Hold my hand . . .

On Friday October 5 we got a phone call.   It was unexpected, but expected.  If that makes sense.  My husband's mom had been admitted to hospital.  It's traumatic hearing the words “dire” and “nothing can be done.”  Even though we knew what had been happening inside her body for several years, we were not emotionally prepared for that phone call.  Two weeks, three very long weekends, and she passed away.

As Jim and I walked together to and from the hospital on any of the numerous visits we made, we walked holding hands.  Falling into step with each other.  Regardless of how slow or fast we were walking or the number of curbs we had to step up onto or off of, it was always in step.  Holding hands.  Silently sometimes, most times.  Quietly trying to be supportive.

Through our seven and half years together there have been many ups and downs and struggles, but our hands always gravitate back to each other.  That touch of someone who promised to love you through everything.  In times where I have been the one struggling, he has been amazing.  Now, though, it's his struggle.  I am watching his heartbreak and grief and I feel completely useless.  There isn't a thing I can say or do that is going to make this better.

Sure she had a long life.  It was a blessed life too.  Seven children, numerous grandchildren and her first great-granddaughter this past February.  Sure she's no longer suffering, but that doesn't make it any less bearable.  We are going to miss her, deeply.  Our kids haven't quite grasped the finality of it and so we get to cope our way through their heartbreak as well as our own.   This is not an easy feat.  We both find ourselves crying and trying to answer questions so that they will understand on their terms.

We have had so many impromptu conversations that have our kids trying to comprehend what death is.  How do they reconcile what they are learning from the Bible in our home and at Sunday school with all they are learning about their grandmother's Buddhist beliefs and Chinese culture and traditions.  It's a lot even for me.  So I try to wade gently and carefully and with the utmost respect for my husband and his family's way of life.  I hope and I pray that I am doing it right, and if not right, then at least not so far off base that I disrespect anyone in any way.

I reach for his hand and I hold on tight.  I offer my shoulder and a tissue and a hug.  Pouring all the strength I have into him.  Holding on and holding him up.  Side by side, together, forever.