Member-only story
Last week, a friend posted this question on Facebook: “So which fictional TV or movie mom would you choose to be your mom? This is in no way meant to disrespect your real mom. Just a little fun in the morning.”
My response: “Sarah Connors ( Terminator), Joyce Summers ( Buffy), or Mrs. Weasley.” Little did I suspect that I would soon be channeling these women as I shape the next phase of motherhood when my husband died in his sleep the following morning.
Like Alexander Hamilton, when I’m in a tough place, I write my way out. Writing helps to heal me, to channel my thoughts, and make sense of things. I simply cannot process just once through; I must write, read, revise, then learn.
Knowing I have that avenue for later reflection, in real-time, I shut down my emotional centers and just act. That’s how I was able to keep from crumbling as I struggled to wake my husband; as I called 911 and started chest compressions; as I stepped away to let the paramedics take over; as I informed my kids, one by one, that their father didn’t have a pulse and that I needed to follow him to the ER; as I texted my mother, my sister, my in-laws what happened; as I called my husband’s two best friends from childhood, one of whom headed to the ER while the other headed straight to my boys; as I stood outside the room in the emergency…
