Wedding Song - God Knew That I Needed You

Thursday, August 6, 2020

HARD TIMES – LOVE CARRIES ME


August will always be a hard time for me: the whole month – doesn’t matter which day.


August was the month we decided to get the Marriage License.


August is our Anniversary month.


August is Bob’s Birthday Month.

Bob. August 30th, 1949

August was the month I took my husband’s cremains to the family cemetery.

Private moment before everyone started showing up.

August is a bittersweet month that juggles the hard times that derail me; and the undying love that carries me forward.

Bob’s physical body died … but his love lies on.

My King Bee always treated me like his Queen; wrapping myself in that unending love keeps me sane.

Derailment all year long happens, and it comes screaming around the blind corner of life at unexpected and unforeseen moments – it slams into you before you even recognize it.


But, this month – the month of August is the hardest for me to “ride it out”: SO MUCH happened in the month of August.

Too add more complications to what I am already juggling; I am meeting more and more people in my solo venturing’s, that either are going through pancreatic treatments/know someone who is going through pancreatic treatments/or have been diagnosed with pancreatitis. I do not know any of these people … but I am intimately familiar with the language they speak, the symptoms they describe, and treatments they are going through/facing.

This month I have met two.

And I am sure I looked like a startled deer caught in blinding headlights.

That one word – pancreatitis – literally causes me to freeze up.

Though Bob’s pancreatitis was a rare form of the disease (his pancreatitis was stress-induced) – it is ALL familiar: the word spoken aloud/the fear-tinged hope spoken/the bravery in the face of hovering Death.

Heartbreakingly familiar.

And while I can talk about those 3½ months of Bob’s ER ordeals, misdiagnosis’, major heart attacks as his shutting-down-body went into shock, the crushing edema that led to starvation and dehydration – Bob’s valiant fight to hang on for my sake, his heroic Faith and vibrant retelling to everyone he spoke to of his testimony of salvation, his never-ending upbeat personality in the face of impending death: while I can and AM talking about those hard months filled with tamped-down anxiety, dark hope, bittersweet laughter, hand holding, kisses, and eternal love – without falling apart, or collapsing under the weight of missingness … I don’t let myself get involved with these strangers’ situations.

I can’t.


I don’t want to be catapulted backward in time.

I don’t want my senses to recall the impact of being told, “Your husband is dying”. I don’t want my senses to be overwhelmed with the memory of the hospital sounds/the smell of the hospital ward/the beeping and blipping of medical machinery/the muted sounds of hospital busyness/the compassionate and sad tones Drs, nurses, surgeons, and medical staff workers used when speaking with us/to me.

I don’t want to be pulled into their hard reality.

My reality is hard enough for me.


That may sound selfish and uncaring … but that is where everything is right now, at this moment.

I am still dealing with the death of my husband’s earthen vessel; I am still coming to terms with the reality of my widowhood. I am barely holding myself together. I simply cannot take on someone else’s heartaches right now. I have come a long way; but I have not come that far.


Yes – Bob was placed in a hospitalized ‘comfort care’ situation: but the comfort was still painful to go through – for him, for me, for our kids, for his family members that were there. Bob did not feel pain … but he knew he was leaving me in the pain of his eventual absence, and he knew the kids would inflict pain on me. They always had. And they did.

We all (hospital staff included) surrounded him with love. Bob was an easy man to love. He gave love while he lived … and he deserved love as he was stepping off this planet. I am forever grateful his leaving was surrounded by love.

Bob’s body died a good death – if such a thing can even be said about a passing. While I personally did not experience what Bob experienced (so I have no 100% proof that it was ‘good’), I can say with authority … because I was there … that he was in a peaceful frame of mind when he breathed his last breath and his spirit was walked into Heaven. To me, he appeared to be sleeping. It seemed like his passing from this life to the next was a good passing. I am thankful he did not feel any pain; I am thankful there was no struggle to let go.


Bob knew he was loved in those final months; weeks, days, hours, & minutes. I told him “I love you, Babe” 24/7 for 106 days – can it really be that everything wrapped up so breakneck fast: and yet took so excruciatingly long? He was surrounded by family members that touched him, kissed him, spoke to him, and was WITH him those last few lucid hours of his life here on Earth. I am glad Bob left this world knowing he was loved.

I miss him: my mind’s eye still sees his smiling face and that sexy smile aimed at me. My heart, so full of the love I was born to give only to him; still aches for his love in return. My body still burns for his touch – a touch my body will never again feel. My thoughts, when not reined in with a firm hold, incessantly screams; “I miss Bob – I miss Bob – I miss Bob!”

I am still dealing with the loss of my husband’s presence in my life. I am still coming to terms with the reality of my widowhood. Upsetting that apple cart by delving deep into someone’s heartache causes hot and stinging bile to rise in my throat, makes my nose and eyes burn, makes my head spin with exploding anguish, causes my heart to race with pangs of grief, makes my hands shake like I have palsy, makes me dizzy with spiraling emotions, and makes my chest hurt as I struggle to breathe – my whole body literally goes into shock with the fresh reality of Bob’s absence in my life. I am barely holding myself together. I simply cannot take on someone else’s heartaches right now.

Yes, I do talk about Bob. I do occasionally talk about those 106 days that changed our lives forever. But I talk about those things when I choose to talk about them: I don’t like being blindsided; I try to avoid derailment that comes screaming around the blind corner of life at unexpected and unforeseen moments – I actively go out of my way to avoid head-on collisions with Grief.

It is ironic that we moved here, to Heron Pointe to eliminate more stress from our life … and unforeseen stressors here, inflamed a Pancreatitis flareup that killed the love of my life. Bob had only lived in this house with me for 14 months before the neighbors paranoid bitching landed Bob in ER following an egomaniac home visit tirade by the Park Manager, egged on by the paranoid bitching – both the paranoia and home visit was unwarranted; and my husband’s body never recovered from the damage inflicted. In 18 months after purchasing this house, I was coming home to it as a newly made Widow. 19 months/23 days/14 hours & 23 minutes later, I am still trying to adjust to my new status in life.

August started our life together; and August started unraveling our life together.

August blessed me with unimaginable joy in 1974 – and August pricked me with unimaginable pain in 2018.

August will always be a month when hard times threaten to suck me under … and triumphant love carries me through the storms Grief hits me with.

No comments:

Post a Comment