by Amy Marie
“But Amelia knew something was wrong. She started being clumsy, which was so unlike her. She was tall and willowy and as graceful as a ballerina. But she was getting tired more easily, and she would trip or drop things. I just thought it was part of getting older. She insisted it was something more, but I didn’t want to hear it. It really scared her when she started slurring her words, but I just assumed she’d had an extra glass of wine and didn’t want to admit it. She started going to the doctor more often, but they just treated the bruises and scrapes and talked about menopause and aging. Then, one night, we were eating dinner at a restaurant and she choked—”
My throat tightens to the point I can’t form words. I can barely breathe.
I struggle to regain my composure, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as a few rogue tears streak down my face. Marcus, a fellow widower sitting beside me, clasps his hand on my shoulder in solidarity.
Breathe in for four.
Hold for four.
Breathe out for four.
Hold for four.
Repeat till I get a grip.
“That night, the ER doctor listened to Amelia about what was going on. Listened more than our primary care doctor—or I—ever had. He had a neurologist consult on her case, and we heard the possibility of ALS for the first time. Lou Gehrig’s. And the tests started. So many tests—as many to rule things out as confirm. And later, when they got answers, they repeated them every six months to track the disease’s progression.”
I snort in disgust. “Or more accurately, its rampage. We prepared our sons a little at first. We told them the doctors suspected something bigger and were running a bunch of tests, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to give them a name. That name. A terminal disease that would steal her away from us a little more each day. After the second opinion’s last big round of tests, we had a meeting with her doctors to make a game plan. And I knew I couldn’t remain in denial any longer. Now that we had a name and confirmation, I couldn’t put it off any longer. So we called the boys home for a long weekend and told them everything.
“I nursed her through as much of it as I could, until she made me get some help—mostly to spare her dignity. She wanted me to see her as my wife until the end, not as my patient. I wanted to do everything for her, but I couldn’t deny her anything. And the end? The end was brutal. No one should ever have to go through that. Or watch someone they love go through it. By the end, you’re begging for mercy so they don’t have to keep struggling.
“She wanted to hold on for Thanksgiving—her favorite holiday, but it just wasn’t possible. Some part of me wonders if she stopped fighting to hold on so we wouldn’t always associate her death with the holidays. If anyone could make that happen for her family, it would have been Amelia.”
I scrub my hands down my face, letting my fingers run through my beard. It’s getting rough and wild. I need to tame it.
I need to stop stalling.
“So like I said, I dove into a bottle of bourbon when she died late that September. Between grief and alcohol, I barely remember the funeral. My oldest son pretty much handled everything there. I didn’t know where food came from or how the house got cleaned until months later when my neighbor told me that my oldest took care of that as well—he had paid her to come clean and grocery shop for me. I stayed sober just long enough to function at work—thank God I wasn’t still out putting up power lines like in my younger days, or I would’ve killed myself and probably several more.
“Then when Thanksgiving break rolled around, I stayed blackout drunk. Same for Christmas and New Year’s. For some reason, the clouds started lifting in January and I started dragging myself back into the land of the living. Then we hit the anniversary, and I spiraled back out of control.
“It all came to a head this past Thanksgiving, when I walked into the kitchen and saw my boys preparing Thanksgiving dinner and talking about their lives. I didn’t even remember seeing them the day before, because I had passed out in my chair. Again. And I realized that if I wanted to be around long enough to be part of their lives like Amelia would have wanted—instead of abandoning them like a coward and leaving them alone in the world—I had to get some help.
“That’s when I asked around for a good therapist and found Dr. Black. And he had the bright idea that without alcohol, I could ‘feel my feelings.’ Which is true. And in case you’re wondering, they hurt like a son of a bitch.” Startled laughter peppers the air, offering a bit of relief from the heaviness.
I finally look up again and make eye contact with Roxie. “And yeah, one of the best things about this group is not having to dance around the subject—of her, of grief, of my old life not quite fitting anymore. That, and not having to be ‘okay’ all the time. Some days are good, and some days still rip your guts out. But here? With all of y’all in the same boat? It’s okay to just... be.”
I fidget for a moment before looking back to Roxie. “I guess that’s it. I can’t find anyone to hand this off to.”
She laughs, a throaty chuckle that warms me from the inside, and says, “Here. I’ll take it.”
Chapter 1
Roxie
Flashback to Thanksgiving Weekend
Most people’s work schedule eases a bit around the holidays. My family therapy practice? Not so much.
As everyone begins to anticipate all the family time (and family drama), I find myself helping couples plan how to set boundaries in ways that are both effective and gentle, negotiating conflict between couples over whose families get what time, and helping spouses of deployed service members deal with resentment and sort their way through lonely holidays for the first or umpteenth time.
So I spread out my holiday meal prep over the weekend before Thanksgiving and the evenings after work. It allows me to take my time and avoid the frantic rush that causes me to forget the point of the holiday—to recall all we have to be thankful for, and to spend time with family (number one on that list).
I once heard a yoga instructor refer to her class as a moving meditation, and I latched on to that concept. With each stir, each slice, each sweep, I focus on why I am doing this and how full my life truly is.
