Widow's Walk: The Quiet Night

The other day I overheard a woman complaining about her husband's snoring. "He shakes the rafters," she said and all her friends laughed commiserating with her.

I want to tell her, enjoy this. You may miss it one day.

I did not realize how precious that last night was at the time. I did not know it was the last night. And even though it was not Mike's typical snore - it was light and raspy, I sat by his bed, our fingers barely touching, listening and watching him sleep. I would doze some, but then I would wake seeking comfort and finding it in the rhythm of his breathing.

For several days after, our house was full. It was noisy.

And then, everyone left. I was home alone, well except for Bob the cat, who did not like me before and really did not like me then. He thought I was to blame for Mike's absence.

I sat in my spot on the couch. Mike's chair was empty. I did not have to take a shower to cry (before it had been the only place I could let my emotions go when I needed to). I could let go right then, but I was afraid. What if I couldn't stop?

I could eat anything I wanted. Cook anything I wanted. The smell of food would not bother him now. Mike once called me a loud eater - croutons in a salad would send him into a frenzy. The cancer amplified his hearing.

Sleep finally came that night, but it was fitful. The quiet was too much, the only noise was the occasional meanderings of the cat. There was no snoring, the sound I listened for in the night, my assurance that everything was fine. It would never be the same, this was my new normal.

It took me a while to adjust. I did leave the television on quite a bit, the noise helped me. If you are recently widowed, nobody can tell you what will work for you — people can only make suggestions. Keep an open mind, but do what is right for you.

And sometimes you just have to let yourself cry. I had trouble doing this. I had two methods. I would watch a movie that I knew would make me cry, but also give me a little hope in the end. Or I would set the kitchen timer for 5 minutes, my allotted time to let it all out. I would tell myself that when 5 minutes was up, the tears must stop. I rarely ever made it to 5.

Widow's Walk: Letters

One thing I am sorry to see go is handwritten letters. Texts and emails are nice, but I love looking at letters written by people.

By my mother, I have a recipe that she'd scrawled across the back of an old note. It gives me comfort seeing her words.

By my grandmother, her writing was a little smaller, more precise, not as curly as my mother's. Hers is more like mine. She said her teachers used to fuss at her about her penmanship and I can't understand why. I love looking through her Bible - seeing the passages she's underlined and the notes she's made out to the side.

I have random notes of Mike's. And occasionally while going through boxes and papers, I'll come across something. They aren't important because of what they say, but because of who wrote them.

A few months ago, I found a five year journal. Trying to keep up a daily journal is a bit daunting and you tend to write the same things over and over again. I like the five year journal. There are five lines for each year on each page and a place to indicate the year. I hope one day that journal will mean something to my grandchildren - an unofficial record of our lives.

Widow's Walk: What Will Make You Feel Better?

Many years ago, my son had his first broken heart. His girlfriend had been seeing someone else and they broke up. He knew the relationship was over because the trust was gone. My brother was talking to him and I thought trying to console him.

"Do you know what will make you feel better?" my brother said.

"What?" my son replied with hope in his voice.

"Nothing," said my brother.

And of course I went into full protective Mama mode and almost intervened. But then my brother told my son about his own first broken heart and how devestated he was. Everything he once enjoyed now carried a stigma with it, some reference to her - the one who broke his heart. But slowly things changed. He could laugh again, listen to music, watch movies, hang out with his friends, and all the things that teenage boys do. It just took time.

You can't rush it. Finding someone else immediately only dulls your pain. It is still there. Sure you may forget for a little while, but it comes back. You're not helping yourself by not giving your emotions the proper time to adjust.

After Mike died, I waited for that magical day. Everyone said a year and a day. Well, it came and went and I felt just as bad as I did before. Grief does not have a timeline.

So if you're hurting, do you know what will make you feel better?

Nothing. At least not immediately.

Take care of yourself.

Do the things you are supposed to.

Find little things to keep you busy - not major obsessions. Sometimes in the evenings, in the quiet house, I would turn on the television for background noise, brew a pot of coffee (to remember Mike by - coffee was his favorite, he drank it all day long, I prefer tea or Diet Coke), and I would work jigsaw puzzles. I'm not saying this will work for you, but it did for me.

Widow's Walk: Experience Every Moment

My brother and I were talking the other night and he reminded me of how Mike used to like to tease me by tickling me. Mike thought it was funny and I would respond with a giggle.

But my brother knows me. "How did you put up with that? It drove me crazy and I wasn't the one he was tickling." The whole tickling thing is really a major source of annoyance to my brothers and me. As kids, it wasn't fun, it was torture.

And there were times during those months with Mike that I wanted to tell him to just knock it off, but I couldn't. For some reason, it was special to him. It was his way of showing affection. And I realized he did it to his mother and sisters as well. It was his way of loving us.

Our time together was precious. We didn't have room for fights, arguments, or days without speaking. If there was a problem, we dealt with it. But Mike was a man of integrity. He was conscientious and aware of my feelings (except for tickling and I did keep that to myself).

But when you know the end could be relatively soon, you look at things differently. I've heard that song by Tim McGraw Live Like You Were Dying. Maybe more people ought to enter into relationships like that.

Forgiveness comes easy, you don't have time to hold a grudge. The special moments are intensified. Vacations and trips are meaningful. Holidays are joyous and sentimental. You don't put things off until next time. You jump right in and experience the moment.

