Susan Huehn

I must admit, I have been a bit unglued the past weeks as the reviewers are reading my book and preparing their blurbs for its cover. Grief, for me, was the ultimate confrontation with vulnerability: I was destabilized and confused and I couldn’t keep the damn water flowing. Having others read about my grief has triggered that frightening word that I associate with fear. Fear of being hurt again, others not meeting my needs and of the water staying permanently frozen. But huzzah! The first reviewer has called me “plucky” and I am going to embrace that! Here it is, from Julie Neeras, a spiritual director, ordained minister and former professor at Hamline University. Julie is also the author of Apprenticed to Hope: A Sourcebook for Difficult Times; Seeing the Sacred: A Year in Snapshots, and Hope and Poetry: How they Sustain Us.

Review of Susan Huehn’s book A Widow’s Guide To Becoming a Handyman.

This is a compelling and candid love story about a cross cultural romance. It’s also an immigrant story, which carries the remnants of war and loss, and the difficult work of bridging very different temperaments. Finally, it is a beautifully written eulogy to Klaus, whose abrupt death left his wife and their children bereft. A seasoned nurse, and educator, she felt competent at work but “unmoored with sorrow” and unsure at home. Her endearing, yet eccentric husband, who had no experience building a house, enthusiastically tore the entire roof off theirs, and it
remained that way for months. When he died, his improvised, makeshift house projects, left her with a run-down old farmhouse, a crippled septic system, and equally crippling self-doubt. Yet she responds to “the assignment fate” had given to her, with courage and pluck. This is a wonderful, memorable read.
Julie Neraas is a spiritual director, ordained minister, and former professor at Hamline

Thank you, Julie, for your time and my new “plucky” identity.

As a nurse, I was taught that grief was dealt with in stages. Five to be exact: Denial, Anger, Depression, Bargaining, and Acceptance. And that those stages followed a linear path with a beginning a middle and an end.

I found myself always checking in, what stage am I in now? Did I do something wrong? I don’t remember feeling angry? Did I skip right to depression? I wanted to do grief “right” so that I could quickly go through the stages and move on with my life.

In reality, nothing was farther from the truth. There was no predictability. There were no stages. It was messy and unpredictable. And feelings froze at unpredictable times. Like my pipes in mid-April with a late polar vortex.

Grief overwhelmed me at the Fleet Farm next to the gladiola bulbs and when someone talked about chocolate cake.

Crying jags were triggered unexpectedly and came in no particular order. They came and went at their whim and there was nothing linear or tidy about them. I learned to focus on survival. What do I need at this moment to move forward?

And breathe, just breathe.

November 2012. My life as I knew it ended. My husband left home to do what he loved — cook soup for his church community. One moment vibrant, chopping vegetables with the children of the church. The next moment gone. He left home giving me one last kiss saying, “‘let’s do something this afternoon. I really want to be a good husband.” I didn’t know you could die in the space between heartbeats. He left me with three children to raise and a half-finished, jerry-rigged farmhouse to which only he had the instruction manual. Thank you for joining me on my journey.

Blessings,

Susan