My husband died November of 2010, at 2:04 p.m.—one week before Thanksgiving. I know the time because when he took his last breath, for some reason, I glanced up at the clock. Perhaps it was a nursing response to remember the exact time of death, or a distraction for a moment. It allowed me to concentrate on an object, at least for a few seconds, rather than a human being who had just left me forever. 

I want to remember the important parts of his dying process; his facial expression at the time of death, the people present, their reactions, the silence, and what it felt like to watch him fade away.  

Family members left immediately. My daughter and I stayed with him at the bedside for hours after he died, waiting for Sinai Mortuary to arrive; saying our last goodbyes, stroking his arms, chest, and legs, feeling his body stiffen like a manikin.

I gently closed his eyelids before tracing his gray and silver threaded eyebrows with my forefingers. I studied his ears; the way they were cropped closely to his head and how the salt and pepper hairs peeked out from inside. My finger touched the familiar mole on the side of his nose and I stared at it as though I had never seen it before. I snap a mental picture of his face, knowing I’ll never see it or touch it again.            

It felt as if I had become a robot, programmed to do what was expected; a system of checks that people follow after someone they love dies. There was a plastic bag provided for me, into which I placed my husband’s smaller things. I am determined to carry everything to the car in one trip.  A Jewish joke book which Michael had been reading —which he asked me to bring from home, and his shoes are placed in the plastic bag. These things are strangely heavy and unwieldy.

My daughter had to remind me to slip off his wedding band. She helped me gather other personal belongings: a sheet of paper filled out upon his admission to hospice entitled “ALL ABOUT ME,” a series of prompts and answers that described him as a person: My favorite sport: cycling. My work involvement: Owner of a downtown eatery, Tom’s Restaurant & Tavern. Foods I love: peanut butter, smoked salmon, and mint chocolate chip ice cream. Tears flooded my eyes as I read through his bio, as if I had not known the answers that I wrote on this very sheet of paper. I fold the keepsake in half and slip it in the plastic bag for safe keeping.

We pack up his favorite CD’s which are piled high on the nightstand next to his bed. His laptop, still sitting in the black zipper case, is carried to the car, along with his clothes; the shirts with a slit up the middle (on the backside) to alleviate his bone pain when he was dressed in the mornings, his drawstring pajama pants, a flannel robe, and his favorite gray sweatshirt.    

I remember leaving the hospice later that afternoon with my daughter. Both of us, still in a dazed state of mind, headed to meet with the rest of the family. The nurses, at their brightly lit station watched us walk away, in silence. I wondered how many others—“survivors”—they observed walking away, in this direction, toward the front doors, clutching at belongings, in total exhaustion, stunned defeat.

The restaurant we gathered at seemed of little comfort, except for the fact that I was surrounded by chatter, a good diversion for me at the time. Some family members seemed angry and rude, but I didn’t focus on the behavior of others; instead I tried to be strong and understanding of the situation, as Michael would have wanted me to be. Death of a loved one frequently causes family friction, ill feeling, guilt, and anger to suddenly be revived. I watched this happen, as if it was happening to someone else and I quickly distanced myself from the chaos and focused on getting through the pain and staying sane.   

I knew if I told the story of his death, wrote about every detail that seemed meaningful, I might understand it better; make sense of it—perhaps even change it. What had happened still seemed implausible. A person is your lover and soul mate for years and then one day he disappears and never comes back. It resisted belief. He had been diagnosed with esophageal cancer two years earlier. I had known for months that he was going to die, but his death nonetheless seemed like the wrong outcome—an instant that could have gone differently, a story that could have unfolded otherwise. If I could find the right turning point in the narrative, then maybe, like Orpheus, I could bring the one I sought back from the dead.

A little over a year has passed and I still think about his death and the circumstances that surrounded it. It’s a picture I have in my mind: the caring from close friends and family members, the support and love from my two daughters, and Michael’s courageous battle against cancer. But most of all I remember him wearing a red knit Cardinal cap, his peaceful face, long eyelashes, and the hint of a faint smile when I bent down to kiss him minutes before he passed away. I touched my lips to his, whispered to him for the last time, Goodbye my love. I’ll see you in heaven.  

Part II 

The beginning of the end

Two weeks before my husband was admitted to inpatient hospice, he experienced an increase in bone pain. His daily medications were no longer easing his discomfort. I remember the initial comment from his hospice nurse, “Let’s admit him to the inpatient facility where we can get his pain under control.”  Michael sat in the wheel chair facing the open French doors, while I was behind him gripping the handles as if they might keep me from fainting.

