View From a Prairie Home

by Hege Hernfindahl, Columnist

First, let me give kudos to the publisher of this newspaper; he has courage to publish whatever I write whether he agrees with it or not. He has courage to forge ahead with a free press; which is one of the pillars of democracy. Thank you!

If you, who read this are tired of me writing about grief, just toss this article away, because I will write about my grief. I believe in being honest when I write, otherwise my writings would just be trite and superficial.

Erland’s birthday was the 7th of March. He was our long-awaited baby, me being more than two weeks overdue. He came into this world with a Norwegian name that proved hard to pronounce. At age 41, he developed a rare form of cancer. And died eight months later. Even when he was so sick, he was barely recognizable, my mind refused to admit that he would die. And when I was told that he had died, my mind went into denial. I was emotionally paralyzed the first year afterwards; it was in the second year that the pain started. A pain so strong it had physical manifestations; nausea, headaches, back pain. I have read that this is all normal. We go numb at first, because if we realized right away that our child is gone, how could we then go on breathing?

Now, in the third year, I have become rather good at covering up my pain; I do not want to isolate myself and who wants to associate with a person who is always sad? So I put on my happy face and try to act normal. That is what I did last Sunday. We had sponsored the audio and video broadcast of the church service and bought a bouquet of flowers for the altar to honor the memory of Erland on what would have been his 45th birthday. We had done this every year since his death, but had avoided even being in Minnesota on that date. To avoid triggers. To try to be kind to ourselves.

I was sitting in church, looking at the flowers on the altar. Yellow flowers. Erland’s favorite color. And I felt all the pent-up tears and sadness come rising up in my body. I knew it was all going to come out as a scream. And I was sitting in the choir loft, visible to all…I dashed through the nearest door, almost falling in my panic. It was painful and also embarrassing.

And now, I am trying to recover. To do this, I spend as much time as I can at home. Taking care of my plants, cooking and cleaning. Enjoying the spring sunshine and the gift of longer days. Feeling grateful that I can go outside and there will be nature around me. After coming home that terrible day, I went alone along the creek that runs behind our house. The ice was starting to melt and I could hear the gurgling sound of the water. I found a dry spot and sat down trying to empty my mind and just be. Then, I fell asleep. When I woke up, I saw the sun setting in brilliant colors of purples and pinks. The world around me was quiet and I got up to walk the half mile home. My sweet husband was waiting for me, relieved that I was home. I had told him earlier that I wanted to be alone. We sat down to bowls of homemade tomato soup and German white wine. We ate on the porch as the world grew dark around us. And I knew that I had to soldier on, taking each day as it came, being grateful for the comfort of ordinary days.