Fog

When I try to recall the events surrounding my wife Marsha’s death, it’s like on TV, or a movie when you see someone dreaming, or struggling to remember, and there is this one tiny circle in the middle of the screen that is almost clear, but everything else on the screen is obscured. That’s the way it is in my memory when I recall that horrible time. I call it fog.

If I had given it any thought before, I would have expected that by now, all these years later, I would be over the grief. No more mourning. And my memory would be clear. But that is not the case. I don’t grieve constantly, but I have done a lot of crying as I put this all together. And my memory is still a dense fog.

A lot of things I know. But I don’t remember. A few things I remember, but not clearly.

I remember driving Marsha to the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville. I remember we talked as we drove. But I can’t remember what we said. Maybe we were making plans for a cruise to Alaska to celebrate her return to good health. I know we made those plans, but I’m not sure when.

I don’t remember our final words before she went in for surgery.

I remember the initial excitement our granddaughter Annika and I felt when the doctors told us they had successfully removed the tumor. I remember high-fiving and making a pact with Annika  that when Grandma woke up, Annika could be the one to tell her they had gotten the tumor out.

And I remember that Marsha didn’t wake up. Annika had to tell Grandma while she was still sleeping (in a coma) the good news about the tumor. We were hoping that the sound of our voices would help her wake up. But no.

That was February 24^th, 2017.

Annika and I were at the hotel which connects to the clinic. There was a call late that night. Marsha was bleeding and they needed my permission to do some sort of procedure – the fog keeps me from remembering exactly they were going to do – and I consented.

And I know that a few days later I had a conference with the surgical team and ICU staff. I remember some of it, but not clearly.

I know we waited for my daughter Angi to arrive. I clearly remember standing out in the hallway in ICU as Angi and Annika were in the room with Marsha, saying their goodbyes. I remember breaking down as I listened to Angi singing “Amazing Grace” to her dying mother.

I remember taking them to the Orlando airport, with a stop at our house in Clermont, Florida. And I remember vividly what I consider to be a miracle that happened while there. More about that later.

As I write these words, it is June 5th, 2023. And I just now had to stop and take a break. Cry a little. You never really get over it. I’m back now, ready to give it another try.

I do vividly remember a dream I had. I was in our house, and I heard Marsha coming in from the garage through the utility room and I jumped up from the couch to meet her in the kitchen. She was the picture of health. And she was smiling. She always had the most beautiful smile.

I said something like, “I can’t believe how good you look! And how much better you are doing. It was only a few hours ago you were in a coma!” And then, of course, I woke up. I’ll remember that dream as long as I live.

Back in the real world, after dropping Angi and Annika off at the Orlando airport, I drove on to Jacksonville.

One clear memory I have is when I got back to the Mayo Clinic, after parking in the lot and getting out of my truck, a young lady, maybe still in her twenties, said in a weak and trembling voice, “Excuse me …”

I said, “Yes?”

“Could I have a hug?”

Her mother was a patient in the clinic, and not expected to survive. And she needed some comfort.

I of course gave her a hug, and stayed to listen to her as she unburdened her troubles onto me, a complete stranger.

I probably should have given her my email address and asked her to keep me informed on how she and her mother were doing, but at the time, it didn’t occur to me to do that. It helped us both, I think, to support one another, even for one brief moment. 

I remember that life support was removed, but I don’t remember if I was in the room at the time it was done. I kind of think I was, because I have these images in my mind. But those images are foggy, so I’m not sure enough to say.

I remember my brother Jim flew down from Illinois to be with us, but I can’t recall when he got there. I do know that Marsha was still alive. I appreciate him coming to be there for me when she died. I remember thinking that I wanted to be alone when the time came, but looking back, it was good to have the support.

I remember sitting in Marsha’s room, updating friends and family with texts and Facebook posts. And then, when Marsha stopped breathing, I remember pulling my chair next to her bed, holding her hand as her heartbeat faded away and finally stopped.

I’m sure I was talking to her, but that part is also foggy, and I don’t know what I said.

I do remember crying. A lot.

Now What?

I remember continuing to hold Marsha’s hand for a while after her heart stopped beating.

I remember kissing her forehead.

I remember Jim coming into the room to comfort me, so I must have texted or called him. And I remember both of us sobbing.

After that, fog … Dense fog.

I know … I sort of remember …  texting our daughter Angi, letting her know.

I remember calling Marsha’s mother to deliver the news. And her saying that now Marsha was in Heaven with her Daddy. (Marsha’s father, Leonard Leak, died in a construction accident when she was just a baby. She had no memories of him.)

And I posted on Facebook so that other family and friends throughout the country would know.

I’m not one of those who has to post everything on Facebook, but I found that it was helpful in getting the word out without having to contact everyone individually, and having to relive the experience over and over with each conversation.

I requested that people not call. I was hurting, and the last thing I wanted was to have to go over everything time and time again. But, of course, several people did call, which was ok.

I remember staying in the room until they came to take Marsha’s body. That was hard, seeing her being wheeled out, knowing it would be a few days and a thousand miles before I would see her again.