“What are you able to do for him at the hospice facility that you can’t accomplish here? Just call the doctor and have him increase his medication dosage,”  I replied. By this time my hands were shaking and tears ran down my cheeks. I wrapped my arms around Michael’s upper chest from behind wanting to feel his closeness. Somehow I knew that when he left this house, he would never return. 

Our hospice nurse called the doctor and was able to increase the dosage to better manage his pain from home. We had our reprieve. But perhaps Michael wasn’t looking to extend his life, he might and probably was ready to let go at that time. I was the one prolonging his misery. 

Home away from home                                                                

During the time we lived in our friend’s home, and let me clarify that, the friend and his family were living in another state at the time, it never felt right. It never seemed like home, no matter what items were brought in from our house, no matter which friends and family were around. It was a mansion in a prestigious central Phoenix area with seven bathrooms, five bedrooms, a Jacuzzi, pool, huge patio front and back on several acres, and an electronic gated secured entrance. The walk from the downstairs bedroom into the kitchen was a half block area. And the French doors stretched from one end of the main floor to the other end. None of this state of the art décor mattered—it wasn’t our home. 

I remember crying to Michael and begging him to go back to our home. In retrospect, this occurred during my most stressful time at the end of his illness. I wonder now how I could have even muttered those words to my ill husband, to my friends, or to my family. Somehow I thought if we could be back in our modest home, everything might get better; his illness might go into remission, the nurses might not visit daily, his pain might subside, his edematous legs might not ooze, his collar and scapula bone might not be so prominent, and our lives would once again be our own.       

A lover’s attributes

My husband never complained about being confined to a wheelchair. This is a man who loved to bike. A man who went riding every Sunday regardless of the temperature, ignoring the wind factor, the heat, rain, or cold. I remember one day four months before his death. We were on our way to a doctor’s appointment when I stopped at a red light. A bike rider rode passed the car. He was leaning forward, dressed in black spandex shorts and a red jersey, helmet, and sunglasses. As he rode by, Michael looked over at me and said, “I don’t think I’ll ever ride again. I miss biking.” I don’t remember my exact reaction to his statement, but I believe I said something positive, something that was a lie, but something upbeat like, “You don’t know that for sure. You might someday be on your bike again.” That was the first and last time I ever heard him complain about his lack of daily activities during his 25 month illness. 

Planning ahead

I’m thinking about our last Halloween, when the temperature finally broke and we knew that fall was approaching. I talked with Michael about Thanksgiving and who we should invite. I talked about the holidays and our children and grandchildren’s birthdays in November and December. I wanted to schedule for the months ahead because I thought if we made definite plans that he wouldn’t die in the fall. That he might live through Chanukah, perhaps through New Year’s, maybe we’d be able to celebrate Valentine’s Day and his birthday in mid-March. 

All of my conversations about the future turned out to be something I needed to do for myself. You see, Michael accepted his death early on. It was his wife who postponed it until it was evident that her husband could no longer deal with the pain and suffering.  It was easy for me to want Michael to live; after all, I didn’t want him to leave me. I had and have no excuse for this selfish behavior.

During the last week of his life, he was admitted to a hospice facility. I remember the small room at the end of the hallway with a tiny bathroom, a hospital bed, and two chairs. French doors next to a small desk opened up to a view of the parking lot. There were no grassy areas, no flowers, just dirt, concrete and cars, and occasional moans from dying patients. These French doors were narrow, unlike the ones in our home away from home. We often opened them up to let in the cool night air. Fall had arrived and I wanted Michael to revel in the change of seasons, a time of year that most people let out a sigh of relief, a time when most of us feel liberated from the previous months of blazing heat; a time when trees begin to lose their leaves and summer flowers wilt leaving their petals to blow away—a time of change.     

On the second day of his hospice stay, the rabbi called me into his room and said we needed to have a conversation. Michael turned to me and asked me in a weak voice to give him permission to die. I looked into his eyes and knew he was ready to go and that I couldn’t hold up his decision any longer. I had detained him from death long enough. So without hesitating, I put my hand in his and told him it was alright to leave me. Four days later, he was gone.

