A Testimony

In the darkness of a fall morning, he drew his last breath and squeezed the hand that held his.  


Days on the oncology ward were filled with family and friends who traveled more than five hours to be with him.  The stream of visitors was steady.  The nurses commented one after the other about how unusual this was, "You must be quite a guy," they all remarked to my husband.  "This is a testimony to how you live your life."

Those days in the Boston hospital stretched into just short of a month.  The days turned into nights and my husband began to confuse night with day.  Sometimes he would wake at 2 in the morning having slept on and off through most of the day.  I reverted to my days of acclimating my sweet newborns to regular wake sleep patterns, but my efforts in the hospital did little to ignite any predictability as to when my husband would sleep or I as the caretaker should doze myself.  So I slept when my husband slept.

My husband was never alone; our eight children, spouses and dear friends each stayed at the hospital through all those nights.  We all found that the tiny little built in couch in the hospital room was quite comfortable and when we moved to a health care facility closer to home, the staff gave us a room with an extra bed.  Our friend Stanley said he wanted to stay.  

A cancer-surviving almost 80 year old dynamo, he sleeps little. Sedated my husband was lulled into a pain-free sleep after a nearly 6 hour bumpy ambulance ride from Boston to our little coastal island. I was relieved that my husband was no longer crying out in pain, but sleeping.  I would see him in the morning and plan to spend the night with him after some sleep.  We both needed sleep after the journey.

No surprise Stanley slept little that night.  Instead he held his beloved friend's hand.  This rough, but gentle lumberjack of a guy held my husband's hand and spoke of love until the end.   This a testimony to my husband and the unquenchable power of love between men.

Today's Top Ten Reasons to Be Grateful Arranged Without Logic or Reason

10.  Geraniums blooming with outside temperature recordings in the teens.

  9.  Rising before sunrise for prayer and breakfast in observance of the Bahai Fast.

  8.  Visiting with friends this evening and swapping Jerry stories.

  7.  Listening to the howling wind.

  6.  Morning, afternoon and evening wet kisses stolen by Rex.

  5.  Sipping afternoon tea with a froth of Almond milk.

  4.  Playing Parcheesi.

  3.  Children who check on their Mama.

  2.  When I ask for help, I receive it.

  1.  MDI boys are Class B State Champions in Basketball.

  

Ready for Anything

The ravens sounded from the edge of the thick woods, one swooped in front of me landing on the high branches of a bare deciduous.  The sky was a cloudy gray in parts with a mix of blue sky.  I paused to observe and listen.  My eyes squinted in an attempt to locate the other squawking bird. Bare branches mingled with dense conifers which made spotting him a challenging task.  Unresolved observations did little to slow me down as I walked on the edge of the woods along the long paved driveway; the ground was far too wet and muddy for me to venture into the dark cool forest.  The forecast I heard was for clouds.  No mention of precipitation.  At the far end of the drive, fat raindrops pelted me.  It seems they came out of nowhere, and then I remembered the gray skies.  I kept walking thinking it only a shower, after all blue was over my left shoulder and the report was clouds. A few steps more the wind began to pick up.  Still I walked.  Then it began to hail.  Tiny little balls of ice stung at my face and bounced off my head, my shoulders and my chest.  They stuck in my hair and began to melt. Water dripped down my face and soon pants were drenched too.

I held my cell to my left ear, my hand frozen. "It is suppose to get really cold this afternoon, into tonight." my friend offered during the rainy portion of my walk.  Little did I know that  temperatures would drop and that I would return to hours more of school drenched, and I feared very cold.

I dried quickly and without cause for alarm.  I must remember that each walk I take is an unpredictable series of happenings.   I just have to be ready for anything.

Dodging and Facing

The wet gravel shifts under-foot making what was to be quiet walk, quite loud, adding to the chatter in my head.  I am overwhelmed.  Counting on the mental health benefits of movement-I walk.  I pray too, while I walk.  On this cold, drizzly first day of March, I stuff my hands into my fleece jacket, lower my chin, and raise my shoulders to my ears to buffet against the wind.  I walk alone.

