In the midst of busy weeks when I’m scrambling to help two kids with two different sets of math homework—neither of which I understand—while also cooking dinner, trying to remember whether I paid the mortgage, fretting over why I still haven’t taught my kids to ride bikes, wondering if the 9-year-old’s favorite jammies are clean for pajama day, regretting that I haven’t signed my 12-year-old up for more sports and feeling guilty for not spending more time helping my soon-to-be senior with her college planning, I stop and remind myself that one awesome parent is better than two mediocre ones. But the fact is, one awesome parent can’t be better than two awesome parents. And for a time, that’s what my kids had.
One parent made dinner while the other helped with homework. One parent coached soccer while the other sat in dance class. One parent helped with class parties while the other chaperoned field trips and volunteered at field days. We both gave 100 percent—okay, like, 85 percent—and it worked. Our kids were happy, healthy, well-rounded and productive. They had a loving, supportive home, and a bright future ahead of them.
And then, in late June 2011, the first heart attack hit. I remember sitting in the hall outside my husband’s hospital room just after he received a stent to clear a blockage in his artery. I was scared and young—much too young to have any frame of reference for what was happening. I tried to ask all the smart medical questions that I thought one should ask in a situation like that, but all I really wanted to know was, “How long did he have? A year? Two years? Ten years? Forty years?”
The cardiologist chuckled and told me he couldn’t know for sure, but life insurance would be through the roof. All we could do was play the hand we’re dealt, he said gravely. And that was that. It wasn’t encouraging.
Our kids were young—so, so young. My oldest was going into fourth grade, my youngest still in diapers. I pictured them having to grow up without their father. What would that do to them? If they lost him, would they become like so many children whose bright futures are derailed as a result of experiencing a trauma or significant loss at a young age?
If he could just be there long enough to see each of them graduate from high school, I thought, they’d have a good, strong start on life. For the next five years, I breathed a sigh of relief as we got closer to that goal. Each year they grew older, I was grateful they had the benefit of their father’s guidance and support. While other parents were lamenting the passage of time, I found comfort and hope in it. While others were bittersweet at milestones, like graduating kindergarten, becoming a teenager or completing middle school, I embraced them. I prayed every night, for five years, that he’d be around long enough to guide all of them through high school.
He wasn’t. In fact, he died just weeks before our oldest was to begin high school.
Now I prepare for new milestones: My oldest daughter is about to begin her senior year in high school, narrowing down college choices and preparing to travel overseas. My son is putting his elementary school days behind him and setting his sights on middle school. My youngest daughter is spending more time with friends, going to sleepovers and doing her homework independently. Now, as we reach these new milestones, I find myself more grateful than sad. Grateful that they are hard-working students. Grateful that they are kind friends. Grateful that they have had good health, as I know many parents wonder whether their children will simply have time to reach the milestones that many of us take for granted. Grateful that their futures are still bright, and that they have each found the strength and courage to overcome the odds. Most of all, I’m grateful that I’ve been there for all of it.
Kathy Deters
The Spirit of the Lord has anointed me to preach good news to the poor and release to the captives.
