My 1-year-old is sick. Adding illness to his fiery temperament is like a chem experiment gone horribly wrong; the poor dear has screamed most of the weekend out of discomfort and anxiety that Mama might step more than 1 foot away. High fevers, shrill screams; and to be honest, enduring 60ish hours of this has been more than I can bear. My patience was thin, too, because there are a few around-the-house projects I want to do and I counted on the weekend as my time to at least start them. In my blind frustration, my sweet guy’s sniffle stood in the way of me doing what I wanted to do. He fussed and so did I – over a messy house, unorganized closets, an embarrassingly dirty kitchen, and a lack of any time to myself. I’m not sure who threw a bigger fit over the whole thing – my son or me.
Despite the challenge, I encouraged Andrew to go hunting yesterday morning. The weather has been prime and even I get excited for it once it cools off here. It was the second day of deer season and his trip started before dawn. He woke me with a kiss on the forehead to tell me goodbye, I vaguely remember telling him to be careful and to have fun. I habitually murmur a prayer for his safety before drifting back to sleep, but I didn’t remember to do this until later in the morning.
The time in-between his departure and the official start of the day was a blend of dozing and soothing my sweet sicko. Breakfast, medicine, playing with my oldest, books, Baby Einstein; and at around 10 I felt my face lighten in relief at seeing our car pull in the drive. My immediate thoughts: My HERO! He came home early to help with the boys. I couldn’t get over his consideration and my oldest and I raced to the door to greet him. Andrew came in slowly and somberly.
photo by ross.grady
He was home early because the tree stand he occupied collapsed while he was in it, crashing 15 feet or so to the ground and he was trapped underneath some of the rubble before a friend heard his yells for help and came to his aid. Andrew showed me one of his gloves, scraped from his hand trying to grip the bark as he slid down. Hearing the story of his plummet, we both knew that he was lucky. Hunters die from accidents like this or at least break their bodies. And yet there he was, standing there; without any sense of peril about him, but for the seriousness in his voice and expression. Blessed with big bruises and soreness, my husband came home to me and told me that the tree stand fell at around 8:30 – the time I quickly recited my ritual hunter’s wife prayer for safety. When I consider the dangers of hunting, at least where Andrew hunts, I pray that some mindless fool won’t accidentally shoot him or that he won’t have a run-in with a poisonous snake. Rickety tree stands don’t even cross my mind, which furthered the surprise of what happened.
I’ve heard of spouses dying in freak accidents and when the surviving husband or wife recounts the day, it’s often described as being so normal; so routine. It was a typical goin’-huntin’ morning for us. The kiss, advice to be safe, waking with the boys on my own and happily awaiting Andrew’s return. A widow/er might confess remorse for treating their spouse one way or another or even having negative feelings toward them that, in hindsight, meant nothing at all. How many times in our young marriage have I been frustrated with Andrew over something of little to no significance and out of my need for control? How many times did I feel this way even just leading up to his trip? When I realized the possible outcomes of a fall like that, a different life flashed in my mind. A young widow with two very small boys and another coming in the spring. Trying to make it on my own. The loneliness and overwhelming sense of needing Andrew to help me get over losing Andrew. Even setting death aside, I am in even more wonder at the fact that he came home simply banged-up instead of broken. Broken back, paralysis, head injury – who KNOWS what could have happened??
But the point is what did happen. I could play the What-If Game til I’m blue in the face and breathless with sobs, but the reality is that he’s home. Sitting in the living room right now. He landed in a briar patch, but also on soft pine needles, bedded on ground that was also soft with recent rains. He wasn’t hunting alone and so had help.
Thank God.
Thank God!
My little one’s illness provided a day no different from the previous two. He still wailed and rubbed his nose and ran a fever and wailed some more, but it didn’t matter. Neither did my To Do List or messy kitchen. Who cares? I shouldn’t, especially not after such an innocuous event. It doesn’t matter if I am blessed with a life with Andrew for another 50 years or 5 days – life is too short to allow trifles to trouble me – details over the house, especially. What’s interesting is that life will merrily go along appearing the same as it did yesterday and months before, but the effected change won’t be external – it will be emotional and spiritual. I have experienced God’s Divine Mercy and by it I still have a husband for at least another day.
[…] Read the rest of the post here. […]