I move to the side of the bed and place my feet under me. My knees collapse and I end up face down on the carpet. I crawl to the bathroom not five feet away and throw up in the toilet. Not a pretty picture but one I was to play out many times in the next few days.
And I was alone. One daughter was travelling in the Cook Islands and the other lived 500 kms south. No one to wipe up the mess, no one to wash me, no one to bring me sips of water. It had all the aspects of a story of self-pity.
Self-pity! Now, that’s a big temptation to new widows.
When I told my problem to my eldest daughter she swiftly reminded me that I had always been the caregiver in the family … even of myself. Not much compassion there, I thought, but she was right.
It was time to call in some nearby and much loved friends to help. One appeared at the door with a case of ginger ale and the other with a light broth. Slowly I recovered.
One thing I did learn was to let others help you … let them have the satisfaction of knowing they have made the day a bit easier for you. These are hard lessons to learn by very independent people like myself. Sometimes that independence is just pride and that pride can often hinder a relationship.
At one time, my husband was nearby to share things with. Now that he is gone I have had to learn to reach out to others to ask for help … for a hug … for an ear to listen to my concerns. Sharing has taught me to trust and to thank God for the love of friends whom He sends you as messengers of love and hope.