Michael waving goodbye from the ambulence on his way to hospice inpatient facility

Notes on dying

I don’t think I can end the essay here with “he was gone.” It doesn’t give justice to what occurs when your best friend and lover dies. It sounds so mundane, a cliché at best. Perhaps because he isn’t gone—his memory is everywhere.

Looking Back

 It’s Halloween night, but the outside lights are turned off. I don’t expect any ghosts or ghouls ringing my door bell in hopes of a treat. I’m upstairs in the study clicking away on the computer keyboard and I don’t want to be disturbed. It was this exact time last year when my world disintegrated. 

As I look around the guest room, I think about my husband’s last two months living in our home. Michael wasn’t able to climb the stairs, so he stayed in the spare bedroom confined to a hospital bed. Each day he walked with the help of a walker over to the desk to use the computer. Meals were brought upstairs and set on a small blue Formica table. Six chairs were dispersed around the room for friends and family who would visit and often bring food, which became the center of our world during the last three months of his life. He’d been in the restaurant business since he graduated college and most of his friends were also restaurateurs. They’d bring him an assortment of dishes, from lox and bagels to kabob dinners; sometimes three-course gourmet meals, or a variety of sweet cakes, cookies, and ice cream.

We had an organized system as to which family members would assist during the week. Our youngest daughter made up a schedule and assigned each participant a day that worked in their personal schedules. Some of them came through and some did not. Perhaps the ones who stayed away couldn’t bear the pain of watching someone they loved die.

A friend of his, Terry, who he’s known for many years, performed the duties of a son. They met twice a week for coffee when Michael was still mobile. Later in the illness, he would often stop by the house, calling before he arrived and asking Michael what he wanted to eat or drink. He stayed with him for hours, assisting in his ambulation, helping him dress, shave, or write out responses on his computer.

I close my eyes and picture what his room looked like.  

Next to the bed was an adjustable hospital tray. On top was a box of Kleenex, a baby monitor, which was used in the evening hours, a pill box, a medication log, a small RCA radio, his cell phone, two restaurant magazines, and a pitcher of water next to his favorite coffee cup. A highboy dresser with our photo is to the right of the bed. In the picture, we’re surrounded by colorful flowers as we smile lovingly at each other. The photographer took the photo two years ago during the week of Halloween on the lawn at the Biltmore Hotel. It was exactly a year after my husband was diagnosed with cancer. He wanted to give each of our children a framed photograph. I think back to that time and wonder if he knew then the outcome of his illness.

The brown shutters behind the bed were kept open during the day to let the sunlight in. A nightlight was plugged into a socket at bedtime so that Michael wouldn’t fall if he had to get up by himself. And I, like a mother of a newborn baby, sensed every move he made during the night. The monitor speaker stayed on my dresser. I heard each breath he took. I woke up when he sat up in bed, when he listened to the radio, or took a pain pill. I slept when he slept. I’d fall asleep listening to the sound of his breaths. I stayed up with him and we talked when he couldn’t sleep. These are the last memories I have of us living in our home together.

Home Away From Home

Last year’s Halloween is a distant memory. I don’t remember much about it, except that Michael was in the end stage of his disease—metastatic cancer. There were no ‘trick or treaters’ holding out their tiny hands for a treat. We were no longer living at home, but at our best friend’s house in the Biltmore Estates; a house that didn’t require going up or down stairs; a place where Michael could be wheeled into the kitchen and sit with friends and family for meals. He had a private viewing of the outside world where French doors opened wide like a theater presenting a documentary on bikers and hikers heading out for the day. The wide street surrounded by sounds and sights; landscapers with their blowers, gas mowers trimming fresh winter lawns before planting an array of colorful fall flowers. The neighbors pass by and wave as if they know us. Some walk at fast paces, racing one another, while others jog with their pets along paved pathways. We sit sipping coffee watching older couples walk hand-in-hand, stopping under the nearby willow tree to steal a kiss. It was there, in the breakfast room, at the round table, where my husband looked at life—a part of life he no longer shared.

To be continued. . . .

The Last Dance

It’s not for me to say you love me;
It’s not for me to say you’ll always care.
Oh, but here for the moment, I can hold you fast
And press your lips to mine
And dream that love will last.

