James P. Emswiler - Guiding Your Child Through Grief

WILL MY CHILD BE OKAY?

B OTH OF US WROTE THIS BOOK, BUT IT BEGAN WITH J IMS STORY . Here it is in his own words:

June 24, 1989, was a beautiful summer morning with the sweet smell of flowers in the air. Our family had just completed a stressful week as we had gone through the death, wake, and funeral of my father-in-law. This was the first death of a loved one for my children. They adored their grandfather and would miss his bear hugs and tenderness and guidance. As they peered at his lifeless body at the wake and joined in the prayers at the funeral, I could see them struggle with this new concept, death.

Little did they know just how deep and long-lasting that struggle would be.

The day after the funeral, we climbed into the car for the one-hour drive home. My wife, Mary, sat next to me, and our eleven-year-old, Greg, and our eight-year-old, Katie, were in the backseat. Patrick, our fourteen-year-old, had gone home with a friend the night before.

As we drove down the highway, I told Mary about a potential job promotion, which would mean more income for us but also more travel and time away from the family for me. I asked her what she thought about the idea, but she didnt respond. I glanced over and saw her head cocked back. I thought she had a bloody nose and asked if she was all right. When she still didnt respond, I knew something was terribly wrong. She just stared at the ceiling, her body stiff, the fingers of her left hand opening and closing as if to communicate in some way. I shouted, Hold on, Mary! and floored it. Mary kept breathing in and breathing in until she could hold no more air within her. And then she exhaled deeplythe same ghostly exhale I had seen her father take just a few days before. The kids screamed from the backseat, Whats wrong, Dad? Whats wrong?! Mary slumped onto my shoulder, and a single tear fell slowly down her left cheek.

I pulled off the highway and into a hotel parking lot. Someone called an ambulance while I performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, thinking this had to be some kind of absurd nightmare. But there was no pulse and no heartbeat in my wifes limp body. A doctor and nurse came out of the hotel and began CPR on Mary until the ambulance arrived. The paramedics pulled out the defibrillator and revived her silent heart. But it was too late. That silent heart, now revived, was twice its normal size when it gave out. Mary would be able to live with the help of tubes and machines, but she was brain-dead.

The day after Marys heart attack, the doctor informed me that there was no hope of recovery for Mary. I gathered myself together as best I could, then went home to get the kids. I brought them to the hospital, and we stood around Marys bed, the sound of air being pumped into her lungs echoing in our ears. What I did next was the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life. I looked down at our three children, their innocent faces shivering with fear, their arms gripping my legs as tightly as they could. I took a deep breath and somehow the words came out: Your moms not going to make it. Shes going to die.

The outburst of primal wails that followed seemed to last forever. We just stood there as a wounded family and let the tears flow and gush until there was nothing left inside. Each child then walked over to Mary, kissed her on the cheek, and said, Good-bye, Mommy. I love you.

Their aunt escorted them out of the room; I remained behind as the nurse disconnected the life-support system. I looked down at Mary, and I looked deep within myself; both looks were stares of disbelief. My thirty-nine-year-old wife of eighteen years and the mother of our three wonderful kids was dead.

I walked out of the room and down the hospital hallway. I had never felt so alone. I remember that moment as if it were yesterday. I will never forget it, never.

Mary had no apparent medical problems, nor had she complained of any difficulties. Her health had seemed as perfect as our life. We both had good jobs, a home in the suburbs, three children, two cars, and a strong 401 (k). In sixty seconds on June 24, 1989, however, my life and the lives of my children changed forever. In a matter of moments, I went from being a husband to a widower, from sharing the responsibilities of raising children to being a single parent. Before, I had been a sales manager, traveling up and down the East Coast; afterward, I left that position to take care of my three young ones. In a matter of moments, my world turned upside down.

As deep as my pain was at losing Mary, it spiraled even lower whenever I thought about my children. They were so young and would have to grow up without a mom. No mother would hold them or tuck them in at night, no mom would cook for them or shop for clothes that matched. My thoughts jumped ahead to the junior prom, graduation from high school, choosing a college, getting married, and having babiesall without their mother to help them and guide them. This was not what I had planned.

But I have discovered since then that life is no more a trip to be planned than grief is a problem to be solved. Both are journeys to be traveled. And what a journey it has been.

A few years after Mary died, I remarried. A mutual friend had introduced me to Mary Ann, and we all went to the theater one evening. After the play, I offered to drive Mary Ann home. But first, I told her, whipping out coupons from my shirt pocket, I need to stop at the grocery store to pick up a few things for the kids breakfast. How rusty I was at the dating gamewhat an outstanding romantic overture! Fortunately, Mary Ann thought it was amusing to grocery-shop at eleven-thirty P.M. No doubt she realized that I was a man who could introduce her to new experiences in life!