A woman reveals how she rebuilt her life after becoming both a widow and single mother at 24
It's the middle of the night when I wake up. Chris Mathews – one of my good friends and my husband Josh’s best friend – is at my bedroom door. We are visiting my sister Moo in Florida but Josh couldn’t come because of work.
Josh has been in an accident, Chris says. I picture a broken arm. But there is something in Chris’s voice that isn’t right. Moo comes in. There are frantic phone calls. My left leg starts to shake uncontrollably. I know. No one says it, but I know.
We leave for the airport. Back home in Michigan, my family is waiting. Dad drives to the hospital. Mum sits in the back with me and strokes my hair. I hold a pillow over my stomach. I am five months pregnant. We had just found out that we are having a boy.
At the hospital, I walk into Josh’s room and everyone leaves except Uncle Alex. Uncle Alex is a doctor. He actually delivered me and Josh. We thought this was a testament to the star-aligned quality of our relationship. Now Uncle Alex is standing over Josh’s pale, still body explaining how he died.
Last night, Josh went out carveboarding. A carveboard is a modified skateboard that rocks from side to side and imitates the motion of a surfboard. Josh was not wearing a helmet. He never did. ‘He fell backwards and hit his head. It crushed his skull into the back of his brain. He died in less than three minutes,’ Uncle Alex says.
Uncle Alex leaves and I cry relentlessly. My whole body shakes. I don’t touch Josh. I do not want to feel him cold. ‘I’m not angry with you,’ I say. ‘And I will take care of our son.’
Days pass. At the funeral, there are over a thousand people. Afterwards, I read Josh’s death certificate over and over: ‘Date of birth: 21 December 1979. Date of death: 17 June 2007. 1.21am. Trauma to the head.’ 17 June was Father’s Day.
More days pass. I see my obstetrician. I tell him I have this strange anxiety that my grief will attack the baby. He says: ‘You will be fine. Your body knows exactly what to do. But you need to work on your brain.’
He hands me a card: Dr Ellen Guriza, PhD, psychologist. ‘I’m not suggesting that you go and see her,’ he says. ‘I am instructing you, as your obstetrician, to see her. The sooner the better.’
‘Tell me about Josh. What kind of person was he?’ she asks. ‘He was amazing. He was a real man,’ I babble through my tears, telling her how he was the best at everything – a great driver, surfer, soccer player. His job – he was a sales rep for a medical supply company – was never a huge part of his identity, but he wanted nothing more out of life than to be a dad. Dr G tells me, ‘You’re going to cherish these memories.’ I nod but I don’t believe her.
At my next appointment, Dr G initiates another topic. ‘Natalie, let’s talk about your house. You need to start going back there.’ I don’t know what to say. In the month since Josh died, I have been staying with my parents. I hate going to my house. Everything is horrible. The sound the door makes when it opens. The pictures. Josh’s car in the drive. But the worst is the nursery. The day before Josh died he had cleaned out our old office for the new nursery. He was going to redo it while I was away and surprise me when I got home. Sometimes I forget that I didn’t just lose Josh, but I also lost my baby’s father. When I walk into the empty nursery something slams into me so hard it almost knocks me to the ground.
I don’t know if allowing Deedee to do this is OK but I go along with it. I just want it over and done with.
All my life, I’ve been the type of person who takes the accelerated route; normally it takes five to six years to train to be a teacher, I did it in four. When Dr G tells me that grief takes time, I want
to say, ‘But what about the smart kids?’ Yet one of the first things I’ve realised is that grief goes
at its own speed.
Deedee does an amazing job with the decorating. I move back into the house, but on my first night alone, I can’t sleep or think.
I look for a book – I just want something light and funny. On the shelf I see Jelly Belly – one of my dad’s all-time favourites. It’s about a boy who goes to fat camp and hides food in his swimming trunks. We have it because Dad gave it to Josh to read. I open the book and tucked inside the front cover is a photograph of Josh and me dancing at our wedding. I feel a pain in my stomach. Josh always used photographs as his bookmarks. I think of him looking at it, smiling and saying to himself, ‘Yeah, I like this one.’
I return to my double bed with its single pillow and one body, but I don’t read Jelly Belly. I know
I will survive, but I hate my life.
I go to breakfast with a colleague and she keeps saying, ‘But really, you must be so thrilled to be pregnant, despite everything.’ I just stare at my plate. This is the most frightening thing in the world – to have a baby without my husband. Am I thrilled? No. I’m scared and sad.
