Celebrating Life: Finding Joy After Loss

On Oct. 14, 2015, I went in for what was supposed to be a minor oral surgery. Okay, basically it WAS a minor oral surgery, but since I'm a drama queen, it felt like more a scene from "Texas Chainsaw Massacre."

My sweet husband took off work so he could drive me home. He tucked me in on the sofa under my favorite blankie and made an awkward attempt to feed me my favorite tomato soup from Panera and help me drink my favorite iced chai; with my mouth still completely numb, it was also a bit like a scene from "Texas Chainsaw Massacre." And then he settled onto the sofa with me and handed me the remote.

Together we watched countless hours of Halloween-themed baking contests dedicated to the delicate art of turning delicious pastries into some bake sale version of a prop from “Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” What I remembered most from that Halloween baking contest marathon—what we both remembered most—was the sheer horror of an ill-prepared ganache. Nervous chefs would fret that they had added a bit too much of this or that; cooked their ganache a moment too long, or not quite long enough; stirred it too much, or not enough. Every slight misstep with the fragile ganache risked the rebuke of some snooty judge. After that day, my husband and I shared a new rallying cry: “Don’t break the ganache!” It became our version of, “Keep calm and carry on,” “Don’t freak out,” “Proceed with caution,” “Check yourself before you wreck yourself,” you name it; a reminder to handle the ganache with care seemed to fit every perilous situation we faced.

And that was how we celebrated his last birthday.

I’m sure he would say it was one of his favorite birthdays because, A) He was off work and B) He spent the day with me. But like most days, he had put whatever revelry he was due aside to care for his family. That’s who he was.

Now I find myself binge-watching those same Halloween-themed baking competitions with our children, listening to chefs fret over the fragility of their ganache, and thinking of that day we spent together on the sofa.

This Saturday would have been his 43rd birthday. Some would say it would be best if I pushed those anniversaries aside; others who have lost a spouse know that it’s just not possible. And the fact is, it’s not just the significant days that hurt, because it was those little, average, ordinary moments that I miss the most.

This year, Oct. 14 will also be the day our oldest daughter will celebrate her high school’s homecoming. It will no doubt be a day when we are reminded of what is missing from our family: no overprotective father to drive her to the dance, to make her date uncomfortable with awkward questions, or to wait up with me on the sofa for her to come home.

But I have learned through this process that to deny yourself the feeling of loss is to deprive yourself the joy of the memories, too. So it will also be a day to be grateful for the community in which I am raising our children. It will be a day to celebrate that she has a safe, positive, supportive learning environment. It will be a day that she marks her own rite of passage—attending her first formal with her own fella for the first time—and a day that I thank God for the strong, hard-working, resilient young woman and leader that she has become. Each of those moments will be a bittersweet reminder that I am forever indebted to my husband for making all those things possible.

For those of us who are left behind, each single breath is filled with both unfathomable sorrow and immeasurable joy. But each time we celebrate our own lives, we celebrate theirs, too.

Kathy Deters