Most years, this is easy.
But this year? This year, something rings hollow with that statement. And with my life.
I return my focus to the tasks at hand, looking over my prep checklist. My dressing is a mixture of white bread and cornbread, so I made the cornbread early. I’ll be adding lots of rich stock, so I want the cornbread to dry out to absorb all that flavor. Now I’m cleaning, prepping, and chopping the veggies for all my dishes. Once complete, I’ll portion them into containers in the fridge.
On Wednesday, I limit myself to phone appointments I can conduct while assembling dressing and other familiar dishes on autopilot. I try to stagger prep times and spread the dishes among different types of preparation—baking, stovetop, roaster, and slow cooker. Thankfully, I’m not responsible for the entire meal.
The first Thanksgiving after Philip died, dinner at the Coles’ home was miserable. Every tradition emphasized what—or rather, who—was missing, and we were nearly sucked under the overwhelming waves of grief. I decided then that I wouldn’t allow our collective grief to torture us every year. It’s the very last thing Philip would have wanted for us.
So I started making changes at Christmas. The Coles have always been early birds, so I invited them over early on Christmas for coffee. They helped me drag out a few items from storage to put under the tree and watched Alex open his gifts with me. It served as a reset on our holidays, refocusing us on Alex and on finding joy where we could as we all moved on without Philip.
Now, I plan a big Thanksgiving and invite lots of what Alex fondly calls “my strays.” I usually have several spouses of deployed service members, some facing the first holiday after their marriage or the birth of a child alone. Sometimes I’ve invited single parents of Alex’s friends, neighbors, and the occasional college student with no family nearby. They all b
ring something, which can get interesting, especially with international students and spouses.
The Coles bring turkeys and pies, and I handle most of the southern staples. We set up the food buffet style, and we eat all over my house. Dining room table, kitchen table, folding tables in the living room, and even on the porches if weather permits.
The Coles have flourished, taking all these people under their wings. I noticed them swapping phone numbers with people at the first Thanksgiving (and most since then). It’s been good for everyone. The Coles have become adopted grandparents to so many of these young people who have no one local—and in some cases, they have no one anywhere.
We typically get together for a family brunch on Saturday. It’s just the four of us now. Thankfully, Alex never had an active deployment, although he was stationed at a couple of stateside bases that were too far for holiday travel.
His computer classes and robotics club before he enlisted, along with his ASVAB results, were enough to influence his duties. They quickly assigned him to Tripler Army Medical Center in Hawaii. After he separated from the Army, he took full advantage of the GI Bill and is following that up with more IT classes. He’s in his senior year of college this year.
He’s older than most of his classmates, thanks to the detour, but that also gave him invaluable experience and insight. And thanks to his good grades, a few scholarships, his smart money management, the GI Bill, and the small amount I’ve been able to save for his college fund, he’ll be able to graduate with almost no student debt.
I’m praying this translates into a job close to home. I know it may not be possible for him to find a job nearby that pays well enough, but a mother can dream.
When he was in the Army, I had an end date. Alex knew from the beginning he was only serving long enough to get additional training and earn the use of the GI Bill, and he had already picked out a university in Kentucky to attend. Murray State is two hours away from Bowling Green. Farther than I would like, but close enough for regular visits from him and his own little collection of “strays” who need the comforts of home.
But if he takes a job somewhere far away?
I pause, knife in hand as I take stock of my life. I have few close friends.
Actually, I don’t know if I have any.
Lots of colleagues, and even a few work friends I could ask a favor—as long as it’s not too big. The Coles are aging and leaning on me more and more. I have no hobbies or activities outside of my practice.
It used to be different. Or was it? All my activities were tied to Alex. PTA room mother. Team mom. Friendly with the other parents on field trips and in the stands.
I’ve become the cliché I warn parents in therapy about.
Don’t completely center your life around one person, one point. Because if you ever lose that sole focus, your life can become completely unmoored and set you adrift.
I swipe away a tear as I realize how isolated I’ve become.
Deep breath. Focus on what I have, not what I’m missing.
And I pick up my knife to continue.
I’m wiping down the counters, all the veggies safely stored away. As soon as the sweet potatoes finish roasting, I can put them away and go to bed. Fifteen more minutes in the oven, and about that many more to cool. Sweet potato casseroles are so much better with fresh sweet potatoes instead of canned.
My tea kettle whistles, so I pour the water over my tea infuser. My time in Germany started my love affair with loose-leaf tea, especially the Pfefferminztee, or peppermint tea, that defined my early pregnancy. I still reach for mint tea when I need to settle my stomach, or—let’s be honest—my heart.
I settle in my comfortable chair and put my aching feet up on the ottoman just as the phone rings. I smile as I answer, knowing the voice of the man I’ll hear on the other end still carries familiar traces of the little boy I raised.
“Hey, sweetheart. What’s up?”
“Not much. We’re on our way. We had to wait until Bryant was through with team stuff before we could leave, and then we stopped for dinner. I wasn’t sure when you were headed to bed, so I wanted to warn you to expect the invasion. He might swing back by tomorrow.”
