The Heart of Grief

When grief strikes, few of us really know how we are going to respond to it, or what coping mechanisms we may have to pull out of our hats to handle it. In my adult years, I’ve lost many close relatives and friends, almost all my aunts and uncles, a baby (a 2nd trimester miscarriage), both my parents, and now, my husband. I can tell you this: As every relationship is different and unique, the grief that accompanies the loss of each relationship is just as unique. And, of course, the deeper the relationship, the deeper the grief. 

I lost Anthony eight weeks ago, and his passing has caused a depth of pain I have never known before...gut wrenching pain. A few weeks ago, I was talking to a dear friend whom I've known since my kids were babies. I was telling her how terribly sad I was feeling and she  said, "Yes, you truly know the meaning of the word agony now." As soon as she used that word...agony...I knew she, too, had been to the depths of her own pain. She has actually been able to describe, with words I would use, what I have been feeling and experiencing. (You know who you are, my friend, and I thank you for your honesty and candor in sharing your darkest moments with me.) It has been a comfort to know that someone else has reacted or responded to a devastating loss and the crippling nature of grief in a manner so similar to my own because it makes me feel normal, at a time when nothing is really normal! She really gets it. And, she has not only survived it...At this point in her life, she thrives. That gives me great hope.

I have done my best to share this journey with all of you...throughout the course of Anthony’s illness, his death, and, now, my grieving process. My hope is that someone out there will read something I write and feel a little less alone and a lot more understood. I realize that every time I post, I am taking a risk...a risk that someone will think I’m crazy or strange or any number of things a person can think about someone who puts their heart out there. But, I am feeling so much more confident in doing so because  my friend, someone I care for and trust, has taken that risk with me. It’s like Anthony has spoken through her. It feels like he has let me know, through her, that I’m perfectly fine doing it my way. 

For the past several weeks, I have gone to grief support meetings and I have listened to strangers pour their hearts out. The first meeting I attended was not what I expected, so I went to a different group, at a different time. I have heard people describe how their grief completely paralyzed them to the point of not even being able to leave their homes for up to two or three months. Some of these saints continue to go to meetings (many for years after their losses) just so they can share with people like me who are suffering the gaping wounds of fresh, raw grief. They are there to support, without judgement. They are there to give hope to the most brokenhearted...hope and courage to continue living life. God bless them! I remember singing a song at church several years ago called No Longer Strangers. The Refrain is, “No longer strangers, no longer lost and alone! No longer strangers, now we are saints! We are one in the house of God!” (David Haas) I have felt the Spirit of those words at these meetings.

Something else has happened...I have returned to work, four days a week. I didn’t think I was ready, but sometimes necessity dictates what you end up doing. I have to say, when I am with the kids, making music, hearing them sing, playing my guitar, it feels good. I actually laugh! I hear Anthony talking to me when I am there, saying things to encourage me if I start to feel sad. Amazingly, he can still make me smile when I hear him say those special things to me that only he would say. And, I feel incredibly loved by the kids and my co-workers. Everyone has been so gentle, so kind, and so supportive. I feel Anthony’s love through all of them.

I have also been doing some reading about cultural differences, traditions, and rituals regarding the grieving process. I have discovered (not just through reading, but through my own experience) that our society does little to honor the sacred nature of suffering through grief. In our corner of the world, people are expected to “get on with life” as soon as the funeral is over and the dead are buried. Hey, if you can do that, more power to you. I am not ashamed to say that I can not do it that way. And, if anyone out there is suffering a loss and grieving so deeply that sometimes it’s hard to just take your next breath, don’t you dare apologize! There is no wrong way to grieve.

Anthony taught me to honor myself and my feelings. He stood by me (and sometimes held me up) through some very difficult times. He never, ever judged me. He protected me and always respected my feelings. He knew exactly how I needed to be loved and always wanted me to be happy. Before he passed away, he told me he knew I was going to suffer greatly when he died, and he knew it was going to take a very long time for me to heal. It didn't matter how many times I told him not to worry or how hard I tried to assure him that I would be OK. He knew, when the time came, that I would suffer through a period when nothing could console me. He was right. I am suffering. (I would seriously be worried about myself if I weren't!) I cry every single day, sometimes so hard that I gasp for air and my chest and my stomach hurt. Sometimes, I scream at the top of my lungs. Other times, I sob with deep guttural moans. And, most days, I feel as though my heart is shattered into a million tiny pieces and it will never, ever get put back together again.

The truth is, when our hearts are broken and we are drenched in tears, cold and shivering, we feel naked and vulnerable...like a helpless baby. But, some people are afraid to admit that. Perhaps they think it’s a little too messy...or pathetic...or weak. But, I couldn't disagree more. You see, I believe it takes a hell of a lot more strength and courage to survive when we’re scared, naked, and cold. In order to rise up out of our grief and pain, we must honor the sacred nature of suffering by digging deep and finding our soul...that place where God resides...It is there, and only there, that healing can begin. 

He Held My Hand From Heaven

I have not been making a whole lot of phone calls these days. As a matter of fact, most of the time, I have my phones turned off. Please forgive me if you have tried calling....I’ve not listened to any messages either. Right now, everything feels very difficult to do...It’s easier for me to write than it is to talk. Don’t worry, please. And please, please don’t take it personally. I’m not trying to shut everyone out. I’m just trying to conserve what little energy I have these days so that I can heal. I keep hearing Anthony telling me to be true to myself, so that’s what I’m doing. 

That being said, I did make a phone call to a dear friend who is currently battling cancer. After catching up on how he’s been doing, we talked about how I’m doing. During the course of our conversation, he asked me if I’ve had any dreams yet.....dreams about Anthony. I told him I’ve been waiting. He said to keep asking Anthony to come through. He also said he’d be praying for me....praying that I can get some comfort.

When I hung up the phone, I cried. Really, really hard. And I got angry and frustrated and completely overwhelmed. I came over to my computer and typed this:

Anthony, I’m so angry that you’re gone! What the hell happened to all the things we were supposed to do? What happened to all the dreams we dreamed together? You dreamed my dreams with me and I dreamed yours. Why? Why did we have to be so damn happy dreaming? My dreams have all been shattered now that you’re gone because you were in every single one of them. It hurts to be a dreamer because, sometimes, people don’t understand us. So, without you, I don’t ever want to dream again.

What am I supposed to do, Anthony? Tell me, please. What am I supposed to do?

After I slammed my fingers against the keys for the short time it took me to type my outburst, I went to bed and cried and screamed until I exhausted myself. I finally fell asleep. Aaah.......Sleep...God’s natural anesthesia. Most of the time, when you’re sleeping, the real world melts away and you feel little, if any, connection to your life. 

But not this time.

