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.