Every ending is a new beginning. I’ve often said that, but I never felt its truth more deeply than in those final days.
As Fred lay there, gray and silent, I looked upon the face that I had kissed and cherished for decades. His soulful eyes, once so full of light, were empty. I held his hand one last time and kissed his forehead.
Once the kind funeral workers had wrapped him gently in a blanket, they collapsed his hospital bed and carried him out into the cold black January night. This final journey was to Walter Reed Hospital, where his wish was to help medical students hone their forensic skills. Fred was still making a positive impact on others.
I watched the hearse disappear down the gravel drive. He was really and forever gone. There was no getting him back.
The day we made our vows, “’til death do us part,” death felt so far away. Even after 36 years, death came too soon.
My family later said I looked like a woman on a mission when I came downstairs with his watches and jewelry, offering pieces to each of them in a frenzy. I could see myself moving from one to the other, but could not stop myself. We couldn’t hold him anymore, but we could keep a memento of him.
The rest of the night is still blank. But, I must have slept because the next morning I woke up in my bed, surprisingly in my bed clothes.
The week had been full of tender, heartbreaking moments for each member of our gathered family. Fred had entered home hospice on Monday. On Tuesday, his medical caregiver arrived as usual, expecting to see more progress than last week’s therapy. When we let her know that the care was now palliative, she was stunned. Just before she left for the day, I tried to give him a sip of water. He swiped at the shot glass and let me know loudly in no uncertain terms that he did not want any. Those were his last words.
My son was already planning to bring his family from North Carolina to Maryland that weekend. My daughter called him to tell him Fred might not make it to the weekend. They arrived after midnight. Other family members arrived throughout that night and into the next morning. During the time Fred remained with us, memories were shared, laughter over his antics, and a dear friend played his guitar while others sang softly. Loved ones kept entering and exiting — giving and getting comfort.
Everyone was in Granny protection mode, ensuring I got some sleep in another bedroom after 30+ hours of being up and making sure I ate. They administered his pain meds from the refrigerated white box that hospice had delivered late on Monday. That was a task they did not want me to experience.
Our pastor came on Tuesday night to sit with me beside Fred’s bed. As we talked and laughed about the days since we had arrived in Maryland nine months earlier, I felt a slight lifting of my spirit. This was the first time I had laughed in a few days.
As the sun set, its soft light spilling through the window, we saw Fred moving. His color had returned to normal. He sat up, looking past us, smiling as if greeting someone we could not see. The whole room was filled with light, giving a peace that felt sacred. Then, he lay back and returned to his gray and still state.
That smile when he saw beyond us is etched on my heart. It was a gift. A glimpse of the life he was stepping into, and a comfort to me, reminding me that love doesn’t end.
Fred left us on a Thursday evening. His new beginning had come. And I went from wife to widow as his last breath left him. Now I’m learning how to live in the here and now without him while carrying his love with me.
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