# Carrying Moonbeams



## Winston (Jul 26, 2020)

Welcome to my little corner of The Tavern.  People have come and gone over the years.  There’s been name changes, and new management.  But it’s still a place to belly-up to the bar, and tell stories. 
You wanna hear a sad story?  It’s a tragedy, really.  Maybe there’s a lesson in the story.  Maybe there’s even hope in the end, I don’t know.  Often, the truth is in the telling of the story.
Regardless, ‘tis a sad story.  If you’re not up to it, I won’t be offended if you grab your drink and take your leave.  But some stories need to be told.  Life is pleasure, life is pain.  Life is everything between the two.  I have a friend here, he keeps to himself mostly.  His favorite phrase is “Life, eh?”  
Life.  

Chapter 1 of…?  

The problem (one of the many, many problems) with life is that it is just so easy to take for granted.  We develop habits and coping mechanisms to help us “take the edge off”.  Life can be pretty intense, and often painful.  Most of us retreat from the pain.  Some turn it into strength.   

My wife, Cynthia, had more than her share of pain in her life.  First off, she was married to me.  But from her humble beginnings, Cynthia (or Cyn as she preferred) had the odds stacked against her.  She grew up “lower middle class” / working class in a small fishing / logging town.  Her mom was a teacher, her dad a mechanic.  So, financial resources were not exactly abundant for Cyn and her family.  She did get sick of eating salmon. But that generation didn’t whine.  They got by.  They were not bitter.

Cyn needed operations for both her ears and eyes at an early age.  I can’t imagine that was pleasant for a grade schooler, or her parents. But when I met her, you wouldn’t know she grew up poor and had early physical challenges.  She was just always happy.  That was one of the many things that drew me to her.  Opposites attract.  But she was also strong.  Sometimes too strong, if you can fathom that.  

Like most marriages, we had our high points and lows.  Cyn was sick on occasion, but we always dealt with it.  Sometimes, we even got ahead of the curve.  Cyn won a free Lasix surgery 15 years ago.  But luck is a bitch.  For every contest you win, there’s a setback just around the corner.  She had horrible kidney stones.  They were so big, they had to do surgery to remove them.  And they came back.    Over the last decade she developed diabetes.   A few times, Cyn caught urinary tract infections (UTIs), but we were fortunate to have insurance.  We still had bills.  We worked and paid them.  That cliché:  We never had a lot, but we had enough.

Speaking of having enough, we were getting really sick of hospitals over the last decade.  From 2011 on, we lost a parent every couple of years.  First, my mom and dad.  Then more recently, her dad then mom.  It was hard on the kids too.  My daughter was already struggling, and dropped-out of college due to depression / stress.  Now, here’s a country-western song:  Even our dog died last year.  Cyn loved that dog.  Me?  Didn't care a lot for that curr.  But this ain’t about me.  

We loved each other.  When we first met, one of her co-workers said Cyn was so in love that not only was she glowing, but she had "moonbeams" in her eyes.  Over the decades, the name stuck. 

That’s the backdrop going into this year.  The damn Coronavirus scared Cyn a bit (though she tried to hide it).  She was in a high-risk group because of her diabetes.  The school district where she worked paid her to work from home.  I am “essential” (whatever), so finances were okay.  I tried to do most of the shopping.  Cyn didn’t go out much.  Between the kids and I, we had things covered.

The few times Cynthia did go out, she bought a lot of stuff.  A LOT.  She had a background of growing up in scarcity.  This pandemic had her in hoard mode.  The funny thing is, we’re kinda “preppers”, but I was actually chiding her for buying so much.  But you can prepare for most crisis.  Just not all of them.  It’s always the one you don’t see coming.  

But you know what I see coming now?  Another drink.
Let’s make it a shot of tequila, bottom shelf is just fine.  With a Modello chaser.  It is a Vida Loca.  May as well drink like it…


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## Darren White (Jul 26, 2020)

I'm listening Winston, I am not drinking, but that's okay. I am listening.


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## River Rose (Jul 26, 2020)

I am listening as well. 
I also do understand as a wife and mother myself.


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## Winston (Jul 27, 2020)

On Father’s Day weekend we went looking at retirement property again.  The idea was to buy an undeveloped parcel cheap, then improve it for building over the next few years.  Our daughter came with us.  We went out to late lunch afterward at a local Mexican food restaurant (with our Covid masks).  The food was mediocre, but the company was great.  

We got back late, and we decided to make my Father’s Day steaks the next day.  But then Cyn won an auction for some Fiesta Ware dishes.  She’d have to drive a couple hours Monday to get them.  She delegated the kids to make my steaks Monday.  I remember how mad I was.  It seems so petty now.  

Cynthia started becoming lethargic on Tuesday.  I asked if I could help (sometimes she can use a back / neck rub).  She said this time it was lower back pain.  She used a heating pad for symptom relief.  I was worried that maybe her kidney stones were forming again.  She slept down on the couch so she wouldn’t disturb me tossing and such.  

When I came home from work, Cyn was still on the couch.  She said that she made an appointment with her doctor, and thought that she might have another urinary tract infection (UTI).  I remember almost breathing a sigh of relief.  We’d been through UTIs before.  Some antibiotics for a couple of weeks, and Cyn would be good to go.  I decided to go to work Thursday.  Cynthia didn’t seem like she was in much pain, and the kids (18 & 22) were still at home.   I had my phone with me though.  Just in case.  

Cyn texted me at 10:20 that next morning.  She told me her doctor said to go to the emergency room.  She called our son to come get her, as by this point she was in no shape to drive.  Her text was hard to read, but it said something about dehydration and low blood pressure.  I cleaned-up my work area, and checked-out with my boss.  Even at this point, I wasn’t too concerned. Cyn had been the ER at least three or four times over the last 10-15 years.  A bag of saline solution didn’t sound like a big deal.  
It was a big deal.  

My brain went into “snapshot” mode.  I remember some things in such vivid clarity it’s frightening.  But it’s all choppy.  I’ve been in a few car wrecks.  It’s like that kind of memory, only much, much worse.  

