ABOVE THE TIDE
by Marsha Borling
I knew the minute I met her she was a keeper. A down-to-earth Midwestern girl with dark curly hair, a freckled nose, sparkling eyes and a bubbling laugh, she was as effervescent as new champagne. I felt I’d known her all my life and could talk with her about anything. Best of all, she was in love with my son.
I first learned of Anna when Matt was a senior at St. Norbert College in De Pere. While on a business trip to Green Bay, I took him out for a nice, “Mom is paying” dinner. Halfway through the meal, he said, “Um, Mom, I’m kind of seeing this girl.” Beet red and looking down at his plate, I knew this was not just any girl. Always shy about dating and a big kid at heart, we knew that when Matt found the right one, he’d fall like a 100-year-old oak. So, this was a major announcement. I’m proud to say I kept my cool and asked him what he liked most about her. Without missing a beat, he said, “She makes me laugh and feel happy.” Sold! I was a fan of Ms. Anna Ebben.
In mid-December, 2000, Matt brought her to the annual holiday family get-together. With everyone gathered around, Anna jumped up and down while Matt, grinning from ear-to-ear and puffed up with pride, pointed to the engagement ring on Anna’s hand and shouted with joy, “We’re getting married!”
The date was set for June 15, 2002. Both had recently graduated as teachers, and wanted to work for a while before getting married. Matt took a job as a second-grade teacher in Clintonville, Wisconsin, and Anna started teaching kindergarten in nearby Kaukauna. We lived in Illinois, and saw them as frequently as jobs and schedules would allow. It was an exciting year, making wedding plans, getting to know her better, and falling more in love with her every time we were together. When she asked me to accompany her and her mother to shop for a wedding dress, I eagerly accepted. We went to a small shop in Kaukauna and Anna modeled dress after dress. I wasn’t much help. Each time she asked me, “How do you like this dress, Marsha?” I just answered, “You look so beautiful!” She radiated happiness. I don’t remember anything about the dress she eventually chose, only the joy of being included in that special day. When Matt told me they hoped to have four children, I started knitting a baby blanket. Not wanting to be presumptuous, I chose a neutral green and yellow yarn.
But none of that was to be. Seven months before the wedding, Matt became ill and the virus caused his heart to fail. A month later we lost him, and the bottom of our world dropped out. At times it felt like Anna was the only person I wanted to talk to, yet her grief was so raw, I couldn’t burden her with mine. Gone was her luster, gone were her twinkling eyes, gone was her infectious laugh. After spending time together, my efforts to help her left me feeling drained and desolate. It was as if we were both drowning in a rough sea, trying to stay afloat, unable to rise high enough above the tide to rescue the other. I’d never lost a fiancée and she’d never lost a son, and our two badly broken hearts simply could not shoulder the other’s cross.
For a long time, each of us floundered, trying to find a way forward. Anna clung to our family, and I clung to her, not wanting to face the fact that along with losing Matt, I would lose my relationship with her, too. The lost expectations—no wedding, no new daughter in law, no grandchildren—compounded my agony.
I learned in the years to follow that one of the most tortuous aspects of grief is its loneliness: despite all the angels in my life who tried to help, I ultimately had to endure and survive the journey on my own. Slowly, I began to move forward.
Four years after Matt died, Jim and I received an invitation to Anna’s wedding. I crashed again, losing much of the ground I’d gained, as the tide of darkness rolled over me again. We struggled with the dilemma of her upcoming wedding: Could we survive the pain of attending? But if we didn’t go, would Anna be hurt? Not going felt like the better option for me, but I grappled with the guilt of how it would make Anna feel if we did not attend. I felt stuck again, tired of the pain, and unsure if I could survive another setback. On the advice of a colleague, I met with a grief counselor who specialized in helping parents who had lost children. During our three sessions together, he offered advice that I followed: “Anna is moving on with her life, and you need to move on with yours. You have a right to shield yourself from the pain her wedding would bring. Send a card and a gift, wish them well, but it’s ok not to go.” Most important, he said, “Matt would want you to be happy again,” giving me permission to get well and move forward.
For twenty years after Matt’s passing, we saw Anna every August at a golf outing in Matt’s honor that she organized and hosted. She came to my mother’s funeral in October of 2018. And she still reaches out with a text on Matt’s birthday and the day of his death. With each contact, I rejoice in her presence, while at the same time, ache for all that could have been. I know her life is full with a husband and three children. Sometimes I steel myself and look at Facebook posts of her sons’ baseball games, graduations, first dates, or family vacations, and I see images of the good mother I always knew she would be. And in every picture, I can see her sparkle is back.
The waves of sadness still come over me, but they recede faster now, and most days I can keep from sinking. My brief relationship with Anna taught me that we can never know how long those we love will be in our lives—all we can do is be grateful for the time that we have together. I’ve learned that by focusing more on what I have rather than what I’ve lost, I can rise above the tide. Up here, my soul is filled with gratitude for the joy of being Matt’s mom for twenty-three years, and the chance to know the beautiful woman he loved.

MARSHA BORLING says: I am a daughter, sister, wife, mother, grandmother, retired healthcare consultant, and aspiring writer. For the past ten years, I have been writing life reviews for hospice patients. Helping them recount, document and share memories with their families sharpened my regret that I hadn’t done anything like that with my dad. I became inspired to write stories from my life, with the hope that some day my grandchildren could learn more about our family history. This story tells of a relationship that brought me joy, heartbreak, and taught me a crucial life lesson.