When The Memories Come Without Pain

My youngest son was eleven when his father died. For the longest time he would cling to me when we were parting company, giving hugs and more hugs. I know this was his way of working through the loss of his father and I knew that eventually this phase would pass. Many times he would talk about things he and his father and brothers had done and this too seemed to help him move through his grief. There were times he just didn’t want to talk to me about anything, but usually this was rare. I remember picking up his wallet one day and inside he had some old driver’s licenses that had belonged to his father. He also kept his father’s old bright orange work shirts and wore those for the longest time. One of them said, “I survived the blizzard of 1993.” This was particularly humorous since my son was born in 1992.

We would often talk about different funny things that had happened throughout the years. Like the time my husband and my kids were home and my husband drove the kid’s 4x4 up onto our deck and the plastic lawn chairs were flying everywhere. He cautioned them “not to tell Mom,” since he knew I’d probably not be too happy. A friend spilled the beans months after my husband was no longer with us and reminiscing about this event brought a laugh from all of us.

Another time we talked about was a day in late February, when it was bitter cold and ice and snow lay on the ground. My husband and kids and I went down the street to help two elderly neighbors. Their car was stuck on ice with them inside the vehicle. My husband had a stomach tube in place, which at times could be troublesome, but he started shoveling snow with the rest of us and helped dig out the neighbor’s car. When the elderly lady was able to get out of her car, she exclaimed over him doing all that shoveling, since she knew he was ill. He just smiled at her and then we all laughed when she told him to come up to the house and she would give him a neck rub.

When my husband passed away three months later, that elderly lady passed away the next day. Her daughter reminded us of the day my husband shoveled out the car, and said that they were in heaven together and her mother was giving my husband neck rubs.

After my husband’s memorial service, my sister-in-law went upstairs to the second floor of the funeral home to retrieve the urn with my husband’s ashes, since he had been cremated. I still remember watching her come down the long steep stairs with the urn held carefully in her hands. About a month later my sister-in-law called me to tell me about a dream she had had. In the dream, she was coming once again down those stairs with the urn, and my husband was saying to her, “Don’t drop me.” We laughed so hard when she told this dream. It was exactly the smart-alecky thing my husband would have said.

When I look back on our life together, there are many memories that are told and retold, and to me it seems further evidence of healing for myself and my children. The memories are there and fondly told, with a smile and reminiscent grin, without the pain that was once associated thinking of a loved one no longer there.
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