By Lisa 
Mark’s Dad has the flu. That is not unusual, especially this time of the year, after holiday visits from relatives and friends and from being inside because of colder weather.
He and his wife of 20 years lived alone, but together. She also had the flu, and they lay in bed together all day, talking and being sick. When they finally called to say they needed help, both were taken by ambulance to different hospitals.
She passed away this weekend.
Mark had to tell his father the news. The immediate family was present, but Mark did the hard part.
Mark sat next to his 93-year-old dad, held his hand, and told him his wife had died.
His dad kept asking him, “Son, Is it true? Did she really die?”
How do you answer that?
In a split second, the roles change in a family.
When you are a toddler, your parents protect you. They do what is best for you, and if you fall, they pick you up.
Mark is a strong, big fellow with an even bigger heart. I saw him pick his sweet daddy off the floor when his dad fell and could no longer get himself up. He did it with compassion and grace, never letting his dad feel less than a man, making excuses like “the floor was slippery” or “your slippers weren’t on very well.”
He kept telling his dad he was not alone. We all have those sorts of accidents eventually.
When my little Mama was sick with dementia, she sometimes would have “accidents.” Our angel of a caregiver, Loretta, would tell her it was OK, nothing to be ashamed of because everyone has that. Loretta would fib and tell her she also had those accidents sometimes.
But he will feel alone.
Even if not specifically that, we all have ridiculously heartbreaking, embarrassing “accidents” throughout our lives. It’s part of being human.
I read that in the teenage years, your parents are the lamest, stupidest people on Earth. In your 20s, they are suddenly smart. In your 30s, they help with investment advice, babysitting, and spoiling your kids. In your 40s, they become best friends and advisers.
When you are in your 50s, you notice that they slow down. They go to bed earlier, have a few more wrinkles and grey hairs, and talk about menopause and retirement.
In your late 50’s and 60’s, you lose them.
In a split second, your life changes.
You think about a recipe for something your mom made so well and pick up the phone to call. The car breaks down, the toilet makes weird noises, and you pick up the phone to call your dad.
There is no one there.
When my little Mama passed, there weren’t many people left from either side of the family, so we had a small graveside service.
Afterward, I drove to my Mama’s house, where my parents had lived since I was 18, and sat alone outside. Mama and I had spent many days and nights sitting in that carport, drinking wine and laughing. This time, there was only one chair.
I sat there in my black funeral dress and uncomfortable shoes muddied from the gravesite and, for the first time, realized I was alone. There was no more Mama or Daddy to call when I needed advice or was lonely.
I walked through the house. So quiet. Hospice had picked up the hospital bed the day before. All that was left from her last few weeks were some medical supply wrappers, a half-empty box of Kleenex, and a wheelchair. Photos of my Poppy and her brothers and sisters, all long gone, were next to where her bed had been, in frames, taped to the walls, and scattered on side tables.
Mama’s wedding rings were now on my right hand.
There was no head of the family now except my brother and me.
Mark’s Dad is in the hospital now with the flu and pneumonia.
Mark and I slept very little the first night he was there. We confessed later that we thought it was his last night.
Mark stayed with him all day yesterday, and I visited later in the afternoon.
But the Martins, I am learning, are a strong bunch. His Dad has a sister who is 100 and another who passed away at 104. He is recovering well and will be leaving the hospital in the next day or so, despite being 93 and having to deal with the loss of his wife.
Mark reminded him again that he wasn’t alone. He has all of us around him.
Part of being human is the ability to love. Another part is the need to be with someone you love and who loves you. The price of love is the pain that follows when the one you love is no longer there.
His kids describe Mr. Martin as a “Good Christian Man.” He knows he will see his wife in Heaven someday, but it still hurts.
When my Poppy died, I couldn’t watch baseball for over a year. I couldn’t stand wearing anything colorful, and I hated going to the grocery store because so many foods reminded me of him.
I walked a lot, cried a lot, and talked to God about my earthly Dad a lot. But I kept finding rocks that were shaped like hearts. Maybe it was like when you buy a certain brand and color of the car; you see that car everywhere. But I found comfort in thinking I was getting tiny messages that he was OK. And I wasn’t alone.
The other night, I was in a cycle of worrying about everyone around me. We all have problems—it’s a human thing—but I was fixated on what I could do to make everyone happy.
After my Mama died, I often saw two cardinals everywhere—several in a flock around our home. I take comfort in thinking it’s a sign that Mama and Daddy are okay and together.
I am learning that my husband is a Good Christian Man like his father. He put his arms around me and gently reminded me that God is in control, not Lisa. And it was a sin not to trust God with His own creation, as if I could do better.
He is right. So right.
And NONE of us are truly alone. Ever. God is always right beside you.
And He knows what He is doing.