Fiction

Like the storyline of your favorite fiction series that the Author never finished and never explained why. That’s 43 to me. The story was a great one and its heroine unmatched, but to my thinking, it's unfinished.  

And, yes, it was so good. Every chapter, every line, every word. Late nights turned into early mornings. I wanted to know how it would end. I couldn’t quit reading, but then it all stopped. It was over before it was over. 

No epilogue or afterword. Just empty shelf space reserved for where the next volume will never go. 

It’s the 43rd anniversary of your birth, but 43 is only fantasy. It never happened. 

Oh, how I longed to know the rest of your story! The return back, the resolution, the changes that resulted from the fight. I think we did get those things, individually. You were resolved; I was resolved. Yet, in this life, we can never enjoy that victory together. 

I'm writing my half of that epilogue so you can read it when we meet again on that day in the land of endless sun. I can’t wait to see you, Anne-Marie. There’s all kinds of story I need to tell you. 

I don’t want to live my life in search of a perfect ending. I've got to learn to love the story as is. 

Perfection will never be realized on this Earth. Those things only happen in fiction. 

Presets

It's just another funny thing about being a widower.

This is what's so crazy about being a single parent.

That's the unique thing about being a person of color.

It's hard to understand if you're not a minister.

That's how it is if you're from a broken home.

We all have slots that we fall in to. Like presets on the car stereo, it's a default station that gets us to the frequency we want to hear. Expectations form a type of top-40 mix that pleases the ears of our audience as it perfectly fits the time signatures of every other hit single played earlier in the day.

And as we deal with other people, we punch the buttons. We hear what we want to hear on our favorite station. We're not going to take the time to listen to every station because we don't like every kind of music and we definitely aren't going to flick the tuner dial just to see where it lands because who knows what could happen?

The past few months has helped me realize that I'm more than just the presets. I'm more than my grief, my past, my skin color, my marital status and even my calling. What makes me unique and what makes me effective is that I'm all these things at once. There's even sometimes I inconveniently shift into the static of the in-between and I'm trusting that God knew what He was doing when He made me and that He's more than comfortable when I don't fall in the slots.

If you perceive me in one certain way, I don't blame you because it's human nature to jump to the presets. But for me--in this new season of my life--I'm ready for some surprises. I'm ready to spin the dial.  

I know the slots will always be there, even if they're not nearly as well-defined as society says they are. They really spill into every other, so I'm not looking for fundamental change. I'm looking to increase the bandwidth.

Let's go. God, I don't have to know everything.

Cheated (Seven Thousand and Seventy-Eight Days)

In the year since I lost Anne-Marie, I've heard the words of many grief counselors that say that the loss of a spouse is the most traumatic form of grief that a human being can experience. I'm not sure if that's true in every case, but their reasoning is that the loss is one that forever impacts your past, present and future. I understand what they mean now more than I did a year ago.

We had years of memory and inside jokes. Entire conversations communicated with just a tilt of the head or a tone of voice. The biological world calls it "symbiosis." Two completely different beings living in mutually-beneficial relationship, each supplying the unique needs of the other.

We weren't even close to it in those early years, but all those individual moments strung together like a chain became something more lovely than any one of those unique memories could be if left standing alone. The 24th of January didn't just cause a single break in that chain, it shattered all of the links.

In my present: to be left at 41 years of age as a widower was a mess. I didn't have any idea what I was doing. My experience was one of starting over as if I was a first-time parent, but not with newborns. Newborns don't know you're clueless; 12-year-olds do. 

People in my community tried to understand, but I'm sure they wondered what was wrong with me so many times. There's this whole other person that I wanted to be--and maybe even feel like I *used* to be--that went missing on January 24. It's not fair to you that you lost him. He's not the guy you befriended, promoted, hired to work at your company.

The days of future in front of me are no longer pacing themselves along the map we unfolded years ago. The map has been respectfully folded up and put away. The map was run through the shredder. They told me I could keep the confetti from the waste catcher so I could throw it up in the air at every pity party I have for the rest of my life. And because I don't want to be unthankful, I've taken their advice just about every month or so. I wish I was more than half kidding.

