I sat with trepidation and pushed up my left sleeve. Routine blood draws are no longer routine for me. My veins have started hiding. They need coaxing.
As the lab tech considered how to draw my blood on a cold and rainy Wednesday, I told her about my late husband's small veins, worsened by chemotherapy for brain cancer.
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"I was his advocate for every blood draw," I told her as she studied my arm.
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She froze, clearly trying to compose herself. I had said something wrong.
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After some steadying breaths, she shared that her husband had died from brain cancer, too. We stared at each other, tears reflecting our personal grief and our grief for each other.
As we powered through the blood draw -- tourniquet on my arm, butterfly needle under her gentle hands, my eyes closed -- she started to share.
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Her husband was strong, healthy and hard-working. He was a good man, and she loved him completely. One evening after work he complained of a headache -- uncharacteristic for him -- and the next day stumbled when trying to stand up. An emergency room visit led to testing and imaging that revealed the brain tumor. Fifty days later, he fell into a coma. He never recovered.
My blood vials sat in a small bin as she continued to share and I asked quiet questions. She's been a widowed single mom for two years now. Her children are 9 and 15. She wondered aloud if she should consider marrying again for the sake of her children. Yet she is still in love with her late husband. She is proud of their children, both doing well in school and earning praise from their teachers. She keeps her husband's memory alive by talking about him at home.
When I spoke, I shared the words that I once needed. I told her it's a celebration every day when you get out of bed. I reminded her that she's carrying her own grief plus the shifting grief of her children, who realize their dad's loss in different ways as they mature and reach new milestones. She's bearing the weight of raising children alone, a joy that she and her husband had planned to complete together.
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Her journey is difficult, but she is already doing so well. I encouraged her to ask for help when she needs it. I told her that though my children are now 19 and 23, we're still on the grief journey together - and that we've persevered and made mistakes and overcome together.
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"I am proud of you," I told this woman I'd barely met. We hugged. I told her that I would pray for her and her children, and she said that she's trusting God's plan. We hugged again.
She resumed her work, and I left the office to face the rain.
I carry this sweet woman and her journey in my heart. She reminded me that everyone has a story -- sometimes we want to keep that story close, and sometimes we need to share. She reminded me of the great privilege and responsibility we have to listen, to empathize, to speak words of courage and encouragement.
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I'm reminded of the dear souls who've listened to me first and offered guidance second, of the power of being vulnerable and then affirmed by loved ones or even strangers, and the importance of community and connection even in the most mundane moments. We need one another for the journey.
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