Johnny Mathis

Today I shopped at Fry’s, a crowded grocery store by my house. I grabbed a cart outside the entrance and proceeded toward the produce section.  While mulling over the fruits, a song came on overhead which immediately had my attention. It was Johnny Mathis singing, “It’s not for me to say.” I began to slow dance with my husband, Michael. We glided down the aisles, all eyes upon us as we passed by shoppers who smiled and secretly wished they were dancing.  My husband held me close, my head rested comfortably on his shoulder, our eyes closed, our bodies melted together as we dipped occasionally and swayed to the music. We were caught up in the moment, displaying an unexpected show of affection; the kind of energy and electricity exhibited between two people in love. We were swept away as we twirled and pirouetted to the tune. We listened to lyrics that spoke to our hearts; words that said what we could not say to one another—words that resonated with us.   

A few years ago, while at a Willie Nelson concert, we heard “Maybe I didn’t Love You.” Halfway through the song Michael took my hand and kissed me on my lips. We stood up and slow danced down the aisle before returning to our seats.  When we sat down, I looked into his eyes and noticed the tears. He reached in his jacket pocket, took out his handkerchief and said, “I’m sorry about so many things and this song says it all.” I just smiled and told him, “I know how much you love me. I’ve always known that.”

Maybe I didn’t hold you
All those lonely, lonely times
And I guess I never told you
I’m so happy that you’re mine

Little things I should have said and done
I just never took the time
You were always on my mind
You were always on my mind

Willie Nelson

 I remember one evening, a few weeks after my husband’s initial cancer diagnosis. We were listening to a Tony Bennett song, “It had to be you,” during dinner. I set my fork down on my plate, pushed my chair out, and asked my husband to slow dance with me. He smiled, a bit in shock, then took my lead and promptly put his arms around me. “We should do this more often,” he said with a grin. I leaned into his thick body, my head on his upper chest, my arms intertwined around his neck, wanting the dance to never end.   

It had to be you, it had to be you
I wandered around, and finally found the somebody who
Could make me be true, could make me be blue
And even be glad, just to be sad thinking of you.

Tony Bennett

I’ll never forget that night and how he used to love when I would suddenly tap him on the shoulder and request a dance. We’d press our bodies together, occasionally look into one another’s eyes, and move gracefully around the living room parquet floor like we were performers on a Broadway stage.

During the last month of his illness, when he was restricted to a wheelchair and his legs were so swollen he could barely stand without the assistance of two people—we danced. He had lost most of his body muscle mass, his facial bones protruded, his eyes looked sunken and glassy, and his lips felt dry and crusty. His skin had dulled and he had a rash on both cheeks. A classic Frank Sinatra song played on the radio. I went over to his wheelchair, tapped him on the shoulder, and asked him if I could have this dance. We proceeded to move our upper bodies back and forth to the beat of the music.

Fly me to the moon
Let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On a-Jupiter and Mars
In other words, hold my hand
In other words, baby, kiss me.

Frank Sinatra

Even though we weren’t gliding around a dance floor, we were moving in tune with one another, our cheeks touching as we stole an occasional kiss. I closed my eyes to hold back the tears. I didn’t want him to know what I was thinking—that this might be our last dance. I didn’t want him to see me cry.  

That was the last time we swayed to his favorite music. Two weeks later he died. 

But perhaps this dance, today at Fry’s Supermarket, around the fruits and vegetable aisle, past the cereals, fruit bars, crackers, and dairy foods, circling the deli case and the cheese and bread display, past the juices, cookies, and paper goods, around the onlookers and the employees, past the checkers and managers, was meant to be our last dance together.    

Keep in motion. Don’t break promises. Grieving is self-pity, narcissism. Don’t give in. 

Each day I set myself a common goal: to get through the day. Isn’t this the fundamental principle of Alcoholics Anonymous? One day at a time. 

I’m determined to perform one or more activities each day that takes me out of my comfort zone and allows me to feel more independent since becoming a widow. 

August 22, 2011

I drove to the monument office and began looking at examples of gravestone designs. I have two months before the unveiling ceremony—two months to finalize the monument, notify family and friends, and two months to relive the death of my husband. 

The unveiling is scheduled for Sunday, October 23, the date of our wedding anniversary.

I’ve procrastinated for weeks, but today, my day off, I decided to push myself and begin the task. It’s a daunting mission having to decide on the wording and design a gravestone for one’s best friend and lover. How do you put your feelings into a limited number of words, symbols, and dates?

