One day I got a call from a stranger inviting me to join a support group. After years of caregiving responsibilities, followed by the death of my husband, I had hit rock bottom.
Being a full-time caregiver leaves you totally exhausted and depleted. The death of a spouse shifts the whole foundation of your life. As Joan Didion once said, “Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it.” I felt raw, vulnerable, anxious and debilitated.
Aware that I was not coping well, a friend intervened on my behalf and asked a grief counselor to contact me. When I got the call, I responded somewhat hesitantly. “Hmmm, I’m more of a Lone Ranger,” I murmured. No need to make a permanent commitment, she assured me. Even over the phone, her kindness and compassion were palpable. Remembering my mother’s adage, “Whenever possible, say ‘Yes,’” I decided to give it a try. More than that, I recognized I was desperate for help. “Okay. I’m in,” I said, not realizing that with those three words, I was actually taking hold of a lifeline.
At the appointed time, I clicked on the Zoom link and was greeted by an array of faces in small square boxes. Little did I know that within a short period of time, I would establish a strong bond with every person in this group. For over a year, we’ve come together to share our feelings, shed tears, and talk freely about our fears, sorrows, regrets, small triumphs, new challenges and unexpected setbacks. We share our deepest selves. We bear witness to the truth of each other’s mourning.
Grief is hard work. Every so often, our counselor lovingly reminds us, “You’ve got to take time off.” So that’s exactly what we did. Someone suggested we get together in person – and just like that, plans fell into place for a potluck dinner.
At last, we were out of the Zoom boxes and mingling face to face with each other. We oohed and aahed over our friend’s spacious apartment, the gorgeous autumn treetop view (looking down from the 18th floor) and the beautiful furnishings and artwork that defined every room.
Each of us arrived bringing something special for the table. What a delectable spread it was ... an antipasto platter, beef empanadas, sushi, sauteed scallops, a homemade kugel (Jewish noodle pudding), salad, and a loaf of French bread. Dessert offerings included apple pie, lemon crinkle cookies and a chocolate ganache Opera Cake. Ghost mugs filled with candies and scrolled-up poems awaited each guest. A reminder that, even in the midst of sadness and loss, one can find new empathy, new friends, renewed strength and moments of joy.
The evening was filled with laughter, (“I don’t have a single new password left in me!”), revelations (“Gosh, who knew that Lynda was into ghosts?”), connections (“Can’t believe you know her! She grew up with my children!”), opinions (“That contemporary Art Museum feels a little Willy-Wonkaish to me!”), and expressions of appreciation (“Bob, the scallops are delicious. Was this your wife’s recipe?”). It was a pleasure for us to interact with one another beyond the borders of grief.
After four hours of stuffing ourselves with food and drink, the party still wasn’t over. To cap off the evening, our hostess brought out a bottle of pink champagne. As we raised our glasses, we remembered our loved ones and then we toasted one another ... “Here’s to life.”
A changed life – but life, nevertheless.
Lynda Elizabeth Jeffrey, a native of Bucks County, now resides in Washington, D.C. She is a former kindergarten teacher, a freelance writer and lecturer.
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