Five months ago we were walking through the final days of Nate’s life with him. Five months is nearly half of a year. In the days after his funeral, I wondered how long it would be before we adjusted to life minus our father and husband. I thought, “Surely by spring we’ll all feel better.”

Now here we are, and rather than becoming easier, living without Nate is more difficult. My widow warriors and Dr. Abrams warned me about this. Although I sensed I was on automatic pilot in the days of the wake and funeral, what I didn’t know was the way auto pilot would quietly slide into numbness. And I didn’t know how long that would last.

After terminal illness terminates, loved ones are left feeling empty and cold. I don’t doubt this is God’s gift. Just like a dentist numbs our jaw to cover intolerable physical pain, so God numbs our thinking to cover intolerable emotional pain. It’s as if he freezes the feelings-center of the brain so that full outward function can continue. Eventually, though, when the person is ready, God allows a gradual waking up, just as a jaw regains its feeling when the drug wears off. And that’s where we are, beginning to be aware of our loss with new potency.

Several of our children have mentioned feeling this way, saying they miss their father more now than ever. It’s true for me, too. We’re being carried through grief stages, and there’s nothing to do but cooperate, although its comforting to know God has control of the Novocain.

Sometimes when visiting the dentist, I’ll get a zap of pain while he’s drilling and say, “Ow!” He’ll take his instruments from my mouth and administer a bit more of the numbing drug, then wait to be sure I can’t feel anything before proceeding. God operated the same way during our numb months, letting us think about and talk about how sad it was without Nate but not letting us experience the permanent “ow” of the situation.

Now he has begun to gradually wake us from that numbness. He’s slow and gentle in allowing this new kind of pain, letting us experience the hurt of reality only as we can tolerate it. He waits for us to catch up to him while at the same time asking us to be patient with our own emotional healing. Sometimes we just want him to make the sadness go away. One precious widow friend told me she pleaded with God to please bring back her numbness.

But when the dentist has made my jaw numb, it’s no fun to eat, talk or even smile until the Novocain wears off. It’s similar with emotional numbness. Life can’t be rewarding and full when we can’t feel it. The only thing to do is to gradually let go of the numbness and to let God manage our pain tolerance. He wants us to come to him for the assistance we need as we wake up to what’s really happened. No matter where we are on the numbness scale, he welcomes our requests and knows exactly what dose of Novocain to give… or withhold.

“The Lord still waits for you to come to him so he can show you his love and compassion. For the Lord is a faithful God. Blessed are those who wait for him to help them.” (Isaiah 30:18)

Mom always used to say, “Going away is fun, but coming home again is even better.”

Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz said, “There’s no place like home.”

And Helen Rowland put it this way: “Home is any four walls that enclose the right person.”

Louisa, Birgitta and I drove the last leg of our road trip toward home today. Once we’d made the last gas stop, the Highlander was like a horse racing for its barn. “Pedal to the metal, Midge,” Louisa said as I took the wheel. “Let’s get there!”

On this trip we journeyed 3000+ miles and finally came within 100 from home when my heart began to ache again like a case of the nerves plus stomach butterflies and nausea rolled into one. Arriving home is gratifying, but it also means resuming my long, slow grieving process. Taking a trip with all its planning, packing, road adventures and time with those we love let’s a new widow set aside her sorrow for a time. It is waiting for her, though, when she gets home.

One of the tasks I was chipping away at before we left on this trip was cataloging my past blog posts by date, title and topic. A couple of publishers have expressed interest, and my natural bent toward disorganization has made it difficult to answer their questions. The blog list will help them and also me, but in order to complete it, I’ve had to re-read each post. Although I came to the task with optimism, once I dipped back into the blogs that described Nate’s cancer, I lost myself in sobbing and reading that went on for nearly two hours. I managed to get through 29 days-worth, recording the data I needed, but it was as if my heart was watching Nate’s torturous story unfold again, this time in fast-forward, leaving me unable to catch my breath or control my emotions.

Now I’m back at that same desk, on that same computer, knowing I need to resume that same task. I don’t want to, but that’s grieving. On, off, up, down, getting swamped, coming up for air. I don’t want to do it, but if I don’t, it’ll never finish.

