found the support of family and friends essential when I couldn’t appreciate the little joys in life—when grief seemed to cover me like a wet blanket, smothering the last rays of hope. But grief is just one of the challenges I faced as a new widow and single parent of three small children. In the upcoming year, I would find many more demons lurking in the shadows as I began to adjust to my new situation in life.
The Year of Firsts
LESS THAN TWO MONTHS after Randy died, I turned forty-two. Randy had presented me with a birthday cake at his last lecture, and four hundred people sang “Happy Birthday” to me. That event is forever inextricably intertwined with my turning another year older. Under normal circumstances, that happy experience would have been an everlasting gift, but in this case—with Randy gone—I could not help but think about how magical that moment was and how I would never experience anything like that again because the man who brought the magic into our lives was gone forever. It was neither healthy nor helpful for me to reminisce about the past and dwell on what I no longer had. I had to do something to distract myself. The perfect opportunity came along in the form of a dinner invitation from my brother. To celebrate my birthday, he proposed dinner with a few friends at a fancy seafood restaurant in Virginia Beach. Dinner out might seem like a mundane event, but this little trip gave me something to look forward to, something positive I could focus on to help push aside the negative. Since Randy’s death, I hadn’t had anyone with whom I could go to a nice dinner or a party. Instead, I’d been anchored in my daily routine of taking care of children, other domestic responsibilities, and the never-ending paperwork that follows in the wake of a relative’s death. The very process of dressing, fixing my hair, and doing my makeup was nothing short of exciting. While I was getting ready, rejecting this blouse and those shoes, I didn’t think about Randy or the fact that I was a young widow. No sad thoughts wormed their way inside my head. That time was a gift in and of itself.
During the forty-minute drive to the restaurant, my brother and I caught up on each other’s lives, laughing much of the time. I didn’t often travel to Virginia Beach, so I looked out the window to check out the sights—the sun starting to set on the horizon, the traffic in early evening, the houses along the route, the boats for sale at the marina, and then the restaurant sitting by an inlet of Lynnhaven Bay. As we made our way across the parking lot, I wished I hadn’t chosen high heels; I was obviously out of practice wearing them, and the ground was uneven. Once inside the restaurant, I found myself captivated watching the people at the bar, imagining their lives. The sunset reflecting on the water was mesmerizing. I was completely absorbed in the newness of the excursion, the fine food, beautiful view, surrounded by others and sharing the evening with friends with whom I could engage in stimulating conversation. I didn’t feel sad during those couple of hours. Randy’s absence wasn’t paramount in my mind. Instead, I was enjoying the moment, living my life as it now was without a feeling of regret for what it once was.
So began my Year of Firsts, which is what grief counselors call the year following the loss of a loved one. This period presents special challenges to the person grieving because it demands trying to reconcile the past with the present. With each holiday and celebration, I wondered how to handle the family traditions we had established, now that Randy was no longer with us. In addition to the logistical details that had to be decided, each date would also conjure up painful memories. Anticipating an upcoming event, I tried to decide how best to take care of myself in order to minimize any stress or sadness I might experience. Maybe our holidays and rituals would follow the same routine Randy and I had established; maybe I would create a new tradition, or a blend of old and new. Even if one thing worked for the children and me during this tender year, it didn’t mean we were committed to repeating it in the years to come. So I felt free to set aside the way Randy and I always used to do things and focus on what worked for us at this moment. I didn’t have to be handcuffed to the past. I had to learn to give myself the freedom to do what was best for my family.
But as the fall days ticked away, I could sense a growing sadness. We were approaching our first Christmas without Randy. Actually, that’s not true. We had to celebrate Christmas 2006 without him when he was undergoing chemotherapy treatment in Houston, but I had known that our family would be reunited. Now there would never be another Christmas with Randy helping to put the star on top of the tree or baking Christmas cookies or watching the children open their presents. Christmas 2008 and New Year’s 2009 were particularly painful holidays
. Instead of excitement, I was feeling blue, dreading even the arrival of Christmas morning and time with my family. I moved into a hyper decorating mode. I wanted to distract us with beauty. I hung pine garlands throughout the house, from our vestibule up the staircase, over every doorframe, even from the kitchen light fixture and pot rack. Poinsettias, angels, Santa Clauses, children caroling, bowls of golden pears, and shiny ornaments added to the festive mood. There was a seven-foot Christmas tree blocking the back door. The children had a wonderful time decorating it. But then came the moment when the star awaited its ascent to the top of the tree. We all looked at each other because Daddy was the one who would lift up Dylan, the oldest and most capable child, to place it there. How was the star to make it to the top now that Daddy wasn’t here? We were looking directly at the loss of our family tradition—such a small but symbolic gesture, and we had to deal with it. We discussed our options. Even with the stepstool, none of the children was tall enough to reach the top of the tree. Dylan said I should put the star on top now because I was the tallest. But I had another suggestion: I offered to lift each child up so that everyone would have a turn putting the star on top and then taking it off for the next person. I would be the last to put the star on top. Everyone liked that plan the best, and a new family tradition was born. Someday the children will get to be too big and heavy for me to lift, but I’m confident we’ll be able to create a new tradition when the time comes.
Christmas Day presented similar, though more complex logistical adjustments. I had already learned some tricks of handling the opening of gifts once the children woke up. After Christmas 2006, I took the toys out of their boxes, removed the plastic packaging and wire ties, put batteries in if necessary, tested the toys to make sure they worked, and then wrapped them up. That way, when the children unwrapped their gifts, I didn’t have three little ones begging me to hurry up and get their toys out the packages so they could play with them. Because Santa makes his own toys, they are always ready to be played with—no assembly required, right?