It feels as if my life is moving in a constant slow motion; my feet shuffle as I walk, my arms dangle by my side, my digestive system is off balance, my heart is broken. It’s as if a series of reruns are swirling around in my head; thoughts of a past life, loss, death and dying.  Here it is nine months after my husband’s death and I’m experiencing the events leading up to it as though they occurred yesterday. I feel tense. My stomach is loud and unsettled. I think I’m having a panic attack.

 August 23, 2011

I had asked a widower “friend” to come over this evening and unclog my bathroom sink and tub. On my way home from work I decided to stop at the store and purchase a quart of PRO-STRENGHTH Liquid Plumber Power Gel. Later that night, I put on my pink rubber gloves, the kind that cover your hands and arms up to your elbow, and proceeded to unclog by pouring half the bottle into the sink and the other half into the tub’s drain. Yes, I can read and follow directions. The fumes were toxic, so I turned the bedroom fans on full blast and waited downstairs for the drain cleaner to take effect.  After 30 minutes, I ran warm water down both drains and voilà, like magic, I fixed the problem. . . . .at least for now.

August 24, 2011

A UPS driver walked up my driveway with two bulky packages in his hands. When he saw me, he smiled and said, “I have one for you.” He handed me the large package and I thanked him with a big grin on my face. I hadn’t had a gift mailed to me since my husband was mobile; since he was able to drive or walk. Since he was able to bike to the grocery store or walk to the shopping center near our house—since he was disease free.

I jiggled the box from right to left and noticed how light it was. I knew I hadn’t ordered anything to be shipped here, so it must be a gift. But from whom?  I brought it into the house, set it on the counter, and reached inside the kitchen drawer for a sharp knife. I began to cut along the edges of the box and then across the top, lifting up one flap, then the other, being careful not to damage anything inside that might be valuable. In between two blown up plastic inserts, I found a review copy of Parkinson’s Disease, a book sent to me from the publisher.  I laughed out loud and in frustration began popping the bubble wrap, one by one, wondering how I could think that someone bought me a gift for no obvious reason. The only person who would do something like that had died nine months ago. What a sad realization to comprehend, the fact that I won’t be surprised ever again by my husband’s thoughtfulness; that I won’t find a gift with silver satin ribbons tucked neatly under my pillow or on the bed where we slept each night. Never again would I let myself be tricked into thinking he sent me a gift. After all, I must stay realistic. Or do I?

I’m not sure what independent deed or action I accomplished on this day. Oh yes, I do remember untangling the silver chain of a pearl necklace that Michael bought me last summer. It was a job often given to my husband as he had the patience and tools to accomplish this task without much frustration. My first thought after noticing the entanglement of knots was to bring it to my jeweler to repair. But then I had second thoughts and wondered if I could sit down, concentrate on the task at hand. Time management in the morning isn’t one of my strong points, so I had to be careful not to be late for work. I was determined to accomplish something I never excelled at. Perhaps I was also untangling a part of my life, which seems to be in small knots that have to continually be undone and straightened out. A life that is often full of stress and problem-solving and fighting for justices that are often unobtainable. Perhaps I was working on something inside myself that needed focus, clarification, and a positive outcome.  

To be continued . . . . .

I sit here clicking keys on my computer, listening to the melody of my own rhythms, trying to make sense out of my new life. The stereo is playing the soundtrack from The King’s Speech, a gentle score, light and airy; music that mimics the restrained, impetuous, and sometimes flawed moments of love. It begins with a great deal of sadness, but the piano riffs quickly bring me back to my childhood, dancing in a pink tutu and white ballerina slippers, waving my arms gracefully at my side, remembering the dance steps I once knew so well. I twirl around thinking about a time in life without sorrow, without tragedies—a time without regrets.  When I stop the repetitious motion, my world continues to spin and I close my eyes for balance.   

It’s a holiday weekend, July 4, one that previously was celebrated at our cabin in Munds Park—a place I didn’t want to visit this weekend, and maybe not for a while. There are too many reminders of the past. I’d rather sit in my house blasting Aimee Mann’s music or listening to K.D. Lang bellowing out a love song from her Hymns of the 49^th Parallel CD.  I ache for the music of Warren Zevon; songs about loss and how he wants to be remembered by his loved ones. Warren and I sing a sweet duet with AMOR DE MI VIDA, and PLEASE STAY. I shout out the words, mostly out of tune, but I don’t care. It feels so good to let go. I listen to the sexy music, I’m Your Man by Leonard Cohen, and Things Have Changed by Bob Dylan. I play the desired track over and over again like some woman gone mad, wanting to drown myself in the lyrics as if was my mantra. Perhaps if I hear the words enough, I might begin to believe them.  

