View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

I wake up suddenly, my heart beating wildly in my shaking body which is soaked with sweat. My breath comes in gasps. Outside the bare branches of the trees sway violently in the wind while the dark spruce trees seem to lean in, forcing me to hold my breath with fear. What is going on? Something must have happened! I remind myself to breathe slowly. In and out. I try to make the exhale longer than the inhale. I try to think clearly. I am in my own comfortable bed with my sweet husband sleeping peacefully beside me.

Then it dawns on me; my son is dead! He died of cancer! He is no longer living in Belgium or traveling around the world. He is dead! I cannot wrap my mind around the idea. It is too painful.

During the day, I keep busy. It is fall and winter is coming, so there is much to do here on the little old house on the prairie. I wash windows. I mow the leaves until they are firmly embedded into the soil. With our ever-expanding lawn, raking is impossible, even using a lawn sweeper. I pick up debris from my garden. I used cardboard this year as weed control. Cardboard and newspaper with straw and rocks on top to keep them in place. It’s a mess and I swear to myself that next year, I will use plastic, thick plastic held in place with staples.

So, I spend each day outside, the November winds making my face feel glowing with the fresh air. I come inside fatigued, my old body aching in every joint and muscle. After a relaxing bath and some Advil, I go to bed with a book and read until I fall asleep. Towards morning the nightmares start. Always the same. This fear. This bottomless fear that shakes my body and soul. And I am so sad and desperate that I want to curl up in bed and never rise again.

But I must. I must conquer my fear. Life is good. I am healthy (even though my highest wish was to have given my health to my dying son. To have taken on his cancer. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t) so I am alive and well. Around me there are people and I must interact and be normal. Sometimes I don’t want to, but I must go on living.

Last Sunday, a lady from our church spoke about living without fear. Fearless living. She said fearless living doesn’t mean you have no fear, it means you have to take on your fear and live despite it. She is an RN and has sat by the bedside of many dying patients. And she said she was afraid to say or do the wrong things. She was afraid to appear weak. She is a nurse after all. But she had come to understand that her presence was a comfort and that her tears for the dying were seen as a sign of empathy.

She inspired me. I go out among people with fear. Fear of saying the wrong things. Fear of not being liked because I am not smiley or charming. Fear of breaking down with huge sobs of despair. Fear of what people think of me because I am still grieving with so much pain.

Maybe fearless living means going out among people despite being afraid. Maybe just going out among people is enough. I cannot live in the cave of despair forever. Maybe facing my fears will make them less intense. Other people are afraid too. Most people want to be liked. Most people want to be charming. We are all here together. Maybe one evening I will go to bed and the nightmares will have disappeared.