Walking Through the Valley of Darkness

I keep going over that day in my mind. How could I not know it was our last day on earth together? He seemed in good spirits, though weak.  I know he apologized for taking so long to get dressed and making us late to his doctor appointment. I assured him it was fine, that he would just have to learn to allow more time. I heated up some of the low-sodium soup I had made for his lunch, and he mentioned having some ice cream later, but he was planning on taking a nap when my son Matthew and I left for Dubuque (David usually drove me when it was dark, I have night blindness) for another coupon workshop. I vividly remember walking through the door of the house Monday night, having enjoyed a wonderful workshop. I looked at David sitting in his recliner and he just beamed. His entire face lit up. “Good workshop?” he asked. “It looks like it went well.” I leaned over to give him a big hug. I do know I sat and talked to him for a while, telling him how much I enjoyed talking to Matt in the van. I told him about stopping at the bookstore to drop off some flyers for the workshop I’d be conducting in May. I know we were both really tired, and didn’t talk a lot.  I didn’t even ask if he’d had his ice cream. (the kids said no, but I checked the carton the next day and was glad there was some missing, somehow that seemed important that he’d gotten the ice cream he’d been craving) I even forgot to give him his medicine. Emily saw him take it later. She tells me I gave him another hug before I went up to bed, but I don’t actually remember that.  I recall telling him I hoped he would come back to our bed soon because I missed him. I know I told him how glad I was that now I would have nearly two weeks before my next presentation and I could have some down time to write some Chicken Soup essays and spend the rest of my time taking care of him.

I never got that chance.

I am wearing his wedding ring behind my own so it doesn’t slide off.

I hug one of his shirts at night. Emily wears one to bed. The other two girls fall asleep holding one of his shirts.  I’ve slept in our bed only once, and for only part of the night.

I cried through the entire Mass on Sunday and have yet to set foot in the grocery store.

I only eat when my daughter sets a plate of warmed-up roast beef from the funeral dinner in front of me, and then I don’t want to stop.

This morning I clipped his wrist watch to my wrist and wore it all day. I want to wear it to bed.

Today I went to the doctor to see if there was something I could take to stop the anxiety and panic attacks I am experiencing every evening between 10:00 and 11:00 pm.

“How do you do that?” my husband asked of my writing just two weeks ago while he lay recuperating in the hospital. Startled, I stopped writing.  Was he hurt that I was writing while he was in a hospital bed? “I’m sorry. I need to work on my column.”

“No, I mean how can you write like that? You sit there and all these words come out of you. I love that.”

“It’s what I do. I write.”

Now, amidst the pain, the words feel stilted, the pain too raw.  I have a hardcover notebook I’d personalized with our picture a long time ago, that I wasn’t sure how I’d use, and now I write in it every morning; disjointed sentences, observations of grief, questions, and most importantly, the prayers;

“Dear Lord, thank you for bringing me comfort in the way of family and friends. I ask you, Lord, to take some of this pain from me.”

“Dear Lord, thank you for letting me have David as long as I had him. Thank you, especially, for what I think of as our ‘bonus years,’ the 5.5 years since his cancer. Those five years were the best years of our marriage and we truly cherished each other in a way that I wish that everyone could have. I have known true love. Thank you for taking David in a gentle way. Thank you, too, for the eight children left behind, the adult children who are a tremendous comfort to me, and the younger ones who keep me focused on our future.”

“Dear Lord, I ask that you bring my family comfort and hold us up in our grief. I ask that you guide us through the coming weeks, and months, and years, and show us your way~ Let us honor our beloved father and husband, and you, too, oh Lord.”