One year ago this week I began the longest and shortest week of my life. On Thursday Linda was in our room, watching TV with me and talking about plans. On Friday night we were playing poker, with Linda at the table eating JJ and Connie's cooking, and by Saturday morning Linda was bedbound for the most part. I had no idea that Friday when she went downstairs to try out the hospictal bed for the first time that she would never, ever again share our room, that I would never hear her voice there, or that one week later I would be walking up the stairs all alone after walking her body out of the house. It all seemed so surreal that day after it was over and the house was suddenly quiet.
This week I am having my own personal Lenten season. Lots of reflection, memories, and coming to terms with such a loss. I find myself thinking about what happened this day one year ago. Saturday Linda was suddenly very sick, and I was all alone. She didn't want me to wake the kids or to scare them. I carried her to the bathroom and got things taken care of, then called for help from hospice. When they delayed, I called Casper, and she was there in what seemed like moments. That was the first time Linda said "This time it's really happening isn't it? I am dying." Casper helping her come to terms with it and making it ok when it suddenly wasn't. Each day was something new- prayer circles to say what needed to be said, to let Linda know she would always be remembered; Kerry's adoption anniversary and doughnuts from Krispy Kreme, a tradition we never shared outside our family before; breathing a sigh of relief that Linda didn't die that day for Kerry's sake; planning her final bits of her service; Jane trying to keep her in bed; Linda getting toxic and thinking I was trying to poison her and trusting only Tracy to give her meds; Connie coming in the middle of the night to help reposition her in the bed; Katrina planting a rose in the yard; telling Kristy to get on the soonest flight because Linda woud not make it to the end of the week; Dr. Mall crying when he said goodbye to her; the night she woke from a near coma in distress and waking up in my arms and telling me that she loved me and always would; each of the kids crawling into bed with her for a last talk; Kelsey curling up with her in bed over and over and snuggling with her; Charity putting on her prom dress to show Linda, knowing she would not be there for prom; the friends who came to say goodbye; the crowd at the house and the laughter, and wine, and sometimes tears, but mostly the laughter that would make Linda turn her head and smile when she recognized Sherry or Wendy or Kristy; the day we said our final goodbye as Linda was fading and crying together in bed as we held each other; and that last long, short, surreal day. Linda telling us movie trivia like old times early in the morning, then fading so quickly. Casper arriving and sitting with all of us; telling me that it was time to turn of the oxygen concentrator because it was no longer doing anything for her; the quiet after two years of medical machinery and then none; holding Linda in my arms, with a bed full of children and a cat and dog as she died in my arms; Connie and Casper and Christine dressing Linda in her Angels gear and making our last time with her special. Sitting in the sun making small talk like it was any other day, then sitting with her in her Angels gear while we waiting for the mortuary; walking her out for the very last time. I knew it would happen. I was ready. I was, in fact, utterly exhausted.
It's a year later. It seemed then that this time would never pass. Then it seemed like it was flying by with all the demands of life that never stop. Suddenly it's all come to a halt again and I'm caught living in two worlds. One is daily life, and one is a year ago. Snatches of what was happening then mixed with what I have to do now. Being able to turn to Casper and talk it through knowing she supports me and understands. Trying not to let the kids in- they don't remember that next Saturday it will be a year, and we are not reminding them. They will be busy, as it should be, with their new lives. I miss her, but I'm glad Linda is no longer suffering. Dying of pulmonary fibrosis is not easy, and I'm so grateful her death was not prolonged like some I have seen. I'm grateful for the time we had. I'm grateful for the new life we have. And I'm trying to make sense of this craziness that this week has brought on. I think I'll chalk it up to a learning experience and try to be grateful for it, too.
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