She had told her dying husband that she would be OK… but she wasn’t. Oh, she took care of the kids, she went to work, she put meals on the table… but she wasn’t OK. And she didn’t know how to be.
Boy, did that take me back.
I had forgotten…
The hospice chaplain, when she came to give Bruce last rites, had me talk to him. To say good-bye. He was barely conscious, and only moaned in response. She coached me through talking to him, and prompted me to say, “And I’ll be OK.”
And I did.
But I wasn’t.
I wasn’t OK. Life sucked. It was worse than I could have imagined. For longer than I expected.
But I kept going. I got out of bed every day. I fed the cats, and myself. I paid bills. I went to work, and I appeared to handle it gracefully, with focus, so I’m told. (The operative word being “appeared”.)
And every fiber of my being hurt.
And I couldn’t give up, because I had told him I’d be OK.
I spent several months being pissed at that chaplain.
I got over it.
The being pissed part, anyway.
And eventually I got to OK.
First in moments and spurts. And then more.
And I have gotten to Better Than OK.
Mount St. Helens will never be the same. But the hills around it have turned green again and life has returned to the mountainsides.
To my Facebook friend I said, You are on the road to OK.
I have walked that road.
It goes Somewhere. I promise.
“When you are going through hell, keep going.” –Winston Churchill