“Absolutely! You know he’s always welcome. The guest room is ready any time he wants to stay. I’m sitting down with my tea, waiting on the last thing to come out of the oven. How much longer do you think you’ll be?”
“Close to two hours. The police are out tonight, so we’re taking our time. And Bryant said thanks, but he needs to get home and check on his dad.”
“Sounds smart. See you soon.”
“Love you, Mom.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Love you, too.” This wonderful man I raised, so open and loving. So much like Philip. Losing him made us more aware of each opportunity to say those words. Even now, as a grown man in the car with his friend, he’s not ashamed to tell me he loves me.
I’m steeping a mug of strong Earl Grey tea when Alex walks in the kitchen shortly before 6 am. No longer the gap-toothed boy or lanky teen with bedhead stumbling into the kitchen half asleep. No, the responsible man he has become has showered, shaved, and dressed for a day of work around the house.
I drizzle vanilla-infused honey into my tea and stir before adding a splash of milk. “Going out for a run now, or ready for breakfast?”
“I ran early, before I showered. I ate some kind of breakfast protein bar that Bryant made—not bad. He’s always trying new recipes for class, and let me tell you, I am happy to be his guinea pig.” He grins, and I see the mischievous little boy for a moment. “But that was at least an hour and a half ago. What can I do to help?”
“If you want coffee, start that first. Peanut butter and jelly or honey, or I can grab some breakfast burritos from the freezer and heat them up. I have some basic ones with ham or bacon maybe, or the spicy southwestern ones with sausage, black beans, corn, and jalapeños.”
“Spicy sounds good. I can handle heating those—I know you’ve got plenty to do today. You want me to grab a burrito or two for you?”
“I’ll stick with peanut butter and honey on toast to go with my tea. You can heat your burritos in the toaster oven. The foil wrapper has the temp and time written on them.”
We fix our breakfast in a comfortable silence as Alex’s coffee brews, meeting at the kitchen table about the same time. Alex reaches over to pull my prep checklist between us. Our little team of two, together again.
But that’s just an illusion, I remind myself. I’ve walled myself off, freezing everyone out except for Alex. And he’s only here for the occasional visit.
So where does that leave me now?
Alex sent me to my chair to put my feet up while he and Bryant cleaned up the kitchen. Alex has always pitched in to help where he could, measuring things and assembling them in mixing bowls. But his knife skills are atrocious, and, other than a few basic items for the two of us, he is hesitant to complete a recipe on his own without my input. Of course, the time he made dressing with 1/4 cup of salt instead of sugar—and the look on his grandmother’s face when she tasted it—probably explains that.
Bryant, however, is a whiz in the kitchen. His nutrition major explains a lot of it, but his mannerisms suggest time spent in a kitchen with a home cook growing up. He seemed to need a little extra mothering today, maybe reminded of holidays in the kitchen with his mother. Alex and I got him to laugh and flash those cute dimples a few times, but we couldn’t break through that heaviness preoccupying him. I sent him home with an extra hug and a pan of assembled dressing, so all they have to do is bake it tomorrow.
After seeing Bryant out, Alex joins me in the living room, sprawling on the couch. “What kind of tea is it tonight? Wait, let me guess. It smells spicy and warm. And fruity? Maybe some kind of berry pie blend?”
“Not bad. It’s cinnamon plum. I almost pulled out one of my ginger blends, but that will come after we overindulge tomorrow.”
“I may need to join you on that o
ne. Whatcha got?”
“One has mint and ginger with a little orange and fennel, and another is tangerine ginger. Oh, and I’ve got one that’s pretty much straight ginger with lemon. Strong enough to make even Fräulein Bauer approve.”
He chuckles. “I haven’t thought of her in years. That café—or was it a bakery?”
I nod. “She ran the bakery next to the fabric shop. She always had a cup of tea available when we went in, and she thought you were the cutest little boy she had ever seen.” I sip my tea, my eyes twinkling. “I tended to agree with her. She always had a cookie ready for you, and you learned your first German words from her.”
“Bitte and Danke schön. So much more, now that I think about it.” He seems lost in thought for a moment, accessing memories he probably hasn’t thought of in a decade or two.
“I think those lessons were for me as much as for you. She would chat with me, especially toward the end of the pregnancy when I needed to sit and catch my breath. Once you came along, she saw a way to offer more help with the language and customs without embarrassing me.”
“I miss those little vanilla-something crescent cookies. The ones covered in powdered sugar. Maybe we could find those somewhere for Christmas, or the recipe?” I nod as he continues. “As for the tea—those are all good choices. Depends on how much I eat. The mint one sounds interesting, but we may have to go for the ginger and lemon.”
After the big meal at 1 pm, everyone helps clean up. Some go home, but many stay and collapse on furniture or in the floor. Alex and I share a mug of the mint and ginger tea midafternoon. Everyone grazes throughout the day, heating up leftovers and making sandwiches whenever we feel like it. By the time the last of the guests leave, I am thoroughly disgusted with how much I’ve eaten today.
