The miracle never came.
When you lose someone you love, it’s devastating, to say the least. Each of us has our own unique experience as we deal with it. What happened with you would be different from what happened with me. Even people within the same group of family or friends will each have their own feelings, their own memories of the loss of the same person. We all see, think, and feel differently, and we all grieve differently. There is no one way that is correct.
I would anticipate, though, that anyone who has lost a loved one can in some way relate to what I’m about to share.
When I try to recall the events surrounding my wife Marsha’s death, it’s like on TV, or a movie when you see someone dreaming, or struggling to remember, and there is this one tiny circle in the middle of the screen that is almost clear, but everything else on the screen is obscured. I call it fog.
If I had given it any thought before, I would have expected that by now I would be over the grief. No more mourning. And my memory would be clear. But that is not the case. I don’t grieve constantly, but I have done a lot of crying as I put this all together. And my memory is still a dense fog.
A lot of things I know. But I don’t remember. A few things I remember, but not clearly.
I remember driving Marsha to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville. I remembered we talked. But I can’t remember what we said. Maybe we were making plans for a cruise to Alaska to celebrate her return to good health. I know we made those plans, but I’m not sure when.
I don’t remember our final words before she went in for surgery.
I remember the initial excitement our granddaughter Annika and I felt when the doctors told us they had successfully removed the tumor. I remember high-fiving and making a pact with Annika that when Grandma woke up, she could be the one to tell her they had gotten the tumor out.
I remember that Marsha didn’t wake up. Annika had to tell Grandma while she was still sleeping (in a coma) the good news about the tumor. We were hoping that the sound of our voices would help her wake up. But no.
That was February 24th, 2017.
Annika and I were at the hotel which connects to the clinic. There was a call late that night. Marsha was bleeding and they needed my permission to do some sort of procedure – the fog keeps me from remembering exactly they were going to do – and I consented.
And I know that a few days later I had a conference with the surgical team and ICU staff. I remember some of it, but not clearly.
I know we waited for my daughter Angi to arrive. I do clearly remember standing out in the hallway in ICU as Angi and Annika were in the room with Marsha, saying their goodbyes. I remember breaking down as I listened to Angi singing “Amazing Grace” to her dying mother.
I remember taking them to the Orlando airport, with a stop at our house in Clermont, Florida. And I remember vividly what I consider to be a miracle that happened while there. More about that later in another upcoming post.
I do vividly remember a dream I had. I was in our house, and I heard Marsha coming in from the garage through the utility room and I jumped up from the couch to meet her in the kitchen. She was the picture of health. And she was smiling. She always had the most beautiful smile.
I said something like, “I can’t believe how good you look! And how much better you are doing. It was only a few hours ago you were in a coma!” And then, of course, I woke up. I’ll remember that dream as long as I live.
Back in the real world, after dropping Angi and Annika off at the Orlando airport, I drove back to Jacksonville.
One clear memory I do have is when I got back to the Mayo Clinic, after parking in the lot and getting out of my truck, a young lady, maybe still in her twenties, said in a weak and trembling voice, “Excuse me …”
I said, “Yes?”
“Could I have a hug?”
I admit, I was unprepared for that. A complete stranger asking for a hug. It was broad daylight, in a hospital parking lot. Anywhere else, I would have been more suspicious. But I could see the pain in her eyes.
Her mother was a patient in the clinic, and not expected to survive. And she needed some comfort. So I of course gave her a hug, and sat with her on a bench next to the duck pond to listen as she unburdened her troubles onto me, a complete stranger. And I shared with her what we were going through, watching Marsha slip away from us.
I probably should have given her my email address and asked her to keep me informed on how she and her mother were doing, but it didn’t occur to me at the time. It helped us both, I think, to support one another, even for a brief moment. Sometimes, I believe, people’s paths cross for a reason. I probably wouldn’t’ recognize her if I were to see her again, but I’ll always remember and be grateful for her.
I remember that life support was removed, but due to the fog I don’t remember if I was in the room at the time it was done. I kind of think I was, because I have these images in my mind. But those images are blurred, so I’m not sure enough to say one way or the other.
I remember my brother Jim flew down from Illinois to be with us, but I can’t recall when he got there. I do know that Marsha was still alive. I appreciate him coming to be there for me when she died. I remember thinking before he came down to Florida for me that I just wanted to be alone when the time came. But now, looking back, it was good to have him there. I’m grateful for his support.
