Fifty one years ago, I was an intelligent and pretty high school girl with “Marcia Brady” hair. I liked blue jeans, Biology, hoodies, and my boyfriend, Derrick. Six months older than me on that Wednesday evening, he occupied much more of my brain than he should’ve. The heart wants what the heart wants, especially at seventeen.
That evening was just like any other in my life. My parents were ten years older than those of most of my friends. They had long since forgotten the excitement of high school wrestling matches or basketball games. As farmers, they’d been up since dark:30, and would need to stay up that night to retrieve me from the high school, just six miles south of the ranch. The wrestling match would be over by 9.
My parents themselves had fallen in love at that very high school in 1937, so I never understood how they couldn’t accept that I’d fallen in love, too. Derrick was a year behind me in the grade that I should’ve been in had I not skipped 1st.
As with any young relationship, ours was dramatic and serious. We were making plans for our forever, and I was deep in thought about those plans while gulping down a quick dinner early that evening. Following strict rules, I’d completed my homework and ironed my outfit for the next day. Grabbing our jackets, we walked toward the door, interrupted by the ring of the telephone.
In the 1900’s, all phones were hard-wired. At our house, the phone hung right about the ranch desk with a designated chair for longer calls or book work. Of course, there were no long calls because you were wired to the wall in plain site of the dinner table. There, prying eyes and listening ears would take everything they heard and use it against the sister that was receiving a call. Especially if it was from a B-O-Y.
My father took the call, speaking in a very low tune. Strange as it was, the only thing I could hear him say was “I’ll tell her.” Life was about to transform me from a silly school girl into a grieving young woman.
January 31, 1973. 5:00 pm. Derrick was dead.
When my father told me, my mother immediately insisted that I take two aspirin. Who knows the thinking behind that? To her, it just seemed another thing to insist upon. I declined and sat down to think about whether this could be true. I’d be meeting him at 7:00 pm for a secret kiss and then he’d be off to get ready for his match.
Derrick was 5’10”, 174 lbs., muscular and strong as an ox. He’d never been sick a day since I’d met him. Cleared by the sports doctor to participate in team events, none of this made any sense. He’d been the picture of health.
Earlier in the day, Derrick became unwell after sweltering in a sweat suit to shed water weight and make his weight class. The school nurse was busy filling in for the cafeteria ladies, so she’d called me out of class to sit with him while she tried to reach his mother. As we sat together, his skin tone turned from stark white to bright red. We watched the rhythmic change as the two of us, a couple of scared kids, waited for his mother to take him home.
“Mrs. Wilson, you need to pick up your son. Here in the nurse’s office, he’s become quite ill”, the nurse informed his mom.
“Sorry. I’m in the middle of a perm. Can’t leave. He can take the bus and walk home like usual “, replied the hairdressing mom. Click.
Sorry.
I’m.
In.
The.
Middle.
Of.
A.
Perm.
“Wow”. We both just said Wow.
Walking Derrick to the bus, I did manage to touch his cheek before he boarded the bus. He’d ride for thirty minutes and then walk the 1/4 mile to his front door. There, he’d rest until it was time to get ready for his match. He dropped dead in the hallway while fighting with his mom about attending the wrestling match. In the middle of an ugly argument, he was gone.
February 1, instead of taking my math test, I chose the clothes for his funeral. A “Funky Groovy Threads” shirt I’d given him on Christmas, just the month before, corduroy pants, and his favorite boots. My Senior ring on his finger, he was buried in front grieving friends and teachers he loved so much. Even now, I still remember the smell the flowers covering the front of Stephen’s and Bean’s Funeral home. Funeral flowers just smell different.
The rest of my Senior year couldn’t have been worse. People have a hard time dealing with a death of the young. It’s much easier to avoid the topic and carry on as if nothing ever happened, even when everyone knew it did. On a beautiful June evening, I graduated with honors, in spite of a broken heart.
From time to time, I think of the young grief-filled woman that was me. If only I’d known then what I know now, things would have gone better. The stages of grief hadn’t yet been identified, but I experienced them all anyway. I spent way too many afternoons sitting near his headstone at Mountain View Cemetery. It was as good a place as any to complete college homework.
Whatever the age, losing a loved one is one of the worst times in a human’s life. Even after 51 years, that young grief-filled woman remains close to my heart. I hug myself every January 31st and remind myself that the grief did pass and a beautiful life did follow.
Whatever you do today, remember someone that’s experiencing a loss. Take some time to listen as they tell you about their loved one. Tell someone about the person you lost. It’s a beautiful way to keep their memory alive.
More tomorrow.