I was grateful that God used moments of laughter to help heal my family after the death of Joseph. This particular time, however, was at my expense.
At the time of seventeen-year-old Joseph’s death, my husband’s job required that he travel several days a week. For the first three or four weeks after our son’s death, the company Phil worked for allowed him to work from home. The time came, however, that he had to get back on the road and make those sales. I dreaded his absence as much as I dreaded being at home alone.
Before leaving the ER that fateful day, the doctor gave us a prescription for what I assume was an anti-anxiety medication. Phil took it immediately and stayed on it for three or four days. I hadn’t taken any. The morning my husband left for that first out-of-town trip, however, I decided I would take it since I was extraordinarily anxious about my first day home and facing the emptiness alone.
Phil left at daybreak. Curt, my high school freshman, left for school shortly after that. While driving twelve-year-old Wyatt to school, I instructed him to take the bus home that afternoon. I explained that I was going to go home and take medication and thought it best I not drive.
I’d been home for two or three hours when the elementary school called. The lady on the phone informed me that Wyatt was having a rough time with his grief and wanted to come home. She proceeded to tell me, “Mrs. Ramsey, he said you’re unable to pick him up because, um, … you took drugs.” She chuckled. “Mrs. Ramsey, I understand. With your permission, I’ll bring him home myself.”
It was such a welcomed relief to chuckle along with her. It made me giggle all the more as I considered who else my little boy notified, “My mama took drugs.” I envisioned the Department of Children’s & Family Services and the Drug Task Force racing up my driveway, complete with sirens and flashing lights, and the school officials following closely behind.
I paused and thanked God for the thoughtful, caring woman who tended to my son and for the brief moment of relief on an otherwise horrible day. I wish I had laughed more often.
A personal note …
Friend,
Grab hold of those humorous moments. Laughter is not a betrayal of your loved one, nor does it mean you miss him any less. Moments of laughter are gifts. It’s validation that we’re not losing our minds.
Press on. You can do this.
Shelley