He's Gone

I'm used to Scott always being there,
looking over my shoulder.

My husband of 29 years died at age 56, only a month before his 57th birthday.  He was diagnosed with cancer only 8 weeks (56 short days) before he died, so my grieving started early, but not early enough to prepare me for losing him so soon.  It's been 20 weeks (140 long days) since he left me, and it still seems like yesterday at times.  Other times, it seems like too long ago.

Five years ago my husband suffered a stroke, one that slowly changed him from a strong, independent man, into a confused, sometimes angry/frustrated man who didn't like needing someone else's help to do things.  Though we never fought a single day of our life together, the last five years were especially difficult.  He became depressed, then he had another stroke two years later.  Actually, he had several more strokes, so we had many trips to the ER. They finally put him on a stroke rehab program, and that seemed to help a lot.  But it didn't stop him from having a heart attack last June.  That came out of the blue, it seemed.  One night he complained of having a sensation of something heavy pressing on his chest and he didn't feel right. . . and the next thing we knew he was being scheduled for a quadruple bypass.  There were lots of hick-ups and delays in getting the surgery done.  It was the end of July before it happened.  But it went smoothly.  We spent the next few weeks doing cardio rehab and planning on life after a heart attack.  We were totally unprepared for what came next.  At the end of September, Scott had some tests done to follow up with the heart surgeon, including a chest x-ray.  The doctor saw something that he said was urgent enough to send us to a Pulmonary doctor right away.  We could tell by his demeanor that this was big.  The pulmonary doctor did some full body scans, and walked us into his office to show us what he found.  While all the little white dots meant nothing to us, he was telling us how bad it was that it was spread throughout his body.  

October 1st.  That's the date we first heard the words, "stage 4 cancer . . . terminal."  That's when my brain turned into mush.  I knew I had to be strong for my husband, who was facing his own mortality. For my son, who due to his mental illness, might react to this news in ways I couldn't predict.  For my daughter, who was closer to her father than anyone else in the whole world. She is his Mini Me.   So I WAS strong . . .on the outside anyway.  On the inside, I would sometime realize my brain wasn't working right.  I often couldn't recall if I knew something or not.  I allowed others around me to worry about and take care of everything else . . . or else it just went forgotten.  I was used to being aware of everything, and somehow managing to take care of everything.  But now my brain was just numb most of the time.  

Thanks to the generosity of my co-workers who donated leave time and cooked meals for my family, I was able to take time to focus on what was important.  I got us signed up with a home health care program that had a nurse come check on Scott every other day.  And a physical therapist also came in every couple of days, until he got so weak he couldn't sit up.  We had a home health aide named Gregg, come in three days a week to take care of Scott, so I could go to work part time and keep up on what had to happen there.  But it was hard.  I realize now I got things done, but I don't remember any of it.  Twice a week I took Scott to the Cancer Center for his "non-chemo chemo treatment," Since he was unable to go to the bathroom alone, someone had to stay with him throughout the 4-hour process.  I always took my sketch book and art pens with me, and each day I worked on another Zentangle masterpiece.  The nurses and some of the regular patients we got to know were fascinated by it.  "Simple doodling, but beautiful" they'd say.  All I cared about was it was peaceful.  The repetitive nature of doodling was comforting.  I also took my "last days journal."  

I have always kept a journal, but I usually typed it on my computer.  I decided this process was important enough, and urgent enough, to keep a handwritten journal. . . so I did.  I even added a few drawings, but mostly it was just a record of what I was feeling and thinking as I tried to make my husband's last days easier.  But thinking was often hard.  Most days I was too numb to be insightful.  That's what the grieving brain is like.

Yesterday, as my co-workers and I were driving home from our annual out-of-town workshop, I was couldn't remember last year's workshop.  It was in late October or early November. Was I there?  I don't remember missing it, but I don't remember it either.  That's the typical thought I find myself having often now, as I start to climb out of the mental fog I've been in.

The days I will never forget are the ones just before and after Scott died. Byron's 26th birthday was 2 days before Scott died, and I was so worried he was going to lose his dad on his birthday and have that sad memory forever shadow what should be a happy day.  During Scott's last few days at home, Byron became his rock.  Byron was the only one strong enough to lift Scott out of the hospital bed, into the wheel chair, or to carry him to the bathroom and help him on and off the toilet.  Up until then, Jenny and I could do it, but only because Scott still had some strength and could follow our directions like "step on your left foot now. . .now stand up . . . lean forward" etc.  But then he got weak, and we just couldn't lift him.  A couple of times, I almost dropped him trying.  So he knew he was safer with Byron.  And Byron liked being the person his dad needed.  So Byron spent the week leading up to his birthday with his dad.  He slept on the couch next to the hospital bed, so he could hear Scott call him.  He was awesome.  After years of father-son dis-accord, it was so nice to see them being nice and appreciating each other.