I found myself in a dream that was all too real and just as painful as being awake. What the heck? This was supposed to be my escape! But, there I was, standing in my backyard looking at the roses. Anthony and I carefully choose each rose bush when we re-landscaped our backyard together. We picked the most fragrant varieties so I could make rosewater from the petals. I helped Anthony dig each hole and plant each bush, but they were his babies...and, oh, how he loved them. Now, I can’t even bear to cut them because that’s what he used to do when the blooms were full...just the way they are today.  With a grin as wide as his face, he’d carry in vases of sweet-scented blossoms and place them before me. 

With the sweetness of lingering roses, my dream then took me to the front yard...our secret garden where the scent of citrus and lavender fill the air with an intoxicating aroma that’s invigorating and tranquilizing at the same time. There I was, dreaming in real time, once again, tears streaming down my face. And angry. With my fists turned upward and pounding at the sky, I was screaming at the top of my lungs, “Anthony! How I am supposed to do this by myself?! You have to help me, Anthony. I can’t do all this alone!”

In the weird way that dreams work, the very next instant, I was inside the house where Anthony was resting in bed. He was fully clothed and laying with his back to me. He looked robust, not sick at all. I assumed he was simply napping, so I went over to him and shook him gently. No response. I shook him a little harder. Still nothing. Finally, I began to shake him violently and pound my fists into him. Once again, I screamed, “Anthony! Anthony, wake up! Tell me, how am I supposed to do all this without you?” Over and over, screaming and hitting until, all at once his hand comes straight out of Heaven and grabs my hand...

...And holds on for dear life.

My eyes flew open and I gasped loudly, then held my breath. Could this really be happening? I closed my eyes again and held on to his hand as tightly as I could, wanting either to pull him back over to this side, or to let him pull me over to his. It didn’t matter (to me) which way it went. I kept telling myself, “Just don’t let go. Just don’t let go.” With a loud exhale, I started breathing again, fast and shallow. I could feel my heart pounding within my chest and in the temples of my head...loud, hard, and fast. And I could feel his hand, struggling to hold on to mine. I felt his fingers...how many times had I traced over every inch of his hands, especially when he was sick....how many times? Oh, I know those hands. Those fingers have coursed their way through my long and tangled tresses and down the sides of my face more times than I can count. Yes, that hand struggling to hold on to mine was Anthony’s hand, for sure. And it felt so incredibly, inexplicably amazing.

Now, I don’t know what kind of strength, what kind of energy it must take for a spirit soul to break through the veil and touch one of us mortal souls, but Anthony found a way to do it. He promised me that he would...that he would find a way, if there were a way...and he did. In my darkest hour of need, in my deepest despair, he found a way to break through and touch me to let me know he is still right here. I was wide awake with my eyes closed, savoring the sensation of his hand in mine. I can’t tell you how long it lasted...minutes at least...and then, it was like we both knew the time had come to let go, and so we did. 

Anthony and I loved to dream in the real world. Oh, we’d weave the most interesting tales that would take us to far away places where one adventure was more exciting than the next. I haven’t done much daydreaming since he’s been gone, but I’ll tell you one thing....Every single time I put my head down on a pillow I pray for another dream just like the one I had when Anthony reached right out of Heaven just to hold my hand.

The Window

I’ve looked out this window a million times. It’s the very same window you used to look out when you sat in your chair reading the newspaper or watching a football game on a lazy Saturday afternoon. For some reason, I’ve always found comfort in this room, looking out this window, season after season...with you, sitting in your chair, looking out this window, too. This window...your chair...and you. 

But, today, as I sit in your chair and gaze through these familiar panes of glass, I feel like a stranger in a foreign land. The view outside this window changes little, even through the seasons, but its familiarity offers me no comfort. Instead, it serves as another bitter reminder that life goes on as usual, all around me, with no regard for my feelings. How dare it taunt me! Doesn’t the world know nothing is the same? Inside this house, life, as I knew it...as we knew it...has stopped. Sometimes, I feel as though the life inside me has stopped, too. 

Sometimes, I walk around the house, wandering from room to room, with tears flowing down my face. I walk around and around, not speaking a single word. But, while I may appear to be dazed or deep in trance, my mind is hyper-aware of everything in my surroundings. Every little thing seems to take on special meaning.  Every single thing holds a memory. Today, it is the window...the one right next to Anthony’s chair.

I’ve always been the sentimental type, freely (and passionately) attaching feelings to the moments in life that have touched my heart...And then, in that great spirit of sentimentality, I hold them close so they are readily available for recall. Each time I relive a memory, my emotions wash over me and flood all my senses. I not only feel, but I see and smell and hear bits and pieces of these events, as if living them for the first time, all over again. But, of course, the re-living is only in my head and always leaves me wanting more. I guess we can never get enough of a good thing.

Since Anthony’s passing, I surprise myself by remembering the most random things. And, sometimes, I’m even more surprised by what sparks my memory. I could catch sight of the most ordinary, mundane thing, and before I know it, I’m watching a slide show of freeze-frame vignettes...each one depicting a scene from some bygone moment I shared with Anthony in that very same spot.  That’s exactly what happened when I looked out the window...the one next to Anthony’s chair.

How many times have I seen Anthony sitting in his chair, looking out that window? How many times has he called me over to look, too? “Hey, Treesee, come ‘ere. Look at this! Hurry!” Running from the kitchen...my hands dripping water all over the floor because, in my haste, I forgot to grab a towel...I arrive at his chair to find him smiling that smile of his as he’s staring through the glass, eyes fixed upon a hummingbird dipping into the flower basket. Then, without moving or breaking his stare, Anthony says, in a prayerful whisper, “Isn’t he beautiful?” I look at the tiny fellow poking around in the flowers for a second before turning my attention to the big fellow in the chair. When I murmur, “Oh, yeah. He sure is beautiful,” I’m not referring to the bird. 

How do I make the beautiful memories stop hurting? Why does their beauty intensify my pain and make missing him so horribly unbearable? 

I’ve been racking my brain, trying with all my might to remember any incident...an argument...an indiscretion...an act of dishonesty or betrayal...anything to taint my memory of Anthony, hoping something bad might make me miss him a little less. But I can’t remember anything...because he never hurt me. Ever. He was faithful and loyal to me, without fault. He told me, many times, that he’d rather die than hurt me. (Didn't he realize that dying would hurt me more than anything?)

Yes, I know how lucky I am to have had a love so pure, so perfect. And, of course, I am thankful I have so many beautiful memories of Anthony...Yet, in the true spirit of being human, my selfishness and greed take over and all I want is more...more moments with Anthony, more memories with Anthony...more Anthony. I want to walk by the window...the one next to his chair...and see him sitting there, just like he used to. I want to be able to go over to him and throw my arms around him and feel him hold me. But that’s not going to happen. 

As each day passes without him, the reality of Anthony being gone sinks in just a little bit more. I get it...He's not coming back. So, since the love of my life is gone, and since it's so damn hard to just keep breathing without him, I'm wondering...Is it too much to ask that one day I’ll be able to look out that window again without crying?

