And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed (11 page)

For many years I had been content with a simple cell phone. When Robb surprised me with a picture phone for Mother’s Day, I was furious. What he had given me was actually better suited as a Father’s Day present. I accepted the learning curve as my fury waned, and eventually I was actually interested in the further upgrade to a smartphone. The day after we bought one for me, I dropped it in a swimming pool.
I cussed and jumped in after it, fully clothed. Phone ruined. Robb, ever the techie, had the brilliant plan: he would give me his smartphone, and we would buy a new one for him. Aha. A move that was both chivalrous and opportunistic.

We bought a new one for him shortly after, and his phone had been tucked safely in my bedside table ever since I turned it off on December 23. I was waiting for the day when I might choose to upgrade, to make it my own. A small step, you might believe, but really a leap of great magnitude. His phone. His calendar. His stored pictures.

Sure, a Verizon rep could clear those out for me, but I didn’t want a clean slate. I wanted what was his; I wanted it to be mine. I wanted to splice our calendars together, the last blending of our two worlds. But I needed to prepare my heart.

Yesterday was the day. I brought it out of hibernation, and I took it to Verizon. “Welcome to Verizon. How can we help you today?”

“Hi, there. Well, here’s the deal. This phone belonged to my husband, and I would like to transfer my contacts and apps to this phone and make it mine.”

There was no reason to explain why the phone is now mine. I am learning to avoid this topic with people who don’t need to know; the words are too hard to say. It only makes it awkward as they try to figure out what to say to this young woman who just explained far more than they expected to hear. The phone belonged to Robb, and now it’s mine. Let’s leave it at that.

“Absolutely, ma’am. Can you tell me your account password?”

My account password. You’d sure think I could. That’s an easy
thing for a girl to know … unless her husband managed all her accounts.
What was your password, Robb? What was it?

“Um, let’s try this.”

I typed in my best guess. The one he used for many things.

Password incorrect.

“Ma’am, if you’re not sure, we can simply click Forgot Password, and it will prompt you with a secret question to answer.”

“Yes. Let’s try that.”

Click, click, click.

“What is your favorite flavor of ice cream?”

Not mine. His. It wants to know his favorite flavor of ice cream.

Suddenly I felt like I was on a newlywed game, where they separate us and ask detailed questions to measure how well we know each other, how deep our true love is. I racked my brain. C’mon … ice cream. Ice cream.

My mind flashed through a million dates and desserts shared with him. Cookies and cream? That’s what he chose at the grocery store. What he liked to have on hand in the freezer. Breyers, most especially. But the man sure loved chocolate peanut butter cup. And sometimes he could go for a nice bowl of vanilla. With chocolate syrup and whipped cream. Double Chocolaty Chip Frappuccino was his favorite at Starbucks. Double blended. But he loved a good root beer float. And a fruit smoothie. Mint chocolate chip? No, that’s mine. But he might have chosen that for my phone’s account. He might have chosen any of the above just to mix things up a bit. But maybe he was craving his tried-and-true when they asked him to choose a password.

Oh, come on. What is it? Think, Tricia. Think. You know this man.

“Let’s go with cookies and cream.”

I entered the answer. The spinning wheel on the screen told me it was thinking, comparing our answers. And then these words popped up: “You have successfully answered the secret question.”

I knew it. I knew the answer. I knew his ice cream. I knew his favorites. I knew them then. I know them now. My eyes welled with the tears that are never far away. I answered his question. I wanted to say,
Ask me a thousand more. I bet I know those too.

In line at Starbucks yet again, I stand behind a woman in her yoga gear, her stretchy pants and top complete with damp rings and circles of sweat. Her curly hair is pulled up in a loose ponytail, with damp, frizzy ringlets escaping here and there. Clearly, she has just finished a Sunday morning workout. Perhaps one of those “hot yoga” classes that pretty much take place in a Crockpot. She’s done her time this morning.

On the back of her neck, she has a tattoo of bold, thick letters: FAITH. She orders her drink; I order mine. As we wait for our beverages I, unintentionally, eavesdrop on her cell phone call.

“Can you tell me—is today Palm Sunday?” she asks the person on the other end. She, with the tattoo on display, calls someone to make sure—is today important? It is. The truth is, I am only barely ahead of her with my own awareness. Two weeks ago I asked my worship-planning, pastoral, professor friends, “Hey, when is Easter?”

“It’s April 24, Tricia,” they said with grace.

Miss Tattoo on the Neck and I could have nearly missed the whole event. So, yes, it’s Palm Sunday. And I didn’t go to church today.

I’ve gone to church nearly every Sunday of my life, barring illness or the occasional family vacation. And I was certainly in attendance on every Palm Sunday. It’s an important day on the Christian calendar, marking the beginning of Holy Week. The children often parade through the aisles of the church waving palm branches. Adults and children alike sing our favorite songs, and we wave our arms, saying, “Hosanna! Hosanna!” We celebrate the day when the long-awaited King arrived in Jerusalem, the day that marks the end and the beginning, the fulfillment of prophecy, the walk to the cross, the death, the Resurrection, the ocean of grace, the answer to life. It’s a joyful Sunday.

