Jul 14

Jul 14 The "F" word

If we’re lucky, we all have at least one teacher that makes a lasting positive impact. A teacher that we don’t just connect with but that sees us for who we are, accepts us and encourages us.

For me, that educator was Mr. Terry Peterson. He was our high school speech and drama coach (forensics anyone?) and he also directed the musical. I’m fairly certain between rehearsals and speech tournaments I spent more time in his company than my parents. He listened to and was privy to our teen drama but never intervened. He coached and supported us, cheered us on and offered life advice - but only when it was requested.

As we often do with our high school teachers we lost touch, until Facebook came around and I received a friend request from one, Terry Peterson. I quickly accepted and we’ve been in touch ever since.

When I learned that his wife, Sandy, had passed away, I promised to make more of a concerted effort to stay in touch. Mr. P had moved to Las Vegas and so anytime my travels took me there I would be sure to save time for a visit. In 2018 with the help of another former student we got Mr. Peterson to Chicago for a weekend to see Hamilton and play tourist in the city. It was unforgettable for us all.

Mr. Peterson sends me messages after almost every blog I write, often with the mention of a movie or musical it made him think of. As someone close to grief but experiencing it from an entirely different source, I asked him to read a very early version of Normal Broken and again, his advice remained invaluable.

So, with that, I give you Mr. Terry Peterson.

When Kelly asked me to share my grief story with her readers, my first response was, “Whoa! I should be the very last person to ask.” I mean, I’m still on the path, I’m still rebuilding a shattered heart, and I still miss my wife every single day, and it has been six years in a week and a half. Oh, well, what the Hell, here I go.

I should introduce you to Sandy. I do have to say that I may be healing because I can now say her name out loud which I couldn’t do the first year and a half after she died. I can also type her name without tears poking out of the corner of my eyes—pretty much—not really. Anyway, Sandy was a type 1 diabetic and had been one since she was 10. Diabetes is an insidious condition. It starts out asking for an injection of insulin and settles in for the long haul, and in Sandy’s case, it slowly attacked her heart, her kidneys, her eyes, her sense of touch, her metabolism, and finally her brain. It took that damn disease sixty years to beat her, and I was her caregiver for many of those years.

Those of you who are caregivers understand what I am about to say. You are often hesitant to turn over care to the staff of a hospital because while those professionals may have the knowledge, they may not have the understanding that each patient is unique. In other words, when the nurse says, “We give her insulin on a sliding scale.” You say, “No you don’t, because if you do that, you will kill her.”

When a loved one dies, whether abruptly as if your heart was shattered with a ball peen hammer, or slowly as if your heart was being slowly chipped away with a tiny chisel, you begin to question the fairness of the universe.

That’s the “F” word. It is a word not used in polite company. That’s why It took me so long to get to it. Sandy was a journalism teacher, and she hated the fact that I might be considered a little wordy.

Sandy’s mentor was her grandmother Goodney. Sandy grew up in a family of ministers. Her father was one type of minister, and her uncle was another, and they were as different as fire and water. She considered Goodney as her model of Christianity.

I think that was why Sandy didn’t question the fairness of her situation. She was convinced that her condition was not God turning His back on her while blessing another with health. She would have refused health and healing at the price of another person’s suffering.

As I still suffer the grief brought about by Sandy’s death (taking a break here, because I may be having a problem typing her name). I find that I don’t question the fairness because she never did. Not when she had the fluid taken from her eye and replaced with saline and a gas bubble to prevent her retina from detaching. She had to spend her waking hours looking at the floor because she couldn’t let that gas bubble move. She did this for a week. It is hard to eat facing downward. It was hard for her to do anything —anything. And she had to do that four times. I may have questioned the fairness of the universe, but she didn’t.

Sandy taught me quietly in her way, and in the way of her grandmother Goodney, that God doesn’t create adversity, and God doesn’t prevent adversity from touching the life of anyone. He doesn’t slam you in the head with it either. It just happens. Your loved one suffered, and you suffered at their loss. It is so hard to overcome the grieving process, but I think we have to learn from those for whom we grieve that life in all of its tribulations is in fact fair.

Image description: Kelly in a white and blue striped shirt standing next to Mr. Peterson who has short grey hair, glasses and is wearing a black t-shirt. They are in a restaurant and smiling at the camera.