It quickly got so bad that even Byron couldn't lift his dad.  Scott just had no strength or mental ability to assist with anything.  He couldn't eat, or he didn't care to eat.  And the cancer was everywhere.  He had blood in his urine.  His kidneys were completely enveloped in cancer.  So we took him to the hospital.  I called our family members who were planning to come up the following week, and let them know I didn't think he'd last that long.  My brother was already at my house.  He had come up a couple of weeks earlier to take care of some things around the house that I just couldn't do myself.  

While my brother took care of the outside of the house, My daughter Jenessa took care of the inside.  She stepped in and cleaned house and did dad's laundry. Scott's brother Warren hired Merry Maids to do some cleaning too.  I cannot tell you how much it helped to NOT have to worry about house cleaning during that time.

There was a big snow storm moving up from Oregon into Washington, and there was a big rush of family to get up here before the roads got too bad. The next day we had a house full.  Scott's dad, who at 94 never expected to outlive his youngest son, and his sister, who had survived a couple of bouts of breast cancer, and her husband who was Scott's best friend of all time, and their daughter Scott's niece, who had been born with a degenerative heart disease and knew more about heart meds than any of us . . .they all arrived and spent a couple of days with me at the hospital. Luckily the hospital room was huge, and there was a long couch in it that fit us all.  They took turns sitting by Scott's side, holding his hand and talking quietly to him.  Scott couldn't talk, but that first day he was still able to respond.  His body seemed to be shutting down.  After the nurse took his blood pressure, his arm would be stuck in the air, and we'd have to tell him to put it down.  And he did.  I watched with a heavy heart as Scott's dad said goodbye to his son.  He silently cried as he held his son's hand. He didn't say anything, because he didn't need to.  It was one of the saddest memories I'll ever have.  The very saddest one is of this same 94 year old (a WWII vet) saluting the grave of his son (a Gulf War vet).  These are two men who I respect more than any men alive.  Not only for their love of country and amazing intellect, but also their natural instinct to help others.  They both shared a calling to serve in way that bonded them and made them people other people looked up to.  Oh, neither of them are/were perfect.  I could go on and on about how they could neither one talk about their feelings and things important to them emotionally.  But right then, I was just proud of the legacy they were passing on to my son, his half-brother, and their cousins.

I was able to say goodbye to my husband in the same way I had done with my mother.  I held his hand and sang Amazing Grace to him. . . several times. . . then I told him how much I loved him, what a good husband and father he had been.  How proud I was to be his wife. .  . and then I told him it was okay for him to go home to meet Jesus now.  I told him that we would be okay.

By that point he was totally unresponsive, and his breathing was incredibly labored and full of gurgles.  I recognized the sound to be the same my mother had at the end, so I knew he was dying.  Scott's dad and sister also recognized the sound to be the same as what Scott's mother had at the end, but with her it went on for many days.  So they left the hospital around 10pm, tired after a long day of driving to get here and then sitting for many more hours.  We had all spent an hour or so with the doctor and social worker, talking about hospice and care after the hospital.  But I felt certain he wasn't going to go home from the hospital, so I talked them into waiting a couple of days to make me decide anything.  

After everyone else left, Jenny and I knew we wanted to stay, but we didn't want it to be so quiet.  We were totally listening to every gurgly breath, and we'd freeze and stare at each other anytime there was too big a gap between breaths. So we decided to watch a movie on the little TV up on the wall.  I don't even remember now what the movie was, except that it was a warm and fuzzy one that Scott would have liked.  As we watched, we continued to listen to Scott struggle to breath.  But we talked to him, just like we would at home during a movie.  The movie ended at midnight, and I wanted to take Jenny home to be there when my sister Peggy and her daughter Casey arrived in the morning.  So I kissed Scott good bye and told him I'd be back in just an hour or so. The storm caused my sister to move up her travel plans too, so they actually pulled up right after we got home.  I spent about an hour visiting with them and helping them get settled. Then I went back to the hospital.  I had left my artwork out on the little desk, and since I wasn't tired, I had planned to resume my unfinished art project.  But when I walked into the dark hospital room, I immediately noticed it was completely silent.  I knew what that meant.  Some time within the last hour, after all the noisy family left him alone in peace and quiet, my husband left this earth on his own terms.  My son is really bothered by the fact that no one was with his dad when he died.  But I knew Scott likely chose to die when no one was around to make a big deal of it.  Quietly and on his own terms.  I found him in the very same position I left him in.  The hand I had been holding was frozen in the same position, as if my hand were still in his.  And his eyes were wide open, though now even more vacant than before.  I kissed his forehead and closed his eyes.  I went out to the nurses' desk and told them he had passed.  The nurse came in and proceeded to turn off equipment and stuff.  I went over to my artwork, and just stared at it.  A part of me wanted to hang out in that room with my husband for just a bit longer, so I took my time to gather my things.  I had lived in that room for four days, so I had a lot of mess to pick up.  But eventually it was time to go be with my grieving family.  I knew they were getting ready for bed, so I called to tell them I was coming home.  

