It was less than a week; a mere five days after my previous post, I received a phone call, one I never expected to receive. Not because I was not warranted a call, but simply because I did not know how someone would possibly contact me when I knew so little myself. As I mentioned in that last post, it has just been in the past few years that I finally took the time to face my pain and sorrow and deal with the grief that was consuming me.

I was house sitting and watching football when my phone rang and I saw a name on the caller ID that I had not seen in years. It was my ex-mother-in-law. I instantly thought something must have happened to Dad and was quickly preparing myself for the worst. Even though it has been thirty years, this year in fact, and the occasional phone calls ended long ago. We still stayed in touch via Facebook, and I always felt loved and knew they were proud of their grandchildren. So the sudden thought that one of them was gone was heartbreaking.

I said hello, and there was that oh-so-familiar voice saying, “Laurie, it’s Mom; Dad needs to talk to you.” I was suddenly wondering what on earth might be wrong, and then I heard Dad, and with his voice nearly breaking, he simply said, “Eddie (their son, my ex-husband) died last night.”

If I had not had the phone resting on the arm of the sofa and on speaker, I would have dropped it. I was instantly in shock, and I was overwhelmed with so many emotions. He would share with me that Eddie had recently reached out to his brother and even more recently had been quite ill and in the hospital, and that is where he died. He didn’t have a lot of information at the time, so our call was short. When I hung up, I fell into myself and wept. The sort of loud aching cries you see on a sad and dramatic movie. I was consumed with the tears and flooded with memories of a lifetime ago.

I reached out to a few friends, women on my “Prayer Warrior” list, and asked them to pray with me, for me, and of course, the rest of the family. Then I waited for my daughter to get home so I could tell her. I also called my other daughter and shared the news with her and sent a text to my son, who was working, letting him know I wanted to talk to him when he got home. Their reactions were their own, realizing that this is someone who was once labeled “dad” or “father,” that this man played the role for so little of their lives, and that his absence had been acknowledged years ago and that part of their lives quite simply left in the past.

I, on the other hand, kept drifting back into the vast valleys of nothingness; that is, until I would get back to the very beginning, to a mountain range and a river and a love I thought would never end. We met in Wyoming, surrounded by the beautiful Teton Mountains, and often walked along the edges of the great Snake River. It was so beautiful there, and our lives were just as beautiful. Our two oldest children were born there in Jackson Hole, and we had friends and such a good little life. He was a carpenter and built houses, but when you have more months of snow and winter-type weather than not, it is hard to maintain that sort of livelihood.

So we moved to Georgia, to be near his family and continue our life. And this is where our love story would take a not-so-lovely turn. He was an addict, sober when I met him and those first few months in Georgia. If you know anything about addicts or alcoholics, it is often talked about: old playgrounds and old playmates. With our move, my loving husband would step into both.

I won’t take you through it all; it’s much too long and doesn’t all need to be told, but it all was turned upside down so quickly, and while looking back, I could see the start of it much sooner than the woman I was then. And while it might be interesting to play the “what if” of the whole situation, I won’t do that either. It simply was, until it wasn’t, and when it wasn’t, it was bad.

We went from a life where even after working an 8-10 hour day, my husband would come home and take over with the kids. He would change diapers and help get them off to bed; he really was a wonderful daddy in those short first years and just as wonderful of a husband. We would often spend an evening after the kids were asleep dancing in the living room listening to Garth, Tim, and Faith. The early 90s provided for some pretty great country music. We loved and enjoyed it all. In fact, it was two of Garth’s songs that provided me grounding and solace as the years would grow longer and his absence just as long. The River, as well as The Dance. It was through these two songs, somehow “living” them to a sense, that I made it through the darkest of days.

But then that fall, some thirty-odd years ago, it ended just as quickly as it began. We had met in Oct 1992 and married the following Oct, a year to the day. And it would be after a little over a year of living in Georgia that the fall would be the setting for the end of our story. Life was crashing around us; we were evicted from our home and moved in temporarily with his parents, who I am sure only took us in because of the kids. They were 3 years old, 2 years old, and 4 months old, and I will be forever grateful that they gave me the stepping stone I would need to move forward into a dark and lonely unknown.

And I would move forward because after a month of living with his parents while their home was staged for sale, I finally had to make a choice, and I chose my children. His parents were gone most of the weekends we were staying with them at the end, as they were house hunting in Florida and would be moving. That was another thing that weighed heavy on my decision. I would not have anyone to help bail us out if something like this happened again. Yes, his brother and family were there, but it was hard enough asking his parent for help. I couldn’t imagine needing to turn to them in such a manner.

Once I decided I would be going home to Nebraska, his parents asked me to have him leave. So I did; I packed up all his clothes and put them in a backpack, and when he came home on that particular night, I told him I was leaving with the kids and gave him his things. He wanted to see the kids; I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t want to confuse them, plus they were excited about going on an airplane to see their other grandparents.