I remember sitting in Marsha’s room, updating friends and family with texts and Facebook posts. And then, when Marsha stopped breathing, I remember pulling my chair next to her bed, holding her hand as her heartbeat faded away and finally stopped.
I’m sure I was talking to her, but that part is also foggy, and I don’t know what I said.
I do remember crying. Sobbing. Even now, almost seven years later, my eyes are filled with tears, and my nose is stinging as I type my recollections on the keyboard.
Now What?
I remember continuing to hold Marsha’s hand for a while after her heart stopped beating.
I remember kissing her forehead.
I remember my brother coming into the room to comfort me. And I remember both of us sobbing.
After that, again … fog. Dense fog.
I sort of remember … texting our daughter, letting her know.
Calling Marsha’s mother to deliver the news.
And posting on Facebook so that other family and friends throughout the country would know.
I’m not one of those who has to post everything on Facebook, but I found that it was helpful in getting the word out without having to contact everyone individually.
I was hurting, and the last thing I wanted was to have to go over everything time and time again.
I remember staying in the room until they came to take Marsha’s body. That was hard, seeing her being wheeled out, knowing it would be a few days and a thousand miles before I would see her again.
One of my cousins, Dan Young, and his wife Cindy were flying down to be with us that day. Marsha was already gone by the time they landed in Jacksonville. My brother Jim and I met them at the airport and from there we drove to our – technically now my – home in Clermont. We all spent the night at the house, and the next morning Jim flew back home. Dan, Cindy, and I then drove from Florida back to Olney, Illinois.
Marsha and I had made living wills, and trusts which made things a lot easier when the time came. The one thing we had not done, though, was to pre-arrange our funerals.
I recommend you do consider doing that. Think of it as a parting gift for your loved ones. It will relieve them of having to make all the arrangements after you are gone.
I had to notify the funeral home back in Olney, so they could contact a local funeral home in Jacksonville, and arrange for Marsha’s body to be flown back to Illinois.
Back in Illinois, I had to arrange the funeral. Talk with the preacher who would deliver the eulogy. Pick out a casket. Buy a plot in the cemetery. Arrange for a headstone. None of these things are particularly difficult to do. It’s just that I had to do them right away when I was still numb, and feeling my way along in the fog. I don’t know how I got it all done, but I did. I also went ahead and pre-arranged my own funeral, so that my daughter won’t have to do all that when I pass.
There was visitation, and the funeral. I only remember a few of the people who came, even though there was a huge turnout – especially when you consider that for most of our adult lives we had lived hundreds of miles away from our hometown.
One thing I do remember vividly is seeing our granddaughter standing at the casket, alone, talking with Grandma before the funeral. She looked so tiny, and at the same time, so grown up. It broke my heart. I wanted to go to her and scoop her up, hug her tight and comfort her. But I didn’t. I knew she needed that time alone with Grandma. I still cry when I think of it. And yet again now as I share with you.
I remember my sister-in-law and her mother going to the nursing home in Flora, Illinois to get Marsha’s mother. I sat next to her at the funeral. She held up pretty well, all things considered. I myself broke down and sobbed. I can’t tell you one word the preacher said, or the music that was played, although I expect Amazing Grace would have been one of the songs.
I barely remember going to the cemetery. Then, more fog.
A few days later, we drove to Richmond, Indiana. We had lived there several years, and had many friends who loved Marsha. One of those friends made arrangements for us to use a building at the fairgrounds to host a gathering to celebrate Marsha’s life. We had an excellent turnout. People we hadn’t seen in ten years. Lots of good stories, lots of laughs, and more than a few tears.
From there, we drove to Florida for yet another celebration of Marsha’s life in our church’s basement with friends who live there. Several people stood up and talked, sharing memories of her.
It may seem to some like we did too much. Like we should have just had a funeral and buried her. But to know Marsha was to know that she touched a lot of lives, and it helped us – my daughter, my granddaughter, and myself to feel all the love and support.
Then, we were done. My daughter and granddaughter flew back to Colorado. I stayed behind in Florida, with intent to come see them in a few weeks.
That was the first day of the rest of my life.
I do remember thinking, ‘Now what?’