Lessons from Grief: A Christmas Memory

Is there a childhood memory so vividly imprinted in your mind that you can recall the clothes you wore, even after decades?

I hold such a memory. I was wearing my favorite outfit, a tan pleated wool jumper with a matching tan, gray, and white striped sweater underneath. My father picked me up early from school that cold, winter day. He was quiet during the drive downtown to the hospital, only mentioning that Mama wasn’t doing well and wished to see me.

We made our way through the dull hospital corridor to her room where she was recovering from a hysterectomy. I had learned earlier that she should be discharged a few days post-surgery and would need my assistance for approximately six weeks during her recovery.

The prospect was somewhat daunting. What responsibilities would fall to me? Was I to cook, clean the house, or attend to her physical care? The specifics were unclear.

The unexpected

As we entered, the room presented a bleak and somber view. In those days, hospitals used portable green oxygen tanks, unlike the wall-mounted oxygen outlets available today. A tall green tank stood beside her bed, its tubes trailing into her nostrils. A few plants, gifts from well-wishers, were wilting, overwhelmed by the surplus oxygen. Mama was lying supine, surrounded by ice packs.

“Squeeze her hand, and she will squeeze it back,” Daddy said as if that was an amazing feat. I walked over to the bedside, squeezed her hand gently and I felt her squeeze my hand back. That was her only response.

A few friends along with a nurse aide were in the room. I can’t recall who the friends were, but out of the blue, they, along with my dad, began discussing death. This caught me off-guard, and I was confused. I never said anything, yet anger surged within me. “What’s wrong with you people? Are you so quick to assume she’d not make it?” I thought to myself. “She’s supposed to recover in six weeks. Death hadn’t even been mentioned.”

The nurse aide took Mama’s temperature and handed me the thermometer. “Would you please take this to the nurse at the station,” she asked. I took the thermometer and glanced down at the reading. It read 106 degrees. As I slowly walked to the nurse station, I got the feeling that this would be a terrible night. It was December 20, 1968.

Still hopeful

The hospital stood in the bustling downtown district, surrounded by retail stores. I stepped out briefly to attend to an urgent Christmas errand not knowing when I would have another chance. The streets sparkled with vivid Christmas lights and the stores echoed with harmonious Christmas tunes, yet none alleviated the weight on my heart.

I completed the errand as swiftly as possible and returned to the hospital room, fervently hoping for a positive change in events. Unfortunately, that did not occur, and the reality started to sink in.

Waiting

My older brother and I spent the entire night in a waiting room right outside Mama’s hospital door. From time to time, we would rise to visit her. Dad remained in her room most of the night, stepping out occasionally to check on us. For us, remaining in the room for an extended period was too heart-wrenching.

In the early morning hours, Dad emerged for the last time. “She’s gone,” he whispered. How hard that must have been to watch your wife slowly die and then have to go tell your children their mother is no more.

“You can go in and see her if you wish.” We both declined.

Silently, the three of us walked out of the hospital into the night’s darkness and drove towards a home that now felt empty. Not a single word was exchanged during the journey.

The aftermath

My grief was so intense that it caused physical pain in my chest. I didn’t know grief did that. I crawled into bed, confused about the recent events and uncertain of the future.

What just happened? Why did God let her die? How would we manage without our mother? She took care of all the cooking, cleaning, laundry, shopping, and more. Now, as the only girl in the house with an older and a younger brother, would I have to take on her role? I didn’t even know where to start. The thought of handling all these chores along with school was daunting.

Christmas Funeral

My dad and I chose a dress for her funeral. I’m unsure if we made the best choice, but we selected something beautiful. Her hairdresser came to style her hair the way she always wore it.

Many friends and neighbors attended the funeral, each offering a hug and words of sympathy. In our small rural community, people always came together to support others in need.

The funeral chapel was adorned with an array of beautiful flowers and their aroma filled it. It must have been comforting to my dad to have so many friends and neighbors show concern.

Christmas morning came as it does every year, even though it seemed out of sorts for our family. We went through the motions of opening a few gifts. My boyfriend came over later that afternoon to exchange presents, which I found quite heartening.

The promise

Through it all, there was one thread I kept hanging onto. My mother had started taking us to church about six years prior. I had become a Christian and began to learn the Bible. At fifteen, I didn’t know a lot of Bible verses, but there was one that kept coming to my mind.

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” – Romans 8:28

It was difficult to see any good in the tragedy of a young mother’s death, leaving behind three children and a devoted husband. Yet, holding onto that verse provided a sliver of hope for what lay ahead. In retrospect, I can’t imagine how I would have coped without it.

Life continues

After her passing, there were indeed many challenging days. I assumed the role of the family’s main cook, which initially involved simply warming up canned beans and other vegetables. Over time, my culinary skills improved slightly, and I became more inventive with my cooking. My brother even compliments me on preparing some quite good meals.

Occasionally, my aunt who lived next door would bring us dinner. That was a real treat! Her meals were delicious and flavorful, unlike the bland meals I prepared.

A grieving father

Dad was greatly troubled in the months after her passing, and it caused me concern. My younger brother must have felt the loss even more deeply, being only eleven years old at the time of her death. If coping at fifteen is difficult, at eleven it’s even more challenging.

A year later, Dad remarried a lady from our community. She was a widow who coincidentally was at the funeral home for her father’s funeral when we were there for Mom’s. I’ve often wondered if that was that arranged by God.

Blended families encounter various challenges, and ours was no exception; however, she was a wonderful and caring individual. She helped my father in planning my sixteenth birthday celebration, which featured the most beautiful cake I have ever had.

After they married, I no longer needed to cook, and Dad became more content. A few years later, I left home for college, married, and began my own family.

“Mawmaw” was the ideal grandmother to my children. She always treated them as if they were her own blood relatives.

A New Perspective

I don’t know how my life would have been different had Mom not passed away so early, though I’m sure many things would have. I do know that as a fifteen-year-old, having a verse to cling to in the most desperate time of need, made all the difference in the world.

Every Christmas, I look around my living room, crowded with my four grown children, their spouses, and ten grandchildren, and realize how blessed I am. Mama never saw her children graduate from high school.

I’m enjoying my healthy and joyful children and grandchildren in my home, laughing and talking with each other as we enjoy a festive meal and open a mound of Christmas gifts. I soak in every moment. Allowing me to have such a thankful perspective for the family is no doubt one good thing that God has worked for my good through her tragic loss.

After all

We all suffer loss throughout our lives here on earth. No one escapes it. This year I’m thinking of a family in our community that lost a child this year. I can’t imagine their pain this first Christmas without them.

Looking back through all seventy-two of my Christmases, I realized that 1968 was the only one where I have bad memories. That’s not a bad record! I’m eternally thankful to God for every joyful, exciting Christmas I’ve experienced.

…And I’m grateful for the 1968 Christmas as well because as we know…

…All things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” – Romans 8:28