I throw the shreds by the fistful, then stand alone as fragments of street names, date nights and kids' firsts rain over my head and fall back down on the floor as I descend into hurt, brokenness and regret. (Regret for what? I don't know. You'll understand better when you get here.)

To say I don't feel cheated some days would be a lie. But is there any cheating going on? Is mortality a celestial game to be won by the lucky few who are spared more tragedy than less?

I can't believe it. 

Anne-Marie was everything to me and it was never going to be any other way. If I believed in the stars, I would say that they all aligned for me on day one. On day seven thousand and seventy-eight, they all fell from the sky.

I don't put my trust in the stars.

So where does that leave me? It leaves me to believe that any man in my position would feel cheated, whether right or wrong. If you knew Anne-Marie, you may know at least a little of what I mean. You reading this that were close to her. You that were her family or friends.

Really, the whole world was cheated when we lost Anne-Marie. That is, in the sense that it's not fair. The ledger doesn't balance. The whys can never outweigh the why nots. All of that belongs to God and I'm learning to leave it there.

In the three hundred and sixty-five days that have elapsed since the seven thousand and seventy-eight ended, I've spoken to hundreds of people that have repeatedly ripped me out of the cocoon of my own crippling grief and forced me to realize that my precious and beautiful redheaded introvert impacted lives everywhere she went. The loss is enormous. It is complete. It is final.

And it is in the past.

That past is full of the sweetest recollections. Of inside jokes. Of entire conversations communicated with just a tilt of the head or a tone of voice. Individual moments strung together like a chain that is now mine to care for and to pass down to our children.

In my present: I cannot ever express my gratefulness (or my apologies) to all the people God has placed in my life. I know I'm not the same person I was before this happened. You see, my identity has been stolen. I'll probably never be quite the same. Thank you for keeping me around.

That thanks extends especially to my kids. Starting over with these two has been an incredible and enlightening. I'm pretty sure by now they know that I don't know what I'm doing because they're not newborns, they're teenagers now. Jesus help me.

As for the future? The day I started running out of confetti was hard. Days started coming around where I actually felt good about myself and my life. That last strong emotion of all those feelings that she made me feel is slowly fading. I want to hold on so bad, but I can't. It doesn't work like that. To heal means to have that grief calm itself into a resolute peace that it was a life well lived. One that is in the past, but what an extraordinary past it was.

And I think I'll get a new map. One to collect pencil marks and stickpens, highlighter ink and coffee stains. If that one gets shredded, I'll get another and another one after that. I promise not to hold on to the remains of what's lost for quite so long because there's always a road ahead.

I've crossed over from being your caregiver to being the caretaker of your legacy and I want to thank you for everything, Anne-Marie. You changed my past, my present and my future. I love you.

Strength

We are approaching the one-year mark of Anne-Marie's death. (I hate using the word "anniversary" in the context of tragedy. I think it should be reserved for happy occasions.) As we move through these last few days before the day, I wanted to post some loose thoughts that needed to land here on the blog, but hadn't found their place as of yet.

Anne-Marie had everything she needed all on her own. She had a good family, was artistically talented, got good grades. She didn't need me.

Part of the reason I write these things is because I believe that over these last several years, I've gotten credit for all kinds of things that had so little to do with me. Anne-Marie was strong. She placed herself in positions to be successful in life before I was there to share it with her. (And I hope I'm not misunderstood. I've found that sometimes a subject like this can be communicated in a way that makes the opposite point of what was intended.)

People for years talked about us as "high school sweethearts". Mostly true, but what people either forget or don't know is that we broke up after high school for a good amount of time. Why? Because, going into my 20s, I had stuff I needed to figure out inside myself. It was the ultimate "it's not you, it's me" because it was indeed 100% me.

By the time we were both headed toward college, we were headed back toward each other, but she would have gone to college regardless of whether I'd shown up again. She did well in college and went on to a career as a dental assistant. It was an extremely challenging environment. Anne-Marie had stories of things she went through in those first few years that--as her new husband listening to them at the dinner table--were as much as I could take. I was ready to drive to the office and bust some people up.

