The Ultimate Promotion

There hasn't been much but sadness in my blog in the lead-up to and wake of my husband's passing, and understandably so. My heart is often heavy, my eyes well with tears, I stare at the digital display of pictures of him, of us together, that's always going. So when something good and uplifting happens, it's important to share that, too, along with less-happy moments. Here's why I woke up with a big smile on my face the other day.

I dreamed about my husband, but it wasn't one of the stress- or grief-laden dreams I've been having at all; it was a good dream. A great dream, even. It was a dream of normal things during ordinary times, when we were in our prime.

He had come home from work looking excited and happy, a twinkle in his eye as he approached the desk where I was editing a news article submitted by one of his friends. With a somewhat shy little grin on his much-too-handsome face, he handed me a letter to read. It was a very long letter, on professional stationery, from his boss. As I began reading, my beloved was virtually bursting with pride, anticipating my reaction.

In the letter, he was being heartily congratulated on the quality of his work, his leadership abilities, his contribution to the team that was so fond of him and respected him and his ethic so highly. His potential was being recognized, and he was being promoted and receiving an increase in salary (always a good thing). And then there was a bit about how it was hoped that he would enjoy his new sedan.

"What new sedan? They gave you a car?" I couldn't believe it. This was superb news, indeed!

"Well, it's actually a car bonus," he replied modestly. He was so happy and proud. His beautiful, vibrant, blue eyes were filled with excitement, with a hint of hesitation and doubt, as they had a tendency to be. It was as if he couldn't believe his great good luck. I knew he richly deserved this promotion and all that came with it.

So I asked him what car he was thinking of purchasing, and he replied that he wanted a Ford. A Ford Thunderbird SC. Convertible. Those of you who know all about cars are probably looking up that make and model right now. Sure enough, we were in our prime when the last one was made.

As my mind is wont to do, it immediately started calculating the payment; which, for dream purposes, was $450 a month. Go ahead and laugh now. Yes, indeed, this was excellent news. Well, there was a tiny bit of doubt about the tax consequences, but not a word escaped my lips that wasn't full of pride and congratulation on his achievement. I was simply thrilled for him. Apparently, in my dreams, I have learned something valuable about thinking before speaking. 

Friends, what a richly symbolic dream! My husband has received the Ultimate Promotion. He who began a good work in him has been faithful to complete it and greeted him with the words, "Well done, good and faithful servant." In the presence of the Lord, my beloved is more alive than he has ever been. This is my confidence, my joy, my happiness, and my comfort on this beautiful, sunny Sunday afternoon in our little town by the water, where we raised our family and hoped to grow old together. It is well with my soul.

Dreams

Dear readers,

I'm sure you'll be surprised to know that I've had very few dreams of my late husband. To be fair, I've had very few dreams that I remember at all, so maybe I've had more dreams of him than I realize. 

I wish very much that I would dream of earlier, healthier days, or even later days but healthy, or perhaps have visions of him enjoying life in Heaven; however, that just hasn't been the case so far. Perhaps that is because the disease process took a long time and stole such a large chunk of our lives.

Early this morning, I dreamed that he was still at home, and I was caregiving. Our daughter was here with us, helping me care for him as she did regularly, God bless her! I was being patient, understanding, gentle, kind. But he was angry, confused, agitated, mean, sundowning. Because this was a dream, I was able to see the situation through the eyes of retrospect and remained calm; whereas, in real life, the situation would have been very upsetting to me. 

He turned and raged at our daughter, and I could see how incredibly hurt she was as she turned away from him and muttered, "Go to h*ll." Those words felt like an icy knife to my heart. I know that she would never, ever say such a thing in reality, but I can completely understand why she might have wanted to sometimes. It was a very difficult thing for the children to go through, too, and they each had to deal with it in their own way.

Needless to say, I awoke in tears. Obviously, the stress and trauma of the caregiving years is still being processed in my subconscious, and I am working out the stages of grief. I go back and forth with those, as most people do, one moment accepting, the next moment disbelieving, or angry, then accepting again, then regretting something, missing him, crying. It's one thing to know he's gone; it's another to really believe it. One day, I will have a beautiful dream of camping with my beloved beside a quiet lake in the mountains, gazing at the night sky full of stars together.

But, apparently, not yet.

