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There is a special place in hell for mothers. It is on Earth. Doreen Henderson lingered for months in a dark place few could understand. The psychiatrists called it post-traumatic syndrome. A young woman, the widow slipped into middle-age over night. It was as if Doreen's world had died on her that afternoon of the accident and she had awakened on a dead planet. She had been put on medication. There was therapy. Counseling. I tried to drop in on her every chance I got. When Doreen was released from the hospital I made it a point to visit her at home. For a while her sister from Winnipeg stayed with her. Neighbors kept an eye on her house, cut the grass, made sure her bills were paid, took her shopping, tried to return her to a normal life.
It was suggested that Doreen sell her house, start fresh some place else. Doreen refused. Jeremy's room was kept as it appeared on the day of the accident. Clothes were scattered on the floor. The bed was unmade. Homework waited to be finished on his desk.
One day when I arrived, the fire department was at the house. Doreen had taken all of her husband's clothes into the backyard and burnt them. My visits increased. Sometimes Doreen and I knelt down in her kitchen and prayed. Other times we sat in her den looking out the window at her garden, hardly speaking.
"I hate him!" She cried out one day while we were praying.
"Jesus loves you," I responded reaching out for Doreen's hand. She rose from the floor and marched into the living room. She had grabbed a picture of her husband and smashed it on the floor. She moved from picture to picture smashing each one. When she smashed a picture of her husband and her son together, she fell to her knees and wept uncontrollably.