I can still see Cynthia trying to smile.  Her complexion was so pale.  The doctors were talking, and I remember responding.  The IV pumps and monitor beeps didn’t even distract me. I was watching her, trying to smile as well.  She knew what a shitty liar was, so I didn’t even try.  I held her hand, and she weakly squeezed it.  The only things I remember her telling me was that she arranged for our son to pick-up some auction items, and we’ll need to get her car from the doctor’s office.  
We were both acting at that moment, like it was just another hospital visit.

The head nurse told us that they had to run Cynthia up for some more tests.  She then told me that because of the Coronavirus, Cyn had to be in quarantine until her test came back.  No visitors.  I had to say goodbye, right then and there.  

I will never forget the look of fear in Cynthia’s eyes.  I wish I could.  I squeezed her hand tightly, then stroked her head (careful not to dislodge any wires or tubes).  I told her I would be back as soon as I could.  I told her I loved her.  And I left.

I used to work in a 12 Step recovery facility.  I’m familiar with the prayer.  But being helpless is a feeling that is uncomfortable most times.  This time, it felt like ants were crawling on every part of my body, and I couldn’t scratch.  I stepped outside the hospital.  I wanted to scream.  I think part of me was screaming.  I’ve never had a real panic attack, but that moment was, unsettling.  

But it was, and is not about me.  As soon as I could catch my breath, I called our kids.  I told them Mom was going to be in the hospital for at least a few days.  I then called my work, and told my boss that I’d be needing to burn at least a couple of days of leave.  I was now the de-facto family contact for all Cynthia inquiries.   She would want me to take care of the family.

As I got on my motorcycle, I remember thinking that it probably wasn’t a good idea for me to ride at that moment.  But I did.  Cyn would have been mad.  

As soon as I got home, I hugged my son.  A short while later, my daughter came home from work, and we all hugged.  My girl immediately got on Facebook and began informing immediate family (I’m not on social media).  The nurse said that the Covid 19 test results could take six to 24 hours, or maybe more. I looked at the clock.  I found it almost impossible not to.  

All I could think of, almost every free moment, was Cynthia lying there alone.  I kept telling myself that she knew why I wasn’t there with her.  I had to wait for her to be cleared.  Still I hated myself and my helplessness.  

I made my first call later that night.  Of course, the test results weren’t back yet.  

My logical brain told me that I needed to rest.  I remember laying down, and trying to sleep.  All these shapeless terrors hovered and circled.  The ‘bad scenarios’ kept forcing their way in.  I cried.  A lot.  My pillow was soaked.  At some point I curled up in the fetal position and shivered.  I eventually lost consciousness.  I think I dreamed.  I am sure they were dreams that should not be remembered.  

I “woke-up” early, and immediately called the hospital.  No results on the Covid test.  BUT, they did tell me that Cyn’s heart stopped, and they had to perform CPR on her.  They had her stabilized, but she was very “sick”.  Her UTI had turned into Sepsis, and it had spread throughout her body.  Her blood pressure was dangerously low, and her heart rate was way too high.  She was responding to treatment, but was still unconscious.   

A lot of writers like to role-play the scenario of an “end of the world” situation.  The main character sees it coming, and can do nothing to stop it:  What would he do?   That day for me was Friday, June 26th.  Not that the world really ended that day.  It just felt like it.  I’m bad at succumbing to irrational fear, I just don’t.  But conversely, I never buy into irrational hope.  With absolutely nothing to go on, I was in purgatory.  

I really don’t remember what I did that day (besides looking at the clock for my next time to call the hospital).  I watched some TV, and tried to nap.  I talked to God.  I thought I should be working, seeing how I wasn’t doing a damn thing anyway.  But I realized that in my state, I’d probably cut off a finger on my saw, or drop a metal beam on my foot.  So, like a zombie, I shuffled and moaned.   

In the periphery of my sight, I could see those damn dark specters circling.  It was probably just sleep deprivation.  Right?  

All this talking does parch a throat.  I’ll just take another cerveza.  The missus will have a saline drip, with another 10 IV chasers.


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## Darren White (Jul 29, 2020)

Times like this, we don't need a 'like', but something that expresses sympathy.
It must be very difficult to put everything into writing


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## PiP (Jul 29, 2020)

Winston, my heart is with you. A dear friend was recently given the same news he would have to leave his wife in hospital alone because of COVID. He was in a trance and did not know what to do or which way to turn when he rang us. I can sill hear the agony in his voice ... so your words really do resonate.


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## River Rose (Jul 29, 2020)

Your beautiful family is in my prayers. Sending Reiki healing also to your family.


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## Winston (Jul 29, 2020)

It was Saturday morning, over 36 hours since I had seen my wife.  She had just survived a near-death experience, and was lying there alone.  When I called the hospital, the duty nurse told me that the Coronavirus test results came back around three in the morning.  Cynthia was clear to have visitors.  But no more than two a day, and only one at a time.  The kids were still in bed when I left for the hospital.  

I had brought some books to read, because I somehow remembered that reading to an unconscious person was supposed to stimulate them.  I didn’t bring in a coffee, because I had to be masked-up the entire time.  

When I got to Cyn’s room in the ICU, I was aghast at the number of IV pumps at her bedside.  I counted ten, on two separate “trees”.  The Day Nurse had just come on (they work 12 hours shifts, seven to seven).  He began explaining Cynthia’s overall condition.  The nurse explained that she was stable, and improving slightly, but unresponsive to stimuli.  He said that it is perfectly normal, after a traumatic event like a heart attack, for the body to force a shut-down and stabilize itself.  It did not look normal to me.

Once again I found myself holding her hand, and stroking her head.  Only this time, there was no smile.  The breathing tube made that difficult, even if she was awake.  I didn’t know if she could hear me, but I talked to her.  I cried, then I tried to stuff it incase she could hear me.  I didn’t want her to be upset.  I never got around to reading the books to her.  I just talked.  Later, I played a couple of songs that she liked on my phone.  She liked show tunes, and played the one the bearded lady sang from “The Greatest Showman”.  She loved that one.  

At some point, I left, grabbed a coffee, and made calls from the front of the hospital.  I never wanted to be away from her bedside, incase she woke up.  I’m selfish, but I wanted her to see my face when she woke-up.  

I already had some experience, (watching all four of our parents pass-on) but I was intimately reacquainted with the vital signs monitor.  I watched the TV, looked at the monitor, then Cynthia.  Over and over.  For 12 hours.  Throughout the day, her blood pressure slowly rose, and her hear rate crept down.  Which was good.  By the time the Night Nurse came on, I was still scared as shit, but I had some hope.  