I rummage through my CD’s looking for my husband’s favorite songs sung by Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, and Willie Nelson and wonder why I didn’t appreciate these artists more when he was alive. I find myself lost in the beauty of their voices.   Their music takes control of me; my knees weaken with desire; the soft melodies remind me of making love. I sob for all I’ve lost. I ache for romance, something to take away my grief. And it’s my music, not a counselor or a drug that will save me from the past and direct me to the future.  

I go out on dates searching for something I no longer have. I let my suitors choose the music we listen to, as if it was a prerequisite for a second, third, or fourth date. If someone I’m with pulls out a favorite CD from his bag of tricks, and it’s Sinead O’Connor’s TROY, with lyrics “I’ll remember it \ And Dublin in a rainstorm \ And sitting in the long grass in summer \ Keeping warm \ I’ll remember it”, I become dizzy with love.  

I’m an addict to my memories, which I try and recreate with others, but it seldom works. By the end of the evening I’m driving myself home in tears blasting KEEP ME IN YOUR HEART, and feeling more alone than ever. Nothing and no one seems comfortable like an old sofa, a soft pillow, or a flannel blanket one keeps for years.

And so, once again I’m home before midnight, after listening to my date whisper sweet things in my ear while we play a love song by Billie Holiday. He breathes heavily. I smile while listening to what he’s saying in his deep, sexy voice—a slightly higher pitch than my husband’s, so I’m immediately distanced by the difference in tone. I allow him to continue and I wish I could reciprocate, say something sweet in return; be swept off my feet, be intimate, but it’s too early and I’m not quite ready to give myself away. Or maybe I haven’t found the right music, the artist who tells me it’s alright to feel again, it’s alright to love again. For now, I still belong to someone else.

The Mathematical Equation: X equals the sum total 

I made the mistake of typing in 2010, instead of 2011. I hesitated a few seconds before fixing the error. I secretly wished it was August of 2010 and Michael, my husband, was still alive. When I thought about the reality of my wish, I quickly set parameters: He must weigh at least 150 pounds, be able to cycle with his buddies, and eat his favorite foods. He must move about without using a wheelchair, have the use of both hands and feet, sleep in a bed comfortably, and above all, he must be pain free.

It’s now nine months since Michael died; the time it takes to grow a baby, complete two semesters of college, and recover from major heart surgery. It’s the time it takes for an infant to stand and for leaves to change into their fall colors. It’s the time it takes for metastatic cancer to invade and destroy one’s entire body.

When people ask me how long it’s been since he died, I tell them the date, November 16 of 2010, and they reply, “Oh, it’s still so recent.”  My response is always the same, even a month after his death, “It seems like an unbearable amount of time for me.” 

Time is immeasurable when it comes to grief. Often when there have been previous deaths— a parent, a child, close friends, or all of the above, the sum total (X) equals the amount of grief one suffers. The equation covers all deaths up to date, not just the most recent one, which is why it is often difficult to calculate the depths of one’s grief at any given time.

1. An object that is surrounded by a magnetic field and that has the property, either natural or induced, of attracting iron or steel.
2. An electromagnet.
3. A person, a place, an object, or a situation that exerts attraction.

I found a Hide-A-Key today on the back side of my wrought-iron gate. The black rectangular box, exerting its attraction to an alloy, blended in with its surroundings. I thought about the magnetic field adhering to the iron post, how it hugs the metal as if it was inseparable, clinging to each other, afraid to let go.  

My discovery of the box yielded an excitement equal to finding a hundred-dollar bill stuffed in an old dresser drawer or spotting a corked bottle floating to shore with a message typed neatly and sealed inside. It was like digging up a buried treasure in my flower bed or finding a thank-you note from my late husband that says, “Terry, Thanks for being there. I love you, Michael,” which I happened to discover two weeks ago on a shelf in the bedroom closet. I didn’t remember when I received the note or why my husband wrote it. It was a bit of a mystery, but also a reminder of our attraction and devotion to one another. 

