Our Story - Part Two

As the grief recovery seminar entered its third week, it was time for Cheryl to share her story with the group. I already knew we both had Polish last names and that our husbands died in June from cancer. I did not know the similarities would continue as she, too, talked about her fairytale marriage to Tony.

Suddenly it seemed as though the rest of the people in our group had dissipated as Cheryl and I continued eye contact, sharing our story - as Cheryl talked, I nodded with tears stinging my own eyes, listening to someone tell me what my whole life had been about. Her husband with his Polish heritage, their age difference, her role as nurse and caregiver, and how Tony dressed as Santa Claus at Christmas and passed out candy to all the kids. My own husband had been dubbed the "Candy Man" because of all the candy he filled his pockets with before he went to church. The kids knew and were always waiting for him.

As Cheryl described the love and adoration she had received from Tony, I realized I wasn't the only woman who had ever perched on a lofty pedestal. Cheryl had been there, too. As she relived Tony's final moments, I could feel the horrible ache of watching Chezzy slip away from me. So much of Tony's character reminded me of the man I had loved. He was romantic and passionate. He was the giver of gifts and compliments. He was generous and loving and always ready to listen. She could have been describing Chezzy. And what was so incredibly unbelievable was the respect both men demanded from their mothers-in-law: "I'm Mr. Polack".

"He actually said that?" I asked Cheryl some time later. "Mr. Polack? That's exactly what Chezzy told my mother to call him!"

She confirmed that Tony had actually said it. Both men with their wonderful sense of humor asked for a little respect when calling them a Polack.

Cheryl told us that night that Tony had died from multiple myeloma, a cancer affecting both his skull and spine. Our husbands had died 22 days apart. We would learn later that "22" was a number we had in common as we revealed our birthdays: January 22 and February 22. Cheryl will proudly let you know I am 13 months to the day older than her. And the age difference between our husbands and us? Fourteen years and thirteen years. Both couples married in 1974, moved into our new homes on July 15, just three years apart, and Cheryl and I spent what would have been our 19th anniversaries as forty-two and forty-three year old widows.

I finally approached Cheryl at the end of that third meeting and told her she was right, I couldn't believe the similarities. We continued talking until we were in the parking lot. We began sitting together at the seminar, and I met Cheryl for lunch at a cafeteria close to her home in De Soto, then followed her home for more sharing and crying.

"Tony was a MP in the Army," Cheryl told me.

I stared at her. "Chezzy was, too."

"He grew up as a Catholic," she went on. "There was a time when he wanted to become a priest."

"Chezzy, too," I said as my eyes grew wide. "His Dad didn't want his only son to be a priest and, frankly, I can't imagine him being one."

"I can't either," Cheryl said, and we both laughed.

But in those early days, laughter between us was very seldom as we leaned on each other for understanding and support.