I shut the door and stood cradling the shoes. Their polished surfaces shone back to me, just as Jen’s face had that graduation day. I walked over to the table where I had placed a single rose in a bud vase next to Jennifer’s picture. I put the shoes next to the rose and whispered, “Happy twenty-second birthday, Sweetheart. We found a way to continue to walk together after all.”
Joyce A. Harvey
I Wish You Enough
Recently, I overheard a father and daughter in their last moments together. They had announced her departure and standing near the security gate, they hugged and he said, “I love you. I wish you enough.”
She in turn said, “Daddy, our life together has been more than enough. Your love is all I ever needed. I wish you enough, too, Daddy.” They kissed, and she left. He walked over toward the window where I was seated. Standing there I could see he wanted and needed to cry. I tried not to intrude on his privacy, but he welcomed me in by asking, “Did you ever say good-bye to someone knowing it would be forever?”
“Yes, I have,” I replied. Saying that brought back memories I had of expressing my love and appreciation for all my dad had done for me. Recognizing that his days were limited, I took the time to tell him face-to-face how much he meant to me. So I knew what this man was experiencing. “Forgive me for asking, but why is this a forever goodbye?” I asked.
“I am old, and she lives much too far away. I have challenges ahead, and the reality is, the next trip back will be for my funeral,” he said.
“When you were saying good-bye I heard you say, ‘I wish you enough.’ May I ask what that means?”
He began to smile. “That’s a wish that has been handed down from other generations. My parents used to say it to everyone.” He paused for a moment, and looking up as if trying to remember it in detail, he smiled even more. “When we said ‘I wish you enough,’ we were wanting the other person to have a life filled with just enough good things to sustain them,” he continued and then turning toward me he recited the following:
I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish you enough “hellos” to get you through the final “goodbye.”
He then began to sob and walked away.
I wish you enough.
Bob Perks
The Quickening
“No, I haven’t felt any movements yet,” I responded with practiced pleasantness, which hid my anxiety and disappointment.
“Oh, well, I’m sure you’ll feel those little feet and hands flutter inside any day now!”
Apparently, my attempts to conceal my own concerns about the health of my developing child were wearing thin. I was now six months along, gaining in weight and inches, yet feeling nothing going on inside. I could not dismiss the idea that something was not quite right. And according to the many texts I was reading, fetal movement could be detected by the mother as early as four months, so my fears grew.
I was haunted by the fact that this little baby had come to us as a surprise, and I had therefore not prepared his new home as a responsible and loving parent might have. I had inadvertently taken him to bars on weekends and to the Jacuzzi at night during his first few weeks. My husband, Jack, was taking strong medications to abate the relentless pain of a rare neurological disorder. So despite this adversity, a brave little soul decided to make his way into the world through us. Yet he would not move.
My husband and I were soon forced to think of other things as his mother’s doctor told us the terrible news. She had just suffered a large intercranial hemorrhage that continued to bleed. This came as a heavy blow to all as she had been the arms, legs and voice of her husband, who had been crippled by a stroke nearly twenty years ago. It was almost unimaginable that my mother-in-law now lay in a hospital bed, writhing with the tremendous pain in her head as well as her heart, as she could not be home to care for her husband of fifty years.
Jack and I, along with his seven other siblings and their families, made daily visits to his mother’s hospital room. These visitations were laden with sadness, making conversation even among the closest members strained. My own anxiety was again magnified by the many inquiries as to the progress of my pregnancy—which seemed the most appropriate subject to speak of when I was present among other family members. And with Jack’s family being so large, the stories of how each grandchild came to be were recounted. In the case of each pregnancy and delivery of the eight grandchildren, there was building evidence that, indeed, my little child was having trouble. This thought was now paired with the possibility that my mother-in-law would never see this, her grandson, who would become the only bearer of the family name of the new generation.
And here before me lay the matriarch of so many families. A lady so kind and gentle that I felt immediate warmth and welcoming from her even upon our first introduction four years ago. I came to know how she was too lovely to ever say an unkind word to or about anyone. She spent her life raising a beautiful family and her later years quietly but tightly keeping everyone together.
And so, I thought, with much regret, that my little child may not know the softness of her cheek, the kindness of her eyes, the ever-present giggle in her words and the powerful love that radiates from this small yet extraordinary lady before me. Like silent, somber sentinels, each child in vigil by their mother’s side, Patricia Ann Kiernan took her last breaths and passed away during the early morning hours. All then gathered at her home to comfort their father on that winter day.
Looking down to the events happening on Earth, a timid little boy holds tightly to the strong bars of a pearly gate. He releases the pressure of his grip for a moment as he strains his head to peer over the cloud’s edge cautiously. He gazes down, curious about the people he sees, yet reluctant to leave his safe harbor. He quickly pulls himself back from the edge and examines the sparkling structure of the gate before him. Again and again he is drawn to watch the world below, yet steadfastly remains at his post.
