DEATH OF A LIFETIME by Brenda Hill

Soulless Winter

When my neighbor's husband collapsed from a heart attack and died, I rushed to their home. Perhaps there was something I could do, if only to let her know I cared. Her adult children gathered to give her comfort and support, and for the next several days her house was busy with friends, neighbors and family members. When my husband of thirty years divorced me two months later, no one was there for me.

I know divorce is awkward for others, but I was suffering from shock, from intense grief as much as any widow. I was losing my husband, my marriage, my home, and my security. After a popular commodities corporation crashed, carrying our life savings with it, my husband also crashed. He reverted into someone I didn’t know. He talked to a realtor and planned to list our home the next day. When I protested, he reminded me I should be grateful he would stay to pay the bills until the sale, estimated to be two months. If I didn’t agree, he’d simply disappear.

Stunned, I stared at this man whom I’d loved for most of my adult life. His eyes held a coldness I never thought I’d see. Then I knew. I had two months to make a new life. What was I to do?

As a woman raised in the South, living in the extreme climate of the upper Midwest had been a new experience for me. Even though I loved our tri-level home on the river, I panicked at the thought of coping alone in the harsh winters.

My only child lived on the west coast, and since I had no relatives in the Midwest, I booked a flight to see my son and look for a job and an apartment there. After two weeks of interviews and apartment hunting, I returned home—or I should say I returned to the house I’d loved. I no longer had a home.

My husband made an appointment with his attorney. I agreed to everything; my frustration at his distance had added to his withdrawal, so I was careful to not make waves. It didn't help. He wouldn't change his mind.

I understood why. My husband wanted a happy wife, but I’d been isolated in despair. Our marriage had been crumbling, and I couldn't make him hear me, couldn't make him see me. Over time, what he once thought was special in me disappeared into a void of nothingness. I became nothing.

My mother's terminal illness had progressed, and as an only child I’d become her caretaker. We’d moved her from her home state to be near me. Day after day, month after month, I watched helplessly as she struggled to breathe. I wanted to breathe for her. Then came the day she took her last breath. Sobbing, I held her hand as her life force made its way to the heavens. Shortly after, I received word my estranged father had died.

My husband was suffering from his own loss. His mother and aunt, who lived together, also died in that short period of time. Then our finances disappeared when the major commodities company closed its doors.

We were both wandering through a haze of grief. But he still wanted rid of me.

Meanwhile, the two-month clock was ticking. The stranger I had loved for most of my adult life suggested I leave early to hunt for an apartment on the coast. He even offered to move my belongings for me if I'd just go.

In a daze, I packed my car for my solitary journey. I had wanted to move for a long time, to be closer to my son and see my grandchildren more often. But when I backed my car out of the driveway for the last time, I couldn't look back.

 Dying Summer

 Today I sit in my California apartment, my son and his family two hours away. I don't call often as I don't want to intrude or be a burden.

I needed to earn my own way, so I took a job at the local mall. Each day I go to work. I come home. I drive the choked freeways and breathe the gray haze that lies over the land like a low-lying storm cloud. I don't talk to anyone outside of work other than an occasional greeting. From the thin walls of my apartment I hear sounds of families gathering, sounds of laughter.

I am not a part of life.

  A month after I left, my husband moved in with another woman. The day after our divorce was final, he married her.

I feel like the living dead.

 Disappearing Winter

 My thoughts are foggy. I can't remember anything. I can no longer wear the smiles required for work, so they tell me not to return.

Day after day I sit in front of the TV, mindlessly staring at the images, eating to numb pain that never leaves. I don't answer the phone. I don't want anyone at the door. It's too much trouble to get out of my gown. Inside the closed cocoon of my tiny apartment, I pretend I'm alive.

When my eyes close, I wake in a panic—what am I going to do?

  Late at night I get into the car and drive the freeways, back streets, desperate for a human connection, yet unable to touch. I’m standing outside, lost in the void of space, looking in, desperately wanting contact, unable to speak.

One night I stopped at the grocers and the clerk smiled at me. Sudden tears rolled down my cheeks.

"What's wrong?" she asked, concerned.

  I couldn't stop the tears. Embarrassed, I ran out and huddled in my car until I could see to drive.

 Reaching Out: the Next Year

 I need help. I called the city council and asked about support groups. What kind, she asked. Death? Divorce?

Either. Both. Sobbing into the phone, I said, “Please help me.”

Within an hour a woman from a local church stood at my door. I tried to talk, but sobs shook me and I couldn’t speak. She quietly waited.

  Finally, in front of a stranger, I poured out everything locked inside. She sat quietly and listened. And listened more. I cried, so grateful someone cared enough to listen. It didn't matter I wasn't of her faith. She sat patiently, softly encouraging. I wept until I, too, sat quietly. Thank you, God, for sending this wonderful woman.

  When the holidays came, I was able to spend some time with my son and his family. Seeing my grandchildren was a blessing. What a joy in this sea of blackness.

 Burying the Past

 I'm feeling better. I even found myself humming the other day. I want to get out, but I've eaten my way out of my wardrobe, so I try the Personals just to talk to someone, anyone, even if it's only on the computer, but when someone says hello, I freeze. I run.

Back to my car and my midnight outings, but now I'm starting to see around me. I love the lights, all the reds, yellows, and green neon lights sparkling in the night. Reminds me of the magical world of fairy tales and guardian angels.

Do I have a guardian angel?

I must. I'm still alive.

I wonder what I might do with my life. I have no particular interest in anything other than talking to people who hurt, who suffer, and I want to help.

Is there anything out there for me?

A Spark of Hope

I stand outside and raise my face to the night sky, entranced by the moon and all her mystery. I watch, fascinated, as clouds pass behind and over to hide her glory, but she appears again, an iridescent pearl against the endless changing universe.

Can I learn from her? Can I, too, change everything, yet reappear as a precious jewel?

As I watch, my spirit soars and I feel one with the moon, the twinkling stars, and my creator.

I can make a new life. The path I take now is my choice. I look to my left, then to my right. Which way should I choose? Which road shall I travel?

With a hopeful spirit, I open the novel I started writing and nearly completed but set aside when my mother became so ill. Could I possibly do some work?

I struggle with one sentence, then another. I have to get this brain going. After fifteen minutes I'm exhausted and have to rest.

I look at the pitiful few lines, but I feel good.

It's a beginning.