As Mom said, coming home after a trip is sweet, but for someone with a fresh loss, its bittersweet at best. Arriving home means having had to say goodbye all along the way and also having to adjust to being alone again. I was made well aware of that when I realized I was talking to Jack about the heat being off and the refrigerator being bare. It should have been Nate, but a dog was the best I could do. My four walls no longer “enclose the right person.” Sometimes I get worn out from the work of it all, because grieving is both draining and discouraging.

God knows, however, exactly what all grievers need in terms of relief from the effort. He’ll never let the emotional swamping go on too long without providing new air. After I dumped out my Florida suitcase tonight, I left it open to begin tossing things in for the next trip, this one to England after Hans and Katy’s twins arrive. So although these next days may be dotted with tears and sobs as I complete the blog list, new air is coming in the form of another journey.

And when I return home after that one, maybe it won’t feel so bittersweet but will just be good old “Home Sweet Home.”

“Rescue me from the mire, do not let me sink. Deliver me from… the deep waters. Do not let the floodwaters engulf me or the depths swallow me up.” (Psalm 69:14-15)

As we headed for home once again in our faithful Highlander, I thought back over the last ten days. We’ve been fortunate to spend time with people we love who love us back, both on Sanibel Island and in northern Florida.

Our family first vacationed on Sanibel in 1979 with three young children, Nelson, Lars and Linnea. Nate had visited Sanibel as a young college student, still a teenager, driving from Northwestern University with a friend during spring break. He’d become infatuated with the island and its century-old atmosphere. No McDonalds, Wendy’s or Burger King, no malls, no traffic. On this trip in the early sixties, he made up his mind to return one day.

Nate couldn’t wait to show us Sanibel, so we took our first family vacation there in 1979. By then a causeway had been built between Ft. Meyers and the island, increasing traffic, both on roads and in resorts. But residents had put restrictions on building with an eye to preserving land in its natural state (more than half of the island) and not allowing structures to exceed two stories.

Being on Sanibel Island without Nate this time was difficult. He “found” this tropical paradise and had led us back there on many different vacations. It seemed he should be with us now. I couldn’t walk the boardwalk without seeing him there, coffee cup in hand, on the way to the beach. I couldn’t pass the outdoor hot tub without hoping to hear his laugh or his conversation with other resort guests.

This year we stayed with my sister’s family when normally we would have stayed in a separate unit. All of it seemed strange and slightly off-kilter like a parade without the marching band. Nate always kept the coffee pot brewing and the daily newspapers coming. He and my brother’s wife Leslie had a friendly competition going each morning as they tried to be the first to buy the other a New York Times.

Nate would walk through the kitchen during the morning melee of breakfast prep and say, “So what’s the program for today?” In his mind, running and doing was what kids wanted, and he was happy to deliver. Para-sailing? Skiing? Jet skis? Restaurants? Scooters? He encouraged them all, along with Easter brunch at the place with live chicks and kittens, and a costumed bunny handing out chocolate eggs.

In the late ‘80’s we went over a financial cliff, and that was the end of our trips to Sanibel. But the photo albums and our minds are chock full of happy memories, each made possible by Nate. I guess if I didn’t miss him like this, it wouldn’t say much for the relationship we had as husband and wife. God intends marriage to be two people joining hearts as if they’re two halves of one whole. When one dies, the marriage not only falls apart but the person left is missing his or her other half. That’s what I felt on Sanibel Island this year, that I was only “half there.”

Sometimes I wonder if that empty sensation will end or be filled with something else. Maybe it will continue through the rest of life. I remember dropping Mom off at her retirement complex apartment several years after Dad died. She’d moved there at his suggestion, as a widow. When I said goodbye at the door, I said, “We made it. You’re home.”

She said, “This isn’t home, because your father never lived here. It’s just my apartment.” She wasn’t being maudlin and was thankful for her cheery little place. She was just speaking matter-of-factly and truthfully.

I completely understand.

”Therefore be careful how you walk, not as unwise [women] but as wise, making the most of your time.” (Ephesians 5:15-16)