Is that how it ends for the one left behind? Alone in your home, curled up in bed, as a heart attack ravages your body? Unable to call for help?
A mere two weeks ago we, the occupants of what we named Widow’s Row, laughed at how we all fell into the same small subdivision. With the exception of two or three, every person was a senior who had lost their partner to Death’s cold grip.
From the beginning, the first to move in clasped the second. They hugged the third in welcome. All joined their comforting group to encircle yet another widow, me, into their arms.
Immediately we found common ground outside of being the remaining partner of a mated pair. We laughed, ate meals together, reminisced on the front porches about life then and now. If one wanted to go on a spree, a partner wasn’t that hard to find.
One woman formed the heart of our group. Loud and always laughing, with a mischievous gleam in her eyes, she moved from house to house bringing pockets full of smiles. She was the first to offer a helping hand when my daughter needed care while I went into the hospital overnight. For days afterward, Jaimie talked about her friend who danced, played games, exercised with her and introduced her to fried ice cream in a Mexican restaurant. They had more fun in that one brief evening than my daughter and I had in a month because that beautiful lady wanted to live. Sitting down to let the years do their damage was not an option. She fought with a passion few of us know. And she dragged us along for the roller coaster ride of our lives.
Last Thursday two neighbors called me over. The solemnness on their faces should have tipped me off on that day when the sun strove to shine brighter than the day before.
“How long has it been since you saw her?” asked her best friend.
“Come to think of it, it’s been three days at least. That’s unheard of. She talks to each of us at least once every day.”
“I called her son to let us in. He said to call the police because he spoke to her last Saturday and hasn’t heard from her since.”
A chill ran up my spine. Of all the people in this place, she could not be the first of us to die. Even the thought seemed wrong, almost dirty.
The police found her. Wrapped in a comforter she had fought the final battle. This time the sinister wraith with the scythe won.
Along with her passing, it seemed perhaps the heart of our small community died, too. We looked to her to make our lives stronger, to pull us out of uncomfortable thoughts, to soothe us when the world kicked us one more time. Though all of us were new in her world, we answered her outstretched arms with love held back while grieving the loss of our husbands and wives. We fused into a community, into a family, pulled by her generosity of spirit to support each other.
“Why did she come into our lives to leave so soon?” asked her next door neighbor, who is in the doldrums of her mourning. Gradually our ‘mother’ lifted each of us, especially the one who now spoke.
Without hesitating, I knew why. I understood the beauty of the gift we all received but few of us fully recognized.
“She came to give us the path to freedom from our grief. She knew how to live every precious moment. That was her last task. She urged us to stop the tears, to move on with living, to support one another and to love without fear. Her final job was as an angel each of us needed. She taught us to laugh again without guilt. She taught us to try the absurd, like fried ice cream. She pulled this community together. She appointed us to continue the joy and warmth of life instead of shutting ourselves away in mourning.”
Although we were not physically with her at the end, in spirit we never left her. We held each other at her funeral. I think she looks down and is thrilled to see we will be holding and helping each other from this day forward. Thank you for awakening all of us, Lois Ann.