Splinters

Sometimes a small thing packs the mightiest punch. Like a splinter, embedded just beneath the surface of your skin. Sometimes, you can’t even see it unless you look really closely. But you know something is there because it hurts like a son of a gun. There are small things all around me, in every single room, just waiting to be found...just waiting to find me. And when I come across one, it gets under my skin, and I immediately feel the pain of its presence. Because its presence makes Anthony’s absence so real. 

Like his razor...How many times did I watch Anthony shave that beautiful, handsome face of his? He’d look at me, through the mirror and wink, knowing I was staring at him the way a love-struck school girl stares at that dreamy looking boy sitting in the seat next to her. I’d sneak his razor into the shower, so I could use it to shave my legs, and then I’d put it back before he knew it was missing. But, somehow, he’d always know. When he’d ask me if I was using his razor again, I’d smile that smile he couldn’t resist, and he’d just shake his head and laugh at me. Did he know I used it just because it was his?...Just because it was the razor he held...the razor that shaved that beautiful face of his? Now I can use it whenever I want...but it’s not the same because he isn’t here to use it, too.

He’s not here to use his fancy ultrasonic toothbrush, either. He loved that thing. How many times did I see it, charging in its cradle on the countertop, next to his sink? The last few times I’ve glanced at it, an immediate flashback of Anthony standing there, brushing his teeth, has filled my mind. So, I changed the head and replaced it with a new brush and tried it. Huh....Now I know why he liked it so much. So, do I plug it in on my side, next to my sink, or leave it where it’s always been...on his side, next to his soap dish?

His soap dish...another splinter. How many nights will I have to get ready for bed without Anthony? How many times will I stand at my sink and look over at his and see...nothing? I won’t see him take his special bar of soap...lavender or almond or mint...and lather up his hands and wash his face before coming to bed. I won’t see him do that ever again. Should I leave his soap dish next to his sink? Do I leave the half-used bar of soap in it? If I stand over his sink and wash my hands and face there...with the soap from his soap dish...do I dare look in the mirror and see reality...the reflection of myself where his should be?

Do I dare open his medicine cabinet? Do I risk my heart being broken yet again and again with every item I see...each bottle of his cologne...a styptic  pencil...his deodorant...some Benadryl? No, I don’t have to open it. I have a pretty good idea of what’s in there and where each item sits on the shelf. And each one still bears his touch...It’s like each one holds a piece of him in some strange way. I’m not ready to go digging around in there and pulling anything from its spot.

Anthony died one month ago, today. I can’t say I’m OK, because I’m not. I’m sad all the time. I either sleep too much, or not at all. Sometimes, I eat and  sometimes, I don’t. Much of the time, I don’t answer the phone because I can’t talk without crying. As if things aren’t bad enough, every time one of these splinters pries its way under my skin, the pain of my grief paralyzes me.  So, what should I do with all of them...all of these splinters? Should I leave them right where they are and feel the pain of their presence each time I move, each time I breathe? If I take them out, one by one, will their absence leave a gaping hole in my heart? Will plucking them out discard yet one more piece of Anthony from my life and send him further and further away? 

I’m thinking that maybe I need to leave things alone right now. As strange as it may sound, it feels safer to just leave the splinters where they are...at least, for today. Even though it hurts to move and breathe and live with them embedded in me, just the thought of pulling them out seems more painful than I can bear right now. Maybe later, when I’m ready, I’ll take a deep breath and pluck one out. Then, I’ll wait until the emptiness heals up and the soreness goes away before thinking about going after the next one.  

I don’t think I’m going to stop hurting any time soon, splinters or no splinters. I know it’s only been one month, so I shouldn’t be expecting a whole lot anyway. But, Anthony’s life was so enmeshed with mine, and mine with this, that I have a feeling my heart will be pierced, again and again, by lots of splinters that show up in lots of different places. I also have a feeling I’m going to be finding splinters for a long, long time. 

Your Birthday in Heaven

Tuesday, May 1, was Anthony’s birthday. He would have been 63 years old. I tried to keep myself as busy as possible, but it was difficult, and I shed my fair share of tears throughout the day. 

Anthony’s sister planned a beautiful family dinner to honor him. I brought a bottle of one of Anthony’s favorite wines to share, and I made a rich chocolate cake for dessert...also one of Ant’s favorites. We celebrated Anthony...we even sang Happy Birthday and lit candles on the cake. We spent a wonderful evening together, but I missed Anthony terribly. I don’t think I was alone in missing him...I’m pretty sure everyone did.

After dinner, the kids and I came home, and I really felt the sting of Anthony’s absence when we walked into the house. Earlier in the day, I had started writing the poem, Your Birthday in Heaven (below), so I tried to fill the void by finishing it. I couldn’t. I tried writing anything...I just couldn’t. The strange thing was that I had so much on my mind...so many thoughts and feelings...but I couldn’t organize them enough to form a single sentence. So, I cried. I cried until I was too tired to cry anymore. Then, I cuddled up next to my daughter, Cecilia (who was sweet enough to come up from San Diego to be with me...especially for Anthony’s birthday), and I thought about all the different things we’ve done, in the past, to celebrate this very special day. For the first time since Anthony has passed away, I actually fell asleep smiling. 

I’ve always tried to come up with something extra special for Anthony’s birthday...a gift that let him know I put lots of thought into it because I thought so much about him! So, here is my birthday gift (a poem) for my husband on his 63^rd birthday...

Your Birthday in Heaven

What’s it like celebrating your birthday in Heaven? 

Do you wake up to the sound 

of celestial angels all around...

singing and playing on harps of gold?

 When you live in Eternity, do you ever grow old, 

or does time never cease to unfold 

in streams of infinite ribbons...

impossible to hold?

What’s it like celebrating your birthday in Heaven?

Do you dance throughout the day

    with wild abandon, child-like play...

running and skipping on clouds of white?

When you live in Eternity, is there darkness or night,

or is time filled only with light

spoken into existence...

that which was born in God’s sight?

What’s it like celebrating your birthday in Heaven?

Does love swell inside your heart

and then explode to touch each part

of you with His sanctifying Grace?

When you live in Eternity, do you see God’s face

everywhere...filling every space

with His omnipotent presence...

enveloping you in His embrace?

Tell me...

What’s it like celebrating your birthday in Heaven?

A Name Change

I’m sure, by now, you have noticed that I changed the name of my Blog. I’d actually been thinking about it for quite some time, but after Anthony passed away, and more people shared their stories with me, I knew it was the right thing to do...

I was laying in bed thinking about this Blog and some of the things that have transpired since I started it. When I first began writing, I wondered if anyone would even read it. In spite of my fears and insecurities, I wrote anyway...mostly because I felt pushed to do it. The idea kept coming up during my prayer time and continued to nag at me until I finally set up the Blog site and published my first entry. 

Each time I started writing a new piece, I allowed my thoughts and feelings to determine the direction it took. I also tried to focus upon staying hopeful, in spite of the challenges and obstacles before us. Soon, readers began to respond and share their hearts with me...mostly through private emails. I discovered how Anthony’s faith and courage, and our journey through his illness together, touched their lives through what I wrote. 