I didn’t want to leave, but the realization that this was going to be a marathon set it.  I had to try to go home, eat and get some sleep.   

I said goodbye again, and let Cyn know that I would be back first thing tomorrow. I kissed her forehead.  The ventilator kept pumping.  I thought I might have seen a reaction. 

When I got home, the kids seemed okay.  My son was in nervous-busy mode, and vacuumed the house (he NEVER does that).  Luckily, my daughter has a boyfriend that is supportive and kind.  A good young man.  I made more calls, texts and emails.  I got a plan with the kids to put Cyn’s eBay business on “hold”, so she wouldn’t come home to a crazy bunch of work.  The three of us actually processed a couple of her pending orders.  

My sister-in-laws were worse than useless.  They cried and cried how much they loved their sister, then did nothing.  The older sis was a paranoid Covid  bunker rat.  She could have came and took some of the shifts by Cyn’s side, but chose not to.  The other sister was out of state, but retired on a fat pension.  She had a part-time job at the animal shelter that she could easily have left.  Nope.  Instead, I had to text and call them on a regular basis with updates.  The kids helped with general updates on Facebook.  God, I am blessed with those kids.  

Sunday was much the same as Saturday.  I only did a 9 hour shift at Cyn’s bedside.  I continued to watch her vital signs improve, with no sign of awareness.  The nurse would occasionally test for reflexes, which there were.  He would yell her name at her.  It seemed like an eternity before the non-response occurred.   Later, I went up to the cafeteria and grabbed a sandwich.  There was only one other person eating there.  Social distancing, not a problem.  

The hospital in general was mausoleum-like.  Again, I am a veteran at hospital visiting.  It was eerie quiet.  If misery loves company, there was little to be had.  It was just me and my non-responsive wife.  An occasional text to Cinderella’s sisters.  Trying to be honest, but upbeat with my family.  The upbeat part is not a natural strength of mine.  

By late afternoon, they mentioned that they’d try to schedule Cyn for a brain scan in the next couple of days.  I was already terrified that she suffered some permanent damage that Thursday night.  But we had to know what we were dealing with.  

I decided to go into work Monday.  It was selfish, but I knew that my mental health could not take another full day alone at her side.  I did not ask, nor expect my kids to be there, though I did offer.  I would still get off early enough to spend a solid five hours after work with Cyn.  To talk to her.  Play another song or two.  And pray at her side, pleading that she would wake up.  

If you’ll excuse me, nature is calling.  I hear that’s a sign of life.  Or just a full bladder.


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## Gumby (Jul 29, 2020)

Many of us are very familiar with "the vigil", Winston. There is nothing quite like it. It is both numbing and painful. Sitting in unnatural quiet, save for the machines, seeing strangers care intimately for a loved one, feeling hope and dread each time a doctor enters the room.


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## SueC (Jul 29, 2020)

Thoughts and prayers are with you and your family, Winston. You took us on your travels and I, for one, am grateful. Heart-wrenching prose. Please keep this up. It is cathartic to write, but I think you already know this.


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## dither (Jul 31, 2020)

I hope this story has a good ending Winston I really do.


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## Darren White (Jul 31, 2020)

I know this feeling well. 
Keep writing Winston.
Sending you strength.


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## bdcharles (Jul 31, 2020)

Wishing you all the best


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## Winston (Aug 2, 2020)

I was in it for the long-haul at this point.  It was an inescapable fact that Cynthia would need some therapy.  What degree of therapy we didn't know.  Since she still wouldn't regain consciousness, it was even harder to assess.

Cyn's doctor scheduled an ECG for Tuesday. That would show the physical condition of her brain.  I was now being crushed between the terror of not knowing, and the terror of knowing.  Again, I'm a shitty optimist, but I tried to be positive and hope for the best.

The "best" in this scenario would be a woman in her mid 50's recovering from a figurative trip through the wringer.  Simply being unconscious this long was bad on many fronts.  She would need physical therapy to some degree.  I was also warned that when people in a coma wake, they go through a type of psychosis that is sometimes temporary, and sometimes lingers.  People waking from a coma don't recognize the loved one standing at their bedside.  My mom had Alzheimer's, so I guess I had some experience.  

I laid out the situation to the kids, and Cyn's sisters.  I told my work that I may need some extended time off to arrange for care.  Cynthia would not be able to climb stairs for a while, so I planned on converting our downstairs living room into a bedroom.  Ironically, I had the same contingency for Cyn's mom before she passed.  I traced-out the entry from our driveway, and plotted points for a ramp or two.  Luckily, it wasn't much of a grade.  

The Marines brainwashed me into being a fighter.  I had a fight in front of me.  I was tough, and my cause was just.  In a strange way, I was in my element.  

And already, we had allies in the fight.  I was surprised, frankly blown-away by the outpouring of support.  My sisters in law "wear their hearts on their sleeves", (aka Drama Queens) and social media gives them a helluva stage.  I was mad when they over-shared our personal information.  But as soon as our town got wind of our situation, people reached out. And helped.   

It's awkward as Hell.  Regardless, when the offers came in, I admonished the kids to be gracious and accept the help offered.  I told them that we might not even really need the assistance, but people need to give the help.  It's what a community does.    

The "meal train" started almost immediately.  All of Cyn's friends and co-workers began delivering dinners to us.  I was also told that they were collecting money to help with expenses.  We had a very good friend that began coordinating things, including the release of information.  People need to know, and tend to fill-in-the-gaps when real info is scarce.  And the community really cared for Cyn, so they deserved something.  

Tuesday morning arrived, five days after Cyn's admittance to the hospital.  The ECG was scheduled for that morning.  I was already into a routine, and arrived right after Day Shift began work at 0700.  I was warned, and expected some flexibility on the timing of the test.  I sat for a few hours, talking to her again periodically.  I narrated the events on the game show "The Price is Right" (1000 to 1100 every morning).  I kept imagining I saw an eye flutter, or some sign of awareness.  I held Cyn's hand, stroked her temple and shoulder.  

