Gratitude in the midst of grief

So excited to have a guest writing the blog today.  May you be inspired by this story.

Glenda Healy is an occasional teacher and writer who counts impromptu singing with her two teenage daughters as one of life’s best joys.  She lives in Guelph, Ontario, Canada.  You can follow Glenda on Twitter.

Sitting at my dining room table one morning, I was writing thank you notes. Over the previous months, I had sent cards thanking people for visits, for meals, for gifts and for prayers. Our eldest daughter had survived a critical illness and there were many who had come alongside us during this difficult journey.

On this particular day, I was writing notes of appreciation to the medical staff who had met us with compassion, warmth, and empathy during those first days of terror and confusion when we realized our daughter had contracted meningitis. I was indebted to them because they had worked tirelessly, not only to help Kate with her medical needs but also to help our family get through those first days; in so doing they had carved out a special place in my heart. I set up a workstation at my dining room table: a cluster of pens, an array of cards, and a steaming cup of coffee. In the back of my mind, I was setting up this day to be a symbol of sorts, a marker in this journey I had been on. I needed to remember, to grieve, to thank, and to share. I sat down at the wooden table and began.

I remembered the paramedic who was with me in the back of the ambulance, my daughter weakening by the minute, as we sped along a black stretch of rural highway at midnight. As I held on to Kate’s arm, locking eyes, repeating the words “Hang on, Kate” again and again, the paramedic, Debbie, was sitting beside me. She spoke the words “You’re doing good, Mom” over and over in the background. In the midst of total heartbreak and fear, her words comforted me to the very core of my being.

I thanked the nurse who had stayed by our side and called in on her days off.  A week after my daughter became ill, I took my first walk in a nearby park with my youngest daughter. As we walked, I became aware of a family of four coming toward us on the path. When I realized it was “our” nurse who was on holiday, I ran towards her, and she hugged me as I remained sobbing in her arms, a weeks’ worth of emotion spilling out. She never flinched or tried to pull away; the embrace was over only when I let go.

I thought of the personal support worker who gave Kate a tube of Britney Spears Fantasy lotion for her use—a nice touch in the midst of the sterile environment of a hospital. We still have the empty tube as a reminder of her kindness.

And I remembered the doctor, on the night when hope came crashing down, telling us that he would do everything he could for Kate because he had a sixteen-year old girl at home—and he did just that.

The emotions of the experience churned out that day—the deep well of gratefulness in my heart, the overwhelming relief that our daughter was steadily getting stronger, the spent emotions of the roller coaster of these past months—as I

thanked each person.  I thanked God too for placing these people in our lives at this time. I realized afterwards that this day spent in writing thank you cards was something I needed to do, not only for those who deserved thanks, but for myself as well.

I had turned a bend in the road—all because I had taken the time to remember and to thank.