The voice on the other end of the line was full of alarm. “Marion, come quick. Something’s wrong with Gene.”
Gene and I had met after both of us lost our mates of 25 years. We’d been married for 24 years now and were at a point in our lives where we indulged ourselves a little with massages and pedicures.
I hadn’t given it much thought when he’d taken off in his white truck earlier for his regular pedicure at Stonebridge Salon, but with one quick phone call, my old enemy—fear—was upon me just like that.
I drove to the salon, 10 minutes from our house, on autopilot, my mind hurtling back to one dark winter afternoon when I was seven years old. I’d been watching out the window for my mother to come home from work. She was late. A terrible thought struck me.
Your mother is probably dead, like your father. You’re all alone now.
I’d been only two when my father died. Looking out the window for my mother I could feel my heart pound. I bit the inside of my cheek. I didn’t dare turn on the light. That would mean it was really night, way past time for Mother to be home.
Please, please, God, I begged, let Mother appear before I count to ten. I counted as slowly as I could, lingering on nine-and-a-half for the umpteenth time.
At last I saw her. Sweet relief flooded through me as I flipped on the light. I never told my mother how terrified I’d been. And I never anticipated how that fear of losing someone I loved would hound me in the years to come.
What-ifs used to plague me: What if something happens to my husband? What if one of the children has an accident?
I pulled into the shopping center where Stonebridge Salon was. An ambulance and some other emergency vehicles were right outside, with lights flashing.
I hurried into the salon. Two of the hairdressers were bent over Gene. One called his name loudly. The other cleaned up vomit. An EMT took his blood pressure.
Gene slumped in the pedicure chair, his face ashen, eyes half-closed. Someone said that the bottom half of his blood pressure was so low it hadn’t registered. I knelt by the chair and took his hand. It felt limp and clammy.
“Hi,” I said in what I hoped was a normal voice.
No response.
The EMTs got Gene on a stretcher and wheeled him out to the waiting ambulance. I followed, feeling helpless.
Here we go again, came the insidious whisper of fear.
Suddenly it was 1982, a sunny afternoon in September, and I was watching my first husband, Jerry, unconscious, unresponsive, be loaded into the back of an ambulance. I climbed into the front seat as instructed by an EMT. I managed to hold off fear by praying and reciting Scripture silently.
I was doing pretty well until someone handed me Jerry’s flat brown billfold. Holding a loved one’s billfold has got to be one of the loneliest, most isolating experiences in the world.
Jerry was 47 and until then, had never been sick a day in his life. Eventually tests showed that he’d suffered a massive seizure triggered by a malignant brain tumor. Surgery to remove it was unsuccessful.
As the doctors told us Jerry didn’t have long, the fear of being in our house alone took hold of me. I grew up without a daddy,and I can’t grow old without a husband.
Just before Jerry died 10 grueling months later, God got through to me somehow and cast out the fear, silenced the What-ifs. For good, I’d thought.
A young, kind voice drew me back to the present. “Ma’am? You can get in the front seat.” One of the EMTs gestured to the open passenger door of the ambulance cab. Gene lay very still in the back, not speaking.
A small crowd had gathered in front of the salon. Someone ran over. “Marion, here’s Gene’s billfold and glasses.”
“Thank you,” I said, remaining dry-eyed. But on the inside, I crumbled. It was like being with Jerry in the ambulance, only this time I could hardly even find the words to pray.
Fifteen minutes later we were in an examination room at the hospital. I sat close to Gene’s bed as a nurse started an IV. God, please let Gene be okay, I pleaded silently. Help me not be afraid. It didn’t feel like much of a prayer.
A woman from the business office slipped in. “May I have your husband’s insurance cards, please?”
I opened Gene’s billfold, the creases in the leather sweetly familiar. All the cards blurred before me. I didn’t have my glasses but even if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to see straight, I was so scared. I took out all the cards and fumbled them.
The woman leaned over. “Here they are, dear.” She plucked the insurance cards out of their pile, told me she’d be back soon and left with them.
I tried to put the other cards back in their slots—Gene likes everything in its place—but my hands couldn’t seem to work properly. What was that scrap of paper?
I unfolded it. I squinted and recognized Gene’s handwriting, large block letters, the ink somewhat faded: YOUR THOUGHTS CREATE YOUR EMOTIONS.
Gene loved that simple truth, and we’d often discussed it over the years. Still, I had no idea that he carried the quotation with him.
I held his hand and whispered those five words over and over. Their meaning surged into my being, as surely as the IV pumped healing fluids into Gene. I gazed at his hand in mine, at the wedding band on his finger.
Gene spoke softly. I looked up, leaned closer. “What did you say?” He lifted his head slightly. “What about the mess I made?”
Our friends don’t call him Mr. Clean for nothing. I was so relieved to hear him sounding like himself that I joked, “They said you can’t come back. Ever.”
He laughed. So did I. Our laughter seemed to bubble up in that small room, pushing fear right out.
Gene came home the next day. All his tests were normal. The doctors thought he’d probably taken some morning medication incorrectly and then putting his feet into hot water for the pedicure had created the perfect storm.
Late one afternoon the following week, Gene took his beloved white truck to be washed and detailed (he’s Mr. Clean, remember). “I’ll be back in a couple hours,” he said. I was engrossed in a book I’d been reading all day and only looked up long enough to wave.
It wasn’t until the shadows lengthened on the page and I reached over to turn on the lamp beside my reading chair that I realized how late it had gotten. My hand froze in mid-air. How long had Gene been gone? More than a couple hours.
Darkness fell and fear reared its ugly head again. What if something happened to him? Look out the window. If you don’t see his truck coming, it’ll be just like when you were seven…
Nope, I told fear, I don’t have to do that. Get away from me.
Putting my book down, I got up from my chair. I flipped on several lights and walked to the bay window in the dining room. Sometimes the sun seems to set just beyond the edge of our front yard, turning the view into a magnificent picture postcard.
Tonight was one of those rare evenings. I gazed out the window and let the beauty and glorious mystery of sunsets wash over me.
Think only good thoughts. Refuse fear. No matter what, child. I am always here.
I sat back down with my book in the well-lighted living room. A little later I heard the low rumble of Gene’s truck in the driveway and the sweet sound of the garage door opening. My husband was home. I went to greet him.
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