And today I didn’t go. It’s not because I didn’t want to; it’s not because I don’t care. It’s not because I didn’t know what day it was. But as I felt the pull on my heart, the awareness of the calendar, the call of the Christian culture to the fanfare and celebration, I weighed all this against other truths.

Public scenes induce panic in me. The church—however safe on a personal, relational level—incites memories and physiological responses that distract and discourage, to say the least. I hope this will not always be true, and I long to fellowship and worship alongside the community I love so dearly. But right now I can’t. To go would be to push through, to conquer an emotional milestone, to add my notch to a checklist of legalism, to simply survive the experience. I’m pretty sure Palm Sunday isn’t supposed to be about any of that.

So I resist. I resist the call to the fanfare, the tradition. Although it is beautiful, it may be numbing instead of celebratory, especially as my tender heart seeks to protect itself—even as I massage it to remain
vulnerable. Authenticity, though, calls me to pay attention. To engage. As I begin this Holy Week, I aim for something new. I’m not at church; I’m not sitting in a pew. I’m at Starbucks in my regular spot at the corner table. With my laptop, my iPod, my Bible, my journal, and some studies on Holy Week, I wait for God.

There are no palm branches. There is no fanfare. But there is a heart in search of truth and life, goodness and grace.

Later, as we prepare the Easter Sunday menu, with far less appetite to enjoy it, I whisper to my son, “Tuck, you should try these deviled eggs. They were Daddy’s favorite.”

“Mommy, you were his favorite.”

I belong to a third culture now. I am neither a whole, healed woman, nor will I wear black and grieve forever. I belong in this nebulous in-between place. We are a growing demographic, the brokenhearted us. You might belong on this team roster, or perhaps you are walking alongside someone who is. If you are wondering how to help someone in this place, let me tell you what I’ve learned.

If you don’t know what to say, simply start with “I’m so sorry.” Or even better, “I am so sad for you.” Don’t try to explain or offer a lofty word. There is no explanation, so free yourself from trying to find one.

When you ask how we are, we may say, “Fine, thank you,” or “We are doing okay.” Try with all your might not to press further. The pleading eyes or the prodding voice that asks, “Really? Come on, really? How are you, really?” We can’t answer that question. It is all I can do to speak. I answered you. Puncture this surface, and I might spill everywhere.

I, personally, have needed acknowledgment that nothing is normal anymore; that everything has changed for me. I have needed a free pass from anything and everything on anyone’s calendar. I have not been able to step into what was, sit at a table where Robb would have been, attend a party where he would have been a guest.

In other cases it’s natural for anyone who has gone through this to want to proceed with “life as normal.” We may not want a public display of any kind. Perhaps the best thing you can do is to be present and patient. When—and if—we are ready to begin the journey of uncovering the tragedy, we may remember you were one who was present and patient. And we may trust you.

This journey brings along a monster named Burden. He whispers dark secrets that make us think we’re exhausting you and your resources. If you can give without waiting for a wish list, you can slay that dragon for us. We may not know what we need, but we usually know what we don’t want. Respect the word
no.

There is a difference between wanting to give to us and wanting to give for you. The motives are thinly veiled, and there is grace and space for both. Try to identify why you want to help. Is it because you know this family well, you see a need, and you can fill it? Or is it because you feel overwhelming compassion—perhaps even a sense of
guilt that your life hasn’t fallen to pieces—and you simply must-must-must respond in a tangible way?

If you are giving for us, then just do. Step in. Don’t wait. It will mean the world. If you are giving for you, then give in a spacious way: gift cards, notes, surprise gifts. It will mean the world.

If you are one of us, stuck in the in-between third culture of grief, I have a few words for you too. If the bottom has fallen out of your world, then there’s a whole new playbook to follow. The rules have changed. If you are hurting, if you need help, say it. Others don’t know what you need, but so many want to help. If you know what you need, say it. And if you know what you don’t want, say it. Be honest, and don’t let pride exhaust you. Save that energy for getting out of bed in the morning.

Be alone as long as you want, as much as you want. Isolation is normal, I have definitely learned. In other centuries and cultures, those with a broken heart and a ruptured world have been sent to live in seclusion for as long as they needed. Allow yourself the freedom to clear the calendar, to say no, to be alone.

Check your mailbox. And on the day the mailbox is empty, don’t be deceived: it doesn’t mean the world has forgotten about you or the one you love.

Give yourself a break on the thank-you notes. All the rules are different now, even the formalities of courtesy.

You can’t always predict an emotional toll. What you fear with all your heart may come more easily than you expected. What you thought you could conquer may bring you to your knees. Go easy on yourself. Go to a party if you want, and leave five minutes later if you
must. If laughter finds you, pull up a chair and invite her to stay. Don’t worry about what others might think. Tell them you’re taking the day off from sadness.

God is good and antidepressants aren’t bad.

Get help.