By Charlotte Thomason

On August 23, 2013, my morning was routine . . . until 11:30 when my supervisor unexpectedly asked me to join a conference call. That call ended at 12:15, prompting me to  immediately check for a message from my husband, John. I saw no new text messages, so I sent a short text to him.

How U B?

This was our way of checking on each other, especially since John had recently suffered a heart attack.

I talked to Dr. Waz, he said your medications might make you light headed.

When John did not respond by 12:30, I texted again: U ok?

Still no response. By now myheart was racing.  

Five minutes later I texted.

 How U B?

No response.

At this point, a mild panic set in. John was good about responding because he knew I worried about him. Before full panic set in, I called him, hoping a phone call would wake him in case he was sleeping. 

Instead, I heard, “Hi, this is John Thomason, I can’t take your call right now, please leave a message.” 

“D— it, John, answer the phone,” I said out loud. 

I am not sure how I got from my office to the car, but I remember praying, “God, please let him be ok,” as I drove the short distance to our apartment. 

At a red light, I hurriedly texted, I’m coming to check on you.  

My heart pounded as I opened the door to our apartment praying aloud, “Please, God let him be ok!” 

 Once inside the bedroom, I shouted, “John!” He did not respond.  

When I reached his side of the bed, his stillness confirmed my greatest fear. With tears streaming down my face, I hit his back and began screaming, “John, John, John, D—you, John, wake up!” 

He lay silent and still. I ran from the bedroom and somehow managed to dial 911. 

“What is your emergency?” the operator asked.  

My voice broke, I could not breathe, but somehow I said, “My husband is dead. I just found him. He is dead.”   

Every day at noon John and I communicated via text messages. The conversations always began with “how u be?” While the interactions lasted only a few minutes; they were our unique way of sharing our day. The conversations varied from short words of affection to venting frustrations. John’s texts grounded me or made me laugh. Sometimes the text messages helped us resolve a conflict or misunderstanding. While John was a man of few words, his well-chosen text messages conveyed affection, support, and love each day at noon.

Ten days before he passed away, John suffered a major heart attack that severely damaged his heart. He followed his doctor’s orders to reduce salt intake and carefully monitor his blood pressure. Shortly after John’s discharge from the hospital, I purchased a blood pressure cuff that transferred data to his phone so that he could take the results with him to the doctor. The cuff allowed tracking of two individuals, which required toggling back and forth depending on who was using the device. John struggled with new technology and became frustrated when a new device did not work as he thought it should.

I generally went to bed several hours before John. If he wanted to tell me something after I went to bed, he often texted me, so I would see the message when I woke up. I also slept on the couch for the last few hours of the night, so my wake-up alarm did not disturb him. 

That August morning as I got ready for work, I noticed that John had sent me a text at 11:18 p.m. the night before: 

Spent 30-40 minutes can’t get bp to go to person 1. 

That was the last text message I received from him. Now, I would give anything for one more text from him. 

As I sat in the living room in stunned silence waiting for the police to arrive, I could not think; I could not make even simple decisions. I did not know what I needed. I did not want to “impose” on anyone. I knew I should call someone to be there with me but did not want to ask. I did not want anyone to see me in such an emotional state. Because after all, I was a grief counselor, so I should be able to manage it alone.

God had other plans. He knew exactly what I needed. My daughter Korine’s first words to me when she called were “have you called anyone to come be with you?” 

Although I texted a couple of people from church, the thought of having someone seeing me in hysteria was too uncomfortable. To ensure I was not alone, Korine and my son-in-law, John, called people as they drove from Houston to Austin. However, by the time they connected, those individuals were either on their way or were already at my apartment.  

In the days that followed, my impatience with grief grew. I kept asking myself, “What is wrong with me? I can help others, but I cannot help myself.”

 My son-in-law had the perfect wisdom for me. “You need to write about this, Mom, because that is what you do.”  

So I began to write “Letters to John” almost every day. Writing has always been therapeutic for me, so communicating to my husband through letters made sense. Writing helped me connect with him mentally and emotionally. I knew he did not hear my letters but writing them helped me feel less alone. 

 I remembered through those early letters how much John grounded me, how much he made bad days not so bad by making me laugh. He did not seem so far away when I wrote a note like our daily text messages. During those moments, I felt secure that my grief was normal. I felt I could get through the pain. In those brief notes to John, I felt connected to him. The familiarity of texting John decreased the emptiness in my soul until I realized that no answer would come from him. 

No more “How U B?” messages would brighten my days. I was alone. 

In my aloneness, I wondered where God was because I did not feel Him. I wondered how I could feel God’s presence amid such gut-wrenching sorrow. I realized that everyone must grieve, that grief is normal. Being a Christian or being a grief expert would not protect me from experiencing the pain, the anger, and the blaming that accompanies grief. Everyone must grieve, but how? Realizing I could not escape grief terrified me. The wall of denial cracked, and I could no longer hide behind it. The only certainty was that John was gone. I did not know what to expect as grief seeped through the crack, but I was ready to begin the journey.

Charlotte Thomason holds a Master of Science in Social Work from the University of Texas at Austin and will graduate in May 2019 with a Master of Arts in Cultural Apologetics from Houston Baptist University. Prior to her retirement in 2015, Charlotte worked in Foster Care and Adoption for over 30 years, both with the State and in the private sector.  https://charlottethomason.com/

Photo by Marion Michele on Unsplash