It has been hard to write this now. Harder than I ever thought it would be. Even two years later, the mere thought that I am without him is crushing. There is not the anger that I would have imagined, only an incredible sense of helplessness. An incredible sense of loss, that nothing can fill. A deep void, where he once inhabited is now so empty.
I have added this paragraph, after I wrote the post below, because I can't believe that he is not here. I live with my memories each day. I get through each day knowing that he told me that he would be with me, beside me, no matter where he was. That the woman he loved like a daughter would be OK, that she would be my strength. The man she married would stand strong. Yes, I know that. I feel that. Yet.....knowing he is not within this realm, knowing that I can't ever hold him again, never see him smile with tenderness, never touch his hand again, is more than I can stand. All the well meaning advice, all the caring words do not take away this gaping hole in my heart. To understand this in its entirety is to have lived it, and it is something I do not want anyone to have to go through. Live your life with love.
I watch my daughter, rescuing animals, her eyes filled with tears at their pain, and I know what he meant. A cat, lost, found its way to her home. Her love, her tenderness with this pitiful little thing, filled my heart with such gratitude. She didn't question, she sought care for it, knowing she could not keep it, make it well, knowing it was so very sick. Her determination and her strength finds its way into my soul. This is why I go on....for those who need me still.
Today, I try to hold back the tears. They are stuck somewhere between my heart, my throat and my eyes. I am trying not to cry. Just as I do not want to see my daughter cry, my mother should not be burdened with my tears and grief. I hold it in. Later, when I am alone, holding his picture, smelling his aftershave, I will allow myself the luxury of those tears. I want them to heal this ache, to wash away the sadness. Like the salt water of the ocean, they burn.
It wasn't always a waltz, but it was one hell of a tango! Eugene had a joy for life that was unsuppressable. He was from Michigan, originally, and often, on weekends, we would go to visit his dad, to take care of him in his later years, and visit with friends, while we were there. These were the friends who he had gone to school with, golfed with, and had kept in touch through all these years. He really loved them. In a guy way. There never seemed to be enough time. With so many to see, so many to try catch up with, it was always a whirlwind of activity. He would help his dad out with the chores that now were too hard for him, whether it was to cut a tree or mow the lawn, he would be happy to help. When his dad needed a tree trimmed, he climbed the massive tree effortlessly. Hanging in the branches, he would call down to me, knowing I was afraid of him falling, "Come on up, the view is great from here." He'd been in the construction trade before he met me, before he had gotten sick for the first time, and for him, climbing a roof was a no brainer. Oh, he banged his thumb enough times, he always seemed to want to get things done, now. It was a private joke, that when he worked, he concentrated so hard, his thumb would turn blue.
Then we would do the "Michigan thing." as he called it. Nights out to Greektown, White castle sliders, coneys at three in the morning, and Middle Eastern food in Dearborn. How many nights did we sit on Jim and Chris's enclosed porch, talking and laughing into the wee hours? How many moments with friends at dinner, or cocktails at some new place did we have that meant the world to us? So many, it's hard to think about today. The hole in my heart is still tender, even after all this time. Memories are sweet, but they can make me stop breathing with the sheer pain of his loss.
The guys would golf, and we would wait. And wait. They would inevitably be delayed. Laughing and being suitably remorseful, they would come home a little tipsy, for dinner, while Chris and I shook our heads at their antics. In Michigan, he was like a kid again. The annual golf outing that he attended was one of his favorite yearly trips. In touch with old friends he hadn't seen in years, he spent a weekend playing golf and renewing old acquaintances, doing whatever it is that guys do when they get together after not seeing each other in a while in many cases. He really enjoyed himself. On the way home, it was always the time to talk, about his mom, the memories of his childhood, his youth, and to tell me about his life before me. About the friends he had made along the way, and why each one was a special person to him. He never shied away from his feelings, nor his appreciation for his friends and all that they had meant to him. He was grateful he had a chance to be with friends that meant so much to him.