I didn't do that because I didn't have to. Anne-Marie could handle her own business and she did. Eventually, things got better and she grew in that position. She became the lead assistant until 2006 when she was diagnosed with cancer.

She beat back cancer and a year later she was back in her position at the dental office. Her whole upper body had been re-built through a couple of surgeries and she was experiencing pain that would never leave her because of it. Work just amplified it.

She loved that job and only left in 2009 because she wanted to care for her two newly-adopted children. How do I know she loved it? Because by 2015, after eight more surgeries and two more reconstructions, she was considering going back to work in a dental office during the hours the kids were in school.

The year 2016 trampled those plans when the doctors told Anne-Marie that her cancer had returned and would remain until it took her life. That was the year they officially qualified her as "disabled", though the government told us the label should have been applied four years earlier. Of course, she wasn't about make that phone call back in 2012. 

Of course, all kinds of treatments and procedures came along with 2016 and Anne-Marie lost some of those artistic skills she had when I first met her. Her singing voice went away with the treatments. Surgeries had taken her ability to play the piano--which she did so beautifully for 30 years--without intense pain. But "disability" isn't near as disabling as it sounds sometimes.

In 2017 we decided to buy a house and along with that, Anne-Marie elected to homeschool our daughter. This was a new benchmark of crazy for her. As hard as it was, it only ended by being ripped from her grasp in early 2018 when her oncologist told her the next surgery was for a tumor in her brain and would require months of recovery.

I think it took those 16-1/2 years of being married for her to really need me to get by on a daily basis. She'd taken cancer to the mat three times and won all three. Up to that point in 2018, she would even tell me how there was only one tumor left (it was a huge one in her lung) that she was just waiting for God to take away and finish the work He'd already started.

For sure, there were times I pushed her to give it one more try, but others I would look at her like she was out of her mind. The last few years of her life was probably a bit more of the latter.

When that consistent strength began to fade in 2018, I knew our lives were changing. I still saw it fairly often, but the vibrancy faded down into a more muted and contemplative tone. I could hear it when she would ask me to pray for her, when she would ask me to keep believing.

I still see it today sometimes in the hearts of her children and I'm reminded that strength like than can never remain isolated as a thing of observation alone. It's transferable. Her strength became theirs. Became ours, really. I count it as the most special gift.

Hope Comes in Size 7: A Story of (the) Last Christmas

By the time we got to December of last year, things looked dark. Nothing that the doctors were trying was working. The terms and timelines being used in the process stopped matching any of the reality we were living. Daily life became more about making sure Anne-Marie could function as comfortably as possible and pushing for more time.

That time was Christmastime. By now, I've discovered that I've mentally blocked out a large portion of what happened in December of 2020, but there is one small story from last Christmas that I'll always tell:

It was the week before Christmas and I was behind on everything. Now I had to find a gift for my wife for what appeared to be the least-promising future we'd ever faced. Or should I? Why? Anne-Marie's life consisted of me pushing her in a wheelchair to the car and then from the car to the clinic. 

Every year, most of us give gifts to children, but not many of us prioritize buying stuff for those 70 and 80-year-olds in our lives, no matter how much we love them. It isn't until you live in a place like we were that you realize every gift given is with a view of a world that is growing. Our world was shrinking.

It was getting hard to leave the house even for a little bit, especially considering the pandemic that was raging at the time. I weighed the risks, decided against a shopping trip and started looking online.

I wanted it to be something that was really nice and I somehow decided that Anne-Marie needed a pair of shoes. She hadn't worn heels for a few years because of her health issues, so I needed a nice pair of flats. I wasn't sure such a thing existed, but a Google search lead me to several top 10 lists which lead me to Nordstrom.com. Nordstrom's shipping window was just quick enough to get me what I needed.

I was excited for Anne-Marie to open her gift.  She tore off the wrapping paper and was surprised to find the pair of beautiful flats. I told her, "They're for when you walk again. I thought you'd need something comfortable for church that still looked nice."

For when you walk again.

