The End and the Beginning

2013 just arrived a few minutes ago and I sit here wondering what the new year has in store for me.  John has been gone for 42 days and I have made it through my first Thanksgiving, first Christmas and first New Year without him.  None of those events seemed real -- they seemed almost like I was watching a movie or TV show.  Thanksgiving and Christmas were John's favorite holidays and I fear that I will never truly enjoy them ever again.  Having Mary, Kim, Jacob, Nathan, Faith and Ruth here made it easier for me to get through the holidays but I still went to my room alone, slept alone, woke up alone.  Missing him has become my norm -- the grief still comes in waves (usually just one big wave that sucks me under and makes it hard to breathe). 

I want so much to feel happy instead of trying to pretend that I am.  I want so much to take the pain of losing their dad away from the kids.  I want so much to assure them that the memories will never fade -- that they will always remember the sound of his voice, the sound of his laugh, the way he smiled, the way he made everything ok.  I just can't figure out how to do that.

My greatest fear came true in 2012 -- losing someone who I loved so much.  I'm not taking anything for granted for 2013.  As this new year arrives, so does a new beginning; and I pray that God will bless my family with abundant love for each other -- that everyone will stay healthy -- that their deepest dreams will come true -- that we will grow closer to one another -- and that we will live our lives in a way that is honoring to the Lord and that honors the memory of the man that truly was the center of our family.

I love you, John Taylor -- forever and ever.

For As Long As We Both Shall Live

On Nov. 19, I lost the love of my life.  I spent 13,428 days with him by my side and now I can't figure out how to live my life without him.  I look out the window and see that winter is settling in -- the trees are bare of their leaves; the sky has that cold, wintery look; the ground is hard; the grass is no longer green and all of it mirrors how I feel inside.  Everything I thought I was seems to have been stripped away.  My strength, my courage, my purpose -- all of it left when John did.  I don't know how or even if I can ever get it back.  I try to dwell on what I had and not what I lost; but it's so darn hard.  Memories -- wonderful, sweet memories -- just make me cry because I want him back so we can make more of them. 

Every day and night, I ask God why and I never hear an answer.  There are times when I think that God's silence is because He is punishing me for something -- maybe for the times I showed my frustration or for the times I was insensitive to John's needs.  Maybe for the times I forgot to thank Him for all of the blessings He so graciously bestowed on me.  Maybe it is because I took so much for granted or didn't trust Him enough.  The silence is the worst.  I need to hear God speak to me.  I'd give anything for the silence to go away.

The house is so silent.  There is no noise -- no food channel on, no noise from the hospital bed being adjusted, no crashing noises as John hit something with his chair, no "Marie, can you help me," no one asking "what's for dinner," no laughing -- there's nothing but silence.  The silence just makes me miss John more.  I want to hear him again.  I want to hear those three words that I took so much for granted -- "I love you."  And how he did love me unconditionally! 

Mary showed me how to retrieve old deleted messages on my phone.  I found only one from John -- and I've played it over and over again.  I don't want to forget the sound of his voice and I'm scared I will.  I keep looking at pictures of him, of us; and I wish we had taken more in the last few months.  His appearance changed so much over the last couple of years and especially since March of this year.  The weight loss was substantial and we often joked that he was almost at his pre-wedding weight. 

I find it hard to focus on anything for long periods of time.  My mind wanders and I keep re-living the last month over and over again.  I worry that I didn't make the right decision about a viewing and traditional burial versus a cremation and memorial service.  Did I do the right thing to allow our children and me to come to terms with John's death?  Would John have been ok with how we chose to honor his life?  Did I fully seek God's guidance in the decisions I made?  In his final days, should I have attempted to talk to John about dying?  Did he forgive me for not keeping my promise in getting him home one last time? 

And when I think I can't face the answers to those questions, I begin to worry about the future.  How do I live with a broken heart?  How will I be able to handle any problems that arise with the house -- or can I even afford to keep it?  How do I live without the man I promised my love to -- the man who held my heart?  I have no answers -- only questions.

The greatest gifts that John gave me are immeasurable.  He gave me three wonderful children who have known that their dad loved them with all of his heart.  He gave his commitment and dedication to me and to the family we built together.  He showed me what it meant to love beyond -- beyond personal feelings, beyond hurt, beyond disappointment.  He showed me by his words and actions what it means to put your spouse first.  He taught me what it means to be patient (I'm a slow learner).  He taught me what a strong faith looks like by the way he lived his life.  And he lived out our wedding vows -- "for as long as we both shall live." 

Several days before John died, he was laying in the hospital bed; he reached over and took my hand and said, "We started this together and we're going to finish it together.  I love you."  He was right.

Life Has Changed

Since March 2, when John lost the pulse in his right foot, life has taken a turn down a road that I never wanted to travel.  Three radiology procedures, the amputation of John's right leg below the knee and the removal of a blood clot in his left foot have changed our lives forever.

I am in awe of my husband and the way he has handled this terrible ordeal.  He has always been the patient one, having enough for the both of us.  This journey, though, has tested that patience in ways that we could never have imagined.  He was in the hospital 78 of the last 94 days.  He has been through surgery, rehab and a battle with congestive heart failure. He can't walk; he can't drive; without assistance, he can't do any of the normal, routine things we all take for granted.  Yet, he rarely complains and he worries more about me than he does himself. 

I am in love with my husband -- more so today than 36 years ago when we promised to love each other "for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part."  He has been one of my life's greatest blessings.  I have no idea what I did to deserve his love, but I am forever grateful that he chose me to spend the rest of his life with.  More than anything, I wish I could erase the pain and frustration he has had to endure.  I wish I could give him back his right leg; I wish I could give him back the 90% of his heart function that is gone; I wish I could give him the assurance that everything is going to be ok; I wish I could give him frequent visits from our children and grandchildren; I wish I could give him the kind of life that we both dreamed we would have at this stage of our lives.  I can't give him these things; but I can promise him that, for always and forever, I will be by his side, as we face together whatever God has in store for our future.

The mirror is no friend of mine.  When I look into it, I see an old person with wrinkles, greying hair, dark circles and tear-stained skin.  I hope that's not what John sees.  I want him to still see me as the young woman he married so long ago.  I want him to see a smile on my face, light in my eyes, energy in my step.  I want him to think I have enough strength to carry the both of us on this journey.  I don't want him to doubt that I have the strength, patience and courage to face whatever the future holds.