The nurse came in later and confirmed what I could easily read:  Cynthia's vital signs were the best they had been since her arrival Thursday.  I was then reminded that it was not uncommon for patients to stay unconscious for extended periods  while their body adjusts.  Also, the ECG was pushed back to 1300.  

I didn't feel like eating, but I forced myself to go.  I decided that a drive to MacDonald's might distract me while I waited.  

They had inside dining available, but no one was eating-in at that moment.  I had the whole freshly sterilized dining room to myself.  After I sat down and started eating, I began crying again.  I can't even remember why at this moment.  I was probably thinking that the kids didn't deserve this shit.  I think I was also overwhelmed with the kindness everyone had shown.  And I was on the Pity Pot, feeling alone.  I wished I could talk to someone, but the last thing I wanted to be at that moment was a burden.  

When I made it back to Cyn's room, they were just preparing to move her to the scan machine.  She was down to only a couple of IV's, but switching the respirator was some work.  As they wheeled her out, I said 'goodbye' again to her, as if she could hear me.  For all I knew at that moment, she could hear me.  

I was told that it wouldn't take long, so I commenced to perform my ritual zombie walk out in the corridors.  I updated my sisters in law via text, and told them I'd let them know when I heard anything. 

I forget where I wandered off to, but when I circled back to the room, Cyn was already there.  They were just finishing hooking her back-up to the room support equipment.  I asked the nurses how long it would be before we got results back from the scan.  They said the doctor would be down as soon as she could, probably in a few minutes.  I waited.  I was getting good at that, even if it was a skill I'd rather not have mastered.  

Even now, the details are fuzzy.  The doctor sat me down.  Her voice was so soft and kind.  She explained that during her heart attack on Thursday, there was an extended period of time where Cyn's brain did not get blood flow.  Her lower motor functions remained intact, but all the cognitive parts of her brain suffered damage.  For all practical purposes,  my wife died five days ago.  

I was silent.  Then I stammered.  Then I began crying like I never cried in my life.  The doctor put her hand on my shoulder, and I reflexively apologized.  I began going through all the stages of grief at once.  I swore, then opined that brains are flexible and can be retrained.  I wept some more for my kids losing their mother.  I squeezed Cynthia's hand again, and told her that I loved her.  

One of the nurses brought me Kleenex.  My Covid mask was soaked.  The doctor was still comforting me, and told me if I needed anything, to please let her know.  She then took her leave, so I could be alone with my wife..
Well, technically, my wife's body.  Cyn had left days ago, and none of us knew.    

I really don't think I was alone in that room for long.  It quickly dawned on me that there was nothing I could do for her just sitting there mourning.   I remembered that I told Cynthia's sisters I'd call them after the test.  If they didn't hear from me, they'd get suspicious.  And probably begin posting their theories on Facebook.

I had to tell my kids before their psycho aunties plastered the "pity me I lost my sister" news all over the internet.  That wasn't how I wanted my kids to find out.  I told the nurses I'd call back later to make arrangements, but I had to go home now.  
Once again, I probably should not have been driving.  But I had to get home to what was left of my family, quickly.  


Ironically, today is our 28th anniversary.  I'm leaving The Tavern now and going to the store to buy her a card.  I know she'll never read it, but I'm setting on her nightstand anyway.


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## Darren White (Aug 2, 2020)

I am so sorry for your loss, Winston. My heart is with you and your family.
I would love to say more, but I am at a loss for words.


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## dither (Aug 2, 2020)

That was, IS, a difficult read Winston, I'm sorry for your loss.


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## River Rose (Aug 2, 2020)

Sending Reiki.


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## Gumby (Aug 2, 2020)

I'm so sorry, Winston. There is not much more that can be said, just know we are all thinking of you and your children.


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## SueC (Aug 2, 2020)

So, so sorry Winston. We grieve with you, my friend. My thoughts will be with you and your family for days.


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## TL Murphy (Aug 2, 2020)

Wow. That’s rough. So sorry.


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## Winston (Aug 2, 2020)

_It's not good to dwell in pain, but it's not healthy to ignore it either.
Thank you all for sharing this experience with me thus far.  Later, I'd like to talk about the loss experience here if anyone is up to it.  Everyone's suffering is unique, yet strangely and sadly shared.  
But the tale is far from over.  The pain does not end with the last heartbeat, nor the last breath.  It goes on.  We go on._


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## Firemajic (Aug 2, 2020)

No, this is not the end.... sadly you have to find a way to go on, and it will be the hardest thing you have ever tried to do....

My husband had a stroke, I was by his side and the Doctor assured me that my husband was stable... to make a horror story short, a few hours later his brain started hemorrhaging and he was put on life support to give me time to contact family.... then we were forced to do the unthinkable, make the decision to take him off life support because he suffered a full brain death..... I won't insult you and tell you I know how you are feeling, but  
I do know how terrified you must be, and I wish I had the perfect words to say to comfort you.... stay strong and don't be afraid to let your loved ones help you through this..... don't be ashamed of your tears and if you believe in prayer... pray... *** Hugs***

Thank you for sharing with us....let us be here for you....


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## Winston (Aug 6, 2020)

So, how exactly do you tell your kids that their mother died?  More specifically, that she really died days ago, and no one knew?  Or, more abstractly, we fought to keep her body alive not knowing that the effort, hope and prayers were all for naught?  

These thoughts buzzed in my brain as I rushed home.  I kept checking my phone, terrified that my dingbat in-laws would “leak” what they knew before I had a chance to talk to my children.  

I saw my son’s car in the driveway, but not my daughter’s.  I didn’t want to tell them individually, but I quickly realized that I would have no choice.  My son is no dullard, and I was sure he’d know why I needed to talk to them both.

We were all in kind of an odd “routine” after a week.  My son didn’t seem too concerned when I entered.  He was probably just expecting another update on his mom’s condition.  I remember my face and voice not quite matching what was in my heart.  It wasn’t quite detachment, but rather a vain attempt at softening one of the worst blows a person can deliver.  

“Son, your mom’s not coming home.”

He looked a little confused.  I instantly understood why.  I corrected myself.

“She’s not coming home, ever.  She passed on.”  

He had that momentary lag, as the neurons processed the words, then his brain digested the information. There are many looks you never want to see.  One of them is your son’s face at that moment.  His face looked like my heart.  It was shattered.  It was in unspeakable anguish.  It was falling, screaming, flailing.

