1 Year

 

One year ago today, Carol went home.  In the 28 years that I had known her, even in our time apart, there were very few days that went by when we didn’t talk.  So, it’s odd to think that a year has gone by without talking to her.  And it hurts.  A lot.  Yet, in those moments of grief, I try to think that she has run her race and doesn’t have to deal with any of the pains of life anymore.  So, I tell myself to not be so selfish as to wish that she were still here. 

This will be my last post about Carol, mainly for one reason alone.  She was not a fan at all of social media.  If you’ve followed me for a great length of time, you’d note that when we were married, my posts were mostly limited to sports or politics or business.  It was rare when I would post anything personal.  I kept the personal mostly private out of respect for her.  When she got sick, and I felt that prayers were needed, I asked her if I could share, and she was fine with that. 

But now, I know she wouldn’t want to be constantly featured online.  I’d love to share the slide presentation shown at her funeral and other pictures, but I know she wouldn’t appreciate it.  So, I’d like to take a moment to thank you for your prayers during her storm and my continued storm.  I’ll leave it with a few things that demonstrate her caring and love for me.

There were many years where she’d come up to me and, with a big smile on her face, tell me that she got my Christmas present. 

“Christmas present?” I exclaim, “it’s not even September.”

“Yes, but I wanted to get it for you now,” she’d answer. 

“You want to see it?” she’d ask.

“No.  You can give it to me on Christmas,” I’d answer.

“But I want to give it to you now.  I want you to see it,” she’d say.

She would be so excited to give me the present, and we’d go back and forth about whether that was going to happen.  Ultimately, she would wait until Christmas.  She would be so disappointed, but I knew that if she gave it to me, she would’ve gone out and bought me something else.  I hated to break her excitement, and as summer came to a close this year, I thought about those times often.

Last Thanksgiving was horrendous.  She had already decided to forego treatment, and she was getting weaker by the day, spending most days sleeping twenty hours.  I would do my best to keep it together whenever I was around her, and I’d step outside in those moments when I’d lose it.  I’d spend a few minutes outside crying and then pull myself together and go back to be with her.  Late in the afternoon on Thanksgiving, I’m sitting on a sofa not from her bed, feeling very much alone.  Thinking about how normally at that time I’d be sitting at a table with my family with Carol by my side.  We’d be eating, joking, laughing, and it would be a good day all the way around.  But now, Carol and I were alone in an empty room, she was too weak to stay awake and was showing that her passing was getting nearer.  In the quietness, I lost it.  I tried to keep quiet, but not too much because there were few noises that would wake her up, but in my sobs, I hear a soft voice.

“What’s the matter, baby?” 

Despite the pain she was enduring, the suffering she was going through and the fear she had of how her passing would be, she was still worried about me. 

That was very much evident a few months before she passed when my business partner came to see her.  I had walked out of the room for a few minutes, and when I came back, she was crying and I heard her say, “I’m so scared for him.”  She knew me so well that she knew exactly what her passing would do to me.  She knew her race was coming to an end, and I’d have to keep running, and she was so scared to leave me running alone. 

That’s how sweet she was.  In my selfish moments, I wish she was still in my life.  In those times, I tell myself to stop being so selfish and stop crying.

There was so much I wanted to say at the funeral, but I kept it on the light side because I would’ve lost my composure had I shared more of the deeper moments. 

                                           (Some excerpts from her service:  Intro, testimonial, 
                                            parts of the eulogy)

I wrote this line as the holiday season ended last year.

“Just a harmony looking for a melody that’s gone
Yule time with no carol, no joyous wondrous song”

It’s been a year, but I can still hear her voice at times.  Mainly she tells me to stop eating so many cookies.

I’d love to share quite a bit more about Carol, but I know she’d have none of it.  So, thank you folks. Thank you for allowing me to share this journey the past few years and thank you so much for the prayers.