One of my cousins, Dan Young, and his wife Cindy were flying in that day. Marsha was already gone by the time they landed in Jacksonville. My brother and I met them at the airport and we drove from there to our home in Clermont. We all spent the night at the house, and the next morning Jim flew back home. Dan, Cindy, and I then drove from Florida to Olney, Illinois for the funeral.

Marsha and I had made wills, and living wills, which made things a lot easier when the time came. The one thing we had not done, though, was to pre-arrange our funerals.

I recommend you do that. Think of it as a parting gift for your loved ones. It will relieve them of having to make all the arrangements after you are gone.

I had to notify the funeral home in Olney, so they could contact a local funeral home in Jacksonville, and arrange for Marsha’s body to be flown to Illinois.

Back in Illinois, I had to arrange the funeral. Talk with the preacher who would deliver the eulogy. Pick out a casket. Buy a plot in the cemetery. Arrange for a headstone. None of these things are particularly difficult to do. It’s just that I had to do them when I was numb, and I don’t know how I got it all done, but somehow I did. I also went ahead and pre-arranged my own funeral, so that my daughter won’t have to do all that when I pass.

There was visitation, and the funeral. I only remember a few of the people who came, even though there was a huge turnout – especially when you consider that for most of our adult lives we had lived hundreds of miles away from our hometown.

One thing I do remember vividly is seeing our granddaughter standing at the casket, alone, talking with Grandma. She looked so tiny, and at the same time, so grown up. It broke my heart. I wanted to go to her and scoop her up, hug her tight and comfort her. But I didn’t. I knew she needed that time alone with Grandma. I still cry when I think of it.

I remember my sister-in-law and her mother going to the nursing home in Flora, Illinois to get Marsha’s mother, Sadie Leak. I sat next to Sadie at the funeral. She held up pretty well, all things considered. I myself broke down and sobbed. I can’t tell you one word the preacher said, or the music that was played, although I expect Amazing Grace would have been one of the songs.

I barely remember going to the cemetery. Then, more fog.

A few days later, we drove to Richmond, Indiana. We had lived there several years, and had many friends who loved Marsha. One of those friends made arrangements for us to use a building at the 4H Center to host a gathering to celebrate Marsha’s life. We had an excellent turnout. People we hadn’t seen in ten years. Lots of good stories, lots of laughs, and a few tears.

From there, we drove to Florida for yet another celebration of Marsha’s life in the church basement with our friends who live there. Several people stood up and talked, sharing memories of her.

It may seem like we did too much. But Marsha touched a lot of lives, and it helped us – my daughter, my granddaughter, and myself – to feel the love and support.

Then, just like that, we were done. My daughter and granddaughter flew back to Colorado. I stayed behind in Florida, with intentions of coming out to see them in a few weeks.

That was the first day of the rest of my life.

I do remember thinking, ‘Now what?’

Friends

When you are going through hard times, you learn who your real friends are. And are not.

I had one particular friend who, even though we were separated by a thousand miles, I always considered to be among those in my “lifelong best friend” category. We would go sometimes years without seeing one another, but I would still call him now and then, just to stay in touch. Occasionally, at first, he would sometimes call me. Eventually, I was the only one making the effort. That should have told me something.

I kept him updated via email while Marsha was sick. Then, when she died, I sent him an email to let him know.

His only response was to send a short reply saying he was sorry to hear that Marsha died, and that she was a nice lady. That was it. That was the last I ever heard from him. I suppose it was naïve of me, but I expected he would call or email once in a while to see how I was doing.

Nothing.

Finally, after three years, I called him. “I was just checking to see if you were still alive,” I said. We had a nice chat, but there was a distance between us that had nothing to do with miles. As we were winding down the conversation, he did apologize for not having called me. He said he wanted to, but just didn’t have the guts. I don’t understand that. It seems to me like a lame excuse for not stepping up and being a friend.

We ended the call in a friendly way, but I will never call him again. I wish him all the best, but I have written him off. I’ve blocked him on my phone, and deleted his contact information. Not out of spite or a desire to hurt him, but as a way of taking one more step toward closure, and respecting myself enough to walk away from people who don’t respect or care about me. I had to grieve the loss of my friend as well as the loss of my wife. It hurts, but not as much as three years of wondering why my friend, whose support I needed, never called.

The good news is, you will also learn that you have a lot of people who really do care about you, and don’t mind listening to you as you share what you are experiencing. People you never would have expected appear out of the blue. Thank you, Ken & Bev, Mark & Kay, Paul, Nancy, all our Indiana friends – and so many others who have lifted me up.

One such friend, Bryan, lives in Tennessee, and he lost his wife just a few months after I lost mine. Bryan knows he can call me when he is having a tough day, and I know I can call him. After three years, our calls tend to focus more on the good things we are experiencing. We share stories about grandkids, and what we and our families are doing.

I’m thankful for his friendship and support. Before we lost our wives, we were friends, but we only became close friends after our losses.

Other friends have stayed in touch and offered to help however they can. I’m not ashamed to say that at first, I needed a lot of help, and I did ask for it from time to time. They got me through some rough patches, and I will never take those friends for granted.

If or when the time comes that you lose a spouse, or for that matter, any loved one, just know that everyone grieves differently. There is no one way that is correct for everyone.