Until he is approached by a beautiful lady. She walks slowly toward the boy, her arms open to embrace him, her face beaming with such joy at their meeting. She smiles so tenderly at him that the boy is immediately disarmed and raises his hand from the gate to meet her touch. Her arms envelop him, and he finds immediate comfort and security in her embrace.
“Little one,” she says softly and kindly. “They are all waiting for you down there. Don’t be frightened for you are already loved and will be taken very good care of. Hurry now, child! I promise you will have a wonderful time, and I will be waiting for you here when you return.” She giggles and then gives him an extra-tight squeeze before opening her arms.
The little boy looks at her and smiles happily, trusting in all she has said. And now, growing more excited about the adventure that awaits him, he steps confidently onto the cloud’s edge. He turns, waves to the beautiful lady—and jumps!
I sat on the last hallway stair, hearing the saddest, most lonely sobs of my father-in-law, who had just lost his best friend and the love of his life. The air inside this old house, with its thousand-and-one memories of happy times and years gone by, hung with pain and parting. My husband was at his father’s side, his shiny blue eyes now tearful and dull.
My hands lay across my swollen belly in silence and sorrow. Until . . . “tap, tap, tap.”
My eyes grew wide. I listened quietly with my entire body.
“Tick. Tick. Tap. Tap.”
Like Morse code came movement inside! I sat smiling and enjoying this moment to myself. “There you are! There you are!” I exclaimed to the tapping. I was so relieved and excited. I was thrilled that this moment had finally come! And yet the gravity
of the day prevented me from shouting out to everyone, “He’s here! He’s here!” Instead, I thanked God in a whispered prayer and found my husband on the porch.
“He just kicked,” I said quietly to Jack. Jack looked back at me for a moment, and then his eyes lit up as he announced to everyone excitedly, “The baby just kicked for the first time!” I smiled and giggled as his sisters turned toward me and, forgetting their loss for a moment, joined in our happiness.
And as the day wore on, my previous worries now vanishing, I reflected on the happenings of the morning. Of how with the passing of one life, another is ushered in. And I thought again of how, perhaps, instead of no longer being alive in time to see our very happy and healthy baby boy, his grandmother was really the first to see him. And this will be how I begin to tell my son what a wonderful grandmother he has!
Monica Kiernan
The Horizon
Life is eternal, and love is immortal,
and death is only a horizon;
and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.
Rossiter Worthington Raymond
I am standing upon the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud on the horizon,
Just where the sea and the sky come to mingle with one another.
Then someone at my side says: “There, she is gone.”
“Gone where?”
Gone from my sight. That is all.
She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side,
And she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at the moment when someone at my side says,
“There, she is gone,” there are other eyes watching her coming,
And other voices ready to take up the glad shout:
“Here she comes!”
And that is dying.
Henry Scott Holland
6
INSIGHTS AND
LESSONS
You’re Still Here
At the finest level of my being,
you’re still with me.
We still look at each other,
at that level beyond sight.
We talk and laugh with each other,
in a place beyond words.
We still touch each other,
on a level beyond touch.
We share time together in a place,
where time stands still.
We are still together,
on a level called Love.
But I cry alone for you,
in a place called reality.
Richard Lepinsky
Chocolate-Covered Cherries
The experience of grief is a great gift . . . for the heart that breaks is just opening again.
Sharon Callahan
What a terrible way to spend Christmas. My oldest son, Cameron, had been diagnosed with acute myeloblastic leukemia the previous June. After a harrowing ride in a military helicopter to Walter Reed Hospital, three rounds of horrendous chemotherapy, an excruciating lung resection and a disappointing bone-marrow search, we were at Duke University Hospital. Cameron had undergone a cord-blood transplant, a last-ditch effort to save his life, in early December. Now, here it was Christmas Eve.
Spending Christmas in the small room on Ward 9200 seemed strange—so different from our usual holiday setting at home. We had always spent weeks on our favorite holiday project: baking cookies. Now the cookies were sent from family and friends since I tried to spend all my time with Cameron, helping to ease the long, tedious hours. He had been in isolation for weeks because the chemotherapy and drugs left him with no immune system. When presents arrived in the mail, we didn’t wait for Christmas, but opened them immediately—anything to create a bright moment in that dull and painful time.
Always in the past, 6:00 P.M. on Christmas Eve was the “Magic Hour.” This was the time when everyone in my family in Iowa, Wisconsin, California and Washington, D.C., opened our presents. We all did this at exactly the same time, somehow bringing the family together, even though we lived so far apart. Cameron’s father, stepmother, sister and brother also opened presents at their house at that time.
This year, the Magic Hour would find just Cameron and me in a small, almost-bare hospital room, since most decorations weren’t allowed in the sterile environment.