In the time since, there's not five words that I've ever uttered that have both haunted and challenged me like those five have. Because Anne-Marie took the shoes out of that box and I helped her try them on.  Then she wrapped them back up in all the shoe stuff they give you and put them back in the box and never touched them again for the remaining 30 days of her life.

She never walked again.

I can tell you truthfully that in whatever alternate reality I was living in that moment that ignored all the outward evidence and impossible odds that I believed what I said. I could see her in those shoes walking into church on a Sunday morning. I could see us celebrating that 20th anniversary. I could see her watching the kids enter their teen years. I could see it through eyes of faith.

You may think that's crazy talk, but I'll say something even crazier. What I saw that day was what I want to see every day. Even after a year where my past, present and future has been completely shattered, I want to learn to live in that place where I look toward the impossible with eyes of expectation.

Below are my much-less inspiring follow-up thoughts. If the post above was enough for you, just leave it at that. It's fine.

Last First Thanksgiving

I'm not moping, I'm thankful. Still, the holidays are just hard because best of all memories happen this time of year and it hurts to think of the old ones with her and the new ones without her. 

I cannot sidestep that particular pain. This, like all other stages of this mess, is another part the people left behind are required to face.  

I went to group counseling for the last time a month ago and at the end of the session they asked what it was that I learned.  I said, "I learned that you either heal and move forward or you move forward without healing, but either way you move forward."  The one way is just far superior to the other.  

(It’s not a concept I came up with. I was just repeating back what other people had taught me in my own simplified form.) 

I kind of hate it because what I really want is for things to never change.  I want it to stay as frozen in 2021 as possible so I can hold on to what was.  Why is that not an option? 

But it’s not and that’s one of life’s great mercies. Time never gets stuck. It’s just us. 

Thank God my kids’ school didn’t stop on January 24th. And that work projects still came in with brand new deadlines that carried me into the spring. Summer came with all the activities and energy that our family loves. And here we are in fall. 

Today is the last first Thanksgiving without her. I can never redo this day, but look at it another way: I never have to redo this day.  If the last 10 months have taught me anything, it’s that the pain will come. And our family's goal has never been to hurt as little as possible, but to heal as well as possible. 

I think we’re getting there and I’m thankful. 

Peg Solitaire and Single Parenting

You guys know the game. You're at a hole-in-the-wall diner before smartphones existed. Breakfast has been ordered (even though it's noon) and you know you have a solid 30 minutes to kill because there's a half dozen orders in front of you that want that same chicken fried steak you asked for.

The cook can only move so fast, so you wait at your table with a glass of ice water, salt and pepper shakers, a sugar holder with white, blue and pink packets and--if you're lucky--a plastic Smucker's caddy that still has some Seedless Blackberry in it. And peg solitaire.

Peg solitaire doesn't have the sophistication of card solitaire games like Spider or FreeCell. No. Peg solitaire is multiple rounds (about 30 minutes worth) of hilarious futility. This is the game where you end up laughing at yourself because you can't seem to quite get what appears to be a simple concept.

Oooh, I know. I'll jump here. Wait. No.

Here, then here, then here and...

OK. Three pegs left.  I almost win!

Steve Fishman (CC by 2.0)

Let's start over with the empty hole at the corner.  

From here to here to here. 

No. No, that's not right. Right here. NO. Seriously?

---

This is what single parenting is like every day. It doesn't seem like such a complicated thing. The end goal is right there in front of me. Somehow I keep running out of moves but I never run out of pegs.

Days happen, the clock spins and somehow stuff just gets past me. Come on. I'm better than that! Let's go again cuz we got this! 

(by 11 PM the next day) REALLY? It's like that!?!

Next day: Nope.

The next day: What?

The day after that: Two pegs to go and I almost win!!!

Yet another day: Is my chicken fried steak here yet?

I'm outnumbered. I'm tired. There's small details and intricacies of life that are no longer even considerations. Every seam is strained with necessity. Options are no longer optional. Out of moves, but the pegs are still in their places and they're laughing at me.

Can I tell you that I enjoy it? For some reason in this short season of life, I'm here playing the near-unwinnable game that was never meant to be a solo endeavor, but God has placed me at this table for a little while. And He's given me something to do. Something seemingly futile, but somehow there's laughter and love and understanding.

