One of the not-so-fun aspects of midlife is that we begin losing loved ones.  Parents, spouses, friends.  When it comes to parents, sometimes we lose one, then the other in a relatively short time span.  Add losing a spouse to that mix and it can be almost too much bear.

In this essay, our member, Risa Brown, offers a thoughtful look at coming to terms with losing both her parents and her husband within 3 years of one another.  She finds that to move forward, she has to pay homage to past places.

Two weeks after my mother died, I sought comfort from a road trip.  After months of taking care of her, I now found myself able to go anywhere anytime I wanted.  All I wanted was to make the trip from Dallas to Midland, the town where I grew up.  The town where my parents were now buried.

The funerals had been frantic events.  My dad died just as my mom was diagnosed with cancer.  I had to uproot her to Dallas to take care of her.  In less than a year, I brought her back to bury her next to my dad.  Death was becoming part of my life.  Only three years before, I’d lost my husband, Joe.

My plan was to a pass through Midland, make sure everything was all right at the cemetery, and then be on my way to Ruidoso, New Mexico where I would spend a few days.  Midland felt both familiar and foreign.  As I took the usual exit from the interstate, there was no home to go to and no smiling, welcoming faces of my folks.  I made do with an impersonal motel room.  My parents were only names on a headstone.  Strangers lived in all my childhood homes.

Before I could get on the road to Ruidoso, I couldn’t leave until I saw the first house Joe and I bought.  I pulled up to the curb and stopped, studying the small stucco house.  The brown trim and shutters reminded me of all the work Joe put into making this house a home.  The sheer lace curtains made me think of my early, clumsy attempts at decorating.  Joe’s Lincoln roses bloomed their brilliant red and the carnation plant I babied still survived by the front door.  There were no toys in the yard – my last memory of this house was to pick up my daughter’s toys on our way out of town when we moved.  That daughter was now a strong and independent adult.

The gnarled crab apple tree hung on to life in the side yard.  There were dead sections but I could see the beginnings of fruit.  I remembered the week I brought my baby girl home from the hospital, the crab apple was in full bloom with its lovely pink blossoms that we only saw once a year.

I finally drove away, resuming my trip.  Memories sprung up, sparked by the familiar landmarks.  My parents’ love of New Mexico inspired Joe and me to spend our wedding night in an historic inn there.  Joe’s first teaching job was in another small town on this route.  I’d been away so long I had to explore to find them.

When I finally headed back to Dallas, I realized what I thought was a spontaneous and random trip was far more.  My heart led me back to all the important places of my past.  This trip was actually a sort of pilgrimage.  I had to pay homage to my old concept of home.  The need say good-bye exerted itself without my conscious awareness.

As I watched the dashed lines flash by on the highway, I had to face the fact that my road had changed direction.  Before I could move forward, I had to give thanks for where I had been.  God provided me two distinct roads – the one already traveled and the unknown one stretching in front of me.  It was time to figure out how to navigate this new road.

Risa Brown’s resume is filled with writing work, library work, in fact, all things literary.  Clearly, she loves the written word!  After losing her parents and her spouse in a short span, in midlife Risa has taken a leap of faith by following her dream to become a freelance writer.  You go girl!  

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