The End of The World As I Knew It

The life I embraced for 35 years ended on September 22, 2013, just a little after 5:00 AM.

That was when Patricia took her last fragile breath and surrendered to the cruel disease that robbed us both of the future we had expected to spend together.

She was my wife. My best friend. The selfless mother of our son. A servant of the Lord. A loving daughter and cherished daughter-in-law. To her brothers she was a loyal sister and occasional co-conspirator. And among her friends and co-workers, she was simply someone special. She claimed to have no skills or talents. But she had a gift: She touched people’s lives.

I’ve tried moving forward. But I’ve only had the past to cling onto. The present has been simply too painful. And the future, suddenly having to face it alone, has been like standing in the middle of a cold, dank basement when that lone lightbulb hanging over the washing machine burns out. You know your eyes will eventually adjust and you’ll find your way back up the stairs. But for those first few endless moments, nothing has ever seemed so dark and uncertain.

You’d think that at some point during the 33 months she was sick I would have spent a minute or two pondering a few “what-ifs.” Maybe considered some contingencies. Been a little better prepared for her death. But, really, up until the bitter end when she (and her doctors) finally threw in the towel, the mantra was simple: “We’ll get through this.”

Together.

You can’t survive all of the things she endured, for as long as she did, by believing your life is a lost cause. And you can’t be an effective caregiver by thinking your loved one will ultimately be gone from your life. That’s not how it works. You love and care for each other unconditionally. You give that person the best of you. And you have faith — unquestioning faith — that your love will conquer all. In sickness. In health. Just as it had for the past 35 years.

“We’ll get through this.”

We didn’t.

And suddenly, I found myself very alone. My hope for “happily-ever-after” was replaced by “what-the-heck-do-I-do-now?”

That 24/7 job I had keeping track of her medications, feeding her, washing her, comforting her, was done. And everywhere I turned in that lovely home we created together was another bittersweet memory.

Trapped by the past.

You weep openly because every memory is another place in time to which you wish you could return. A moment you both took for granted because you had all the time in the world.

Together.

You hear a song. And weep.

You come across a photo. And weep.

You open a dresser drawer and the sweetness of her favorite perfume drifts out. And you scream out loud to God and beg him to explain Himself.

Why?!

Why take Pat?

Patricia with Layla, Alex’s rescue dog.
This picture was taken on February 22, 2013…exactly seven months before she passed.

It was a profound loss for all who knew her. But friends and family obviously grieved in their own ways. Initially they reached out to me. Checked in. But over time, the phone stops ringing. And thankfully, the awkward calls of condolence, the lies of “being fine,” come to an end.

For everyone else, life goes on.

Hospice and Moffitt Cancer Center invited me to participate in their grief-management groups and workshops. But sitting around talking to strangers about how bad it feels to feel bad just didn’t seem like it would be all that productive.

“Let’s see a show of hands: How many people here feel like someone cut open your chest, ripped out your heart and left a gaping wound? Anyone? How about you, sir? Yes, you…”

This is a pain that a good “talkin’ to” can’t cure. You can’t run away from it. You can’t hide from it. You can’t medicate it. You can’t drink it away.

You can only hang on tight and wait for that hole in your soul to heal over.

There’s a very cheesy quote that I’m sure has shown up on everyone’s Facebook page once or twice: “You never stop loving someone, you just learn to live without them.”

I must be a slow learner.