Among some of the feedback I’ve received are stories from people who have been blessed with the rekindling, strengthening, and/or healing of relationships. Many others have experienced personal conversions and a deepening of their faith. I continue to receive correspondence from readers who, in some way, have been inspired...even changed...by my telling of Anthony’s story. These are no small gifts...some people have even called them miracles. Given that, I decided to change the name of this Blog from  A Miracle For Anthony to one that reflects the many good things that have happened (and will continue to happen) in the lives of others because of Anthony’s journey. I am confident that my kind and loving husband will keep praying for us, and I believe, with all my heart, that we will continue to see the fruits of his faithfulness in the miracles God works in our lives. Therefore, I renamed the Blog Anthony’s Miracles.

It has been just three weeks since Anthony passed away. I am learning that my grief is as unpredictable and uncontrollable as a storm out on the open seas. Within minutes, and without warning, I can be overcome by violent waves of sorrow and despair that crash down upon me, relentlessly. Most times, all I can do is hold on and ride it out. And then, just as suddenly as it came on, and without any explanation, the stormy seas will turn calm, and I am given a brief respite. When I do catch a break in the storm, I try to welcome the calm with an open heart and drink in as many sweet thoughts of Anthony as I can before the next wave hits and knocks the wind right out of me.

So, while I have a minute of peace, I’m going to remind myself to live as Anthony lived...hopeful, faithful, loving, and joyful. And full of life. Just days before he passed, Anthony gathered all our children around his bed and gave them counsel...a father’s wisdom. He told them to never give up, to never lose hope, and to always fight the good fight. He said God would help them get through anything and urged them to pray and stay faithful. He shared his great love for family and expressed how happy he was to have all of his children there with him. He told them to always love and forgive each other. And he told each and every one of them how very proud he was of them...proud of who they were and what they were doing with their lives. And he made sure they understood how much he loved them and how happy he was to be their father. Even on his deathbed, he lived as fully as he was able, and he never stopped giving.

I learned so much from my husband...He taught me about life and how to live by the example he set...and by the way he loved me. Before he died, Anthony asked me to make a promise to him...He wanted me to keep this Blog going...to keep writing. I believe, now, that Anthony not only wanted me to share our story, he wanted me to continue to live life to its fullest...the way he did. He knew that writing would provide a way for me to let people in...to keep me connected. It’s his way of taking care of me and making sure I take care of myself. He was so wise.

So, as I continue to let my experiences weave the fabric of the stories I tell, I will also call upon Anthony’s wisdom for inspiration. If I can give back a piece of what he gave to me, my life will be worthwhile. If I can share an experience or an insight that will help someone else on their journey, then maybe I can find a purpose for the pain that Anthony suffered and the heartache I’ve carried, everyday, since he’s been gone. If I can reach out my hand to another in need, even in my own brokenness, then perhaps I can embrace my own healing. And, if I can keep the eyes of my heart open, maybe I will see the world as Anthony did...full of wonder, mystery, and miracles...just waiting to happen.

Maybe

These last couple of days, I have lived through some of the most horrible hours of my life. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I’ve been feeling worse instead of better. Maybe it’s because each new day without Anthony drives home the reality that he is gone...and that he is never coming back.

I’ve held myself hostage in my daughter’s spare bedroom at her house for several days now. I think I’ve cried more tears in the last few days than I have since I’ve been born. I was supposed to go back to my home before the weekend, but I’ve either been too distraught to get myself out of bed, or I’ve had a splitting headache that makes me sick to my stomach and keeps me flat on my back. I know what some of you would say. You’d tell me that Anthony would not want me to be living like this....but, I know, if he does see me, that he understands. And, if he were here, he would just love me and stay close to me until I got through it...whatever this is. 

Is this what real grief looks like? I mean, is this what true, honest, raw grief really is? Does it paralyze and overcome anyone else like this? 

Maybe being away from my home and isolated like this is not a bad thing. Maybe it’s good that I don’t have to put on a happy face for anyone, or answer the phone or the front door, or go outside to get the mail or water the plants. Maybe it’s good I don’t have to do any of those things because maybe, just maybe, I can really get in touch with the pain of my devastating loss...the pain of losing my dear, sweet Anthony...my soul mate and my very best friend...the other side of me. Maybe this time alone is allowing me to get to the rawest, most tender part of my wound and touch it. Maybe, for me, that’s the only way it’s going to heal...I’m going to heal. 

Maybe most people don’t do it like this. Maybe they don’t give themselves the luxury of isolating themselves, covering their gaping wounds with their bare hands and praying for some kind of comfort...some little reprieve from the pain. Maybe most people don’t let themselves respond to their grief on that primal level...like a dog, hunkered down in hiding, licking its wounds.  But I’ve never done things the way most people do them, so why start now? 

Maybe I should leave myself alone and just be true to myself...do what I need to do and stop worrying about what anyone thinks or says. Maybe I need to remind myself that one of the things Anthony loved most about me was that I'm not like everyone else. Maybe I need to write myself a bunch of post-it notes and put them up all around me as reminders...remind myself that Anthony loved me, not in spite of my differences, but because of them. I’ll never forget how he brought me out of a really bad spell by placing post-it notes inside the cupboards, on the medicine cabinet, on the steering wheel of my car, in my drawers and closet, in the shower...even on the canned goods in the pantry...post-it notes everywhere...telling me how I deserved all good things...how special I was...how beautiful and talented I was...and most of all...how I deserved to be loved by him because he loved me more than anything or anyone. Anthony always knew what to do and how to take care of me. He knew how to help me when I didn’t know how to help myself. 

How do I go on living without him? How do I breathe, knowing he is no longer breathing the same air with me? Has anyone out there ever really survived losing the love of their life? Tell me, am I going to just walk through the rest of my life without Anthony on autopilot...not really feeling, not really caring, not really living? Because that’s the way it feels right now. 

Maybe I need to be patient and just hold on. Maybe I just need to ride this out, no matter how much it hurts. Maybe, if I close my eyes and imagine Anthony here, right next to me, I can make it through this. Maybe, if I tell myself he is here, I’ll feel him. Maybe, if I imagine hearing him talk to me and telling me I can do it, I’ll believe I can. Maybe, just maybe, if I fall asleep, he’ll come to me in a dream and I will see him, and hear him, and feel him... and maybe, he’ll let me know he’s not really gone.

The First 24 Hours

I am no stranger to death beds. I was at my dad’s bedside, holding his hand, when he passed away eight years ago...on my birthday. Exactly one year later, I cradled my mom in my arms when she died...two days before my birthday...in the very same downstairs bedroom (in my home) that Anthony was in when he passed. So, holding Anthony in my arms, as he struggled through his final breaths, felt eerily familiar. Yet, in truth, nothing could have prepared me for the experience of my husband dying in my arms. Nothing.