I cannot tell you the newly-gained respect I have for the single parents that I know. Especially, considering that so many of them I know are doing it well. In all of these amazing stories, I just think a lot of times the joy gets lost between the order and the steak.

---

A few months ago I was talking with a fellow single parent trying to understand what it is I could do better. During the conversation, I told them how amazing their kids were and how much I admired them as a family. My friend replied with two words:

I've tried.

Same, my friend. Same.

20 (I Wanted This)

Today would have been our 20th anniversary.  Why do I feel selfish for saying that I wanted this?

What's strange is that if we went back nine months ago to Christmas Day--a month before I lost her--I would have told you that we would make it to today.  How could I have been so naïve?  All the signs were there, but I just knew we could go one more round.  It couldn't be over.  She was too strong and I was too determined to not let that happen.

And we were stuck on 19. No one wants to be stuck on 19.  You don't party because it's your junior year.  They don't throw you a parade when you win the primary election but lose the general.  The date can't end on appetizers.

I wanted this.  If only so she could prove one last time that this spiteful, heartless, family-destroying disease couldn't determine our destiny.  To prove (for maybe egotistical reasons) that we kept that commitment to each other for two decades.  There's more we needed to prove.

And I wanted that one more trip.  That one more stroll down the Riverwalk.  One more memory.  To be able to say "We did it."  We hit that milestone of that number with that zero on the end.  There's more we needed to do.

Maybe we could have renewed our vows.  Or taken that second honeymoon we'd talked about so much.  Made a little photo album of each year with one of those internet services.  It's all so pointless and punishing to think about now.  There's more we needed to share.

19 years, 4 months, 16 days.  

We were close, but not that close and it hurts.

---

Last weekend, I took the kids, some friends and my mom back to Astoria to stay on the Columbia River, practically next door to where Anne-Marie and I stayed a year ago.  The city was full of Labor Day vacationers but to me it was a collection of snapshots of only one person.  Anne-Marie told me that the best memories of her entire life were found on those streets.

I was surprised that I couldn't feel angry or cheated.  What I had was 19 years of happy memories.  All of them happy.  One year less than I wanted, but 19 more than so many are given.  While the whole thing had an essence of wrongness to it, there was a sense of wonder in knowing that this urban scrapbook told the story of a (half?) life well-lived.

Like the fireworks show you wanted to last forever or the novel you couldn't put down.  You were mad when they ended but only because it was all so great.  Could you blame it for being wonderful?  And if it went by too fast, why?  Were you caught up in it?  I hope you were.

I love you forever, Anne-Marie.

Us throwing 20 roses for 20 years into the Columbia River

I Would; I Wouldn't

I would have pushed her around in that wheelchair for another 19 years; I wouldn’t have her in pain for one more day. 

I would have been fine with a boring life that didn’t include all this pain; I wouldn’t change the life we shared together. 

I would pray that God would ask this of somebody else; I wouldn’t wish this on anybody else. 

I would love to tell her so many things that happened these last six months; I wouldn’t think I’d care once I saw her face. 

I would try to move beyond all of this; I wouldn’t say I’m not afraid of what’s beyond. 

I would hope that when I told her that “we’d figure it out somehow” that I was telling the truth; I wouldn’t look at today as a very good example of that. 

I would have learned how to cook if I knew how this was all gonna play out; I wouldn’t eat that meatloaf if I was you. 

I would think that we could have had it happen some other way; I wouldn’t accuse God of being unwise. 

I would have said all the things that I needed to say; I wouldn’t be so easy on myself to admit that I really did. 

I would give everything I have for one more day with her; I wouldn’t take her away from the peace she enjoys now. 

Celebrate You Once More

Today is not your 42nd birthday because the time for those is through. I’m pretty sure today is a celebration where you are. Tomorrow will be, too.

I saw you, yesterday, for a moment on the corner of Broadway and Alder, but the truth is that 18 months has passed since your feet last walked there, so full of life and happiness. I could see you smiling as you roamed the city streets with the kids. Christmas lights in the square reflected off your eyes and nothing could ever change. 