- Me

The Fog

It's now been a month since my husband crossed the Great Divide between the land of the living and the arms of God. I knew it was coming, I thought I was prepared, I expected it at any moment, and all that. But still, when it happened, it was a complete surprise. My knees buckled as the nurse met me at the door to give me the news. I thought I was going to faint. It was like being caught in the middle of a breath. Time stopped. The Earth stood still. Everything seemed far away. Something escaped my lips. A wail? It felt like a bad dream, but it was real. Too real. Devastatingly real. 

Though I knew that in the blink of an eye he had transitioned from this life to the Next, the weight of a ton of bricks landed on me, crushing me. I had been praying for his healing and restoration, and now he was completely healed, but not in the way I'd hoped. He was gone. Gone gone. He wasn't coming back. And I was left behind. A woeful, overwhelmingly bereaved, blubbering mess. I could almost feel myself shrinking. The shock to my system was wholly unexpected. 

I had come prepared to stay, not expecting that he would leave so quickly. I had a cot, a pillow, my overnight bag, the ukulele. I had planned to encourage him, to pray with him, to play and sing for him. And so, our son standing next to me, I took out my music, pulled up a chair, took a deep breath, and selected a few of my husband's favorite tunes. My singing and playing were worse than usual, but I'm sure nobody minded.

The fog that settled over me that day, deepening daily, was all enveloping, saturating. I could not think. It was an effort to breathe. I wasn't even sure I wanted to. My heart hurt so much, I thought it would surely stop beating. I sort of hoped it would. I had already lost my father, then my mother. But those losses didn't even come close to comparing to this whole new level of excruciating pain. Of guilt. Of anger. Of confusion. Had there been a funeral pyre, I might have thrown myself on it. All I could see ahead of me was a yawning chasm of emptiness. Family and friends surrounded me in the most loving way, for which I am grateful. I'm not sure how I could have made arrangements without their help and prayers.

Because of COVID restrictions, we were allowed only a very private graveside service. It took place two weeks after his death. Though it was small, it was very beautiful and personal and comforting. When the children and I returned to the cemetery the next day to place flowers on the grave, I felt oddly at peace, knowing my beloved was at rest. I know I will see him again, but that doesn't take away the terrible sadness, the horrible feeling that half of me is gone, the gaping wound in the core of my being. I will have to walk through the crippling grief, and I'm told there will eventually be more good days than bad days. 

In the meantime, I have begun the necessary work that follows a death:  contacting various agencies and financial institutions, filing paperwork, making sure nothing falls through the cracks. The first two are routine. The third, well, I'm hoping for the best through the fog. I thought it was starting to lift last week, but now I realize I was wrong about that.

Thank you, dear readers, for your words of encouragement and support over the years, and especially for your prayers both during my husband's illness and continuing through the painful days ahead. Some of you have asked that I continue this diary through what you're calling my "healing process." I'm assuming that I will, at some point, heal. At least, that's my hope, because that's what people do. I just can't really envision that right now.

The Last Note

July 14, 2020

I got "the call" this morning. You know the one. The one you keep expecting but hope never arrives. I was to come right away, if possible. I rushed to my car and sped down the road (apologies to the highway patrol. Thank you for not pulling me over). I wanted to be there to hold his hand, to whisper sweet nothings in his ear, to comfort him. But he decided to go quickly, before I could get there. Yes, that was devastating, especially since I'd had a camp cot, pillow, and weekender in the trunk of my car for over a month, expecting (obviously) to be with him for however long it took, at the drop of a hat.

But here's the cool thing:  The music therapist was having a video call with him (you'll remember how he loved music therapy) and was playing and singing Paul Simon's The 59th Street Bridge Song:

Slow down, you move too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobblestones
Looking for fun and feelin' groovy
Ba da-da da-da da-da, feelin' groovy...

And here's the other cool thing:  As she was singing "feelin' groovy," he and Jesus decided it was time for him to go Home. He passed from this life to the next,  just like that. He fell asleep here, and he woke up there (or, for those who believe a bit differently, he will wake up there). And now he's healed. He's whole. He's...feelin' groovy.

Rest in perfect Peace, my love. There can never be another you. I'll miss you until I see you again. The time may seem long for me, but it will be short, really. And then we will be together in the presence of the Lord, and time will be infinite. Eternal.

