First off, I realized my goal of posting a blog every week was beyond my capabilities right now. Writing is still difficult and I need to concentrate on continuing the stories I started years ago. Also, I seem to have reached a new stage in my journey of grief, All the distractions and major changes to my life are over, and I've got nothing to stop the painful memories.
The first year or so was spent dealing with all her possessions, making sure her friends and family got the things she wanted to give them. Sorting through mementos that only had meaning for me and her was difficult. She had saved practically every card she'd received over the last thirty years and hundreds of pictures. Several photo albums ended up in the garbage as everyone in them had passed and her two nieces never knew them. That hurt. I felt like I was throwing away her life.
The worst experience had to be dealing with the crematorium representative. He couldn't get his gurney down the hall and into her bedroom, so I had to help him carry her body out of the room and down the hall and watch him zip up the body bag. That horrible memory is burned into my brain and will be there forever.
With my income slashed the state was no longer paying me to care for her, we had to sell the house and find somewhere else to live. I don't think I could've stayed in the house much longer anyway. It felt so empty and she had taken all the joy with her when she left. If you've ever had to sell a house, you know what a nightmare that can be. First you have to find an agent who seems to know what he or she is doing. Then comes the de-cluttering and multiple trips to storage. Of course, all the problems with the house you've been putting off for years have to be fixed, and finally staging. We couldn't afford a moving van so the trips to storage felt never ending.
All our work paid off as the house sold in three days, and the Lord was definitely watching over us when we found and closed on a mobile home we could afford. It's in an old park with to amenities, but as the saying goes, beggars can't be choosers. At least we didn't have to spend weeks in a motel looking for a home.
Chris was one of those people who made friends everywhere she went. She not only had a bunch of friends here in our hometown, but had made many more friends when her husband moved them an hour or so north. This required two memorials. The bigger one locally was more formal, included her few surviving family members, and was held in her favorite church. The one up north was more intimate and personal, and held in a small club house by a lake.
Since I probably knew her best, and we had discussed many times over the years what she wanted for a memorial, my participation in the planning for both memorials was expected. We had kept our relationship relatively quiet here in our hometown, not wanting to take the chance of upsetting her family or friends at church. Her friends up north were well aware of our relationship and encouraged it. I found out later that the family knew but didn't care and her really close church friends knew. The others only knew me as the man who took care of her and had nursed her back to health.
The memorial up north meant so much to me. Around twenty of us sat in a circle, sang some of her favorite songs, and read some of her favorite scriptures. The rest of the time we went around the circle and folks shared how much Chris had impacted their lives. They all wanted me to share special moments and adventures from the years we had spent together. That was incredibly hard, and still is, and I had to stop many times to wipe away tears. Everyone understood and was patient with me.
I began attending her church and they accepted me with open arms. Nothing will ever fill the emptiness in my heart, but it does help to make new friends who try to understand. You can never truly understand until you've gone through it yourself.
I don't know if my next blog will continue along these personal lines or if I'll share some of the struggles trying to discover my writing groove again. We'll see.
Included here is a little bit of a memory I wrote about the morning she took me to the hospital for my open heart surgery.
Thanks for reading.
3:15 am I closed my eyes.
After an hour, I opened my eyes again to try and focus on the clock.
3:16 am Crap. I might as well just get up and shut off the alarm. The light was still on in the bedroom as my wife had yet to come to bed, which didn’t surprise me. Maybe she had changed her mind and would come to the hospital.
In the bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror wondering if I’d ever see it again. What choice did I have? I would die soon without this surgery so I just had to face my fear and go through with it.
As I rinsed the last of the shampoo from my hair, I felt a slight change in the air as someone opened the door to the bathroom. I knew who it was. The shower door slid over just enough for her to poke her head in.
“Good morning, Sweetie. You’re up early.”
“I couldn’t sleep either, plus I wanted to make sure you were up.”
I couldn’t see her clearly without my glasses, but when she sniffed, I could just imagine her scrunched up nose.
“I hate the smell of that disinfecting soap they make you bathe with. Reminds too much of all the surgeries I’ve had. Bring your butt over here so I can wash your back.”
“Just my butt or can the rest of me come along?”
She smacked me.
Once dry, we wrapped our arms around each other and shared a quiet embrace. She pulled away just enough to search my face. “Scared?”
“Yes”
“Me too. I don’t want to lose you.”
We embraced again and shared a long, passionate kiss as if it would be our last.
“I’ll go warm up the car. Meet me in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
Once the door closed behind her, I closed my eyes and prayed. “Dear Lord, I don’t ask for much, but please get me through this surgery with no complications. Amen.”
Out in the living room she was talking to my wife. “It’s not too late if you want to take him to the hospital.”
“No, thank you. It’s time for me to go to bed. I’ll come by and visit later.” With a ‘Good Luck’ over her shoulder, she disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door. We shared a look, shrugged, and headed for the car, a small bag over my shoulder.
We arrived early for my 5 am check in time, but the hospital was already bustling with activity. Hand in hand, we waited by the fake fireplace along with several others who probably felt the same apprehension as I did. Nothing showed on our faces however.
A young nurse soon arrived to escort me to the lower levels of the hospital into an area partitioned by curtains into separate cubicles. The woman who greeted us was all business and efficiency. She pointed at the stainless table covered with a single white sheet. “We have a lot to do to prepare you for your surgery. So, if you would undress and lay down on this table, we’ll get started.”
After helping me undress, and waiting for the nurse to insert the two IVs in my left arm, Chris pulled over a chair and held my hand the whole time until they carted me away. Having been through over thirty surgeries herself at the same hospital, the senior nurse recognized her and let her stay for the rest of the process.
The other nurse quickly returned and they went to work. At one point the older nurse glanced over at Chris and asked, “Are you his wife?”
I smiled as this was something we had dealt with for many years. A sad smile on her face, she answered, “In my heart. But no, we are not married.”
Nothing more was said as I lay there naked while they inserted two more IV’s in my right arm, shaved practically every inch of my body, and used a black marker to draw lines and pictures on me. I began to wonder if I was being prepared for surgery or as a sacrifice to some pagan god.
Finally, the surgeon poked his head around the curtains, “It’s time.”
Mask over my mouth and nose, the last thing I heard was, “I love you. Come back to me.”