But our town feels vacant with your shadow no longer cast on its bricks and the streets so in need of revival. The ring of children’s laughter was carried away on a stiff December breeze, yet the late spring calls for a reunion. Will it ever come? How could it ever be the same?

It’s still raining on Southwest Morrison. The even drizzle sticks to everything and makes it hard for the few passing strangers to see my tears. I know that in the land of endless sun, you probably don’t need rain. At least, not nearly as much as I need it today.

All the complete incompletions of our young lives float in puddles here on these streets and I keep hoping to catch a glimpse.  It’s as if you’re there, outside of time and space, in an ever-fading flow of memory, but still I search.

Won’t you come find me?

Free: 15 Years After Diagnosis

Friday, May 12, 2006, was Diagnosis Day.  

I remember the time of day.  

I remember how the room looked.  

I remember what the doctor was wearing.  

I remember the tone of his voice when he told us.

I remember that we went to Biscuits Cafe in Oregon City afterward to talk it over.  

I remember getting sick on the meal.

I can still see us driving to Sunriver for the weekend to try to figure it all out.

15 years might have been too much to ask.  Or too little.  Or just enough.

I truly do not know anymore.

5 years later, we returned to Sunriver when 2012's recurrence happened during the same week in May.

That was 10 years ago this week.  You told me the five reasons you didn't want to die:

1. You were too young
2. You didn't want the kids to have their mother taken again
3. You wanted more time with me
4. You had more things you wanted to do for God in ministry
5. You hated cancer and wanted to show it that it wouldn't win

Well, you were too young, Anne-Marie, and the kids' mother was taken.

You got 10 more years with me, but wanted more.

You didn't get to finish all the stuff you wanted to do for God through your ministry to others.

But #5?  Cancer didn't win.  I'm calling that a unanimous decision for you.

So enjoy your 2021, Anne-Marie (if there's any time to be had where you are).  

You're cancer free.

Departure

It was the early morning hours of January 14 and Anne-Marie could no longer stand up.  The walker she'd been using for the previous six weeks wasn't enough to help her get around, so I did the only thing I knew to do.

I carried her.

10 days.

By 5 AM, adrenaline was shooting through every part of my body and I couldn't sleep. I’d carried Anne-Marie from the recliner and back half of the night. The next treatment and consult with Dr. Solti was now in four hours and in my wired exhaustion, I knew. After all that had happened in the previous months, I finally reached a point where I just knew. 

"I'm not ready!" I said to myself over and over again as Anne-Marie slept in the recliner by the foot of our bed.  I wept as I grieved the news I knew I was about to hear.  Then my thoughts changed.  They changed in a very angry way. 

"Yes, I AM ready.  We've been preparing for this day for fifteen years and I'm as ready as anyone else could possibly be."

I couldn't lie there anymore. I immediately made plans to move our bedroom from the basement to the dining room on the main floor.  Anne-Marie could no longer climb the stairs to get to the driveway and I was hurting myself trying to carry her, so my mom helped me carry Anne-Marie to the car for our appointment with Dr. Solti and then stayed at the house with the kids and began changing our dining room into a bedroom.

That morning's consult at Compass Oncology became what I still cannot believe was the last one. Dr. Solti informed both of us that the cancer was terminal, that our current treatment plan was canceled and that the end was soon. Though the timeline was unknowable, an estimate was made of "a few weeks to a few months". Options were offered for further treatment to slow the cancer's progress with the best having 18% efficacy.

I wheeled Anne-Marie back out to the car where we sat in shock for the next 20 minutes. We talked about all the things we'd hoped we hear or hoped we wouldn't hear.  And about life.  And about death.

For years I've made personal phone calls to close friends and family after major news about Anne-Marie's condition.  Oftentimes, those conversations would add up to hours on the phone.  The evening of Thursday, January 14 was the same, but the conversations this time were thick with disastrous grief.

After hours of updating people on the situation, I was surprised by an incoming call to my phone.  Dr. Solti called me to let me know--regardless of the estimated timeline for survival discussed in the earlier consultation--that Anne-Marie may pass away on any given day.

