8. Rivers and Roads #2
I’ve been farming for ten years now. In those years, I’ve experienced the death of a few of our beloved animals.
Goats, bunnies, a stray dog we adopted who only survived a few weeks.
They all showed various signs of passing.
And it’s thanks to those experiences, I know that despite my best efforts, Pamela doesn’t have much time.
So I’m going to make her last hours or days, or however long we have, the best and most comfortable they can be.
“Emory,” Dinah whispers, rushing to me and wrapping me and Lola into a fierce hug without any more words.
She’s so good at this, loving people exactly as they need to be loved.
It's a trait she inherited from our dad, who loved with quiet action, with baked goods, and by simply being present. Though she might stumble on her delivery sometimes, Dinah’s cut from that same cloth, never forcing vulnerability but making the recipient of her tenderness feel safe to be genuine.
It makes me wish I were just a bit braver, sometimes, to share everything I’ve been dealing with lately, not just the more obvious small scraps, with one of the most important people in my life.
“I’m okay,” I pretend, though I don’t expect Dinah to believe me, and this hug is sending me dangerously close to a good cry. Something I’ll avoid at all costs. “I’m keeping her comfortable and, ya know… staying close by. In case…”
Dinah nods, holding my arm in her hand and studying me in a way that tells me she has much to say but is giving me the time and space to work through some of this before she does. “What can I do?”
“Would you and Jack take Molly when… the time comes? I know she’s seen this before, but it’s never been one of the girls, and I don’t know how it’ll go.”
“Oh, Em, of course.” Tears shimmer in her eyes. “I know this time of year is especially hard, with the anniversary of Mom and Dad’s accident and then this year…”
The tenth anniversary of James’ death. In three weeks and three days. A day I like to pretend doesn’t exist each year, filling the space with anything and everything I can to avoid the trauma of the memory of waking up while my husband stayed forever asleep.
The therapist calls it avoidant coping. Insistent that if I don’t face the overwhelming emotions of losing both my parents in the same tragic accident and, only a short time later, my husband, at twenty-two, I’ll eventually fall into one of two categories: someone who feels so encumbered with suppressed grief that they suddenly combust with emotions or someone who, despite loving deeply, creates barriers as a protective mechanism to avoid further pain.
It's plain to see which category I fall into.
I know better than anyone what toll the immense trauma of losing my parents at twenty took.
I was thrust into the role of mother to a teenager while still in school myself.
I pasted on my best smile for Dinah, because she needed me to do so, when all I wanted was to fall apart.
But James was there to walk through that grief with me.
We grieved together. Prayed together. Supported Dinah together.
It was devastating and difficult, but I had the best partner. I survived.
Then only two years later, when I felt as if I’d just found space to breathe again, I experienced a loss greater than I could have imagined—James’ death, leaving a permanent chasm of grief in my soul.
The early days of his loss were a living hell. A torment I never dreamed I’d live through. Every day—every breath—felt entirely unimaginable to walk through without him. How could I when the person who’d borne the burden of loss with me before was no longer there?
But I also learned, early on, that I had to get up each morning and be present for our daughter. A friend and sister to Dinah. A business owner. Then later, a PTA parent. A community member. A functional person. I had to keep going through the fog of grief, as impossible as it was.
I’ve lived longer now without James than I ever did with him, and naturally that pain has morphed, over the years, into something more like longing and a deep sadness, I’d guess only fellow widows would understand.
I’m sad for Molly. For myself. And for the world, because he was really just the best man.
But that sadness has ebbed and flowed into something different with time.
So, I don’t actually feel like I’m buried with repressed grief.
Like I’ll just implode with the weight of it all at any moment.
No, I’m really just terrified to revisit that grief and of even the thought of ever feeling the sting of unbearable loss or hopelessness again. I couldn’t survive it for a third time.
Studying Pam’s deep breaths, knowing she’s in a transition I can’t save her from, all those early days of what ifs have naturally returned.
What if I’d known it was James’ last day? Would I have catalogued every sentence he said? Every touch and kiss and smile?
On his last night on this earth, we bickered about how to load the dishwasher.
James rubbed my swollen ankles while we watched reruns of The Office.
I complained about pregnancy aches, insisted he feel the baby in my belly who never seemed to sit still, and I tearfully admitted how hard it was to experience my first pregnancy without my mom.
James drew me a bath, insisted I relax while he fed the girls, mucked the stalls, and came in early because he was feeling dizzy.
We drank sweet tea on the porch, dreamed about what it would be like when our daughter finally arrived, and went to bed exhausted but happy. Content. Hopeful.