We hugged and sobbed.  It was all the more difficult because my son stands a full 5 inches taller than me.  The moment passed quickly (thankfully), as we both thought of my daughter / his sister.  My son reminded me she was at work, and would be due for a lunch break soon.  I called her and asked her if she could come home so we could talk.  She didn’t seem outwardly concerned.

My son went upstairs to grieve alone for a few minutes.  Maybe he texted a friend.  Maybe he just wanted the privacy to weep alone.  We had all learned at this point that we had our family time, and our individual time.  We were there for each other, but not in a cloying, smothering way.  

I paced like a caged animal.  I then took up vigil at the front window, and began staring down the driveway, waiting.  It was feeling like I was spending an entire hellish lifetime waiting.  Waiting for doctors, nurses, calls from family, friends…
Waiting.  

I wanted to be angry.  At least that would distract me from this empty terror that bit, teased and laughed at my impotence.  But there was no enemy.  Only victims.  And most of them were looking to me.  For facts, for support.  But the one thing I could not give now was hope.  That was gone.  

As my daughter's car slowly pulled up the driveway, I recoiled from the window.  My son heard her arrival and walked downstairs to join me.  When my daughter entered and saw us, the ambush must have seemed apparent to her.   

We all cried together.  I remember us all blurting out random painful utterances.  The only thing I recall saying was that we were still family, and mom would want us to be happy, even without her.  No matter how difficult that would be.  

I looked around the house, and suddenly, everything reminded me of her.  The wall decorations, her favorite plates, a blanket… they all somehow had her memories.  She touched those things, and her spirit left it’s mark on them.  I simultaneously wanted to throw every item away, because they were a painful memory of her loss.  Later, I found myself grabbing random things of hers, hugging and trying to breath in what was left of her.  

But at that moment the kids modeled up on my damn stoicism, and very quickly started making lists of who to call.  We were living in that cold, grey twilight between Cynthia being alive, and dead.  We didn’t really want to tell everyone she was dead, yet.  Cyn still was on life support.

I was overdue to call my sister-in-laws, so I picked-up that burden and dialed.    

My sis in-law from Texas immediately said she would fly up to “be with Cyn” before she “died”.  I know she understood Cynthia’s condition.  That there was no “getting better” from an irreparably damaged brain.  But still, she wanted to come up and watch her sister struggle for her last breath after support was removed.  I didn’t get it then.  I’ll never understand that.  I sat through my parents and in-laws slowly dying.  But they were conscious, cogent for the most part.  Watching someone you love’s body slowly slip into oblivion?  What?! Why? 

Virtue signaling, I suppose.  She wore here “good sister” badge with honor.  So, instead of giving kids the closure that we all wanted, the next day I drove to the hospital again.  I confirmed Cynthia’s condition with the doctor.  Then, I told the doctor that we needed to wait a day before releasing Cynthia from her earthly bonds.  The good news was there was almost no chance that Cyn was in pain, or suffering.  

But we were.  And we just wanted it to be over.  

Funny, I said earlier that this wasn’t “about me”, but I’m seeing a lot of “I” statements in this re-telling.  I suppose that’s unavoidable.  I can only really tell the story as I saw it, and felt it.  Regardless, I feel humble.  My voice feels small, and inadequate for the task.  But we work with what we have, and play the cards we are dealt.


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## Darren White (Aug 7, 2020)

Winston, there is absolutely nothing wrong with "about me". Write about what happened to you and your family in any way you need.


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## Firemajic (Aug 7, 2020)

This is so very difficult to read, and I must confess, I cannot read it without weeping... I can only imagine how hard it is for you to write this... hopefully in the writing of these heartbreaking words, you will find some measure of comfort knowing that you are sharing these words with people who care, and who desperately wish they could comfort you...


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## SueC (Aug 7, 2020)

beautifully written Winston; difficult to read. Everyone grieves in their own way - all you can do is take care of yourself. Our hearts and thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.


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## Winston (Aug 9, 2020)

Mary showed up as promised a day later, and called me from Cyn’s room in the ICU.  She had brought her irritating ‘friend’ Bruce with her, but at least had the good sense to leave him at the hotel.  Oh, and the other sister, Catherine?  Still in her Covid bunker / house, refusing to leave.  But she did take the time to let us know that she did not approve of Mary traveling, possibly spreading The Virus.  I’m sure Cynthia appreciated that concern.  

I showed up at the ICU room, and Mary had already put fucking Rosary beads around Cyn’s neck.  Cynthia hadn’t been to a Catholic church since they denied my son First Communion, or whatever booga-booga crap they call it.  My daughter still remembers her mom crying about that.  Seventeen years ago.  But this was just the beginning of the shit I had to deal with today.

“We three sisters, we’re so close.”  Mary would say.
Yeah.  So close you didn’t even know your sweet baby sister wasn’t Catholic.  Lord.  

Then, she started with her “I know what you’re going through” bullshit.  Mary lost her husband about five years ago.  I don’t want to go into the details, but suffice to say that the situation was NOT the same.  In his case, the coroner generously ruled the death an accident, so his survivors would get the insurance money.  But the two of them had marital difficulties, and his over-consumption of pain killers and booze did get him out of the marriage.  

Mary doesn’t know how to handle a silent, reverent moment.  When she wasn’t talking, she was blaring music at Cyn from her phone.  Y’know, as if playing it loud would wake her up.  I eventually had to just exit the room.  Besides, I pretty much had said my “goodbyes”.  I was trying to be there for Mary, and the rest of the family.  The woman is as irritating as fuck, but she is still family.  

Soon, the nurse began removing the various life support items, including the ventilator.  The nurses started Cyn on “palliative care”, basically a bunch of pain killers. They said that death typically would follow within a few hours to a few days.  By this time it was early evening.  I resolved to hang for the evening, and watch as death slowly creeped.  

I talked to the kids, who updated Facebook.  I called my sisters, who at least are sane and supportive (well, one of the three is kinda loopy, but I still love her).  

For those of you lucky enough to never have seen it, an unresponsive loved one rips your heart like jagged rusty metal into the tender flesh of your heart.  Every time they lifted Cyn’s eyelid, I caught a glance of her unfocused, blank eyes.  And you can’t help it, even if it’s totally impossible, but you’ll hope for the eye to move.  Just a little.  You can’t avoid looking.  And you can’t forget. 

