Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul

  “He says I probably have six months to live.” Martha’s words were certainly serious, yet there was a definite calm about her.

  “I’m so sorry to . . .” but before Jim could finish, Martha interrupted.

  “Don’t be. The Lord has been good. I have lived a long life. I’m ready to go. You know that.”

  “I know,” Jim whispered with a reassuring nod.

  “But I do want to talk with you about my funeral. I have been thinking about it, and there are things that I want.”

  The two talked quietly for a long time. They talked about Martha’s favorite hymns, the passages of Scripture that had meant so much to her through the years, and the many memories they shared from the five years Jim had been with Central Church.

  When it seemed that they had covered just about everything, Aunt Martie paused, looked up at Jim with a twinkle in her eye, and then added, “One more thing, Preacher. When they bury me, I want my old Bible in one hand and a fork in the other.”

  “A fork?” Jim was sure he had heard everything, but this caught him by surprise. “Why do you want to be buried with a fork?”

  “I have been thinking about all of the church dinners and banquets that I attended through the years,” she explained. “I couldn’t begin to count them all. But one thing sticks in my mind.

  “At those really nice get-togethers, when the meal was almost finished, a server or maybe the hostess would come by to collect the dirty dishes. I can hear the words now. Sometimes, at the best ones, somebody would lean over my shoulder and whisper, ‘You can keep your fork.’

  “And do you know what that meant? Dessert was coming!

  “It didn’t mean a cup of Jell-O or pudding or even a dish of ice cream. You don’t need a fork for that. It meant the good stuff, like chocolate cake or cherry pie! When they told me I could keep my fork, I knew the best was yet to come!

  “That’s exactly what I want people to talk about at my funeral. Oh, they can talk about all the good times we had together. That would be nice.

  “But when they walk by my casket and look at my pretty blue dress, I want them to turn to one another and say, ‘Why the fork?’

  “That’s what I want to say. I want you to tell them that I kept my fork because the best is yet to come.”

  Dr. Roger William Thomas

  7

  LIVING AGAIN

  I can choose to sit in perpetual sadness, immobilized by the gravity of my loss, or I can choose to rise from the pain and treasure the most precious gift I have— life itself.

  Walter Anderson

  Lilyfish

  After the world takes an eggbeater to your soul, you never know what’s going to get you up and back among the living. In my case, it was the ham. It was 3:30 on a sweltering July afternoon, three weeks to the hour since my new baby daughter lay down for a nap and woke up on the other side of this life.

  I decided it was time to go fishing. There were any number of good reasons. For one, I could sit still and smell Lily’s baby sweetness in the corners of the house, still feel her small heft in the hollow of my shoulder. For another, I’d hardly left the house since she died and had taken to working my way through an alarming amount of dark rum and tonic each night, not a sustainable grief-management technique over the long haul. Jane and I had planted the memorial pink crepe myrtle and the yellow lilies, chosen for having the audacity to bloom in the heat of the summer, the very time Lily died.

  But it was the ham that got me off the dime. After the funeral, the neighbors had started bringing over hog’s hind legs as if the baby might rise from the dead and stop by for a sandwich if they could just get enough cured pork in the refrigerator. I knew my mind wasn’t quite right, knew I still hadn’t even accepted her death. But it seemed like I’d lose it unless I put some distance between me and the ham.

  I shoved a small box of lures in a fanny pack, spooled up a spinning rod with six-pound mono line and filled a quart bottle with tap water. On my way out the door, I stopped, as I have taken to doing since her death, to touch the tiny blue urn on the mantel. “Baby girl,” I said. I stood there for several minutes, feeling the coolness of fired clay and waiting for my eyes to clear again. Then I got in the car and drove twenty miles north of Washington, D.C., to the Seneca Breaks on the upper Potomac River.

