As I’m writing this, I’m watching “Adventures in Babysitting” with my three children. The original one, not the new one; I feel that it’s important that I clarify that, because we are a family divided on this cinematic great. My daughters and I love the humor, style (and occasional profanity) of the original, while my son enjoys the trendier and more wholesome Disney remake.
I’m not sure why I’m sharing that; I suppose my mind is wandering a bit more than usual these past couple of days. But that’s to be expected, because my husband died yesterday, and minds tend to do that a bit in these circumstances.
Here are a few of the wanderings of my mind in the past 24 hours:
-He’s never coming home.
-He will never offer to run to Starbucks for me.
-I will never see his mouth open wide in a giant but silent laugh at one of my lame jokes; eliciting that large, open-mouthed, silent laugh from him felt like hitting a grand slam in the ninth inning of the World Series.
-I will never get another silly text from him with a series of emojis that I don’t really understand, or one with the words, “Love you, miss you,” as he often texted me during his deployment.
-I will not celebrate my 17th anniversary with him on the last day of this month.
-I will never listen to him debate with my son who would win in a match between Brock Lesner and the Undertaker.
-I will never rest my head in that perfect spot on his shoulder that was made just for me.
-I will never watch him play video games with my children again. Or Uno. Or air hockey.
-He’s never coming home.
I apologize if these thoughts are upsetting to hear, but it’s the nature of the situation that’s brought us all here together, after all. This is a time of “bereavement,” as a good friend told me recently.
And yet, for me, that time for bereavement has already passed; it passed when he had that first heart attack in our home five years ago. He died that day, and I spent a year in mourning.
And then by the grace of God, I got five more amazing years with the man I love.
We took our children to Disney World. We moved into our dream home. We celebrated anniversaries and birthdays together. He helped me shop for Christmas presents for the children, took them trick or treating around the neighborhood at Halloween, sat outside at sunset with a Schlafly and watched them play hide and seek with their friends, made road trips to Columbia for Shakespeare’s Pizza, sat in the nose bleeds at Blues games, and said “I love you” so, so many times.
How many people who have lost a loved one suddenly, wished that they could have had one more day? We got a little more than four years of “one more days.” And we never took a single one for granted.
These past few months, there were many nights when, as he put his arm over me to fall asleep, my last thought was, “If this had to be the last day, that would be okay. Because it was a really good day.”
So here I am, watching “Adventures in Babysitting” with my three children, just a little more than a day after losing my husband. We’re smiling. We’re laughing. We’re quoting our favorite lines (mostly those that contain potty words. Don’t F— with the babysitter). And some may be wondering, how is this possible?
Some will attribute it to shock or denial, and maybe they’re right. Make no mistake, difficult days, weeks and even months lie ahead for our big, loud, crazy, silly family. There will be moments when we will look at an unused air hockey table or a fridge full of fancy beer going to waste and our hearts will ache.
But in spite of that, we will carry on with great gratitude, and great hope. As I told my children, we had the very best husband and dad—the very best—for a short time. My children had more love in 14, 9 and 6 years than most people experience in a lifetime, and in 17 years of marriage, I received more than enough love and support to carry me through till my final days.
So we carry on with hope because that year after his first heart attack taught me that though there are times when it may feel like the best is already behind you, in reality, it still lies on the road ahead. I want my children to know that there will be more Christmas mornings, more trick or treating with friends, more late-night games of hide and seek, and more whispers of “I love you” exchanged between those of us who remain behind to carry on his legacy.
I share all of this with you today because I see people struggling with questions like, “Why do bad things happen to good people?” and, “If there is a God, why does he let things like this happen at all?”
As for the question, “If there is a God, why does he let things like this happen?” That’s a difficult question, one that humankind has pondered for centuries, and certainly not one that I am qualified to explain here today.
I read bits and pieces of a book from our church library once that explored this topic. The author postulated that God isn’t behind earthquakes (or in this case, heart attacks); that’s science and nature. God is behind the people who swoop in to help in the aftermath, and the strength and peace that you have to move forward. And, in our case, I believe God exists in the five bonus years we were given.
But I smile at that other question because the truth is, Jeff was no saint, as those closest to him would surely know. If he were standing here he’d laugh and say, “Maybe the more appropriate question to ask is, ‘Why do bad things happen to good-ish people?” Truth is, it was a battle to get him to church on a Sunday morning; that’s when all the good soccer games are on TV. We struggled to find a scripture to share at a service for a man who probably couldn’t even name the disciples…you know, Matthew, Mark, Yadier, Tarasenko, Randy Orton, The Rock and those other guys. I suggested that perhaps we could choose some really weird, vague Bible scripture that no one ever really understood to begin with, so everyone walks out of the sanctuary more confused than sad—truth be told, it’s what Jeff would have enjoyed—but we decide to go instead with the old classic, “Love thy neighbor as thyself” because in his line of work and the current state of politics and world affairs, it’s fitting.
On a trip to Target recently we saw an elderly woman attempting to load a cartful of soda cases into her van, and I volunteered our assistance. Later, Jeff mused at why one little old lady could possibly need that much diet soda, and said to me, “It’s always an adventure going out with someone who has a soul.”
That’s how he saw me: The one with a soul. I guess, in his mind, I was his conscience, the one who was always nudging him to do a little better, to be a little better, to be a little kinder, to be a little softer, to be a little more patient. I loved that he saw me that way, loved that he needed me that way, loved that I could be that for him.
And now he has returned the favor by giving me a piece of his soul. I find myself with strength and clarity that I didn’t have a week ago; his strength and clarity. I have his edge—his sarcastic, rapier, biting wit. And I know that I will be okay. We will be okay.
So as we prepare to make that difficult transition to our new “normal life”—school, work, dance practice, playdates, pool dates and trips to Target—I would ask each of you to be patient with us if we cry for no apparent reason. I probably don’t even have to ask, because it’s expected. But more than that, I would also ask that you be patient with us when we smile, laugh, and radiate love and joy, even if at times it seems “too soon” by some standards. Jeff gave us that. And we will not let it go to waste.
Kathy Deters