My son had come earlier in the day to say his “goodbyes”.  My daughter declined the opportunity.  She was always the more emotionally fragile one of us.  She didn’t need to see her mom in that condition, and remember that.  

Me?  Cyn and I had our little saying, “Forever and a day”.  I mean what I say.  My word doesn’t expire.  Even though her spirit had left her body a week ago, I was going to be there thought to the end.  And beyond that.  Some people understand love, devotion, and loyalty.  She did.  I do.  While it pained me to see her life slowly slip away, I stayed by her side.  With her crazy-ass sister.  

The nurses brought us the “comfort cart” with cookies and coffee.  I listened to Mary and her mostly inane (sometimes interesting) stories.  I would have appreciated quiet, but we all must make adjustments.  

It seemed obvious to me that Cynthia wasn’t going to expire soon, so I told Mary I was going home to nap for a few hours.  She decided to stay.  The woman was never the sharpest stick in the bunch, but she was loyal to her sister.  

I was back by 0700, after a fitful sleep.  I think I ate something.  When I arrived, I found that Cyn had slid much closer to her end.  I got to hear that damned “death rattle” that I had unfortunately come accustomed to watching other loved ones die.  Mary was stroking Cyn’s head and talking to her.  She should have been looking up to speak to Cyn, but meh.  I took Cynthia’s hand.  It was her left hand.  The one that I always fell asleep holding onto in bed.  

I found myself looking at that damned vital signs monitor again, watching the numbers creep lower and lower.  The nurse offered to shut it off, and we wholeheartedly agreed.  Cyn’s breathing became more irregular.  

The last few minutes, I stepped out of the room a couple of times.  I once again thanked God for being good to us, and asked Him to take care of her.  

Cynthia’s last breath looked peaceful.  The nurse performed the perfunctory checks to ensure that death had come.  I was balling, soaking my mask again.  It was like losing my wife twice, even though it was just her body this time.  

Mary left the room to make calls (because if she stops talking, the pressure will make her head explode).  I remember briefly thanking the nurses, and stumbling into the hallway.  I glanced back at Cyn’s lifeless form.  She was already pale.  

I called my kids and my sisters.  Then, I walked back to the nurses station and gave them the crematory service information.  Once again, they consoled me and asked if there was anything they could do.  No.  There was nothing anybody could do.  At least, anything that really mattered.  

But there was a shitload of things that needed to be done.  As I left, Mary’s idiot friend gave me a big, inappropriate hug at the hospital entrance.  And spouted another insulting “I know what you’re going through” trope at me.  At that moment, the only thing I could imagine was him going through the rental car windshield after I threw him.  Social skills are kinda thin with those two.  

I had places to go, and things to do.  Actually, just one “place”.  Home.  
Without the love of my life.  

But even at that moment, arguably the lowest of my life, Cyn's soft voice caressed my soul.  I could see her smile.  That genuine "We're all okay" smile both comforted and haunted me.  

[video=youtube_share;CjxugyZCfuw]https://youtu.be/CjxugyZCfuw[/video]


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## TL Murphy (Aug 9, 2020)

Man, I know what this is like. The grief flows through your writing. Sometimes family just makes it worse. It’s a vast understatement to say that it’s hard, but what other words do we have? 

When my mother was dying, my psychotic sister refused to leave her side. Day and night she hovered, fussed and pawed. All my mother needed was some peace so she could die. We came in early in the morning. Mom was clearly struggling, unconscious, laboured breath. Sister had been up all night martyring herself with sleep deprivation and when we entered the room she lost it. Started screaming at us, struck my wife and  accused my wife of shoving her. She plunged into a psychotic meltdown. I went out and told the staff that we had to get her out of there. 

We can only call the police, they said. 
Do it, I said. 

I have to say, the police were very good. They talked her down and she left the room voluntarily. They asked me if I wanted to press any charges. No, just tell her not to come back in here. Mom died in peace a few hours later.


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## Winston (Aug 10, 2020)

I got myself busy as soon as I uncurled from my wide-eyed terror-filled fetal position.  Coping mechanisim?  Get busy, and don’t think.  That’s the theory, at least.

Except, there are always those quiet moments.  I hear one of the cats downstairs, and think It’s Cyn.  One of the kids opens the door, I think it’s Her.  I close my eyes, and I hear her voice, and see her face.  I open my eyes, and she’s not there.  I think back to a favorite movie of mine, “Event Horizon”.  Hell is not a place.  It’s much more than that.  And much worse.  

It’s funny.  We all die, and still it comes as a shock.  The thing that irritates me is the “continuum of grief” construct.  If someone is old, and infirm, people will shrug and comment “At least they had a good life”.  When someone dies young and unexpectedly, it’s all shock and dismay.  A scar is a scar.  The wound heals.  Sometimes, you’d wish the injury would just finish you too.  

Our friends and family did respect our privacy for the first few days, but still reached out and offered help.   Cynthia’s co-workers from school were outrageously supportive.  We soon had so much food in our fridge that it was a logistical challenge to handle it all.  There was the occasional awkward exchange at the front door as people dropped-off dinner.  How does that go?  “Thanks” and “I’m sorry for you loss”?  Sometimes, awkward is appropriate.   So are tears of gratitude.

Anyway, death in The Age of Covid is more agonizing than during “regular times”.  My main concern at that moment was to provide an opportunity for Cyn’s friends to be able to gather to remember her.  A quick search of venues found most were closed, and any place open to gatherings would not be large enough. 

As a family, we all decided that since Cyn loved her toes in the sand, a burial at sea was the only option.  Amazon sold this thing called a "journey urn".  It floats with the ashes for about 15 minutes, then degrades and slowly sinks.  I liked that better than the idea of trying to scatter ashes in the costal wind. 

I should note that we were in the process of looking for an attorney to make wills when the Coronavirus hit.  Then it got put on hold.  Timing, right?  But Cyn was an open book, and anyone that knew her knew what she would want.  We would have no funeral, with black dress and solemn music.  Instead, we’d have a Celebration of Life.  If we could find a place.  

