What I Wish I'd Known

 …that the grief of widowhood weighs heavy.

I took my place in this messy club of loss and grief the night of October 6th., 2020 when my husband drew his last breath.

I remember thinking when he went into the hospital four months prior on a balmy June morning that it was only a temporary setback; he had seen many a hospital stay and always came home feistier and with more determination than ever to keep pressing forward. About midway through, things began to show themselves differently and the gnawing sensation in the pit of my stomach left me with an uneasiness I had never known. It was a twisting, burning, hollow feeling, telling me that something about this time would be final. It was a feeling that I would push down and do my best to ignore until one phone call would slap me awake and force me to deal with it…

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I watched as the EMTs brought my husband, sedated for the three hour drive, into our dining room. I tried to look away as he was removed from the equipment that was helping him to breathe. I then took my place to his left, stroking his hair, watching his chest rise and fall as his breathing became more shallow and erratic. After being asleep for about 45 minutes he finally opened his eyes, slowly taking in his surroundings. The kids, his sister, the hospice nurse; we were all there and we each had our time with him. The last thing I remember him “saying” was “I love you all.” While he was in the hospital he had to have a tracheostomy and was left with little to no voice so any attempts he made to speak came across as lip syncing. It took a great deal of strength for him to form those simple words, his last words.

I stood next to him, still stroking his hair, talking to him, trying to stop time as best I could. I heard myself whisper, "It's okay. You can go now," His breathing became more and more erratic and I watched as his gaze, now fixed, aligned with the ceiling. One breath…two…three…nothing…the hospice nurse took out her stethoscope, placing it against his chest. A minute later, she looked at me and shook her head.

My husband was gone.

From that moment the heaviness that wrapped around me could be likened to a robe that’s been dipped in cement. Weary…ponderous…cumbersome…a heaviness that had made my everything its home. If you’re familiar with “A Christmas Carol,” you might remember the chains worn by Marley, chains that only became visible after death, chains that he had forged during his lifetime. You see how their heft weighs Marley down, how he labors under them, how he longs for something, anything to relieve him of the yoke he bears. Agony, misery, despair all interwoven amidst each link, knowing he will never be rid of the cruel load.

Such had been my grief journey. Such had been the weight of my husband’s absence. Such had been the depths of sorrow and mourning. The “chains” I wore, invisible to the outside world, became more and more visible with each passing day, every minute, every hour. Their weight grew more and more heavy and my soul screamed for release. Something…anything…

Sadly…

I will never be rid of them.

They will always be a part of me.

The rest of the world may never know they’re there but I will forever be too aware of their existence.

This was my life now.

This was my “new normal.”

I will never be rid of them.

I simply had to learn to walk again as I carry them...