He hugged me that night, long and tight… I did not hug him back; I was terrified that if I did, I would never let go. So I didn’t, and when he finally released me, he turned around and walked off into the darkness defeated and broken. I went inside and fell to the floor, my back against the door, and I cried until there were no more tears. Then I went to bed, so I could get my kids ready for our big adventure in the morning.

It would be another year before I would file for divorce, hoping that our leaving would be his “bottom” and he would follow us to Nebraska. He never did and thus began my journey as a single mom. I would struggle with my own demons and addictions, alcoholism rearing its ugly head, yet it would be another decade before I would tackle that part of my so-called life.

So here I am three decades later, over two decades sober, and stronger than I ever could have imagined. I have done a lot of additional reflection in these past couple of weeks, pondering on just where my path has taken me. Oddly enough, I wouldn’t change much. Because it is that unpredictable, difficult, often scary road I was guided down, that road got me to my here and now, to the wonderful place I am today. If even one small thing had changed or altered my path, well, I think I would have missed out on some pretty wonderful relationships, including the addition of my youngest daughter. As well as a few lifelong friends, even though we are now separated by part or most of the state.

It is during this reflection and some well-timed events at work when I have been challenged to do some deep thinking, to survey all that has transpired behind me, and to think about what the future might hold. Thinking a lot about life and legacy and just what I want to be remembered for. What I want to leave for the ones I leave behind.

I have been fortunate to work for the same company for going on eight years this December. This in itself is crazy, because I have never been at any one job for this long, ever. It is an incredible company, and it is the ethics and culture that have also allowed me to deepen my own values, and in addition, adding ones, such as “assume positive intent,” bleed from the workplace into my life.

Don’t get me wrong, even with all I have been through, I usually have tried to see the best in people, to my own detriment at times, but over these past few years, while engrossed in such a positive work culture and being involved in a recovery program, I was able to put some of those processes to work in my day-to-day work and home life. The whole idea of adages like “All I need to know I learned in kindergarten” or “Treat others the way you want to be treated,” as well as “Do the next right thing.” Putting these phrases into action, walking the walk, not just talking… So many of these have become a part of my core being.

So as I contemplate this loss and its true finality, the tears were brief, because I did the hardest part of the work five years ago, and for that I am so grateful. I am also so thankful for a bit of news that also helped me to remember the man I once loved over the one who let me leave. As you will recall, I doted on what a wonderful father and husband this man had been. And he was; he would bring me flowers “just because,” leave the bar and come home to me and the babies, and not give a damn about what his friends thought. He is the man who loved and then adopted my oldest child; to him, she was always his. He was a good man, with a loving heart, who lost everything I hope he held dear to his disease.

On one of the calls with my in-laws, Dad shared that back in January, Eddie had made it known he was to be an organ donor. The fact that he could be gives me hope he found some sort of sobriety in the end. That knowledge makes me smile. So even with failing lungs, that would lead to his death; he was able to donate, and he ultimately saved three lives. It is that gesture, that final act of goodness, that makes his loss not as heavy and those early memories a little fonder and easier to hold on to.

I hope he found peace in the end; he deserves that, we all do. It would be so easy to think, “Good riddance.” What did he do for me anyways? I will tell you what he did: he was the first and only man who loved me completely and without hesitation, even though I was broken and scarred. He didn’t care; he simply loved. He helped me heal, and then, without knowing it, his actions would help give me the strength to do the unthinkable and raise my family, our family, on my own.

Do I wish life would have been easier? Yes, one hundred times, yes! But there is another phrase that I am quite fond of: “God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.” I used to think, and even say out loud to Him, “Why do you think I am strong enough for this?” It would be years later from the first time I heard it to hearing an additional piece of wisdom that one needs to consider with that phrase. He gives you the things, situations He knows you need to turn to Him or someone else for help; none of it was meant to be tackled alone. Man, I wish I would have learned that part sooner; independence and pride kept me struggling for so long. Living in the insanity of doing the same thing over and over again… with nothing ever changing.

Today I have learned to ask for help when I need it, and surprisingly I need it less. I still try and put family first, especially with all my new grandchildren. I would do anything I could for any and all of them. And that is where my legacy or what I want it to look like comes in. I want them to know, just like their parents did, that Nana will always be there unless she absolutely can’t. That I will cheer the loudest, even if it might embarrass you as you get older. I am oh so proud of everything you do. That I will always write “Love you bunches, Nana” in each and every book. Because I do.

I often use the following hashtags when I post photos of my family, especially the grands, and I think that is how I will end this post: #NanaLife #iamblessed #familyiseverything (because I am and it is)