Widow’s Walk

Wandering in the Wilderness of Grief

Barbara Fusco

ISBN 978-1-63575-331-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63575-333-2 (Hard Cover)

ISBN 978-1-63575-332-5 (Digital)

Copyright © 2017 by Barbara Fusco

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.

296 Chestnut Street

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Don’t You Have

Family in New Jersey?

Monday morning, my husband Gene and I are on our way home to Chincoteague Island, Virginia, after spending Easter with family in New Jersey. We want to hurry up and get back, but we first have to make a stop. He hasn’t felt right since Friday, and a local doctor had told him to get an X-ray after the weekend. So arm in arm, we enter Peninsula Regional Hospital, hoping to have this over quickly and be on our way.

We fill out the necessary paperwork, and Gene is taken in for X-rays. After what seems a very long time, a doctor comes out to me.

Your husband has to be rushed to OR. He needs to have a chest tube put in to drain pleural fluid. He has a tumor. Every one we have seen like this is malignant. Don’t you have family in New Jersey? We think you’d better go back there.

Shattered, I wait for Gene to get settled in his room. We spend the rest of the day in shock, trying to process this news, trying to encourage one another. As darkness falls, I tear myself away from him.

Alone, for the third time in our thirty-four-year marriage, I drive to Chincoteague in freezing rain and snow. A forty-mile-an-hour wind howls across the bay, mirroring the chaos in my soul.

I can’t bear the thought of going home. Abandoned and alone, I stop to tell dear friends, Betty and Art, what has happened. What a godsend they are. Betty, then in her seventies—a three-time cancer survivor—is full of spirit, life, hope, and love. I’m starving for her company, but I can’t delay going home forever.

All night sleep eludes me as wild wind shakes the old house and shock and fear shake me. I can’t stop trembling. My entire adult life had been spent bound to this man, and the prospect of losing him is wrenching.

Ritual and Wandering

Ritual

Ritual, as defined by Webster, is a stereotyped sequence of activities performed in a sequestered place,—which involves gestures, words, and objects. The pump of inspiration is primed by ritual. When my husband was diagnosed with lung cancer, I began an early morning ritual, which became my sanity and my salvation. Upon waking, I would go downstairs to make coffee and return to my bed. There I would read scripture, pray, and write my feelings: the good, the bad, and the ugly. Essential objects were a Bible, spiral-bound notebook, Paper Mate SharpWriter, and coffee. The minute I returned to the bed, I was aware that I was in the presence of God. This ritual resulted in the writings upon which this work is based. My journal became my friend and counselor, a gateway to self-awareness.

Wandering

Wandering in the wilderness of grief is a perfect metaphor for my theological and psychological journey during early widowhood.

I have attempted to be transparent, honest, and hopeful.

Island

If once you have slept on an island,

You’ll never be quite the same;

You may go by the same old name,

You look as you looked the day before

And may bustle about in street and shop

You may sit at home and sew,

But you’ll see blue water and wheeling gulls

Wherever your feet may go.

You may chat with the neighbors of this and that

And close to your fire keep,

But you’ll hear ship whistle and lighthouse bell

And tides beat through your sleep.

Oh, you won’t know why and you can’t say how

Such a change upon you came,

But once you’ve slept on an island, you’ll never be quite the same.

Rachael Lyman Field (September 19, 1894–March 15, 1942)

Heart’s Home

If once you have slept on an island, you’ll never be quite the same.

So begins Rachael Field’s poem, and we have never been the same. I sit on the porch, thirty years after falling in love with this place, looking at the water, listening to the wheeling gulls and remembering the past.

Chincoteague Island, which has left me never quite the same, is located in the far northeastern portion of Virginia’s Eastern Shore—a peninsula bound on the west by the Chesapeake Bay, and the east by the Atlantic Ocean. This small island of nine square miles has a year-round population of less than three thousand. Assateague, a barrier island, spreads its sandy arms around her full length, protecting her from the Atlantic.

I was introduced to Chincoteague when I read Misty of Chincoteague as a child. The story of the wild ponies of Assateague Island and the Beebe family made such a deep impression on me that when Gene and I wanted to get away for a few days, I suggested to him we go to Chincoteague. He agreed, and off we went.

With high hopes and great anticipation, the eastern sky opening before our eyes, we crossed the causeway to find, not the Chincoteague of my imagination, but an island wounded, in intensive care, and in the process of being patched up after the devastation of a storm a decade earlier. The Ash Wednesday storm of 1962, as it came to be known, had not received any attention in the mountains of Pennsylvania where I was a senior in college. Ten years after the storm, we were disappointed to find limited lodging and a primitive wharf side eatery. It was a depressed and depressing place made more so by the fantasies I had entertained for twenty-five years. We couldn’t wait to get out of town. In search of bright lights and excitement, we found a lovely motel with an attractive bar and restaurant in Salisbury, Maryland, and returned home the next day, leaving thoughts of Chincoteague far behind.

