Time Is on Our Side

I haven't been writing very much lately. This is partly because my husband's situation seems stable right now, so there's not much to report. But it's also because I've been in another deep blue funk part of my grieving process.

Yes, I know there have been several of those. But that's how grief is. One day, you think you've got a handle on things and are "doing better." The next, you feel like you've been hit by a truck and don't even want to get out of bed. But you do. You put one foot in front of the other, and you keep going. This long goodbye is difficult and overwhelming and heartbreaking and tearful.

But, the other day, I was holding my husband's hand and looking into his eyes* and stroking his cheek and listening to tunes with him. I thought about last year, when he had sepsis and almost left me to go to his Forever Home with Jesus. And I thought about the amount of time that has passed since then, and all the kisses and hugs and tender moments that we wouldn't have had the opportunity to share if he'd succumbed to that infection.

I realized what a blessing it is to have been given this extra time to be together, to enjoy each other's company, to say with our eyes (and with words, in my case) the things that a lot of people don't have the opportunity to share, when death comes without warning. A lot of healing and forgiveness and understanding has taken place in my heart and, I hope and believe, in his. What a gift!

If you still have your special someone with you, I hope you won't take each other for granted or allow the busyness of life or demands of others to cause you to put each other on the back burner. "Later" may never come. Treasure every minute together, every adventure experienced, every memory made. They're a gift to you.

*It isn't always the easiest thing to establish meaningful eye contact with him at this point. I move my head around to try to get him to look at me, but he has a tendency to look away, mostly. This "failure to make eye contact" is a progression of the disease. So when I say I look into his eyes, I mean that literally, and it doesn't mean he's actively looking back. But sometimes he does, and I see tenderness there. That, my friends, is an emotional moment for me!

Alone

It hit me hard this weekend, as I wandered aimlessly and procrastinated halfheartedly, accomplishing nothing under a sad, dark cloud of impending doom, that there's a really good chance that soon -- maybe not next year or the year after, but soon -- I'm going to be alone, partnerless, adrift in a sea of grief, bobbing up and down as wave after wave knocks me about mercilessly. Permanently.

And what troubles me about this is not that I'm going to be getting older and older, but that I'm going to be getting older and older by myself instead of with my man to hold my hand and look into my eyes and tell me everything is going to be okay. My mom once told me that what she missed most as a widow was hugs from her husband. I think I understand that now, because you can get hugs all day long, but those aren't the same as one hug from the one you love.

I'm going to spend the rest of my mortal life navigating stormy waters on my own instead of with my man to share thoughts and ideas with, to make plans with, to solve problems with. Family and close friends will of course be there for me, and that's wonderful and helpful and encouraging and good, but they're busy with their own lives. Though they will do their best to fill the chasm, it won't be the same as two people working together as one, reaching decisions about the future together as one, and moving forward with life together as one.

Couples won't invite me to do things with them any more. Actually, they already don't. In social circles, I am and will be the square peg in the corner, that awkward reminder of what awaits every couple, sooner or later. Nobody wants that around!

No. I'll be alone. All alone. Probably.

I'm reminded of that Brenda Lee song, "All Alone Am I":  "All alone am I ever since your goodbye. All alone, with just the beat of my heart. People all around, but I don't hear a sound. Just the lonely beating of my heart."

That's how I felt today as I walked along the waterfront. It used to be a favorite pastime, walking for a while, sitting on one of the park benches to eat a cupcake or take a picture, meandering to a coffee shop or back to the car; now it's just a reminder. Tick tock. Tick tock.

But God! God is a husband to the husbandless and a father to the fatherless. He will sustain me, guide me, comfort me. He will look out for me. He has been, is, and will be my ever present help in time of trouble. He will never leave me, nor will he ever forsake me. He is my refuge, my strength. He is faithful. He keeps His promises. In Him, all things are possible.

You see? Just as I was sinking in the mire of self-pity and despair, He rescued me and reminded me that there's nothing today or tomorrow or the day after can bring that the two of us can't handle. Together. He's got my back. And I am so grateful!

A Bitter Pill

The past couple of days have been excruciating. I checked my husband into a care facility yesterday for another, longer respite. Last time when I dropped him off, it wasn't as traumatic at all, because it was just for a week. This time, it's for a month. At least a month, and then we'll see.

Filling out the paperwork was a lengthy, drawn-out affair with plenty of warnings about things that could go wrong, the probability of medication changes, the inadvisability of visiting for a few days, and all kinds of things that made me feel, frankly, like I was abandoning my husband to the whims of others rather than simply passing the baton for a while.

I put his favorite blanket on his bed, placed some older family photos (because I thought he might remember the younger people in them) on his nightstand, and organized his clothing. I made sure he ate his lunch and was comfortably ensconced in the television room with his new roommate, someone we have already visited with a friend several times. I took that to be a happy development.

But the closer it was to a good time for me to leave in order to avoid rush hour traffic, the more anxious I felt. The more emotional I became. The harder it was for me to smile and combat my tears. Somehow, even though in my mind it wasn't yet a permanent placement, I felt I was betraying a trust. I was leading a lamb to slaughter. This man who was gazing at me through confused eyes was counting on me, and I was letting him down.

How's that for believing a lie? But those were the thoughts going through my head, and I had to beat them into submission. I felt ill. There's just no way I can remotely come close to describing the experience. I was heartbroken and am bereft. Golly, I am weary of being bereft. There is just nothing uplifting about this long goodbye.

The end of March and first of April is already an agonizing time for me, with deep sorrow and painful memories. And now another one has been added to the list. I must press in close to my Lord, my Helper, my Friend, my Redeemer. There's a reason Psalm 121 is my favorite.