After Anthony died, I saw his body lying there in front of me, but I felt...I knew...he was gone. Yet, I kept watching him, almost like I was waiting to see if he was (miraculously) going to take another breath. A couple of times, I actually thought I saw his chest move. Strange how our minds play tricks on us...especially when we’re at our lowest and most broken...or when life delivers a blow that knocks the wind out of us and brings us to our knees in shock and disbelief. Like when someone you love dies. Death is a painful reality to accept and maybe our minds just want to kick the very thought of it out...and as far away as possible.                                                                                                                                                                        

Anthony died at 8:50 am. After he took his last breath, all I wanted to do was hold on to him. I was already lying next to him, cradling him, so I stayed right where I was. When our kids heard me crying loudly, they came into the room, one by one, and found me with my arms wrapped tightly around him and my head resting upon his chest. I didn’t move for at least an hour. I was aware of family members and close friends coming in and out of the room during that time, but I don’t know, for sure, who was there. The only thing that mattered to me during that time was that I stay as close to Anthony as possible.

I did not want anyone to touch me. I also did not want to speak. That was probably confusing to my loved ones, who only wanted to help and console me. Still, I felt as though I needed that painful time alone with Anthony. We were so very close in life...our spirits were entwined. When Anthony died, I felt the pain of his spirit tear itself away from mine. Even though it was the most agonizing thing I’d ever gone through, it was a sacred and intimate experience that belonged to the two of us. Even if no one else understood, I know Anthony did. I also know he would have wanted me to do whatever I needed to do in those moments. He always put my feelings before anything or anyone.

When it felt right, I allowed people to gently touch me. A short time after that, I was able to speak and answer questions. One of the first questions I had to answer was one I dreaded most: What time did I want the mortuary to come and pick up Anthony? The Hospice nurse told us we could take as much time as we needed...so, I didn’t hesitate to ask that Anthony not be taken until the early evening. Since he wanted to be cremated, there would be no viewing at the mortuary before his funeral, so this gave other family members and close friends the chance to say their goodbyes, too. 

I told the nurse I wanted to bathe Anthony and change his clothes and the sheets on the bed before anymore people came. I brought in a basin of warm water, just as I had so many times before, and gently washed my husband’s body for the last time. I spoke softly to him, the way I always did when I bathed him in bed. I kept him covered, and dried him quickly, and powdered his back. I dressed him in clean clothes, but before putting on his shirt, I shaved his face...just as carefully and gently as always...and then I sprayed him with his cologne. After putting on his shirt, I brushed his hair, then spritzed it with hairspray. He looked peaceful...and beautiful.

The nurse had helped me change the sheets after I bathed him, but I told her I wanted to do all his personal care as my last act of service and love for my husband. When I finished dressing him, we covered him with a clean white sheet. Then, with a basket and a pair of garden clippers, I went to the front yard and took cuttings of every fragrant flower and leaf in our garden. When I finished in the front yard, I brought the basket in and emptied it on the kitchen counter before heading out back to gather more. When I came in from the backyard, I placed the rest of the garden treasures carefully on the counter with the others. What an array of colors and blooms...with the most exquisite fragrance! 

From the front yard, I had blossoms and leaves from our citrus trees...orange, lemon, and lime...as well as two varieties of lavender, several roses, and leaves from my scented geranium. From the backyard, I gathered a healthy bouquet of herbs... several aromatic branches from the laurel tree (bay leaves), large sprigs of savory rosemary and sage, and stems of fresh green, spearmint leaves. I also harvested at least one rose from each bush Anthony and I planted. He called them his babies...so I was especially careful when I arranged these first blooms of Spring with the other pickings. All the while, I thought of my sweet Anthony as I drank in the perfume from their velvety soft petals.  

I took the flowers and herbs into the bedroom where Anthony lay and gently arranged them around him. He was holding his rosary in his left hand, and I placed a small wooden cross upon his chest. On an end table in the corner next to his bed, a candle was burning. I also set a picture of us and our children...taken on the day our marriage was blessed in the Church...on that table. A CD of Marian hymns was quietly playing in the background. The atmosphere in that dimly lit room was chapel-like, and everyone who entered to pay their respects automatically spoke in sotto voce. It was peaceful and beautiful. And it felt so right.

Throughout the day, a slow, but steady, stream of family and friends came to say goodbye to Anthony. As the late afternoon approached, I realized I was not ready to have him taken away. I told my daughter how I felt and asked her to make the call and postpone the pick-up until the next day. Some of my family members were a bit concerned until my daughter told them that the Hospice nurse said many people keep their deceased loved one at home for 24 hours. When she called the mortuary, they were  perfectly amenable to the change in plans. We agreed upon 10:00 am the following morning.

When the last visitor left our home, a quiet, and somewhat somber, peace settled down upon us. Everyone went to bed. I stayed in the room where Anthony’s body lay.  I slept very little. I cried a lot, and I prayed a lot, and I forced myself to acknowledge the fact that my husband, my dear sweet husband and very best friend in the whole world, had died. And when I tried to deny it, all I had to do was look over at his lifeless body that had grown so cold. The entire time Anthony was sick, he stayed positive and said he was going to get well. Even though all the odds were stacked against him, he maintained that hope. I supported him the whole way through. But, he died anyway. That reality was a bitter pill to swallow. Keeping him at home that first day helped me digest the horrible truth.

I had not originally planned to have a viewing at home. But, I also did not know Anthony wanted to be cremated...He told me of his wishes only a couple days before he passed. The decision to keep him at home for the first day just sort of happened spontaneously; however, the seed for this idea was planted some time ago. A few years back, Anthony and I watched a show about ‘home funerals’ and we had quite a lengthy discussion about it in the days that followed. Our society has very different ideas about death and dying and how we handle the body of our deceased loved one. When compared with other cultures, our society’s attitude about death seems unhealthy and unnatural to me, in many ways. The sterile approach, aimed more towards detaching ourselves from our grief, does little to help process and work through our feelings. Grief is messy and painful. It is also a basic, primal experience. Whisking away our loved one quickly and neatly, as soon as possible after passing, is symbolic of our society’s unwillingness to face the cold, hard, and painful reality of death (and perhaps our own mortality) and the suffering nature of grief that comes with it. I chose to face it head on, and I am so glad I did.

When the mortuary people came to take Anthony’s body the next morning, they told me I should leave the room. I refused. They said it could be very upsetting. What could be more upsetting than holding my husband in my arms and looking straight into his eyes as he drew his last breath? I asked for a moment alone with him. I shut the door. Before I said my final goodbye, I cut a lock of Anthony’s hair and tucked it into an envelope. Then, I took the rosary from his hand, removed the cross from his chest, and gently slipped his wedding band off his finger. I kissed him goodbye for the very last time, then I called the men in. I sat there and watched as they prepared to wrap Anthony’s body. When one of the men began to gather the flowers and set them aside, I stopped him. I asked that the flowers remain with Anthony when he left our home. The man gently placed them back where they were. After Anthony’s body was completely wrapped, the two men carried him out to the gurney and wheeled him out the front door. I followed them into the driveway and reminded myself to keep breathing. When those men put Anthony into that vehicle and closed those doors, I wanted to pound my fists into them. Instead, I rolled my hands into hard, tight balls and held my arms as close to my sides as possible. As that van left my driveway and drove down the street, I felt drained, empty, and so very alone. 