  I didn’t particularly care that it was 102 degrees outside. I didn’t particularly care that any smallmouth bass not yet parboiled by the worst heat wave in memory would scarcely be biting. I was furious at the world and everything still living in it now that my daughter wasn’t alive. As I drove, the radio reported severe thunderstorms to the west and said they might be moving our way. Fine by me. If someone up there wanted to send a little electroshock therapy my way, I’d be easy to find.

  Even at five o’clock the sun still had its noon fury. The heat had emptied the normally crowded parking lot at the river’s edge. I stepped out of the air-conditioned car into the afternoon’s slow oven. I slugged down some water, put my long-billed cap on, found a wading stick in the underbrush and walked into the river. The water was bathtub warm and two feet below normal. Seneca Breaks, normally a mile-long series of fishy-looking riffles and rock gardens, was like the only angler fool enough to be out there—a ghost of its former self. At least it didn’t smell like ham. But the fish weren’t here, and I realized I shouldn’t be either. It dawned on me that I’d better get in the water that went over my waist or risk heatstroke.

  Just upstream from the breaks, the river is called Seneca Lake, three miles of deep flats covered with mats of floating grass. I worked my way out to the head of the breaks and slipped into this deeper water, casting a four-inch plastic worm on a light sinker. Soon I’d waded out chin-deep into the lake, holding my rod arm just high enough to keep the reel out of the water. There were bait fish dimpling the surface every so often and dragonflies landing on my wrist, and once a small brown water snake wriggled by so close I could have touched him.

  Nothing was hitting my worm, but that was to be expected. My arms seemed to be working the rod on their own, and I was content to let them. I stood heron-still and felt the slow current brush grass against my legs. Every so often, a minnow would pucker up and take a little nip at my exposed leg. It tickled. Baby fish. I remembered how I’d call her Lilyfish sometimes when changing her diaper, remembered how she loved to be naked and squiggling on the changing table, gazing up at me and gurgling with something approaching rapture as I pulled at her arms and legs to stretch them.

  The tears welled up again. I found the melody to an old Pete Townsend song running circles through my head about how the fire was gone, but it still burned. It would always burn. And that’s how it was all right. The memories— her smell, her smile, the weight of her in my arms—would always smolder. And I’d always yearn for the one thing I’d never have.

  And what struck me as I stood alone in the middle of the river was that while my world had been changed forever, the world itself had not changed a whit. The river simply went about its business. A dead catfish, bloated and colorless, washed serenely past on its way back down the food chain. The sun hammered down, and a hot wind wandered the water.

  I caught a bluegill, then two little smallmouth bass, within ten minutes of each other. As I brought the fish to the surface, I had the sensation of bringing creatures from a parallel universe into my own for a minute before sending them darting back home. I wondered if death might be like this, traveling to a place where you didn’t think it was possible to breathe, only to arrive discovering that you could. I hoped it was. The older I get, the more I believe there is such a thing as a soul, that energy changes form but still retains something it never loses. I hoped that Lily’s soul was safe. That she knew how much she was still loved.

  I don’t know how long I stayed there or even if I kept fishing. I remember looking up at some point and noticing that the light had softened. It was after eight, and the sun was finally headed into the trees. And now, just like every summer
night for eons, the birds came out: an osprey flying recon fifty feet over the shallows; a great blue heron flapping deep and slow, straight toward me out of the fireball, settling atop a rock and locking into hunting stance. And everywhere swallows were coming out like twinkling spirits to test who could trace the most intricate patterns in the air, trailing their liquid songs behind them.

  Suddenly, I wasn’t angry anymore. This is the world, I realized for the millionth time, and its unfathomable mystery, always and never the same, composed in roughly equal parts of suffering and wonder, unmoved by either, endlessly rolling away. It was getting dark now, hard to see the stones beneath the water. I waded carefully back to my car, rested the stick by a post for another fisherman to use, changed into dry clothes and drove home.

  Take your grief one day at a time, someone had told me. I hadn’t known what he meant at the time, but I did now. This had been a good day. Lily, you are always in my heart.

  Bill Heavey

  Hope Is Stronger Than Sorrow

  Light always follows darkness.

