Things That I Miss...

...your smile, your touch, your love, 

your friendship...you.

November 3, 1952 - June 30, 1989

The Visit

June 30, 1989 was a long day of difficult decisions. Your mom was staying with you at night and I was there with you during the days. You had become comatose and we knew the end was coming soon. I don't remember the time when I walked into the house that Friday night. It must have been close to 11:00. My sister, Chris, watched Erin and C.J. while I was at the hospital with you. As soon as I walked in the door, Chris told me to call your dad.

I picked up the phone.

"Billy's gone. It happened about 20 minutes after you left the hospital."

My heart sank and yet I felt a sense of the relief I knew you sought. Finally, the suffering was over. I don't recall a lot of what happened after that. Chris tells me that I called Tom, our pastor, and he and Sue came over and we talked at the kitchen table. I must have called the funeral home because I do remember Chuck stopping at the house that night to tell me you were already being transported back home. I was exhausted, but I took some medication that the doctor had prescribed to help me sleep and went to bed.

That night, Chris stayed and slept on the couch. It was well after midnight when everything finally settled down. One of our neighbors had a motorcycle and for unexplained reasons, other than perhaps the folly of youth, he liked to rev the engine and run up and down the street in the midnight hours. That night was no exception and Chris couldn't sleep because of the noise. Finally, he stopped. As she lay there, she heard what sounded like the door opening.

I thought it was your cat at the door, but then I felt a strong presence as if someone was standing near me. I had the distinct feeling it was Bill. He stood there for a moment then I sensed him moving down the hallway toward the bedrooms. Early the next morning, Erin Leigh came out to the living room and wakened me.

"Aunt Chris! Aunt Chris! Did Dad come home last night?" she whispered expectantly.

"No. No, sweetheart. He didn't."

"Oh. I thought I heard him in the hallway."

Thanksgiving

Tonight I walked into Erin's bedroom and saw the picture I had taken of you and her at the state park when she was just five. You were wearing a navy blue t-shirt and jeans and had squatted down with your arm around her. She was wearing a pink, blue, and white striped sweater and a great big smile as she leaned into you.

I picked up Hadley, Erin's youngest, and walked over to the dresser. The memory of you tugged at my heart as emotion welled in my throat.

"Look. There's grandpa and mommy, Hadley."

She pointed at the picture. Too young at two to understand. I smiled. Wished you well. Then turned and went back to the kitchen to help Erin bake the pies.

It's Your Birthday

Today is your birthday. In my mind, you are still young. I see you healthy and smiling, always upbeat. I wonder how you would have changed at 58. How we would have grown together with our kids and now our grandchildren. I know you would have loved them dearly, and they you. I wish they could have known you.

I just watched a video about some children who lost grandparents and parents. As they experienced their grief, their teacher encouraged them to, "Let people live in your heart. They live there forever." It's true. When you love someone, they leave an indelible mark on you. They become a part of you forever.

Though our lives diverged 21 years ago, I still carry you with me. When you were here, you assured me of your love every day through words and actions. Sometimes I have dreams that I am trying to get to you, but you don't recognize me anymore and your love for me is no longer the same. I imagine you walking into a room, but a lifetime has passed and how would we ever connect again? There would be so much to tell each other that we didn't experience together.

Then I have to stop dwelling on those thoughts because they only cause me to doubt what I once knew so well, you and your love.

In two days, it will be the anniversary of our marriage. I always feel melancholy this time of year because of the benchmarks of our life together. But I wouldn't have traded a moment of our union. I cherish that you were once my husband and that I was your wife. You left a mark, an impression on my life that can never be removed. You will always be with me, part of me, and for that I am deeply grateful. I wouldn't want it any other way.

Happy Birthday. Happy Anniversary. I love you. Thank you for entering my life and for all the love that you brought to me and our children.

The Last Time

I took the First Avenue exit off 55 and headed north. Traffic was light, but we weren't in a hurry. You were being re-admitted to the hospital. We felt defeated, but didn't talk about defeat. Hopeless, but not yet willing to admit that all hope was gone.

You were tall and always seemed to fold into the Honda, even with the seat slid back as far as it would go. I tucked my hand along the edge of the seat, near your thigh. Left hand gripping the wheel, I steered the car through the gentle curves. We passed the entrance to Brookfield Zoo, stopping at the light. And when I turned and looked at you, I knew.

This is the last time we will make this drive together.

In The Silence

It was comforting to hear your voice. On the days I didn't see you, we talked. The number to the hospital, to your room, was a lifeline. One evening, I called. I pictured you in the isolation unit that had been your home for over a month. You were getting stronger; your blood counts were coming back, slow but sure. Hopefully, you would be coming home soon. As we talked, I stretched the long phone cord out the door and sat outside on the step.

It was nice that day. The sun was shining and it was around dinner time. We talked about how you were feeling. You asked about the kids and how my day was. There was a pause in the conversation and you spoke, "What's that sound?"

I wasn't sure what you were talking about, then realized you must have been hearing the birds singing.

"It's the birds. I'm outside on the deck."

Then it hit me. I pictured the sealed, heavy plate glass windows in your room. You hadn't heard birds singing for nearly 6 weeks.

I turned the receiver away from my cheek and grew silent. Together we listened in a moment of intimacy that neither of us wanted to end.

The Source

It was a picture-perfect autumn day. The sun shone brightly in a deep blue sky. Birds chirped as they flitted from branch to branch in the timber. You pulled the Bronco into a parking space near the trailhead that led to the lower dells. The three of us climbed out and prepared to hike into the coolness of the wooded bluff on our way to the tranquil banks of the Vermillion River meandering below. Erin was excited for the hike, as only a five-year-old can be. I put a polarizing filter on the camera lens and aimed toward the azure horizon. Lord, if you think a beautiful day is going to make anything better...

My mind was reeling. You reached for the camera bag and hoisted it over your shoulder. You always had a calm about you, seemingly taking things in stride. But I knew you were worried and struggling to regain your footing in yet another physical and emotional upheaval. The test results cast an ominous shadow over an otherwise perfect day. The cancer is back.

Suddenly a beautiful day became offensive to me. I resisted any inclination to take pleasure in the nature that surrounded us. We looked forward to hiking together each season, photographing our outings and the beautiful vistas. But this day simply wasn't enough to bring peace back into my troubled soul.

In the midst of emotional havoc, I thought God was using a nice day to somehow appease the malady that was occurring yet again. No matter how I tried, I couldn't reconcile the contradiction of a glorious day and the dreaded test results. How much more can you take? How long must you struggle with this illness and our lives be placed on hold before this disease finally yields to treatment? I hated knowing what was ahead for you - painful testing, chemotherapy, radiation. I despised it all. In this tranquil setting, a turmoil of doubt and fear broiled within each of us. Outwardly, we were going through the steps of another day. But inwardly we were struggling to digest the news and regain emotional balance.

And now, this day. This perfectly beautiful in every other way than the reality with which we were now confronted day became an object of contention. I wanted to embrace it, but if I did it would be like saying everything was fine when it so clearly was not. Then, an epiphany. The source of our strength is not in the day.

The revelation was so simple, yet so powerful in diverting my runaway thoughts. The weight lifted ever so slightly. The tension in my shoulders lessened. I could breathe again. We gathered our things and headed for the trail where we would spend the hours hiking and talking, offering assurance of our love and committment to one another, and allowing ourselves the smallest reprieve of a beautiful day spent together.