December 10th was the sixth anniversary of the death of my mother-in-law, Velma Marjorie Moon Garretson. She was a woman with a unique fighting spirit. She insisted on living alone in a small, weathered farm house on the dry eastern plains of Colorado after the death of my father-in-law. Death came unexpectedly for her at the age of 92 on a slippery winter day when she went outside to collect the mail. She was found on the country road by the mail box with her beloved dog at her side.
Life had been a mixture of rejection and love for Velma. She had been born on a poor prairie homestead in Eastern Colorado to a mother who frequently stated through out her life that she wished she had never been born. She was not allowed to go to school beyond the eighth grade. Escape came for her when she began working as a housekeeper for a young farmer and his dad. Eventually, she married the young farmer and began a life of raising five children.
Velma was an intelligent, quick witted person who frequently spoke her mind. She deeply loved her family even though that love could be mixed with reprimanding statements. Her children and grandchildren, however, loved her because they knew of her concern and love for them.
I write of Velma because of the anniversary of her death but, also, because of the severe loss she and my father-in law experienced with the death of their son, Tom, at age 52. Over the years after Tom’s death, I have thought much about how his death affected them in ways differently from anyone else. My husband had a deep respect and love for his parents. When he died, they were broken. My father-in-law cried as he said that nothing was the same, that life would never be the same again. He developed congestive heart failure and died two years after Tom at the age of 87.
Each death is uniquely mourned. The death of an adult child abruptly stops the years of gathering more memories. It is hard to imagine life ahead without that child. My sorrow over the loss of my husband extended to sorrow for his parents. There was no real way I could live in their pain. All I could do was to tell them how much Tom loved them. Did that touch their pain? Perhaps it was a very small touch in their world of loss.
