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.