That night, desperate, I called a doctor-friend on whose authority Stephen agreed to go to the hospital. Love births abilities. My daughter drove streets she’d never been on, as I gave directions for a city I’d barely lived in. “Mom, I think he’s in shock,” she’d said.
In Emergency, I lay across Stephen’s body as two nurses wrestled him still long enough to inject him. By ten-thirty, the radiologist diagnosed a mass on the brain. Setting a firm gaze on me, he asked, “Are you hearing me?” I answered, “Yes,” knowing my life had permanently changed.”*
By shock and necessity, I stayed with Stephen, focusing on what needed to be done. Reflecting back, there wasn’t time or space for grief. That would come later. When it did, I would drop on my knees as sobs overtook me in waves. I repeated, “God, I know this is best for him, and best for me. I’m just not used to it yet.” As I quieted, pale blue light would settle like a cape over me. Later, I learned this is the color of peace and of Mary, mother of Jesus.
My realization is, “There is a time when grief waits so what is of necessity may occur. And there is a time when grief speaks, saying, “Allow me, for I am part of God’s healing.”
*A Flower for God