  Anonymous

  In a quiet room away from the noise of the emergency room, I gazed at my four-month-old son Heath. As tears streamed down my face, I kissed his soft cheeks and stroked his downy blond hair. “How am I going to live without you?” I sobbed.

  Just that morning, he had been laughing, but now my heart shattered as I envisioned everything he would never experience, everything I’d miss. I’d never see him take his first steps or hear him say, “I love you, Mommy!” There’d be no first day of school or wedding to look forward to. Looking into the future, all I saw was sorrow. I didn’t think I could go on. But in time, I would learn that hope is stronger than sorrow. . . .

  Before Bob and I were married eleven years ago, I learned after a routine exam that my kidneys weren’t functioning.

  “You have chronic renal failure,” my doctor told me.

  Stunned, I asked, “Am I going to die?”

  He assured me that with a change in diet, I could live a normal life. Relieved, Bob and I made plans for our future. We wanted a baby right away, but first we saved to buy a house. One year later, we bought a lovely home in a lovely neighborhood. The time was right to have a baby, we happily decided.

  But my doctor cautioned me, “If you become pregnant, the strain could worsen your condition to the point where you’ll need dialysis or a transplant.”

  Later, I sobbed to Bob, “We’ll never have a family now!”

  “Then we’ll adopt,” he soothed.

  Hope filled me, and I focused on staying healthy. But gradually, just walking up a flight of stairs exhausted me, and at night, twelve hours of sleep wasn’t enough.

  “Your kidneys have gotten weaker,” my doctor explained. “You need a kidney transplant.”

  My name was put on a donor list, and I prayed that a kidney would be found soon. Thirteen months later, the hospital called.

  “We have a donor,” the transplant coordinator said. A man had died in a car accident, and I prayed that his family would find comfort in knowing their loved one had given the gift of life.

  The surgery was a success, and I felt more alive than ever. Your gift has given me a second chance, I wrote in a letter of thanks to the donor family. I’ll always be grateful.

  As my body healed, my dream of having a baby was rekindled. I was elated when my doctor told me that it was safe for me to get pregnant now. He assured me the antirejection drugs I took wouldn’t harm a baby I was carrying. But there were risks: Pregnancy could put a strain on my new kidney, I could have a rejection episode, or my baby could be born prematurely.

  “We have to have faith that everything will be all right,” Bob said.

  And he was—I became pregnant a year and a half later. It was a healthy pregnancy until my seventh month, when I was at the hospital for a routine kidney test—and my water broke.

  It’s too soon! I anguished. Please don’t let me lose my baby! Two hours later, Heath was born. Though tiny, he was healthy. As I held him in my arms I wept, “You’re my miracle baby.”

  Every day with Heath was a reason to rejoice. From the way he held my finger while he drank his bottle to his sweet gurgles when I picked him up, he filled my heart with love. I couldn’t have been happier. But then tragedy struck.

  Just a few hours after I’d kissed my baby good-bye and gone to work, the police called to tell me that Heath, who had been with a sitter, had stopped breathing.

  Numb with fear, I rushed to the hospital, praying that he’d be okay. He wasn’t.

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “Heath died of SIDS.”

  Bob and I were numb with grief and shock as we said good-bye to our son.

  How can I go on? I agonized.

  Before we left the hospital, a social worker talked with us about donating Heath’s organs. In a strange twist of fate, I suddenly understood in a way I couldn’t have before how my donor’s family must have felt when faced with the decision Bob and I were being asked to make now. Can I be as selfless? I wondered.

  But in the depths of my grief, I realized that in giving someone else new life, a part of my son would live on.

  “I want to donate Heath’s organs,” I told Bob. He agreed. Later, doctors decided that Heath’s corneas were the best option for donation.

  Someone will see because of my son! I realized. It brought me some comfort, but I still grieved for the baby we had loved and lost. Just looking at Heath’s picture tore at my heart.

  I tried to go on by throwing myself into work. But every night I prayed, please don’t let me wake up in the morning. When I did awake, I cried and cried.