During the 1970s and ’80s, wanderlust was never far below the surface for us. We had built two houses and were living in the second. Off and on for twenty years, we thought about moving. Missouri, Maine, Vermont offered the rural life we thought we wanted. In the early 1980s, Gene brought up fond memories of North Carolina where he had been stationed as a Marine, and we decided to take a trip there to see if his old memories would fare better than mine had with Chincoteague.

On the way to North Carolina, our car’s muffler came loose near T’s Corner on Route 13 in the Virginia portion of the Delmarva Peninsula. Informed that the nearest garage was in Chincoteague, we headed there. We arrived at George Hall’s auto repair shop late Friday evening to learn that no work could be done on the car until Monday. The nearest auto parts store was located in Salisbury, fifty miles away. We grudgingly looked forward to being stuck in Chincoteague for three days and resigned ourselves to the delay.

What a striking difference ten years had made. We found nice lodging and, since we were without a car, walked the streets. We found friendly people, quaint shops, and appealing restaurants. The peace in the air was palpable. By the time the car was ready to roll, we were smitten. We did go on to North Carolina for a few days, but Chincoteague had captured our hearts, to remain not far from our thoughts.

During this time, we sold our second house and were living in the third we had built. We had always wanted a house on the water, and with money to invest, we began to look at properties on the Jersey shore. Nothing pleased us. What to do? Chincoteague? Is it possible? We began to work with several realtors in the area, which necessitated a few shopping trips to the island. Gene liked several of the properties in the interior of the island, which he was ready to buy.

But, Gene, I want a house on the water.

But, Bob, we can buy a house on one of the backstreets for a lot less money than waterfront.

Listen, Gene, we already own one house not on the water. I want waterfront, or I’m not interested. Besides, there’s a limited amount of waterfront on the east coast. It’s a good investment.

And so we went, back and forth. At the end of yet another fruitless day of looking at property, we returned to the Island Motor Inn which offered a private deck overlooking the Inland Waterway with every room.

Why don’t we just live here for a couple years and forget about a house, I said, opening the paper. Then something caught my eye:

Waterfront. Charming 2-story waterman’s cottage, 2 bedrooms, 2 bath, enclosed porch. Also Shad Shack, Dock, Mobile Home and Bunkhouse

"Gene, this is it! It’s just what we’re looking for!"

Who’s the realtor, Bob? It’s not yet five, why don’t you call them.

Richard, the broker, was the only person left in the office.

"I’ll meet you at 787 South Main in twenty minutes."

It turned out he knew nothing about the house, and the listing agent was unavailable. That didn’t matter. This was it. Our eyes looked beyond the neglect, the tasteless overcrowding of rooms, the windows hidden behind a triple layer of aluminum blinds, curtains, and heavy brocade drapes. We focused on her potential, possibility, and location, location, location. Within the hour, we signed the contract.

We went home full of optimism to await the closing. There were a few bumps along the way. The house had no heat. New Jersey novices that we were, a house without heat had never occurred to us. There were plumbing problems. We accepted it all because we were in love with her. A lover, wild about her beloved, knows she can overcome anything, and we were crazy about her. A few days before Christmas 1986, we traveled to Chincoteague to take possession of our sweetheart. We were as happy as if we were welcoming a new baby into the family.

We spent the next three years going to Chincoteague almost every weekend, each time not wanting to leave. Our families, our entire lives had been in New Jersey, but no longer was our heart there.

It wasn’t easy in 1990 to leave two newlywed daughters, family, and friends, but the call to live on Chincoteague Island was too strong to resist. Gene’s diagnoses of kidney cancer ten years earlier, and the awareness of his mortality was never far from his mind. Cancer seems to be a malevolent disease, which is accompanied by a harassing spirit that never fully goes away. In addition, he loved to fish and had always wanted a boat. Even if I did not love Chincoteague, where life was lived with friendliness and care like I was accustomed to growing up; even if I had not always wanted a home on the water; even if I didn’t love the beach—I would have been compelled to move for no other reason than if Gene died and I prevented him from his dream, I would have not been able to live with myself.

Everybody thought we were crazy. We were going off to start a new life at forty-nine and fifty-three with no job or prospects. Reckless as teenagers, we had $600 to our name. Oh, yes, we had assets, but grocery