The Sylvia Story

Im going back in time here, about 25 years to the day my husband died unexpectedly. It was the day before Thanksgiving in 1996. Our shocked family gathered round the table the next day, a ritual I found extremely comforting. Then there were calls to friends, funeral arrangements to be made, grieving to be done. In the middle of all this, my local friends organized a reception for Sunday. It was just a sad, unbelievable blur. Along about Saturday my neighbor Sylvia, who was also a widow -- a term I would have to adjust to -- called to offer her sympathy. "Thank you, Sylvia," I said, "I really appreciate that because I know you understand how it feels." "Yes, I do," she replied, "and it never gets any better." I've always wanted to thank Sylvia for that remark because she gave me the first laugh I'd had in days. As sad as I was, even then I believed "things" would get better. After we hung up I turned to my son who was nearby and had watched my reaction to Sylvia's comment. "You won't believe what Sylvia just said to me!" I burst out. Since that day that phrase became a watchword between my son and me. Anytime there was a problem, he would look at me and say, "You know, Mom, it never gets any better," later shortened to "You know, Mom . . ." Now, of course, I realize what Sylvia was trying to say: that one never totally recovers from the loss of a loved one. Her intentions were sincere, but the presentation was the most precious: an opportunity to laugh.