The Mechanics of Grief

I wonder who are these people, who let me into their homes? I love the ministry of pastoral visitation, learned it from Howard Willen, and I constantly gain on the job experience. What an honor it is to be allowed into the homes of parishioners. To get to know people in a more intimate setting. To get used to the sights, sounds and smells of different houses. For example, it is very cozy to sit in Thelma’s kitchen.

Or today, to talk to Lida Fugate. We are some sort of compatriots. Her husband died in the time that I have been at the Rock. She is an older lady, and somehow she and Melissa became friends even tho I do not think they ever spoke. Lida wrote Melissa a card every week. She talked about Jay (her husband) and the struggle of taking care of him, and then the grief when he died. Melissa wrote back once, in the terrible shaky handwriting of someone whose body doesn’t have the strength to hold a pen. It took her days to write the short note.

In Lida’s house there are all kinds of pictures her husband took. At Christmas time there is the little nativity set they made in 63. She still keeps the grass they cut to make straw, tied it in little bundles. It’s a simple wooden shed with little figurines. It shows all the signs of being made for a family that was just getting started, didn’t have much money.

Lida got to talking about how hard it was to take care of Jay for the last ten years of his life. He was diabetic, double amputee, kidney failure. The cleaning, the worrying if the fistula was bleeding. She said she did not sleep much for getting up to look under the sheet with a flashlight to make sure the fistula was ok. I shared with her the importance of keeping vigil beside loved ones, as if we would do it for Jesus.

We got to a place where she and I talked heavy things. [Who is the pastor in such a moment?] I mentioned that around this time last year there was so much confusion. On one level, Melissa thought she was not going to make it, that it was too far from the transplant to be having the troubles she was having. But then there were moments when things looked favorable.

But I remember her sense of wondering why did she go through all of it. I remember before the transplant, a moment when she wondered if she should go through with it. I have spent a month or so really regretting that I did not have the guts to tell her it was ok if she did not want to do it. There was so much in that; did she mention that she wasn’t sure just because you can never be sure about something as serious, as grueling as a bone marrow transplant? Or was she floating it out there to see what I would say? I was too much into avoiding any thought that she might not make so I had no way of saying, “it’s ok if you don’t want to do it.” I don’t know; it may not have anything to do with anything, but I have been wondering if my own selfishness got in the way of anything she may have wanted. Of course, it did. But to what extent? Not a profitable way of thinking, I know. But it’s how it is. And it is good to be in a place, to be talking to someone who knows exactly what you mean.

Jay went blind and had a hard time feeding himself. Lida would cook corn cakes, frying them small so he could hold them and eat them. What a touching gesture. She said recently she made a good meal for some friends—white beans, fried potatoes, beets, and corn cakes. When she went to dollop out the corn cakes, she made them small, without thinking, and broke down.