Yes, it was hard doing it the way I did it. But, I have no regrets. When my mom and dad died, their bodies were taken shortly after they passed. All I remember was feeling shocked and numb. It didn’t feel real and I had to keep asking myself if they were truly gone. It took longer to process. There was no doubt in my mind that Anthony was gone. No more mind tricks or crazy delusions. Just reality and the deep, painful sting of grief.

I understand that what I did may not be good for you. And that’s OK. I just wanted you to know that you have choices. So, when you are faced with the death of your spouse, or a close loved one, ask for what you need...even if you need to do things a little differently than most people. Don’t be embarrassed or ashamed to let yourself grieve the way you need to grieve. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re doing it the wrong way. There is no wrong way. And don’t be afraid to feel the pain...No matter how bad it gets, it won’t kill you. Sometimes, you’ll just wish it would.

When I Am Crying

Anthony, I miss you so much that it hurts in ways I’ve never felt before. When you died, a big part of me died, too. There’s a void inside me...a hollow space that you used to fill. Nothing, no one, can ever fill the emptiness that was created when you left. I cry and cry and cry until I’m exhausted and finally fall asleep. These days, sleep is my only reprieve from the sadness, but it never lasts long enough...As soon as I open my eyes, the reality of you being gone crashes down upon me and I feel angry and disappointed that I am awake. And all alone. Then, I start crying all over again.

I keep telling myself it won’t always feel like this...that time will heal this gaping wound in my heart. But, believing that brings little comfort right now...right now when sadness courses through me in every breath I take. I try to comfort myself by talking to you and hearing you answer me. I’m pretty sure I know what you’d say and how you’d say it. I close my eyes and pretend I feel you holding me. I hug your pillow and bury my nose in your T-shirt...the one I set aside after you wore it...the one I didn’t wash. I make believe I’m nuzzling up next to you and drinking in your sweet fragrance the way I used to. I play back your messages I saved on my phone and listen to them over and over again so I can hear you tell me how much you love me. And I cry some more.

Sometimes, I feel like picking up a chair and hurling it through a window. I want to break something the way my heart is broken. I want to hear the glass shatter into a million pieces. I want to see the bits and pieces of debris scattered all over the place. I just want to tear something apart the way my life has been torn apart. I can see myself just ripping something to shreds with my bare hands and screaming as loud as thunder while I’m doing it. Screaming and crying.

Anthony, I know you see me crying. And I know you understand. You always understood and you always knew exactly what to do. You promised you would never be out of my reach...that nothing could ever keep us apart.   You were so sure when you said that...so I believe you. And I know you. And I know how much you love me. So I know you’ll find a way. Please, Anth, please find a way to let me know you are here...especially when I am crying. 

Heartbroken

When a loved one is suffering from a terminal illness, you try to prepare yourself for the worst...even as you keep hoping for the best. But, no matter how prepared you think you are, when the end finally comes, don’t be surprised if you (still) find yourself in shock. Perhaps it’s because you hang on to hope as long as your loved one can still draw a breath...even if each breath is brought forth through tremendous struggle and in agonizing pain. As long as there is life, there is hope; but, when life ceases, hope dies right along with it. That’s when the shock hits you...At least, that’s when it hit me. And it hit hard.

Anthony died in my arms last Thursday morning, the 5th of April. He was staring straight into my eyes when he drew his last breath. I knew what was coming, just by the look on his face...a look I had never seen before. In that instant, I said, “Goodbye. I love you.” A fraction of a second later, he exhaled for the last time and collapsed against me. Still cradling him in my arms, I gently laid his head down onto his pillow and then I collapsed into my grief and exhaustion. With my head upon his silent and lifeless chest, my gentle weeping soon escalated to loud, uncontrollable wails. At that point, nothing mattered. Nothing mattered because no amount of sobbing or screaming or calling out his name could bring him back. I can’t even begin to describe the pain that came with that stark reality. It’s a pain I live with every second of every day because my Anthony is gone.

In the first couple days after his death, I stayed busy making funeral arrangements and visiting with family and friends. I somehow kept myself together...maybe because I knew if I broke down too much, I wouldn’t be able to pull myself back up in time to get through the funeral. So, I walked around feeling numb and disconnected and focused on taking care of business. Monday morning, I had a small meltdown about an hour before the funeral, but I gave myself a good ‘talking to’ before I left the house. I managed to put my mask on...the one I hide behind when I don’t want the world to see the broken me inside. 

When I arrived at the church, I started shaking and had a really hard time walking in and taking my place in the front pew...the spot reserved for the widow. Anthony’s ashes had been placed upon a small table in front of the sanctuary space. A framed photograph...my favorite picture of him that he’d given me just before we got married...sat next to the cherrywood box holding his remains. A dozen red roses...from me...sat in front of the table. 

Anthony’s funeral was beautiful. The church was filled with family, friends, and community members, as was the sanctuary, with about a dozen priests concelebrating the mass. Many of my friends and colleagues in the music ministry came to sing Anthony’s favorite songs...songs he sang with me, many times, in the choir I direct. The liturgy was truly a celebration of Anthony’s life...the man he was and how he lived. I was so very proud to be there, as his wife, and to witness how many people he touched throughout his life. I was strengthened and nourished by God’s grace, so much so that I was able to stand before everyone in that church and deliver my husband’s eulogy. Anthony helped, too. He was right there beside me the whole time.

I know many people were wondering how that came about...How was it that I delivered the eulogy? Well, several years ago, Anthony and I went to a funeral and, afterwards in the car, he asked me if I had ever seen a spouse give the eulogy at any of the funerals for which I had sung over the years. I told him I had only seen it once, and then I asked him why he wanted to know. He asked me if I thought I’d be able to give the eulogy at his funeral if he died before me. He said I knew him better than anyone had ever or would ever know him and that he’d want me to do it. I told him I’d do anything for him. It was at that point that we both agreed that the surviving spouse would deliver the other’s eulogy. I double checked with Anthony just a few days before he died and he said he still wanted me to do it...if I could. How could I not? 

After the funeral, the reality of my aloneness struck me like a sharp slap across my face. I felt its sting course throughout my entire body. Mid-way through the reception that followed the funeral, I started having both hot and cold sweats. The din inside the restaurant seemed to grow louder and louder, my head began to ache, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. As people were having dessert, the walls began to cave in upon me and I felt myself beginning to go limp. I figured I should probably leave while I could still walk, so a dear friend escorted me out, put me in my car, and drove me back to my house. I cried...no, sobbed...the entire way home. I cried walking into the house, I sobbed while I changed my clothes, then I laid on the bed and wailed until I was too exhausted to breathe. 