His hand slipped into mine and we darted off the sidewalk and into the street to get past the tourists who were walking three by three, shoulder to shoulder making it impossible to walk around them.  It was our summer game.  How long could we maintain our walking speed without tourists' obstructing our path?  And what was the fastest way around them? Together we zigged.  We zagged.  Sometimes hand in hand and other times we would traverse separate routes to see who would emerge from the crowd first.  Heads tipped back, our laughter drifted toward the strangers we left behind; our path clear ahead.

Today I walk alone in fog and heavy drizzle; the rain pools on the side of the road.  March means mud.  Soon the tourists will return in throngs-that will not change.  What will change is that I will dodge the summer masses alone.  My husband's rough hand in mine leading me,  guiding me, only a memory as I face life's obstacles, without him.  I am overwhelmed.

Compartmentalized Grief

There seems to be plenty rolling around inside my head these days, but the words just don't come.  This morning I walked around the house most of the morning unintentionally with one sock on.  Only when I went to put my shoes on did I notice.  It is clear that I am not fully in this world.  I have spent much of my time rooting around in my heart; picking up pieces.

So many good intentioned people offer advice for how to get through my days.  I am new to this.  It has been 92 days, tomorrow marks three months since my husband left this world.  Continually adjusting, feeling my way forward in darkness and in light, this is my unique journey.  

This week, I have compartmentalized my grief.  In the stillness I cry, created time devoted to face whatever comes.  Wave of emotions still come to me through the day in my workplace, in the car or while I revisit our favorite walks. Ceremoniously expressing my grief appears to make life manageable while I continue to live and fulfill my responsibilities.  Curiously and gratefully I step ahead each day recreating me and building a new normal.

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Love Is Eternal

Now the gold polish has nearly worn off.  My two youngest daughters bent on knees on the floor, bathed my feet and made them sparkly for the fall wedding.

Our fingers entwined, my husband and I walked onto the dance floor.  Our dearest friends sharing the space with us, we danced.  Just the two of us.  With everyone else.  He held me close; our bodies swayed sometimes together and sometimes not.  My husband did not complain.  The pain consumed him.  Yet, he wanted to dance. "I know you like to dance," he replied, after I scolded.  Dancing was too much for him.

He never really recovered.  The pain of unknown cause, a constant companion.  Our last dance.

Silly, but I can't bear to remove the polish and I dread when the last of it rubs off.    It is just another little reminder of the man I love and how he constantly, selflessly thought of me and loved me and still loves me so.  Love really is eternal.

Always

He walked passed me twice, his eyes averting my direction. I was a mess sitting in the lobby of the hospital-a high traffic area; tears streaming down my cheeks while choking back audible sobs and snorting. Grieving comes in waves. I have learned I can never prepare or predict when it will roll in. While waiting to check in for lab work, the doctor who diagnosed my husband's cancer walked passed me. I said hello and without hesitation he hugged me, and then asked how everything was going.  I was unsure he heard the news about my husband.  "You, you know Jerry passed away, right?" I asked.

Shaking his head, his eyes lowered in the direction of the lab request I held in my hand, "Are you OK?"

Assured I was fine. He walked off. There was so much that was unsaid. I sat. I cried. His voice has remained in my head for six months both reassuring and ultimately disturbing, "Don't worry, he's not going to die from this. Look, he's  not going to die from this." He reassured me over and over during that first appointment and then each time we saw him thereafter.

My shoulders heaved, my eyes lowered to the floor. I had no tissues. My nose ran and the flow of tears was steady. Hospital visitors, patients and staff walked by as I tried to muffle the sounds of grief.

A stranger stepped forward, "Would you accept a hug?" The woman probably in her forties had been on her phone chatting with someone when I first entered the hospital and then later texting. Her arms wrapped me. She whispered comfort into my ear, "It won't always be like this. It will get better." This compassion was touching.

As I moved closer to my turn at the lab, still crying, I shifted in my seat seeking comfort, I noticed a full sized Christmas Tree on display nearly touching my elbow. Fabric stars with names hung from the branches. I scanned the tree and found a star in honor of my husband. I smiled. He is with me always.