When we traveled, it didn't matter how long it took to get there. I often wanted to find some small, out of the way restaurant I had read about, in some obscure town on the way to our destination. It was before GPS systems, and I would navigate as he drove. Ooops, an hour out of our way, winding roads, dead end roads, turn arounds; we got there, only to find the barbecue joint was closed, or the great little seafood place was out of business. Sunday in the South! He wasn't angry, this would be just another adventure. We would find something else along the way, and it would be just as good.
We never went anywhere without a cooler.Of course not. What if we found great food somewhere and had to bring it back with us? He had the car packed with a cooler and water, sometimes even a change of clothes, and the adventure began. Vidalia onions tasted better if they were bought in Vidalia, Georgia, right?
We had planned at some point to take a road trip across the country, stopping at places he wanted to show me, places he had seen on his travels before he met me. The places that now he wanted to share with me, the places he had told the stories about. Oh we had plans! Lots of them. We would grow old together, and stop and smell the roses along the way. Walk on the beach. Watch thunderstorms over the ocean. It would be glorious. There was never a doubt in his mind back then that anything would so rudely take his hopes and dreams. And we would always hold on to each other. We both knew, together we were two parts of a whole. We were better together. We were stronger together. There was nothing we couldn't take on...together. He always told me that. He always reminded me of what we had done, and how together, we could take on the world and win. I knew it was true. I believed him. Like the James Bond song from one of the films, we were on "An all time high." One of our favorite songs.
When the illness began to take its toll, when the obvious was upon us, it was the hardest thing we had ever done. Even the illness he had borne all those years ago did not take from him his will to fight. His will to live. Now it seemed that he had come to a point where he had never been before, and I had to make him believe, again, that we could to this, we could get through this together. He had to believe!!!!!! For a brief time, he rallied. At first he fought the doctor and the Nurse Practitioner. Oh he fought. He wasn't ready for dialysis yet. He was sick. The nausea, the weakness, the overwhelming sickness became a part of his daily life. Still, he went outside to work in the garden, coming inside to lie down briefly, before going back out. He was becoming increasingly short tempered, his frustration growing with each symptom. He would not succumb to this, yet it was not up to him. The illness has a mind of its own. Progression was something he had no control over. He would need to begin Hemodialysis, soon, and emotionally, he was not going to accept the news. I didn't want to be the one to give him bad news. When the call inevitably came, the news was bad. Friday morning, the words reverberated in my head. Now. Today. His blood work had proven that he had no more time to waste. He needed to be on dialysis. Now. He had already had the surgery, inserting the Peritoneal Catheter into his abdomen, and now he was waiting to heal, to begin the CAPD, which would cleanse him of the toxins his body was no longer able to rid itself of. No, not on Hemodialysis. Hell no. He was fine. "I can wait." He was stubborn in his refusal. Increasingly, I was afraid. The complications of his kidney failure could kill him.
"Eugene, you need to get a shunt placed into your neck. Today. At twelve-thirty, the surgeon will be waiting for you." It was his nurse practitioner on the phone. I had spoken with her briefly, when I answered the phone, and I knew what she would be saying to him. How would he react? Would he fight this news? She was a woman who was kind and compassionate, her knowledge and professionalism made him trust her; even more, he liked and respected her. I saw his features harden. His jaw clenched. His answer was terse. "OK, we'll be there." Three hours later, into the torrent of a thunder storm, we were at home. I stared at my sleeping husband, his face pale against the burgundy of his leather chair, the white bandage covering his neck, the hole in his artery where it had been inserted, visible to my minds eye, and I cried. Quietly, without sound, I cried. It would be the last time I would cry for the next three years. I would not allow myself the luxury of tears, because I knew then, if I started to cry, I would never stop.
His face pale and drawn, his knowledge of the impending dialysis treatment transformed the man I knew into someone who withdrew into his own world for the next few hours. We did not speak. We didn't need to. We both knew that this was inevitable. For now, this was the elephant in the room, and we could not ignore it. I would find a way, I thought, to keep this to a minimum. We would find another kidney. Medicine was amazing. Medicine had advanced so very far! Hope, Faith and love would get us through.
How was I to know to know how very wrong I was.......
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