I know some of you think I’m a pillar of strength. Many of you have told me I’m ‘amazing’ and ‘incredible’....Please, please don’t be fooled. I am neither. Nor am I strong. Inside the safety and solace of my home, I am nothing more than a broken, devastated woman, so paralyzed by grief that I don’t want to eat or get dressed or get out of bed. My closest friends and family members take turns sitting next to me or climbing into bed with me...They wrap their arms around my trembling body as wave upon wave of sorrow and tears crash down upon me. I cry so hard that I can’t catch my breath. And I only stop crying when sheer exhaustion finally overcomes me and I fall into a fretful sleep that never lasts long enough. Every time I wake up, the reality of Anthony’s passing hits me and I start crying all over again. 

Those closest to me tell me it takes great strength to grieve so deeply, to allow oneself to feel the naked pain of loss...the kind of pain that leaves you shattered, weak, and so very alone. I’m not sure if I believe that, because when I’m there...stuck in the grips of overwhelming grief...when I feel the lonely void created by Anthony’s passing, I don’t feel strong. I feel small and scared and sad. And, most of all, I feel completely heartbroken.

Letting Go

Anthony is the love of my life...as I am the love of his. That explains why this is so hard. Neither of us wants to part. Unfortunately, it appears the time has come for that to happen. I’m so sorry to tell you this. I’m sorrier than I’ve ever been about anything in my life. But, I want you to know so that you can pray for Anthony...You see, it appears that he is very close to letting go...to leaving this life...and me. 

Ever since his hospitalization in early March, Anthony’s condition has steadily declined. Once again, he is in the hospital receiving fluids and medications to rehydrate him and balance his electrolytes. However, things are very different this time. This is the last time we will do this. As soon as we can arrange it, I will be taking him home and placing him on Hospice care. And, as soon as I get him home, I will put him in bed and curl up next to him. And, I won’t leave his side for one second...until he leaves me.

I know this is not the way we wanted this story to end. Unfortunately, we don’t get to write the script. Oh, geez, we’d probably make an awful mess of things if we could, anyways. Even though I’m sick of hearing that ‘God has a plan,’ deep down inside, I know it’s true. I also know that I couldn’t come up with a better one, no matter how hard I tried. None of us could. I have learned that God’s plans often appear mysterious when we’re going through the most difficult times, but later on, down the road, we are blessed with an understanding of why things happened the way they did. As the mysteries unfold, the miracles are exposed. Maybe not the miracles we were hoping for, but that doesn’t make them any less than miracles. We will just have to wait and see.

For now, however, my focus must stay on Anthony and his comfort. Please pray with me, for Anthony to have a peaceful and painless transition from this life. Please pray for me, that I may stay strong so I can help him let go. A few hours ago, he told me he was ready to let go. Ten minutes later, he said that maybe his decision was “a bit hasty.” When I asked him why, he said he didn’t want to leave me. Do you know how badly I wanted to scream out, “Well, then, don’t leave me!...Don’t you dare leave me!”....?  Of course, I don’t want him to leave me! But, even more than that, I don’t want him to suffer anymore. Especially on my account. I could not live with that. I love him far too much to subject him to anymore pain or suffering. So, while I don’t want him to leave me, I do want him to let go.

Thank you for traveling this journey with us. I want you to know how much Anthony and I appreciate everything you have done to help us along the way. Your companionship, your prayers, your support...just you being there...has comforted us more than you could ever imagine. Sometimes, when someone is very ill, like Anthony, people are afraid to reach out, to come around, or to be there because they feel inadequate or helpless or even scared. But, not you...No, not you! You have stayed with us, all the way. For all that you are and all that you do...Anthony and I thank you from the bottom of our hearts.

This is not the end, my friends. We must remember that Anthony’s life is not ending. The best part of his life is just waiting for him to step into it and embrace it without pain, sickness, or suffering. Imagine...a life without the least bit of turmoil. A beautiful and peaceful life walking in the presence of our Lord. Forever.....Miraculous.

Still Hoping...For Him

Last night, I cried so hard that it hurt. Violent spasms emanating from the center of my being sent quaking jolts of grief throughout my entire body. In a futile attempt to stifle my tears and silence my cries, I laid, face-down, on my bed with a pillow over my head. But, before long, the emotional and physical pressure proved far too powerful for me to hold in, and everything spilled out. My tears fell freely and my sobs broke loose with a force that left me shaking and weak and gasping for breath. When it was finally over, I laid, crumbled in a heap on top of my bed, bruised and broken, buried in an avalanche of sorrow and despair. Sick with grief, I cried out to God for help and waited for Him to free me from the fallen debris of my broken heart. Feeling alone, in a valley of sadness, all I could think of was a song I used to sing, based upon Psalm 121... “I lift up my eyes to the mountains; when will help come to me?”  When will help come to Anthony?

These last couple of weeks have been really, really hard. Two weeks ago, Anthony was discharged from the hospital after a four day stay. He was treated for dehydration and acute renal failure. A few days after he came home, I spent a day in the ER being treated for severe exhaustion and dehydration. (Seriously....Since then, I don’t go anywhere without a sports bottle filled with coconut water or Powerade.) 

Because Anthony became so ill and had to be hospitalized, any plans for further treatment had to be put on hold. In the meantime, Anthony did decide that he wants to give the chemo (Gemzar) a try. We actually went to the chemo teaching appointment on Tuesday, but the nurse practitioner sent us directly to the ER because his lab work from the day before indicated that he was very dehydrated again. He had a few liters of IV fluids pumped in and then I brought him home. The doctor thinks too much fluid is being tapped each time he has a paracentesis...This is dehydrating him and causing serious imbalances with his electrolytes. So, from now on, only three liters will be taken off at a time. Unfortunately, this also means that Anthony will have to contend with abdominal distention most of the time. 

So, now what? Well, Anthony has chosen to have Hospice come in and get him set up on their service since chemo, at this time, is not possible. In order for him to start the chemo, his labs will have to improve considerably... particularly his kidney function and his sodium level. In the meantime, Hospice will be able to provide care and services at home that will not only help Anthony, but will also give the kids and me some support. We were told that Anthony can still choose to have chemo in a couple weeks (hopefully, his labs will even out and he’ll feel a little stronger), at which point, Hospice will be put on hold. At least, with this option, he does not have to give up his hope...which, by the way, he refuses to do! And since he still has hope, so do I. Oh, it’s hard...Harder than anything I’ve ever done, but I’m holding on to hope with him. And for him.

But, I still cry. Every single day, at some point, I bury my head in my hands and I sob. Mostly alone. Once in a while, with a friend or with one of my kids...but mostly alone. Never with Anthony. I think that’s why it always hurts so damn much. Anthony has always, always been there for me. He has always held me and stroked my hair or rubbed my back. He has always told me that everything will be OK. And, no matter how big the problem, how confusing the issue, or how sad the feelings, I have always believed him. There’s never been a reason not to...because Anthony has always made everything OK. I know that might sound kind of hokey to you, but it’s true. Anthony used to make everything better than OK. He used to.