As I left the hospital, the snow really started to fall , and by the time I got home the house was covered in a blanket of white.  I was ready to spend a few days snowed in, in the loving arms of my family.  It was the first time my brother and sister and I had been together in years.  And it was the first time my sister had ever been to my house.  I was so glad they were there. My brother had the makeshift guest room to himself.  My sister and niece slept in my room, and I got to cuddle with my daughter in her bed.  It was perfect.  But it was eerily strange to have the family room, where the empty hospital bed still was, be empty.  It hadn't been empty for the last couple of months. . . ever.   Byron must have had the same feeling, as I found him asleep on the couch the next morning. 

We had a military funeral one week later.  I was surprised by how much I cried that day.  The day before that we had a memorial service in the chapel of the funeral home.  I had called on an old Rotary friend who was a funeral director.  And he treated me like family.  The chapel was lovely, and the ceremony was perfect. We had photos, videos, speeches, and lots of food.  It was a warm collection of family and friends.  Scott's brother Warren spoke on behalf of the family. We had a former Navy Chaplin give the eulogy. My brother handled all the audio-visual stuff. We showed a video that I felt Scott telling me to share as his final goodbye.  It was a spoof musical video, a combination of Star Wars meets Bohemian Raphsody.  It was just as quirky as Scott, and involved his two loves; sci-fi and music.  At the end Yoda says something like "Worry not.  Fine I am." At the request of Scott's father, we included a video of the Naval hymn. We also had a slide show of all the photos I could find of Scott; from a baby with his family to the last photo taken of him with his dad and siblings. Lots of fond memories. My co-worker Laurie handled all the food and reception stuff. Scott's sister Patti brought cookies. Niece Katie brought Poinsettias for the tables, left over from a scouting event the day before.  Everyone chipped in to make it a warm, respectfully family and friends celebration of life.  It was nice and comforting.  

The following day we held another ceremony, graveside at the National Cemetery in Portland.  It was just close family, and all I could do was cry.  I could barely acknowledge the face of the Navy Captain who came all the way from Bremerton to hand me the burial flag and the three spent shells from the 21-gun salute. Too many tears to focus.  

After the service we drove to the other side of the cemetery to find Scott's Uncle Carl's grave, as he was also buried there.  We had a caravan of cars winding through the cemetery.  My brother Kenneth was driving us in my car and Scott's niece Katie was in the last car with her kids.  She texted my daughter Jenessa, to say someone had joined our caravan.  When we all got out, I realized it was Scott's first-born son (my step son), Jeremy, who had joined us.  Scott and Jeremy had been pretty much estrained from each other since Jeremy became an adult.  They just didn't know how to communicate their feelings, and they understandably had some strong feelings about their relationship.  So (and I never understood this) it was just easier to just ignore it and not try to communicate.  So birthdays and holidays kept passing by without either side reaching out to the other.  After Scott was told he would die soon, he finally decided he needed to mend things with Jeremy.  So he called him almost daily.  It hurt me so much to see his efforts go unanswered.  He just kept leaving voice messages, none compelling enough to move his son to call him back.  I reminded Scott that Jeremy must be really hurt and probably held a lot of resent for his father, after so many years of neglect.  

Inside I felt sad for Jeremy, as much as Scott.   I know how important it is to have your father's approval and maintain a close relationship.  I was just sad that Jeremy didn't know that feeling, and might some day regret not having closure with his dad.  So I also called and sent emails and texts.  Jeremy had married and moved to California, so when Scott went into the hospital I offered to fly them up to see him.  But no response.  Anytime Scott talked about Jeremy during those last few weeks, he would cry.  Then he would comment about how he could never cry before.  His terminal fate had changed that.  It was so sad.  But I knew Jeremy would experience closure on his own terms, and he would grieve in his own way, on his own terms.  I didn't expect to see him at the funeral, but I was so glad he came.  We all went to lunch  together after the funeral, and I just kept marveling how much like his father Jeremy had become.  I just kept thinking how proud of him Scott would be, and how much I wish they had gotten to know each other better.  I wonder if they would have recognized how alike they were.  In many I see more of Scott in Jeremy than I see in either Jenessa or Byron.  He looks like him, sounds like him, and like Jenessa, they all have a quirky quick wit about them.

                              Byron, Jenessa, & Jeremy Cole

I have visited Scott's grave several times, stopping there on almost every trip back up from Oregon.  And each time it gets a little easier.  I am learning how to be a widow.  I never planned on this.  In fact, I always expected I would leave him a widower.  But I find the whole grieving process fascinating.  Everything from how your brain physically reacts to stress, and how everyone experiences grief differently.  And how grief is on-going, but it evolves into different forms.  And how little feelings of guilt play into it when you find yourself looking forward to starting a new life alone, without the person you planned to spend forever with.  While there's sadness associated with the loss, there's promise associated with a new beginning.  Everything is possible now.  No more sickness and no one but me to please.  

I decided to write this blog to explore the process of moving on after a tragic loss.  I used to share my deepest thoughts with my husband.  Now that he is gone, I decided to share them with whomever out there might want to listen.  So it begins.

I have no idea where this journey will take me. . .nor how personal I want to get on this blog.  It's all new. I am starting over, and I realize I can be whomever I want to be. So come help me figure out who that should be.  Follow my blog, and give me feedback as you are moved to.  Join me on my journey.