(Any given day?  How many would we be given?)

We had to come up with a plan that was broader than living in quarantine, so for the next seven days we had as many visitors come by the house as we could.  Friends and family--many who hadn't seen Anne-Marie in at least 10 months, due to COVID--came by the house morning, noon and night to spend time with her.  Well over 60 people came from Thursday through the next Wednesday, January 20.

In the middle of our week of visitors, Anne-Marie and I had to get together and have the talk.  The one no couple ever wants to have: if God allows this, what do I do after you're gone?  Anne-Marie first wanted to be sure that I continued to pray for a miracle. (Of course, I would.)  Much of the rest of that conversation will remain forever private, but Anne-Marie did let me know that she desired to be buried nearby her mother in Zion Memorial Park in Canby, Oregon.

She talked about how the greatest times of her life were walking the streets of the small coastal town of Astoria, Oregon, and how she regretted that we never got to take that second honeymoon to London.  Though we both agreed that our decision to buy this old 1941 minimal traditional home 3 years ago, instead of going to London, was the right decision.  She assured me that she loved our home.  Though that missing piece still hurts, in many ways her words were a great comfort to me.

I told her that I chose to believe that we'd done just as much in our 19 years together as many couples do that grow old together. "We sure packed a lot in, didn't we?" she said.  It was Saturday, January 16.

We had seven days.

Wednesday the 20th, the pastor of our church came to install sliding barn doors to cover the opening from our living room to our dining room to allow us more privacy than the curtain we had been using.  We had to make this work for us.  Who knows how long this would be the only private haven we had left?

We had three and a half days.

On the Thursday the 21st, we paused all the visits and had to decide whether to risk a new chemo regimen or enter into hospice.  The choice was very difficult, but after hearing that it would take months to see any improvement from the chemo options available, Anne-Marie decided to apply for hospice. Dr. Solti agreed that it was the best decision.

Hospice visited on Friday the 22nd to get us registered.  When you sign up for Hospice, you relinquish your right to the use of 911 emergency services or any of the previous services your doctor has to offer.  In a sense, it's an agreement with death.  You're saying that if it comes, you will let it take you. However, as a measure taken for Anne-Marie's comfort, Hospice allowed us to schedule Anne-Marie for a surgery to drain the fluid from her lungs so she could breathe more easily.  The date was set for Monday, January 25.

We felt comfort in knowing that at any point, we could call the home office of PeaceHealth SW Hospice and go off the program if we wanted to try additional treatments or un-enroll if new treatment possibilities developed.  After all, they assured us, we've had some patients that have been with Hospice for years.

We had 39 hours.

That evening was like many others we had spent over the past few weeks, except that I was carrying or wheeling Anne-Marie everywhere and my shoulder was going out.  Phil and Ramona came and sat with us.  We laughed and shared memories.  Anne-Marie didn't feel like eating much, but we shared a meal as best we could with Anne-Marie joining in drinking her watermelon-flavored Hint water.  

Everyone was ready to wrap up the night between eight and nine, which left Anne-Marie and I alone with each other to talk. Honestly, I don't really remember what we said that night, but I'm sure it mirrored the typical casual, teasing commentary that filled our previous 19-plus years of our marriage.

How many times we blew kisses to one another from my easy chair to her hospital bed and back.  How many "I love you's" were said.  How many precious wasted-but-not-wasted moments we had in each other's company that would never be shared again.

Just after midnight on Saturday, I knew something wasn't right.  She was weaker, her skin color had started to change.  Her breathing was weaker, but heavier.  The strength had gone out of her body.  I didn't know everything I needed to know about death and dying, but I knew enough to see that the situation looked dire.  I sat in the chair by her bedside for hours until I collapsed into fitful sleep.

Early in the morning, I woke and let Mom know what I was seeing and asked her to stay with Anne-Marie while I contacted Hospice to get help and called family to come in a hurry.  Anne-Marie's close friend, Erica, had flown in from Baltimore and was planning on arriving to visit by midday.  I got word to her to please come as soon as possible. By nine in the morning, people began arriving at the house.

We had 18 hours.