Now, I don’t expect Anthony to tell me everything will be OK. He can’t. He is too sick. He is weak and he sleeps a lot. He gets sick to his stomach often and has trouble keeping his food down. Sometimes, he’s confused and he forgets. He needs help walking, even with his walker. I shower him and dress him. I’m pretty good at shaving him, too. I brush his hair and trim his nails. I feed him when he’s too tired to hold his fork or spoon. He’s been spilling his drinks lately...His glass gets too heavy for him to hold...so I put a straw up to his lips so he can sip on fluids throughout the day.  I stay with him, right next to him, in case he needs anything. And, I tell Anthony everything will be OK. I say the words and smile my very best smile as I hold his face the way he used to caress mine. And I think he believes me. I wish I did.

So now, when I cry so hard that it hurts, it just keeps hurting...long after the tears have run dry and my cries are silenced...It just keeps hurting. All the time. I try telling myself everything will be OK...I try to imagine Anthony telling me everything will be OK...but it’s not the same. And it doesn’t work. I don’t feel better. I just feel empty and lonely and sad. Even so, I keep holding on to hope...sometimes, only by a thread, but I keep holding on to any little shred of hope I can find. I do it for me. But mostly, I do it for him.

Anthony Will Always Be Anthony

One day, after teaching a math lesson, one of Anthony’s students went up to his desk, pointed at a problem on the worksheet in her hand, and said, “I don’t get this, Mr. DiRocco.” Anthony said, “Well, maybe you could try looking at it from another angle.” Before he had the chance to say anything further, the little girl immediately looked down at her paper and slowly rotated the sheet about 90 degrees. She cocked her head to the side and quizzically stared at the paper for several moments before glancing back up at Anthony. She was looking at it (literally) from another angle. Aren’t kids great?

Sometimes, we need to look at complicated things from another angle...get a different perspective on the situation. There are times when our vision may be too myopic that we fail to see the entire picture. We may concentrate on one little piece, perhaps even focus all our energy in the wrong place.  Other times, we may look at a particular problem or situation through such a wide lens that we completely overlook a small, but vital, piece of the puzzle. It kind of reminds me of those ‘Find the Hidden Object’ puzzles that I’d steal from my kids’ Highlights magazines. (Those puzzles were the main reason I kept the kids’ subscriptions coming...long after they grew out of reading the publication!) Sometimes, you can find things by taking in a view of the entire picture; other times, you can focus in on one small area and find that hidden piece camouflaged amid similar lines or patterns. It’s not all that different from the conundrums of real life. I wish solving the real life mysteries were as fun as the Highlights’ puzzles.

Since Anthony was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I have had to adjust and readjust my way of looking at things from so many different angles that my head has gone spinning. To further complicate things, many of the details, parts of the picture, have changed over the course of his illness. Even one of Anthony’s doctors told me that nothing about his case has been ‘normal’ or ‘usual’ from the very beginning. So, processing all the information we’ve been given and dealing with all the changes and ups and downs, has been challenging much of the time...usually frightening...and almost always exhausting. Only one thing has remained simple, uncomplicated, and consistent from every perspective, every angle, every vantage point. That one thing is Anthony...who he is and how he loves. 

Through all the tumult, in spite of the sadness, regardless of the outcome, this one constant...Anthony...has brought, and will always bring, me comfort and a sense of peace. You see, Anthony being Anthony never changes. His love for me is completely and totally unconditional. And it never wavers. I’ve never, ever...not even once...felt that he didn’t love me. For me, that’s huge...gigantic...pretty unbelievable. What’s even more amazing is that his love for me has made me (finally) feel that I...this broken, imperfect, flawed human being...am special and infinitely loved by God. You see, I can’t help but ponder this: If Anthony...a broken, imperfect, flawed human being...can love me so perfectly, how great must God’s love for me be? Only a person with a pure heart and a deep love for God can lead another to ponder such mystery. That is who Anthony is.

It has become very obvious to me that I am among many whose lives have been touched by Anthony’s love. Since he has fallen ill, hundreds of people have responded to our requests for prayer. Many have forwarded updates to others whose lives have also been touched by Anthony in some way. Childhood friends and former classmates, some of whom Anthony has not seen or heard from in years, have written or called to tell us they are praying. I have never seen anything like this. But, then again, I have never known anyone like Anthony.

I received an email the other day...a poem written by an old friend whom Anthony has not seen in decades. The poem was sent to others as an urgent request for prayers after learning of Anthony’s recent hospitalization for dehydration and acute kidney failure. I wept as I read this poem. I wept, not only over the beauty of the words...I wept because I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the man to whom I am married. I wept because this man I call ‘husband’ has grown over the years, but he hasn’t changed. His deep love for God has always spilled out and touched the lives of those who have been blessed with his friendship.

No matter how complicated things get, no matter how this illness threatens to change our lives, I can be sure of one thing...Anthony will always be Anthony. He will always love unconditionally, with a pure and beautiful heart.

Anthony J. DiRocco, Jr.
He has grown, but he hasn't changed.

Here is the poem I received from Anthony's dear friend, Gil Garcia. Thank you, Gil, for showing us Anthony through your eyes.

An urgent request for prayer for Anthony DiRocco  (February 28th, 2012)

A dear friend, Anthony DiRocco, lies fighting for his life in my beloved San Pedro.  

I ask all who know him, and those who do not, 

to reminisce of a morning you might have spent listening to the surf at sunrise.

 He is that!

  

He was created by God to bring joy to your soul, and freshness to your very existence, 

like the sounds of shore delivering the songs of nature from the creator.

 He is that. 

Much like the morning shoreline mist cleansing your senses

in blissful strolls along the water’s edge.

Similarly, Anthony’s music and songs throughout his life

have allowed one to find joy in the vibrations of his strings

and the beauty of his voice,

a gift he’s given freely throughout his life.

He is the man, the person, the Jongleur of life

who strolled into your troubled existence with music and rhyme;

He is that.

His contributions to one’s everyday life go beyond his music,

for his friendship is treasured by all who chanced to know him.

He is a gift to all life; He is selfless.

He is that and more.

I implore all who have known him, and those who have not,

and to those who have forgotten how to pray,

to pray this day for the healing of this soldier of joy. 

Please, if you have ever loved another human being, male or female,

before you lay your head down tonight

let your higher power hear in a massive common cause

a request from mankind to heal our Jongleur of song.

Please, I beg you because he is all that I say;

He is that and more.

Please hurry to send this on to your friends

and ask them to send it on to theirs from country to country today.

Do not wait!

                                                                                                                ~ GIL GARCIA

Check out Gil's artwork at 

Gil Garcia's Art Gallery