Lost in the woods
Sep 21 '00
It is in the hushed voices of bedtime that the story unfolds. The blind has been drawn, blankets tucked snuggly in, and two little girls are ready to drift off to sleep. A final goodnight, I reach up to the top bunk for a hug and kiss from my 4 year old, a bundle of sweetness, energy and light. "Mommy", she says, "Yes honey", "My Grandpa Hunt is lost in the woods you know. He has a broken leg... he can't find his way home." A moment of silence, the same, sad memories, a struggle to find just the right words. Outside a cricket chirps, the wind sighs through the trees. "I miss him" she whispers, "I wish he could be alive again."
1976 and beyond
My sister and I hold hands as we cross the street. It is a mild September night, and we need only sweaters over our Brownie uniforms for the short walk home. My Grandma's car is in the driveway, and excitedly we run in to greet her. But there are no smiles tonight, just a great chilling sadness filling the air.
My father has been in the hospital for three weeks but he was to come home the next day. I made a welcome home banner that was taped to the wall downstairs. I had assumed "coming home" was the same as "he's going to be fine." But I was only eight years old, my sister five, and not anyone had explained to us the cold realty of the situation. So we were completely unprepared to hear that Daddy died that night. That Daddy was not coming home. Ever. The pain and tears, nightmares and heartache that flowed from that moment were to last for years.
We had only visited my Father once in the hospital, I remember him smiling. We did not go to the funeral, my Mom thought we were too young. Out of love and protection, my mother had unknowingly deprived us of the chance to say goodbye. Even at our young ages we desperately needed that sense of closure. To be taught to and allowed to grieve. So our father was to live on and on in our dreams and fantasies; we would see him across the street, sitting in the audience of a movie theatre, imagine he had faked his own death. In our minds, he was still alive, death could not have him. We couldn't comprehend the finality of it all. And while acceptance grew as we got older, my sister and I both still had many problems coping, even into our teens.
1995
My mother dies 11 days before my second child is due be born. For seven years she has battled breast cancer, with a courage and determination I will always admire. But we have also both remembered lessons of a previous lifetime. I am with her every step of the way, through every downfall, every triumph, holding on tightly to each other as we face death together. My oldest daughter, my only child at the time, has also been included. I decided to be honest with her about Grandma's illness fairly early on, when she was old enough to understand. So she has had her time to ask questions, to spend quiet afternoons reading by her bedside, to come to terms with the fact that Grandma was going to die. And when Mom slipped quietly away, gone from us forever, her granddaughter, only eight years old, sat holding her hand and kissed her goodbye.
Today
Three years after Mom, we lost our step-father too, my children's Grandpa Hunt. By then my husband and I had grown our family, and had two other daughters, then three and eighteen months. Feeling like the protective mother lion, I shielded my young babies from this death. I thought they were too young. What surprises me now is the degree to which I underestimated the strength and power of their memories. I know now that, even as toddlers, they must have felt their Grandpa's sudden absence. Their sweet, young minds, growing older and wiser every day, struggling to comprehend death, began to create stories revolving around angels and the sad death of teddies - often miraculously restored to life.
Then one day it so happened that Grandpa Hunt became the hero of their play, appearing quite suddenly, lost in the woods. It is my youngest's favourite tale. I know it is her way of keeping his memory alive, and that she is moving closer to fully understanding the significance of death. I also know that I will continue to be openly honest with my children: about life, about death, about all that is beautiful, and all that is not. For it is in honesty, compassion and sharing that we will all rise above our own grief, and walk out of the woods together.
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Epinions.com ID:
Caleo
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Member: Brenda C
Location: Ontario, Canada
Reviews written: 49
Trusted by: 121 members
About Me:
Searching for inspiration...
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