I See Her Everywhere

After a lengthy illness brought on by the clash of atrial fibrillation and pulmonary fibrosis, my wife was gently take to her heavenly home over a month ago. I am very grateful for many who have been praying for me in these days. Those prayers are being answered. I am slowly able to turn my thoughts to happy memories of our life together and not to her absence. I’m beginning to pick up the pieces of life without her. Or am I?

I can’t just switch off my thoughts of Mary Helen. That’s impossible. I see her everywhere. How can I just carry on as if six decades of togetherness never happened? How can I pick up the pieces of my life without my best friend by my side, the love of my life gone. Sixty-three years of love and laughter and gentle companionship and yes, I admit, my thoughtless comments and attempts at humour followed by her tolerance and forgiveness.

I see her everywhere. Hairclips and bobby pins—before I toss them away, I pause and think of her abundant wavy hair, untouched by grey. Family liked to run their hands though her amazing locks. Gone.

Her recliner sits empty. Silence echoes through the condo. She is gone.

A cupboard full of clothes. She always looked so neat and stylish. I don’t dare even open the closet door for more than a minute.

I’m in the kitchen soaking the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher—as she taught me. And she touched every dish and glass and pot. Oh, Mary Helen, I miss you so.

In the freezer I find a bag of crushed ice. At one point she craved crushed ice to sip. “Make it really small.” But always her food had to be hot, not lukewarm. HOT! How do I suddenly go on with life without your love?

Sorting through the books and keepsakes I come on her birthday book. A beautiful book with sketches of plants and birds through the seasons. In it she’s listed the birthdays and anniversaries of our family. I never worried about it. How can I now take up the mantle of her thoughtfulness? Impossible.

One of her medicines tumbles out of the cupboard. So many medicines. And a loop of tubing for the oxygenator which I missed giving to the supplier. Such a struggle this last year. But she was here. I could touch her, help her walk, make her comfortable with pillows all around. Yes, she wanted to go to her heavenly home from her earthly home. She was ready. It was a privilege to help her to the last day, all our family would agree. But you’re not here honey!

And you’re no longer beside me in our bed. I have lonely nights ahead. Will it take sleeping pills to help me sleep?

Even the towels in the bathroom remind me of her. She’d say of a hand towel, “It’s wet.” To which I’d reply, “It’s wet because we just wiped our hands on it a few minutes ago. Shouldn’t we let it dry?” She’d insist on everything clean and fresh and dry. Oh, Mary Helen. Which reminds me that I have to do the laundry. Every day she marveled at the wonderful washer and dryer we had. She celebrated washing and drying clothes with such efficient machines.

And what about all those cards that she saved. And more that have come since her home-going, cards from friends and relatives who offer their love and prayers. Each one reminds me of her—which is good—but do I just toss them? Or review the thoughtful comments in the days ahead? Or will that only prolong the pain? I have a task ahead, to write cards of thanks. I know that every card will be written through tears.

Talk about cards. I thought of her yesterday when I went into a store. The aisle of cards reminded me of her looking carefully for just the right card to send a friend.

And to pay the funeral bill. Mary Helen would have been shocked. She didn’t believe in ostentation nor wasting money on unnecessary things for a funeral that might pretend she was only resting. “When my body is dead, I will be with Jesus. I will not be here.” Okay, honey but we are and… Still, she wanted a gravestone, a place where her kids and grandkids could visit to know she was a real person who lived her life on earth, who lived a life of faith because of Jesus Christ. Sweetheart this whole process is hard.

Spring is coming, but you won’t be with me as I plant flowers. You won’t be beside me as we wander down country roads looking for unusual shots for my camera. I can hear her. “Do you have to stop for another picture?” And she won’t be with me to have an afternoon coffee on the porch.

My family worry about me. My daughter who misses her almost as much as I do. She calls and texts to check up on me. Bless her and her husband who insisted we spend her last days in their guest room so they could help. And bless our son who calls from Atlanta to check. And our son in Mississauga who wants me to come and stay with them in April for a few days. And our granddaughter who wants me to know I am part of her family. Thanks to you Mary Helen, you have left me with a loving family to support me.

And what about church? I’ll sit near the back. But you won’t be there to enquire about people, to assure them of your prayers, to hug them. As one lady told me last Sunday, “She was the most loving and thoughtful person I have met.”

Yes, life goes on. But how? I’m afraid of the future. We always faced it together. Oh, I know that God holds the future in His hands. I know He cares for me. I know he will guide me. I believe! Oh Lord, help my unbelief.

[Disclaimer: This is shared with the hope that it will help others who grieve, and give a measure of understanding to those who haven’t yet gone through the loss of a spouse. The more we understand grief, the better we can support those who grieve. ]

(Let me know your thoughts on this subject. If you appreciate this blog, please pass it on. Further articles, books, and stories at: http://www.countrywindow.ca Facebook: Eric E Wright Twitter: @EricEWright1 LinkedIn: Eric Wright ––)

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