The definition of a hero is one that steps-up during a time of need.  In our case, that would be our friends Dave and Peggy.  Peggy found us a venue.  It was a beautiful farm that normally does weddings, but she talked to the owner.  We could get a mid-week slot, three hours, and with the spacing for 100 guests.  It was perfect.

The burial at sea hit a snag.  We initially looked at the Washington State Ferries as an option.  They normally allow burial ceremonies on their boats during non-peak hours.  Surprise!  Covid again.  The program was indefinitely suspended.   My sis in law Mary said she’d look into a charter boat.  I waited for days to hear from her.  Nothing.

Meanwhile, I confronted the reality of our shrunken family’s financial status.  My youngest was just starting college.  His sister was saving-up to move-out with her boyfriend.  And now, our household just lost 40% of it’s income.  It looked bad on the surface, but it really wasn’t.

As I said earlier, we’re “preppers”.  Hell, we could eat out of our food stores and not need groceries for nine months.  Our mortgage was low because we always bought our houses with large down payments.  Our old cars are paid off.  The Coronavirus meant my son was not moving to Tacoma, nor having to drive to school.  He would spend his Freshman year taking classes from home.  We can, and always have, found ways to cut expenses. 

But here’s an odd coincidence:  At the beginning of the year, Cynthia increased her life insurance.  The policy was just enough to pay-off the mortgage.  We often disagreed about the existence of ghosts and such.  But I sometimes will accept that people are capable of precognition.   

If so, how did I not see this one coming?  I checked Cyn’s phone, just to make sure that there were no messages or business-related issues that needed tidying up. When I opened the phone, I found a group Facebook app running.  It was my wife and her sisters’ conversation.  It looked like Mary and Catherine were still talking.  I read their posts, just to see if there was anything I could help them with.  

I won’t say I was crushed, but my thin trust in human decency got shaved a little thinner.  Basically, Mary said that if I hadn’t pressured Cyn into being so frugal, she would have gone to the doctor more.  Then Catherine chimed in that I was a tightwad because I used a budget cremation service instead of a full service one.  The kids were sitting there.  And they saw my face as I read the vile filth.  

I don’t know why so many people repay kindness with hatred.  I sometimes think my outwardly calm nature is an invitation for some to use me as a doormat.  Regardless, I sure as hell didn’t need that shit at that moment.  
But as I said, I was keeping busy.  I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know their true feelings about me, so I put contacting the bitches on my “to do” list. 

The Celebration of Life was still weeks away, and there was much to be done.  But first, I prayed to God to remove the hate from my heart.  Cyn would not want me to hate them, although I’m sure she would understand.  Regardless, people were depending on me.  There was no room for drama.  

I think I’ll step out for a few minutes, and gaze at the stars.  I always find that that puts things in perspective.


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## Joker (Aug 10, 2020)

Winston said:


> I don’t know why so many people repay kindness with hatred.  I sometimes think my outwardly calm nature is an invitation for some to use me as a doormat.



Been there, done that.


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## dither (Aug 11, 2020)

"I don’t know why so many people repay kindness with hatred. I sometimes think my outwardly calm nature is an invitation for some to use me as a doormat."

I'm afraid people see that as a weakness and yes it IS an invitation, may as well have "doormat" tattooed on your forehead. I used to wonder if maybe there WAS such a tattoo on my forehead that only others could see. Shed-loads of bitterness and resentment here, it's my stock in trade now, I'm totally asocial. People, they're just not worth the effort imo. If you want people to be civil, don't need nice, just be rude and abrasive, and straight-talking no matter what. And if they find that difficult to live with, you can't allow that to be of any  significance. Just turn your back on them and walk away, they'll come around, or maybe not, whatever. Lol! and that's why I don't have a friend in the world and don't know a damned soul. :disturbed:

Life eh?


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## Olly Buckle (Aug 11, 2020)

Hadn't come across this thread before. It's not often I read a thread from beginning to end, and yes I did get through a tissue or two. There is no way I can say I know how you feel, but I can recognise its intensity. There is a future, it is in your kids and you will have to be all things parent to them from now. I know they are almost grown, but that does not stop them needing you, some ways their needs become more serious, even if a little less frequent. 

It would be so tempting to put a comment on that app, just so the ugly sisters knew you had read theirs. I wouldn't, and I don't suppose you will, but I would keep the phone and keep reading, just to remind yourself. And be reassured your funeral arrangements sound great, no matter what they think, I sure wouldn't want my partner spending money on a high class cremation that might be needed for the kids, or whatever, and the rest of it sounds just the sort of thing I would want for a partner.

Best of luck with the future, I expect it will be a while, but chances are you will be happy one day, you have kids, there is a future.


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## Gumby (Aug 11, 2020)

So often we feel like we have to be "the bigger person" and I admit that I do it, too. I always seem to regret it if I let my control slip and just go for it, but to say such shitty things about you, _they _obviously have no problem or concern with control...or decency for that matter. If you never speak to them again, it's no more than what they deserve.


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## Olly Buckle (Aug 11, 2020)

A PS, I know this is not a workshop or anything, but that is all a lovely bit of writing. Congratulations.


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## Winston (Aug 12, 2020)

Within a few days we had a solid lock on the time and date for Cynthia’s Celebration of Life.  I was also able to schedule a fishing charter for Cyn’s burial at sea the day after the Celebration.  She grew up in a fishing town, so it’s appropriate, I suppose.  

Next came the tasks of writing Cyn’s obituary and eulogy.  Then we had to assemble the guest list for the celebration.  It was challenging trying to figure out what rate of responses would show in the end.  With out-of-state travelers and Covid, it was pretty much a guess.  So Dave and Peggy also worked on setting up a live stream for those that couldn’t physically attend. 

Also there’s all the minutia with such an event.  I was tasked with providing the pictures and some of Cyn’s favorite music.  I have a huge digital library of pics and songs, it was just a matter of picking and sorting.  We’d run the photos on a digital slide show projector, and play the music on Bluetooth speakers.  My daughter set-up a Google Docs for editing the guest list.  Dave and Peggy handled the host coordination, beverages, and printed items.  And they paid for all that stuff, because that’s just how damn nice they are.  