The Lord, the Psalmist’s Shepherd.
A Psalm of David.
(New International Version)

23 The Lord is my shepherd,
I [a]shall not want.
2 He makes me lie down in green pastures;
He leads me beside [b]quiet waters.
3 He restores my soul;
He guides me in the [c]paths of righteousness
For His name’s sake.
4 Even though I walk through the [d]valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no [e]evil, for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.
5 You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
You [f]have anointed my head with oil;
My cup overflows.
6 [g]Surely goodness and lovingkindness will follow me all the days of my life,
And I will [h]dwell in the house of the Lord [i]forever.

Footnotes
Psalm 23:1 Or do
Psalm 23:2 Lit waters of rest
Psalm 23:3 Lit tracks
Psalm 23:4 Or valley of deep darkness
Psalm 23:4 Or harm
Psalm 23:5 Or anoint
Psalm 23:6 Or Only
Psalm 23:6 Another reading is return to
Psalm 23:6 Lit for length of days

From Puree to Liquid

July 13, 2020

It's been about a month and a half since my husband's regular diet was replaced with pureed foods and thickened beverages. He's been drinking Ensure nutritional supplement, also, since his dramatic weight loss began.

The past couple of weeks, he's been having more and more trouble swallowing even the pureed foods. He seems to hold the spoonful in his mouth for a long time, finally chews it, and eventually either swallows it, spits it out, or chokes on it. For the past week, he has been eating and drinking very little and even "refusing" to eat at all, meaning he doesn't open his mouth or doesn't swallow the first spoonful.

Yesterday, one of the caregivers experimented with thickening the Ensure with just enough of the pureed food to make it the same consistency as the thickened beverage he usually consumes, eventually. He was successful in patiently spoon feeding a glassful of this concoction to my husband for lunch and dinner. He is attempting to do the same today.

I know that my husband will eventually forget how to swallow (or will not want to. Who knows if it's forgetting or refusing?). It looks as though that may be sooner rather than later. In the meantime, I've contacted the hospice nurse to see about changing his food "order" from a pureed diet to a liquified diet. It's worth a try.

Play a Song for Me

June 29, 2020

I've been trying to catch my husband awake, going to the facility to see him at all different times of day. Today, I decided to go later in the afternoon. He woke up for me! Yay! I gave him a facial, massaged his feet, fed him his dinner, played music for him. 

Our son happened to call me while I was there, so I put him on speaker phone right next to my husband's ear. The Hubster seemed to respond to that for about five seconds and even sort of smiled. It was very heartwarming, another memory to tuck away. 

After dinner, the caregivers came in and repositioned my husband, as I had mentioned that he seemed rather uncomfortable. When they left the room, I grabbed my ukulele and sat in the chair next to his bed. He went right to sleep as I played some soft, slow chords for him. He generally falls asleep after eating, so I don't think it was entirely to escape my playing.

As I was leaving, one of the caregivers thanked me for the beautiful music. What? I thought I was playing and singing super softly; but, apparently, I could be heard in the dining area, and a couple of the residents were really enjoying it. Golly. It made me feel so good to think I might have brought them a little joy. 

I'm reminded that the other day, the wife of one of the residents was visiting him through the window, and she saw me arrive with my music case. She gave me a big smile, telling me her husband had told her about me and looked forward to listening to my playing. She asked me to make sure he could hear me. I took her request with a grain of salt and assumed she was confusing me with the music therapist. But I guess she must have known what she was talking about, since it turns out he's one of the ones who was in the dining area listening to the tunes today. Who knew?!

End of Life

June 30, 2020

I have noticed that when the hospice nurse calls me with a report these days, she chats with me for a while and manages to inject "end of life" into the conversation somewhere. "When patients near the end of life..." "As the end of life approaches..." "This can be expected at end of life..." You'd almost think she was trying to tell me something.

A month ago, we were sure he was about to cross over to the other side. But he surprised us all and is still here with us, instead of there with Him. It would appear that it isn't yet his time, though each day brings us inexorably closer to the temporary separation that will feel so permanent, but isn't.

I think the nurse is trying to prepare me for that day, to caution me that it is probably coming sooner rather than later, to make sure I understand that it's an upcoming reality. Whether I like it or not, and whether I'm ready or not, in case I've been ignoring the signs or am in denial. I'm not and haven't been in denial (as you well know). Not lately, anyway.

At least, I don't think so. We shall see, when the time comes.