We sat together, listening to the drone of the HEPA filter and the beeping of the six infusion pumps hooked to a catheter in his heart, as Cameron waited until 6:00 P.M. exactly to open the few presents I had saved aside for him. He insisted we follow this small tradition to create some semblance of normalcy—all of which had been abruptly abandoned six months earlier. I watched him open the presents. His favorite was a Hug Me Elmo toy that said “I love you” when he squeezed it.
All too quickly, Christmas was over. Or so I thought.
Cameron carefully reached over the side of his hospital bed and handed me a small green box. It was wrapped beautifully, obviously by a gift store, with perfect edges and a folded piece of ribbon held with a gold embossed sticker.
Surprised, I said, “For me?”
“Mom, it wouldn’t be Christmas unless you have something to unwrap, too.”
I was speechless. Finally, I asked, “But how did you get this? Did you ask a nurse to run down to the gift store?”
Cameron leaned back in his bed and gave me his most devilish smile. “Nope. Yesterday, when you went home for a few hours to take a shower, I sneaked downstairs.”
“CAMERON! You aren’t supposed to leave the floor! You know you’re susceptible to almost any germ. They let you leave the ward?”
“Nope!” His smile was even bigger now. “They weren’t looking. I just walked out.”
This was no small feat since he could barely walk, and certainly not unassisted. It took every ounce of strength just to cruise the small ward halls, pushing the heavy IV pole hung with medication and a pain pump. How could he possibly have made it nine floors to the gift store?
“Don’t worry, Mom. I wore my mask, and I used the cane. Man, they really chewed me out when I got back. I couldn’t sneak back in, since they’d been looking for me.”
I couldn’t look up. I held the box even tighter now and had already started to cry.
“Open it. It’s not much, but it wouldn’t be Christmas if you didn’t have something from me to unwrap.”
I opened the box of gift-store-wrapped chocolate-covered cherries. “They are your favorite, right?” he asked hopefully.
I finally looked at my poor eighteen-year-old baby. Cameron had begun all this suffering almost immediately after his high-school graduation. Did he know how much he was teaching me about what being a family really meant? “Oh, absolutely my favorite!”
Cameron chuckled a little bit. “See, we still have our traditions— even in here.”
“Cameron, this is the best present I’ve ever received— ever,” I told him, and I meant every word. “Let’s start a new tradition. Every Christmas, let’s only give each other a box of chocolate-covered cherries, and we’ll reminisce about the year we spent Christmas at Duke University Hospital battling leukemia. We’ll remember how horrible it all was, and how glad we are that it is finally over.”
We made that pact right then and there, as we shared the box of chocolate-covered cherries. What a wonderful way to spend Christmas!
Cameron died two months later, after two unsuccessful cord-blood transplants. He was so brave—never giving in, never giving up. On my first Christmas without him I sent a special present to friends and family with this note:
“This is my gift to you—a box of chocolate-covered cherries. And when you open it, I hope it will remind you what the holidays are really about—being with
your friends and family—recreating traditions, maybe starting some new ones—but most of all—love.”
What a beautiful way to spend Christmas.
Dawn Holt
Remember with Courage
Christmas is a special time of year. And while pretty packages and twinkling lights are the window dressing for this exciting festivity, it is the warmth and love of family that make the holiday season so memorable. However, it can be a painful time for those experiencing the recent loss of a loved one.
Twelve years ago, my husband died suddenly. Although it was only the end of October, department stores glittered with decorations and staff worked eagerly to jump-start sales. When purchasing outfits for my ten-and twelve-year-old daughters to wear to their father’s funeral, the salesclerk innocently asked if I was getting an early start on my Christmas shopping. I shall never forget the piercing pain in my heart as I stumbled for an answer.
I drove home in tears, realizing just how out of sync I was with the outside world. The holiday momentum was building, and I felt as though I was being swallowed by a huge black hole. I wanted to scream. I wanted the world to stop spinning. I wanted to run away . . . find some place that wasn’t dripping with tinsel and holiday cheer. But more than anything, I wanted my family back.
The following weeks passed, and December twenty-fifth approached quickly. I struggled with wanting to dismiss Christmas and yet, at the same time, to embrace the childhood excitement my daughters were beginning to brim with. While it was easy for me to sustain resentment toward the outside world, it was impossible to resist them. They made their annual wish list and insisted on decorating the house. Through their actions, it became abundantly clear that Christmas was going to happen whether I wanted it to or not.
My girls taught me more about grieving than I could have ever taught them. They missed their dad terribly. Yet they were able to perceive the enchantment of Christmas as they had in years prior, albeit in a different way. It was obvious they’d made a choice to participate in the ardor of Christmas. Being children, they may not have been aware of the implications of this choice. Perhaps that was the saving grace. By making an unconscious choice they were relieved of any damning self-judgment that would cite disrespect to their father’s memory. They instinctively knew their lives had to go on, and they showed me that mine had to as well.