 The black case I found today was a small treasure. I discovered it while repairing the mesh around the bottom of the gate so that the dog wouldn’t be able to escape when she saw a cat prowling the property. I opened the sliding mechanism on the back of the box, wondering what I might find. I didn’t think it would be the key to our outside gate because we had one on the patio side of the yard. Inside I found a small brown bag with the hardware store name and logo printed across the top, looking brand-new, folded neatly in fourths. I opened it slowly, wanting to preserve the crispness of the bag and discovered a small, shiny silver key. I thought it might fit the keyhole in our mailbox, but it didn’t. I then proceeded to try the key on the outside garage lock. It fit into the keyhole and with a slight turn of my fingers, the closed garage door began to open. Like a sleuth, I thought about when my husband bought the extra key and why he neglected to tell me. I wondered why it was never used and if he forgot about it when his health declined. I slid the key in between my forefinger and thumb, rubbing it as if it was magic, able to grant one’s desires. Then I began to wave it in front of me and silently ask for my wishes to come true. This shiny silver key suddenly transformed my day, not because I had a way into the house in case I locked myself out, but because I found a piece of Michael’s heart eight months after his death and in a place where I least expected it.

I know he thought of me when he bought the Hide-A-Key. I know he thought of me when he placed it next to the iron and the magnetic force caused the gate and box to become one. I know he thought of my safety when he became ill and knew he could not take care of me in the same way he used to. This unexpected find brought about a resurrection of our love story, of the man I married. There was something magical about the experience, something calming, and something reaffirming about two people attracted to one another, weakened only by an illness that destabilized the magnetic field that had once bound them for so many years.

MY MARRIED LIFE IN PHOTOS

This is my husband and myself when we were happy—-***********************************

I’m married in the above photo. The pose is one of contentness as I surround myself with flowers in full bloom.  My son-in-law took the photo at Michael’s surprise 65th birthday party—before the overhead sun, before the heat of the day, before the  cancer entered our lives.  .  . . . . . . . . .   

*******************************

This is me when I became a grandmother for the first time . . . . 

Kai Christopher Ehlen, born December 9, 2006

**************************************

This is my man who loved to cycle . . . .

**************************************

This is my husband before his freefall with cancer . .  .

***************************************

I’m still a married woman enjoying life with her husband . . . .  

*************************************

This is a portrait of our love. Michael wanted photos of us after he recovered from his surgical procedure—the Transhiatal Esophagectomy. It’s the holiday season. We are happy to be together. . . . . . . . .

*****************************************

Here’s a photo of me standing tall on a large rock looking across the Pacific Ocean, not seeing anything but blue water foaming as the waves peak and head my way. I’m feeling strong and resilent as I inhale the ocean air. I’m alone because Michael couldn’t walk down the steps to the water.  I bring back my treasures: a child’s bucket of sea shells, a golf ball, and one black flip flop with pink sequins.  (Laguna Beach 2010) . . . . . . .  

*********************************

*************************************

Michael has come to grips with the reality of his illness. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

**************************************

This is my youngest daughter kissing her stepdad goodbye . . .

******************************************

This is my oldest daughter loving her stepdad . . . . . . . . 

************************************

These are my two best friends, Carol, who helped me take care of my husband, and Michael. Carol flew in from Pennsyvania and moved in with us until he died.

Carol and I took long walks together, shopped together, cooked together. Carol and I cried and laughed together. Carol and I went to the mortuary and picked out his wooden casket. Carol stayed with me after he died—until I could be alone . . .  .  . .

********************************

This is a photo of me in love anticipating a great loss . . . .

************************************

This is Michael kissing his grandson, Kai, for the last time . . . .  

************************************

This is my husband on his way to hospice, eight days before he died  . . . .

*****************************************

This is Steve, Michael’s best friend, saying goodbye . . .  . . . . . . . .  . . . .

******************************************

 This is my best friend, Carolyn, telling Michael a joke . . . .

************************************

This is Michael praying the day before he died . . . . .

***************************************

This is me kissing my husband the morning before he died. I then turned my head slightly and whispered in his ear, ”Go to heaven. I’ll see you soon.”  . . . . .

***************************************

This is my husband before he died . . . .

************************************

This is my husband’s marker . . .

**************************************

This is me placing a stone on his marker . . . . . . .

*********************************

These are all the people buried around him . . . .

**************************************

This is how I remember my man . . .

