Phone calls

Cell phones. They're everywhere. I see 12 year olds walking around with Blackberrys and iPhones, eyes glued to the screens, thumbs blazing on the keypad, heads turned down on a fast track to early neck and spine problems.

This generation of children will be stunted in their development of social skills - relationship ignoramouses. Instead of talking during school lunch, high schoolers are now texting and sexting their way to countless inevitably unfulfilling cyber "non-relationships." When you look some of them in the eyes, it's like they don't compute.

Sometimes, I hate technology.

When someone dies in the hospital, usually the first thing people go for is a tissue. The second? You guessed it, the cell phone. We've got to tell everybody, get the word out, and in doing so avoid our body's nature grief reaction to the loss of a meaningful relationship. The cell phone is our portal of escape...we think. But most people can't get through the second sentence. Like Jerry McGuire, grief has them at "hello."

In January, my wife was in a car accident, and I was on the cell quite a bit, telling people and updating, jibber-jabbering and yammering on. I was surprised when I called the first person and tried to say, "Heather was in a car accident." Halfway through the sentence I choked up, got misty eyed and got jerked back to the present. My body was trying to tell me that I was scared, that my world had just been shaken up a bit, and it was going to let me know this whether I wanted to know or not. I'd rather stay busy, do all the calling and conveying, taking care of details and the tow truck. But no, at some point I had to check back in with how Nathan was doing. The answer: not good.

That's how so many people after the death of a loved one respond: what do I need to do, who do I need to call? Details details details. Let's get it done. But when they pick up that phone to call and tell their sister or neighbor or pastor that Johnny is gone, they can't. Like me, most people get choked up good, tears show up and the conversation is over as quick as it began. The person on the other end usually figures it out.

However, there was this one time... A woman's 56 year old husband collapsed on the church softball field and went into cardiac arrest. He was gone before he got to the hospital. When I arrived in the consult room doc was talking with the wife who broke all the grief rules. Shock and disbelief were her chosen grief manefestations, which can be surprisingly helpful at certain times. She was chipper and as even-tempered as someone coming to the doctor for a check-up.

She casually said things like, "I know he's gone, but I just can't believe it," and "I guess I should be crying, but it just ain't happn'n." Then she went for the cell phone. "Uh oh," I thought, "this will get her. No one makes it through the phone calls." Because you see, this is the hardest phone call people ever make. But this woman called her daughter with a level head, and didn't even try to let her down easy. "You're dad's gone," she said in a temperate voice clearly showing concern for her daughter's grief but none of her own. We could all hear the daughter crying on the other end, but mom never budged. Slightly frantically, she answered questions but not in a painstaking kind of way.

Some people, you can tell, do their absolute best to restain their tears and sadness. (I don't know where we got this cultural mindset crap that thinks tears are a sign of weakness.) But this lady was not straining to hold back anything. She was in shock. This is how her body was dealing with it. For the entire hour I spent with her, she never broke. You could tell the grief was there, that she was frazzled, that when she got home and her husband of 34 years wasn't there she would finally cry. But, I've never seen anyone last that long before.

She will go through the greif process, and I pray she does it in a healthy way. It's terrifying to think that a completely healthy man, like her husband, could just drop on a Tuesday evening and take his last breaths for no apparant reason. He is the same age as my parents. Now that's a reality check. From now on, my parents are prohibited from strenuous physical activity. Otherwise, me or my brother, or my sister might be making one of those dreaded phone calls, and I don't know if we're ready for that.

Sorry there's no happy ending to this post. I realize it's kind of a downer, but sometimes that's just the way it has to be. "And now, we are ended." -A. Niska