Sometimes I think we lived a lifetime in those eleven months after Mike's diagnosis. We lived and loved deeply, appreciating every moment.

Widow's Walk: Earthly Angels

When Mike was first diagnosed with cancer, the nurses, doctor, and nurse practitioner became some of my best friends. The receptionist could recognize my voice immediately. They said call with any questions and I did. Everyone on staff at that office was wonderful to us as we faced our tragedy.

When Mike was hospitalized with blood clots, Diane, a feisty motherly red headed nurse jumped right in. She was compassionate and yet firm when he needed it to. She talked him through several minutes of intense pain, soothing and calming him until the medication could take effect.

One night at a Mexican restaurant, I recognized a woman's voice, she was Holly from the ICU. She had cared for Mike after his surgery. She was wonderful with him. She was thrilled to see him, alive. She confessed that she had not expected it.

When Mike took chemo, there was a nurse who administered it. Her name was Kim. She began every session with a hug. She flirted shamelessly with him and teased me that I would just have to deal with it. Mike loved having two women fawn over him. She was a cancer survivor and she gave him encouragement and advice better than anyone else.

At the hospice house that Sunday morning, she was there working a shift to make some extra money. She was surprised to find us there. I told her how his breathing had changed as I desperately hoped that he would come back to me for at least a few minutes. He had not spoken in days. Our eyes had only briefly locked the day before, with his gaze he seemed to recognize me - even offering a slight smile before returning to sleep.

As I hoped, she explained the reality to me. He didn't have long. We talked for awhile and then she left saying she would be back soon. When she came back, I was holding his hand, searching, hoping that it was one of his practical jokes and he would pop up laughing at me. She waited as the shock gave way to tears, holding me through my pain until family arrived.

As  we said good-bye to Mike, I was amazed at the number of people who had cared for him during his illness came. They didn't just care for the patient, but the family as well.

Doctors, nurses, and medical staff see people at their worst. And yet they all marveled at Mike's disposition even through the worst of it. Mike always told me that he thought his cancer was also his opportunity to glorify God. I believe Mike brought out the best in people.

I once asked Mike what was on his bucket list and he told me that it was the average ordinary days that were extraordinary. He chose to spend his time with family and friends, helping our church set up a prayer ministry, and studying the word of God.

So many people were there for us during that time and so many continue to be there for me even now. I am forever thankful for all our earthly angels.

Widow's Walk: Volleyball MVP

When Mike and I married, it was in between chemo sessions so we did not have a traditional honeymoon. A couple of months later, we went on our first vacation as husband and wife, and there was poor Mike on vacation with my whole family.

Sunset Beach, NC has been a favorite vacation spot for my family for several years now. This island called to me after the death of my mother. I walked the beach to the Kindred Spirit mailbox, which is tucked away in the sand dunes about a mile or so past the last public beach access. Inside the mailbox are pens and journals. It is a place where people come to share their joys and bare their souls. In 2006, I told the Kindred Spirit about losing my Mom. I also told the Kindred Spirit about this wonderful man named Mike, who I had met a few months earlier.

In 2008, Mike had just finished his chemo treatments and the doctor had declared him in remission. And while the doctor rejoiced with us, he also reminded us that this type of cancer would surely come back, but when he could not say. He encouraged Mike to go live.

Chemo drains the body of energy. My brothers were especially helpful, they understood the difficult time Mike had been through and they knew he tired easily. We were all surprised one day when Mike announced that he was going to play volleyball with them. He made me play too. I am not coordinated and my sweet brothers knew they did not want me on their team. They just knew they were going to whip us. Mike returned the serve easily and then he was running in the sand, diving for the ball, and keeping up with them. Others soon joined us and everyone wanted to be on Mike's team, which one the two consecutive games he played.

My brothers voted him the MVP and then laughed about carrying his beach chair down to the beach earlier that day. They didn't see the pain medication he took afterwards, but he had a smile on his face the rest of the week as everyone recounted his great volleyball skills. That was one of those great, unexpected moments and my brothers still laugh about how the old man with cancer whipped them at volleyball.

Widow's Walk: Bougainvillea Blossoms

My late husband, Mike, spent much of his childhood in Dakar, Senegal, which is located at the far left tip of Africa. His parents were missionaries and they worked with the local orphanage as well as the school that taught the children of those serving in the mission. This was one of the greatest times of Mike's life. He loved Africa and considered it home.

When we first started dating, he talked of the beautiful bougainvilleas that would line the fences and walls of the city. He told me it was his favorite flower and he was sad because you couldn't grow them here in our climate.

Well, I am the daughter of an avid gardener and I knew that you could grow them because my mother had. True they are not hearty and you often have to replace them each year unless you put forth the time and effort throughout the fall and winter to keep them safe.

The year we got married, I bought Mike one that we put in a large planter on our back deck. It was glorious full of lovely pink flowers all summer and part of the fall. When it got cold, we put it under the deck.

The next year as a new widow, I went to retrieve it, but sadly it did not make it either. I told a friend about it and she surprised me with one. It only had a few blossoms, but it was pretty. I put it in the planter and cared for it faithfully. The blossoms dropped off. Throughout the summer, the bush would only produce a few flowers, not the cascade of the plant the year before.

I was sad and so was the bougainvillea, maybe it sensed my melancholy. Until now, I've been scared to buy another one. I just couldn't handle another temperamental plant, but I'm ready to try again.