Josh has been in an accident, Chris says. I picture a broken arm. But there is something in Chris’s voice that isn’t right. Moo comes in. There are frantic phone calls. My left leg starts to shake uncontrollably. I know. No one says it, but I know.
We leave for the airport. Back home in Michigan, my family is waiting. Dad drives to the hospital. Mum sits in the back with me and strokes my hair. I hold a pillow over my stomach. I am five months pregnant. We had just found out that we are having a boy.
At the hospital, I walk into Josh’s room and everyone leaves except Uncle Alex. Uncle Alex is a doctor. He actually delivered me and Josh. We thought this was a testament to the star-aligned quality of our relationship. Now Uncle Alex is standing over Josh’s pale, still body explaining how he died.
Last night, Josh went out carveboarding. A carveboard is a modified skateboard that rocks from side to side and imitates the motion of a surfboard. Josh was not wearing a helmet. He never did. ‘He fell backwards and hit his head. It crushed his skull into the back of his brain. He died in less than three minutes,’ Uncle Alex says.
Uncle Alex leaves and I cry relentlessly. My whole body shakes. I don’t touch Josh. I do not want to feel him cold. ‘I’m not angry with you,’ I say. ‘And I will take care of our son.’
Days pass. At the funeral, there are over a thousand people. Afterwards, I read Josh’s death certificate over and over: ‘Date of birth: 21 December 1979. Date of death: 17 June 2007. 1.21am. Trauma to the head.’ 17 June was Father’s Day.
More days pass. I see my obstetrician. I tell him I have this strange anxiety that my grief will attack the baby. He says: ‘You will be fine. Your body knows exactly what to do. But you need to work on your brain.’
He hands me a card: Dr Ellen Guriza, PhD, psychologist. ‘I’m not suggesting that you go and see her,’ he says. ‘I am instructing you, as your obstetrician, to see her. The sooner the better.’
‘Tell me about Josh. What kind of person was he?’ she asks. ‘He was amazing. He was a real man,’ I babble through my tears, telling her how he was the best at everything – a great driver, surfer, soccer player. His job – he was a sales rep for a medical supply company – was never a huge part of his identity, but he wanted nothing more out of life than to be a dad. Dr G tells me, ‘You’re going to cherish these memories.’ I nod but I don’t believe her.
At my next appointment, Dr G initiates another topic. ‘Natalie, let’s talk about your house. You need to start going back there.’ I don’t know what to say. In the month since Josh died, I have been staying with my parents. I hate going to my house. Everything is horrible. The sound the door makes when it opens. The pictures. Josh’s car in the drive. But the worst is the nursery. The day before Josh died he had cleaned out our old office for the new nursery. He was going to redo it while I was away and surprise me when I got home. Sometimes I forget that I didn’t just lose Josh, but I also lost my baby’s father. When I walk into the empty nursery something slams into me so hard it almost knocks me to the ground.
I don’t know if allowing Deedee to do this is OK but I go along with it. I just want it over and done with.
All my life, I’ve been the type of person who takes the accelerated route; normally it takes five to six years to train to be a teacher, I did it in four. When Dr G tells me that grief takes time, I want
to say, ‘But what about the smart kids?’ Yet one of the first things I’ve realised is that grief goes
at its own speed.
Deedee does an amazing job with the decorating. I move back into the house, but on my first night alone, I can’t sleep or think.
I look for a book – I just want something light and funny. On the shelf I see Jelly Belly – one of my dad’s all-time favourites. It’s about a boy who goes to fat camp and hides food in his swimming trunks. We have it because Dad gave it to Josh to read. I open the book and tucked inside the front cover is a photograph of Josh and me dancing at our wedding. I feel a pain in my stomach. Josh always used photographs as his bookmarks. I think of him looking at it, smiling and saying to himself, ‘Yeah, I like this one.’
I return to my double bed with its single pillow and one body, but I don’t read Jelly Belly. I know
I will survive, but I hate my life.
I go to breakfast with a colleague and she keeps saying, ‘But really, you must be so thrilled to be pregnant, despite everything.’ I just stare at my plate. This is the most frightening thing in the world – to have a baby without my husband. Am I thrilled? No. I’m scared and sad.
Popularized by : ALL - SEO Friendly
You are reading the article instinct blogs - SEO Friendly entitled A woman reveals how she rebuilt her life after becoming both a widow and single mother at 24, We are sorry if you think there is a very important artike, do not forget to subscribe by entering your email in column Get Updates Via Email. If there is a question which if you think do not forget to leave a comment below. Without any spread of SPAM..
Categories:
