A late Good-bye

I didn’t get to say a final good-bye to Michael as I left the hospital that Sunday night.  When I left, I was fully expecting to come back the next day and the next day to bring him home.  I wish I was with him when he died. I would have said good-b ye in such a different manner.  I would have been so loving and accepting of his process.  I would say, “It’s OK Michael. You can go. You’ve been so strong your whole life.  I will always be here for you. I love you now and forever. We will all be OK. I love you. I love you. I love you. Shhhh…you can go. Be at peace. I love you forever. Good-bye, my love. Michael…Shhhhh…”

As it will be forever, I leaned over as he got comfortable in the hospital bed and I said, "I won't call you when I get home because I know you will be resting."  I think I may have touched his shoulder, and then walked out.  I remember turning to look back at him to make sure he was ok.  He woke up approximately 15 minutes later not being able to breath, lost consciousnesses, was rushed to the ICU and 4 hours later, he died.  

Stuck in life

Today is my wedding anniversary.  It's the hardest day of the year.  I was married on July 7, 1977 at 7:00pm.  It was a glorious night.  A warm summer night full of love and promise.  Last year I went to the beach alone and mourned the loss of my husband.  This year, I feel numb and resigned to the fact that he is not here, but my love and celebration of today is still alive.  How can that be?  In the months right after Michael died, I read several books on grief.  Grief "experts" said that we still have a relationship with the person who has died.  I was so confused over this.  I couldn't understand how in the world anyone can have a relationship with a person who has died. And now, I am beginning to understand this a little differently.  A relationship has so many different levels, and the relationship with a person who has died remains unchanged through the rest of the living person's life.  It is like a hologram, it can be moved and played over and over again, but only the same figures show up.  My wedding anniversary remains in 2011, the last time we smiled at each other and went to the garden store to buy mulch.  We picked out a pretty blue planter to commemorate the date.  I still have it filled with life.  

Going Home

As I drove to the book store one sunny afternoon, I realized that being with Michael was like coming home.  I thought of all the people who I could have asked to join me.  They were people that I loved, family and friends, who may have been available for a short outing to look at books.  It was then that I realized there was only one person that I wanted with me at that moment.  That no one could fill the space of Michael.  He was who I really wanted to come with me, like we did so many time before.  He was my comfort.  He was like home, after a long, or short trip to a different place.  He was like getting into your own bed after several nights away sleeping in a hard or lumpy bed, or eating at a table that wasn’t quite the right height and had a sticky spot that was unidentifiable.  Michael was like kicking off a new pair of shoes that didn’t fit exactly right and sliding sore feet into warm and fuzzy slippers.  Even though I was happy to be at those other places and had a wonderful time there, it was not home. There was a part of myself that was always waiting to go home.  Home is where I like to be best.  So even though I love all the people I spend time with and they are required for my happiness and well-being, they are not home.  Home disappeared. I can’t get used to never being able to go home again.