How Covid Stole My Husbands Final Goodbye

My husband’s mother tragically passed away in February. She was returning from a funeral in their hometown when the car she was in was involved in an accident. Although she didn’t die immediately, she spent two weeks in the hospital with a broken arm and leg before succumbing to internal bleeding in February 2020. She was 55 years old.

As her only child, my husband faced the daunting task of organizing a proper burial for his mother all on his own. It was incredibly difficult for him. I watched him run around every day, often forgetting to eat as he tried to manage everything.

Finally, everything was arranged for the funeral to take place on March 20, 2020. However, on March 15, the president announced a ban on all social gatherings due to the spread of the Coronavirus. That evening, my husband stayed awake all night, contemplating his next steps. For the first time in a long while, I saw him cry—not just for his mother’s death, but for something beyond his control. He was utterly broken.

“Why is everything getting worse for mom’s funeral? Why?” he asked me. I replied, “Everything happens for a reason. Let’s trust in the Lord and His ways. It will be alright.”

He poured out his heart in tears.

The next day, he met with family members who wanted to postpone the funeral until the ban was lifted. However, my husband insisted, “The longer we keep the body in the morgue, the more it will cost. I can’t afford that. Let’s bury her; she’ll understand.”

Most family members disagreed with his decision. The head of the family said, “Your mother raised you singlehandedly. The least you can do is give her a proper burial, but you’re worried about money? Do you know how much she invested in you?” I know my husband well; deep down, he would have preferred to wait, but he had already spent so much—hospital bills, morgue fees, and other expenses. He was exhausted.

So, on March 20, 2020, at 6 a.m., the body was placed in a coffin and quietly taken to the cemetery for burial. I could count the attendees at the graveside: the pastor, four choristers, and a few family members.

The entire ceremony lasted less than thirty minutes. They filled the grave, and we returned home.

A week later, my husband and I were at home due to the lockdown.

Yesterday, he sat in front of the TV, flipping through one of the unused funeral booklets. He was reading the tribute he had written for his mother. I remembered the sleepless night he spent trying to craft the perfect tribute, only to have no time to read it to her. I couldn’t bear to look at him more than once; he was lost in his own thoughts.

He is not the man he once was. He has become a mere shadow of his former self. Something is weighing heavily on him, perhaps the way he buried his mother still haunts him. Nothing I say or do seems to help. Spending the next two weeks alone with him in this room will be challenging, but I pray he finds solace in living and returns to enjoying life once more. He’s all I have.

—Bernice