  Bob was hurting, too, so we joined a bereavement group. At the first meeting, I cried quietly while other parents talked about their grief. When it was my turn, I wept, “I miss being a mother.”

  One woman said, “I know what you’re going through.” Knowing they understood helped ease our pain, and seeing how some members had healed gave me hope. And in time, Bob and I knew we needed to go on with our lives. When we’d donated Heath’s corneas, we’d decided to give someone a second chance. Now we needed to give ourselves the gift of life—and hope—again. So we decided to have another child.

  When I became pregnant again, I was elated, but also very frightened. What if we lose this baby, too? I worried. And when I went into labor seven weeks early, my mind reeled.

  “Just like Heath!” I sobbed.

  Though she weighed just two and a half pounds, Savannah was perfect. But I worried, What if she dies from SIDS, too?

  As a precaution, Savannah came home with a monitor that would alert us if she stopped breathing. But I constantly checked on her anyway. As the months passed and Savannah thrived, I began to relax.

  Still, I knew I wouldn’t find peace of mind until Savannah was out of danger. That happy day came when she was almost one, and she no longer needed the monitor. Her first birthday party was a celebration of life and a return of happiness.

  Today, Savannah is three, and she fills our home with joy. And when I look at pictures of Heath, I smile instead of sob.

  Someday, I’ll tell Savannah about the donor program and how my life has been blessed because of it. But for now, I’m just looking forward to watching my daughter grow. And because of the gift of life I received, I won’t miss one special moment.

  Duane Shearer

  As told to Janice Finnell

  Previously appeared in Woman’s World

  The Miracle of Gary’s Gift

  Before he left for work, my husband, Gary, always told me, “Love you.” But that day, he left before I was awake.

  Looking back I wish I had gotten up to kiss him goodbye. But how could I know I’d never get another chance?

  For a long time, memories like these tore at my heart. Then five very special people helped me heal.

  Gary and I had met sixteen years earlier on a blind date. We fell in love, and five months later, we were married. After our sons, Jerrod
and Casey, came along, our happiness was complete. I taught school, and Gary worked as a welder. I loved our life together.

  Then just before noon that morning, the phone rang.

  “Gary fell from a beam at the construction site,” one of his coworkers said. “He’s in ER.”

  Don’t let him be badly hurt! I prayed. But at the hospital, a doctor told me that Gary had a severe head injury and needed surgery.

  After the surgery, I was allowed to see Gary. “I’m here!” I choked.

  He squeezed my hand, and I filled with hope. But by morning, his condition worsened and doctors induced a coma to reduce the swelling in his brain.

  I brought the boys to see him. “Daddy’s on a machine to help him breathe, so he can’t talk,” I said. “But you can talk to him.”

  Hearing the boys plead, “Please get well!” I couldn’t contain my tears.

  Six days after the accident, the doctor told me, “I’m sorry . . . Gary is brain-dead.”

  As grief tore through me, the doctor asked if I’d considered organ donation. Gary and I had never discussed it, but I thought about the kind of man he’d been. Always ready to help, he’d volunteered at church and chopped firewood for neighbors during a snowstorm. I knew what he would want.

  Taking Gary’s hand, I wept, “I’ll raise the boys in a way that will make you proud. I’ll miss you.”

  That day, Gary gave five people the gift of life.

  After the funeral, despair engulfed me. But my sons needed me, so I forced myself to get up in the morning. I went through the motions at work. At home, I hid my tears every time I set the table for three instead of four.

  The boys were suffering, too. Jerrod, fifteen, grew quiet, and Casey, eleven, lost his quick smile.

  The only tiny solace was the hope that Gary had helped others. But I didn’t know who the recipients were, and I was afraid to find out.

  Then, a few months later, I received a letter. “My name is Cindy Davis,” I read. “I’m your husband’s lung recipient. Thank you for giving me life. . . . I’ll always be grateful.” Oh, Gary! I wept. You did something wonderful!