Anne-Marie woke up and didn't quite understand what the big deal was.  I let her know that the Hospice nurse had instructed me to tear open the emergency "comfort packet" they had left us and give her the pills inside of it.  She took them and began to drift in and out of sleep.  I believe she was still puzzled by the look of concern on my face.

Tears. Prayers. Family. Singing. Memories. Laughter. Tears.

Soon the Hospice nurse arrived in person to check in.  She quickly saw Anne-Marie's condition and began preparation to administer Morphine.  She took the first dose around one in the afternoon and fell asleep soon after.  She would wake for a few minutes to talk to one of the many visitors for a few minutes.  She struggled to keep her eyes open.  Apart from everyone else, the nurse privately expressed her doubts that Anne-Marie could survive the surgery on Monday.  

Prayers. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears. Tears.

Around 3 PM she woke up from the two-hour dose of Morphine and realized how many people had arrive and asked for her privacy.  I shut the doors.  She didn't want any more Morphine.  Fifteen minutes later she changed her mind.  

As she began to drift off, I told her, "I love you and God is with you!"

She struggled to get the words out as she looked at me, "I don't feel like He is."

(And how could I judge that statement of her feelings?  Didn't Jesus Himself express nearly the same?  After 25 years as best friends, I knew what she meant.)

And we both wept as I grabbed her by the shoulders and said, "NO! God loves you! And His presence is here. And He's coming for ya!"

12 hours.

It was our last conversation, and this time the woman who held me through my tears and encouraged me so many times had the roles reversed.  And she faded into sleep.

The next eight hours were spent with me by her side as family came in one by one to talk with her and pray.  And I was left with uncertainty.  Could she hear me?  In the first few hours she would nod her head to reply to questions, but that soon stopped.  Was she in pain?  Should I let her dose of Morphine run out just in case she might wake up and we could talk one more time?  (I decided against it.)

It was 10 PM and the family was ready to get some rest. They all went home and Mom and I decided to share responsibilities to make sure my wife had her medication and everything she needed every two hours.  I asked Mom if she could help me move Anne-Marie over in the hospital bed so I could lay next to her for the night.  We woke what seemed like just a few minutes later to give the 11 PM dose and check on things.  No change.

At one in the morning, we woke up to do the same.  As I laid back down in the bed with her, I looked over at her and told her that I loved her and I thought that she deserved better.

The next thing I remember was Mom waking me up. 

"Eli!" I awoke.

"Anne-Marie has stopped breathing. Anne-Marie has died."

I looked over at Anne-Marie's body leaned against mine, kissed her and checked the clock.

3:04 AM.

Departure.

Darkness

"the light has gone out of my life"

137 years ago today, Theodore Roosevelt wrote these words.  It was the day he lost his wife.  They're just as real to me as if he had written them today.

Daytime is shorter than night.  

Memories bring pain and not smiles.  

Colors all look like they're gray.  

Fatigue, but can't sleep anyway.

Payday today, yet who can I treat?

Work trip to leave for, but no one to leave.

No one to come home to and greet with a kiss.

Knew what to expect, but I didn't expect this.

News of the day; nobody to hear.  

Sang a love song, but to only my ears.

Sent you a text: delivered, not read.  

I just can't accept the fact that you're 

Not here.

But time will move on and not stay.

So welcome to Valentine's Day.

If I can't spend it with my wife,

The light has gone out of my life.

Post One Thousand

1,000 memories

1,000 tears

1,000 love songs

1,000 people in our living room

1,000 dollars we can’t afford to pay the oncologist

1,000 inside jokes

1,000 realizations that you’re not here

1,000 risky restaurant choices

1,000 coping strategies

1,000 times I wish I had more time

1,000 arguments

1,000 miles walked in antique malls

1,000 phone pics

1,000 raw conversations

1,000 I love you’s

1,000 trips to Walmart pharmacy

1,000 shades of purple

1,000 secrets shared

1,000 hours on Spotify

1,000 sympathy cards

1,000 prayers prayed

1,000 dreams redirected

1,000 wishes it was me instead of you

1,000 ways I can’t live without you

1,000 blog posts

It’s not enough