****************************************

This is me now . . .  .  a widow

June 25, 2011

Six Women Dine at Scottsdale Restaurant

This headline would hardly raise eyebrows or make the news. Six women meeting on a Friday evening at an upscale Scottsdale café should have been filmed for a documentary or at least portrayed on a reality show instead of the unbelievable plots and characters in our current television and movie fanfare. These women are real people with factual stories that are seldom told  and more often misunderstood by others who haven’t experienced what they have—the aftermath of widowhood.

I don’t usually meet up with widows from my support group, mainly because of  distractions I’d rather focus on instead of the ever-present feeling of loss. I’d much rather pretend my loss never occurred, or at least concentrate on other modalities in life that take my mind far away from the reality of losing my best friend—my husband, Michael.

The dinner was scheduled for 6:30 p.m. I was late, as usual, but the group expected that and understood my procrastinations.    Though the daily discomfort of grief isn’t completely visible in one’s psyche, it’s always underlying somewhere; in a photo, in a memory, on a piece of paper, in the feel of a pair of shorts, in the lyrics of a song, a newspaper article, on the radio as a sick joke about cancer, in your pet’s eyes, in a master bedroom, on the empty leather recliner in a room that is no longer used, or behind closed doors in a garage workroom filled with tools hanging neatly on hooks, organized perfectly for a man who loved to tinker with spare parts and who prided himself on fixing the ‘unfixable.’ A room off the garage with spirals of wire, old padlocks with rusty keys that sometimes fit and sometimes don’t; old glass baby jars filled with nails and screws of all sizes; a pin-up wall calendar from 2008, everything neatly stacked on dusty shelves, including straw and swede top hats, French berets and colorful baseball caps with meaningful logos hanging on hooks as if some kind of work of art.   

These thoughts are the aftermath of an insightful dinner with six women drawn to each other because of a common bond—a sudden and tragic ending to their marriage; to their previous comfortable life with a loving spouse. Of the six, two of us lost our husbands to esophageal cancer, one to lung cancer, another lost her husband to a surgical mishap, another to an aneurysm, and one lives with the haunting memory of finding her husband after he shot himself by putting a barrel of a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger.

We take turns sharing stories about the man we loved. Stories about the cruelness of others, like the friend that stated, “Her husband must have been so unhappy in his marriage that he ended it by shooting himself.”

We talk about our children having to lead their lives and not stay in a cesspool of grief gasping for air alongside their mothers. We discussed how most of our children are beginning their lives; having babies and looking forward to the future. “We must not let them suffer,” one of the women said. ”We must embrace the fact that they are able to look forward to what the future has to offer them, as we once did.”   

One of the women turned to another and said, “I heard you were dating.”

“Yes, I’ve been dating men for a while. It’s nice to go out. I know my late husband would approve,” she replied as if having to defend her opinion.”   

“I could never date,” two of the women chimed in as if they were singing a duet. Another woman said, “I think my husband would be offended if I saw other men. He would think I didn’t care about him any longer.”   

But the faces of these women seemed to want to hear about the dating experience after losing a husband and the challenges involved with a new intimacy. “What did it feel like when you went on your first date,” another woman asked. “What about the first kiss, what was that like.”

The dating woman smiled and said, “It was awkward at first. Holding hands felt odd and was difficult for me. The first time I kissed another man it was magical, like when I was a teenager. As time went on, I became comfortable with men that seemed to understand my grief; the patient ones, the ones who weren’t bitter about their own divorce or jealous of a dead man.”

“I suppose,” she continued slowly and stopped for a moment. She looked across the table at five pairs of eyes awaiting her response. She needed to phrase her answer with a great deal of thought. “I am not the same person I was when I was married. Like all of you, we are now struggling to comprehend a life absent of the partnership that had sustained and defined us for years. Dating allows me to find out about my new self, who I am now and what I need in the future. We must go slow and not make any rash decisions for at least a year or maybe two. Our lives and our needs are evolving.”   

The six women dining held their utensils in their hand as if frozen with thought. Their mouths were no longer chewing food. They looked pensive as though they were thinking about men, sex, intimacy, and their lost loves. They finished the meal by sharing their derangement of denial, their anguish of loss, their nightmares of “death duty” and the solace of their friendships with each other.

As they stood outside saying their “goodbyes” they paired up for hugs, as women tend to do, but they also allowed their tears to escape, as they blotted the damp skin around their eyes with their fingertips. They weren’t embarrassed to cry in front of one another—they had done this many times before.

Please post your comments