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WestBow Press - Gwendolyn Faulkner-Holley

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48 pages

English

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This memoir shares the story of the author’s journey through the sudden death of her husband; the subsequent, paralyzing grief; and building a pathway to live again.

Without You - Recovering Life After A Significant Death recounts the author’s journey from the sudden death of her husband, her period of grief and self-discovery though the use of narrative, journal entries, and poetry. It is about finding one’s path to living a full and complete life after separation from a much loved husband.

Sujets

Personal Memoirs

Biography

Grief

Autobiography

Informations

Publié par	WestBow Press
Date de parution	10 octobre 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781664268524
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

WITHOUT YOU

Recovering Life After A Significant Death

GWENDOLYN FAULKNER-HOLLEY

Copyright © 2022 Gwendolyn Faulkner-Holley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

WestBow Press
A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.westbowpress.com
844-714-3454

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-6850-0 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6642-6852-4 (e)

WestBow Press rev. date: 9/22/2022
CONTENTS

Preface
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2 Decisions—When and How Does It Get Better?
Chapter 3 Anger
Chapter 4 Clarity
Chapter 5 Rebuilding—Again
Dedicate d to
Ulee and Gladys Faulkner from whom I learned how to love and be loved, my children who taught me unconditional love, my husband, William Kermit Holley, Jr., who was the love of my life, and my beautiful family who stand in support whenever and wherever they are needed.
PREFACE

People have established many ways to report a death: passed on, passed away, gained their wings, and transitioned are just a few of the many that exist. Human beings are not as comfortable with death as other species, yet it will happen to all of us. When death is unexpected, it can leave loved ones feeling shell-shocked, alone, or empty. I felt all of these emotions and more. I wanted to talk to someone about what I was feeling without hearing those adages that we learned through the years. More recently, we learned that there are five stages of grief and, though there might be an expectation of drifting through each one in the order that writers present, that is not the case. Each stage can be present in any order, repeated, extended, and elongated. Grief has as many variations as there are people. It is not ever the same for everyone. What we can hope for are similarities that allow us to help each other as we learn to live through it.
This book is a presentation of the journey I took when I lost my husband in 2016. I used writing to begin rebuilding my life, and to manage the pain of separation and being alone after so many years of being a couple. It became a catalyst for growing, healing, and learning how to live life despite a devastating loss. My prayer is that others can use this work as a means of moving forward in their lives.
INTRODUCTION

An Appointed Time of Departure
Like everyone, I have experienced grief. I have grieved a multitude of people connected to me by blood or friendship. One would think that so much loss is a preparation for death’s inevitability. I was terribly hurt when my daddy passed away. I didn’t want to believe he would die and leave this world. He was tall, dark, and especially handsome, and sometimes bigger than life to me. He was an extended family daddy because he looked after people in our extended family as best he knew how. I cannot pin a particular time limit on my grief for him, but I know it lasted. I remember that I thought of something I needed to ask him but never had the chance. That question plagued me for months and months, then years, after his death: When should I change the windshield wipers because they had begun smearing in certain places instead of moving water? It never occurred to me to ask someone else. For some strange reason, my daddy was the only one who knew the answer, and I had let him get away from this world without asking. I depended on his counsel.
The next significant death was my mother’s. As my sisters and I exchanged duty time in the hospital waiting room while our brother worked and visited at night, I became afraid that our mama was transitioning. She became somewhat disoriented. The nurses began to call her Lucy, a reference to her being somewhat playful when they asked her questions. It was not her normal way of responding. They should have addressed her as Gladys or better Miss Gladys, as she had earned the privilege to have her name said and respected. I am still ashamed to say that I never directly corrected those nurses. I was afraid that they would not give her the care she so deserved if challenged too much. Instead, I rubbed her face and told them how my mother had fed her family and opened her home and kitchen to anyone who was hungry; how she always tried to find an encouraging word for the hurt and pain people experienced; and how she knew when to bust a great joke and have everyone laughing. My mother, and her sisters, were fabulous cooks, and each had her specialty. One of my mother’s specialties was her turnip greens. They were so delicious that my sister and I would even drink the pot liquor. Next were her wonderful pound cakes. We would sit up late, hoping she would take pity on us and let us have a warm slice. On occasion, when she stood firm on her no, our daddy would say, “Oh, let them have a little piece, Gladys. I’ll go to the store and get some ice cream.” She would relent, and we would sit up eating warm pound cake and ice cream while watching Gunsmoke on television. They shaped and formed us in ways we would discover throughout our lives and share with our children.
Our father believed in education so much that he devised a way for our sister, Rosemary, to get her education. The county where we lived refused to send a bus down the dark, lonely, dirt road we lived on, so she would have had to walk in the dark to the main road all by herself at six years old. He tried to explain that our mother had two other children, one a baby, and couldn’t walk a mile to get to the main road, and he had to leave before daylight to get to work. They were adamant: no bus ride unless she stood on that road. Ulee Faulkner worked with our mother’s sister, Aunt Louise, and her husband, Roger, to bring our cousin’s schoolbooks each Sunday so that my father and mother could copy the lessons for Rosemary. The family worked together to make that happen. In turn, when my uncle died, my father helped my aunt and her children by sharing his garden produce with them so that they had healthy, fresh food.
Truthfully, I continue to miss my father and mother. I miss and long for them because they taught me so much about being a Black woman; I owe who I am to those two people who were responsible for giving me life. I use their departure as a well from which I often draw strength. What helped me adjust to their deaths most of all was that I had a husband, my children, and my students who all needed me to be in the present with them. I was needed, so I had to survive their departure.
I never dreamed that grief would become even more severe. I thought I knew what suffering loss was all about. However, each newly severed relationship brings its particular pain and consternation. I learned about that when I lost my husband and friend of twenty-nine years. Nothing prepared me for the silence. I was left with my desires and memories: his touch, his laughter, his wit, his strength, and his vulnerability—Bill and all his essence. The us also left because the moment he transitioned, I was no longer married. Our marriage ended the moment Bill ceased to live, and I was left to pick up the broken pieces that became my life. I didn’t want to survive it. I wanted him. I wanted what we were and what we could have been.
I was told that I lingered in the pain, and perhaps that may be true. However, when there is little to interest you in your environment and your purpose in life is unclear, I think it is natural to hunger for a time and place and a person who lived life with you. I am not ashamed to say that even though I gave up on the place we had called home and moved to a city and house that we had not shared, even though I am writing again and slowly reaching out to my friends of earlier times, I continue to miss his smooth baritone voice or feel the touch of his soft fingers on my hand, or him saying “my wife” in that way that established his pride and love for me, or turning his key in the lock and calling out my name in that Brooklyn brogue, then later dropping a full-lipped kiss on my lips. I miss the mornings I made him dance with me before leaving for work, and the kisses I requested that he place in the palm of my hand, and he smiled and did just that every time I asked. Yeah, I linger.
Of course, I heard that it was God’s will and that he was not in pain anymore—all of the things people say trying to help alleviate the pain. Over the past few years, I have learned not to talk about my husband too much. I sometimes find that venturing a few short sentences can be met with total silence, a nod of the head, or a perfunctory acknowledgment. I learned not to push it