We write about widowhood as we live it. Together we examine the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of life as a widowed person. The views expressed here are those held by each individual author. We take no credit for their brillance; we just provide them with a forum for expressing their widowed journey in words that are uniquely their own.
Monday, January 5, 2015
Layers of Loss
My mother, Bervelee, and my sister, Debra
I awakened this
morning, on the last day of 2014, with the images of my sister and mother on my
heart. They died 6 and 7 years ago, respectively, during the holiday season,
and I realised I had done nothing, this year, to mark their lives and deaths—not
a picture or a mention, anywhere. I have been so consumed with the loss of my
beloved that memories of them sifted into the dusty corners of my
It is said
that people die as they lived, and, in my mother and sister’s case, this saying
surely rings true.
My sister became
diabetic at the age of 14, and she defied all the rules that were set for her
around it, as teenagers tend to do. Her blood sugars skyrocketed and plummeted
throughout her life with frightening frequency, sometimes sending her into
diabetic shock. As she aged, she began to build mountains of possessions around
her, until the home she shared with my mother became a bunker, of sorts, with
lumps of clothing and boxes of books lining the walls and stacked to the
ceiling, a small pathway carved through the middle that the two of them could
barely navigate their way through.
When she got
sick, she sloughed off those possessions like a snake sloughs its skin, leaving
them behind without a backward glance.
She died in
Hospice House, with a cancer that spread through her body like wildfire, bumps
and tumours poking out from her thighs to her shoulder blades, visible and
painful to the touch.
Her last breaths
were strained and rattled, interspersed with pleading moans. My sister did not go gentle into that good night.
She left behind a
son, a beloved granddaughter, some grandchildren she had yet to meet, an array
of holiday hats and socks, and hundreds of people who cherished her wild and
Her name was
Debra, and she died on the 12th of December, 2007. She was 56.
I did not forget.
My mother was
sweet, and small, and often afraid. I did not recognise her quiet strength until
I learned to view her through the eyes of a mother, rather than those of an
angry child. She lived in poverty for most of her life, first on a farm in
Kansas, where she carried milk buckets through snow swept fields and pulled
weeds from the garden in the hot summer sun, looking to the skies and pining for a bigger life
than the one into which she was born. She worked hard in school and travelled a
little before she met my father, whose charm and humour took her by surprise. He was a wise spirit, but he drank a bit and dreamed a lot, moving her from the poverty of the farm to a
suburban deprivation that left her disconsolate and ashamed.
My mother did her
best to tame the roller coaster life my father lived, and to help her four
children settle somewhere near the ground. She canned vegetables in summer and
made grape jelly in the fall, stoked the fire with coal when we had some, in
winter, tacked scraps of carpet to splintered floors, and sent us to scouts and
swimming lessons and bible school. She sang tenor in the church choir
every Sunday, her low and haunting voice blending in harmony with
those who stood in the forefront.
My mother had
surgery to repair a hernia seven months after my sister died. The doctors cut a
hole in her throat that left her unable to tell someone when she had to go to
the toilet or to ask for a drink of water to quench her thirst. They left my mother
without a voice. Speechless.
Later, when they plugged
the hole, the experience had so traumatised her that she could not eat, and she
became so malnourished that her feet swelled like puffer fish, and she couldn’t
remember if she had to pee, or where she was, or why she was still alive. The
doctors put a tube up her nose and down her throat to feed her, then. She moved
from the hospital to my home and back again, for four months, and when she lay in that hospital bed, she did not once ring the bell to ask for help. She did not
want to disturb anyone.
My mother died at
Hospice House, two doors down and eleven months from where she had watched her
daughter take her last breath. My brother said that her breaths slowed quietly
and when they stopped, he felt her spirit fill the room. My mother was tired of
being voiceless. She was ready to leave the life that had, only occasionally,
been kind to her.
She left behind
two sons, a host of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, boxes upon boxes of
photos and letters, sweet stories of her childhood, and a daughter with a
Her name was
Bervelee Jean, but people called her BJ, and she let them, because it was
easier to pronounce, though she never liked it, much. She died on the 15th
of November, 2008. She was 82.
I did not forget.
My husband came
into my life on a whirlwind, and we travelled our road together with passion
and joy, joined by a seemingly boundless love. He invited me into his rich
world of green hills, bathed by evening’s light, and bordered by walls of
stone, a bustling family of sisters and children and grandchildren, and a multitude of of friends. He taught me about music and dance, patience and calm,
and how to search out rabbits in the snow.
Now it is the 1st
day of 2015, and I have moved into a new year without him in it. I try to
believe that I will carry him with me into this new year, that I will bring him
alive in how I open to the people around me, the way he did, in how I speak
his name, when I think of him, in how I rejoice in the man that he was to
all who are willing to listen.
But he is not here,
in the physical realm, and I will never again be able to kiss him or wrap my
arms around him or hold his warm, strong hand. And it makes me sad and sore
My husband died in
a whirlwind, in an instant, walking out the door of the chapel at the
funeral of his son. I wish it had been different. I wish we had time to say
goodbye, to fluff his pillows, and soothe his pain, and wipe his forehead with a
cool cloth. It would have been easier for us. But it would have been the worst
way to die, for him. He lived his life, fully, and died without warning. Too
soon. Far too soon.
His name was
Stanley Jan Kukalowicz, and he died on the 9th of June, 2014. He
left me with his beautiful family, a century old house, these striking hills, a
thousand friends who loved him dearly, and the gift of a deep and expansive