Dave and Peggy also helped contact some old friends, including Barbara and her daughters (down in Oregon).  Barb was always our neighborhood “chaplain”, so to speak.  Cyn helped Barb through a rough patch when Barb had some marital difficulties.  Even supportive people like Barb need help sometimes.  Barbara confirmed she would come and read a bible verse at the celebration.  It would be her honor, she said.  

I made the time to contact my bitch sister-in-laws.  By now, they knew that I read their hateful vomit, and they we’re trying to do damage control.  I was under no illusion that they gave a crap about me.  They were just worried about being excluded from the services.  They apologized to the kids, then half-arse apologized to me (“I’m sorry you read that.  I was just lashing out”).  Never saying they ACTUALLY didn’t believe what they wrote.  Just sorry they wrote it, and I read it.  

Mary kept bombing me with texts.  I eventually sent her an email, explaining that I’m not a 12 year old girl, and that’s not how adults communicate.  I also told her I would block her number if she didn’t slow her roll.  I hate being a dick.  But some folks just bring it out in me.  I told them they were on the guest list, and to now just leave me the fuck alone.  I had to play “whack a mole” with their drama a few more times, but they knew I had them on a short leash.  

Throughout this, my kids were just resilient as hell.  My daughter juggled the details of starting a new job (her new employer is a stand-up guy with a heart).  My son was waiting for the US Census to give him a start date, and was delivering food on his electric bike to earn extra cash (and to keep busy).  He also was navigating the admissions process to University of Washington, keeping track of requirements, dates and such.  All the while, they both helped around the house and with event preparation.  Cyn would be proud.    

A tsunami of condolence cards started washing in.  The support was almost overwhelming.   It was bittersweet.  I was humbled that Cyn had such an impact on so many people.  And I was grief-stricken that she could no longer be that friend and confidant to those people.  Many times, it’s trite to say the departed will be missed.  But Cynthia will be missed.  By many.  And deeply.  

The plethora of administrative details piled-up and needed attention.  The kids shut down my wife’s eBay account.  I called her former employers, making arrangements for distribution of funds and benefits.  I discovered that we had dental and vision coverage until the end of the month (my plan doesn’t have that, Cyn’s did).  So I told the kids to get cracking and schedule an appointment by the 31st.    

My son was on my wife’s plan, and I had to get him on my medical insurance.  I got him added, and it would take effect starting next pay period.  I jokingly told him to not do anything stupid for the next week and a half.  You have to know where this is going…

The next Saturday night, my boy was back early from his Doordash gig.  I was folding clothes when I noticed him standing in the bathroom, holding a bloody towel.  Then, I saw the dirt and blood on his arms.  He casually explained that he thinks he crashed his bike.  He wasn’t quite sure, because he blacked-out, and only remembers picking up his bike after the fact.

The last place, the VERY LAST place on EARTH I wanted to go back to was the hospital.  Yet, there we were.  Concussions are no fucking joke.  His helmet took the brunt of the impact, but I’d be damned if we were taking any chances.  
The laundry would have to wait.


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## dither (Aug 13, 2020)

Olly Buckle said:


> A PS, I know this is not a workshop or anything, but that is all a lovely bit of writing. Congratulations.



That thought did occur to me actually.


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## Winston (Aug 17, 2020)

My boy checked-out okay at the hospital.  We weren’t sure if insurance would cover his ER visit, but at some point a person just stops caring about things like that.  My kids are all I have left.  I have no parents.  No wife.  Dog died last year.  Meh.
My son and daughter are now my life.

My sisters showed up a day before Cynthia’s Celebration of Life.  It’s always so good to see them.  Around them, I can just be myself.  My two sisters came up from California with my niece and nephew; both of them are outstanding young adults.  They all came over, and we ate one of Cyn’s last lasagnas.  She’d always make three or four at a time (economy, right?).  The noodles lost some texture in the freezer, but the sauce, meat and cheese were yummy (she made her own ricotta).  The main thing was you could taste the love in it.  I’ll miss that.  I’ll miss a lot.  

The gathering wasn’t until 1 PM, but the kids and I got up early.  It’s the strangest mixed-feeling a person can have.  You’re happy you get to see so many people from your loved one’s life.  But you’re sad she won’t be around to hug them all.  Or you.  We puttered around the house, answered a few texts and ate breakfast.  We’d only be serving wrapped snacks at The Celebration.  Covid rules.  

We left early to help with set-up.  The venue wasn’t remote, but once you got there, it felt that way.  The windy, tree-lined gravel road opened into a rustic farm with assorted old (but well kept) buildings.  We navigated our way past fences adorned with flowers (don’t ask me what kind) and past a couple of alpacas to the lower parking lot.

It was warmish, but there was a light breeze.  The gathering area was in a meadow with sunlight filtered through tall trees.  The white folding chairs were set-up already, but I noticed they were too close together.  I didn’t want anyone feeling uncomfortable with coronavirus concerns, so first off we spaced the chairs out further.  

Dave and Peggy were busy finishing set-up.  A few of my son’s former JROTC cadets were there also helping.  We had brought down Cyn’s urn, and some “Cynthia” items (sand dollars, SF Giants blanket and her “moonbeams” license plate) and made a display on one of the tables.  Other tables had the guest book, one had snacks and water.  I made my way to the projector, and gave Dave my flash drive with pics of Cyn.  The speaker system was Bluetooth, and the owner of the farm helped me hook my selection of Cynthia songs from my phone. 

As people started arriving, the “new normal” routine kicked in.  Masks, social distancing etc.  I tried not hugging at first, but just gave up.  I knew most everyone that showed, but only vaguely recognized some of Cyn’s school co-workers.  I awkwardly tried to greet as many as I could.  I figured we should wait until about 15 after one for stragglers to start.  It’s a good thing we did.  One of the last to show was Catherine.  In all fairness, she does have medical issues.  But to almost be late to your darling sister’s funeral, oy.  

I got up under the pergola, and faced the gathering.  There were about five dozen folks that showed-up.  I thanked everyone for coming, and then went over the afternoon schedule (such as it was).  All we were doing was sharing our “Cynthia stories” in front of the group, then breaking off into smaller groups.  I invited Mary to speak first.  

Mary can be somewhat charming when she tries, and mostly cogent.  She did speak for a quite a while (as we expected) but she was respectful and her tales were illustrative.  The story of Cyn hiding her glasses in gopher holes was a hit.  She reminded everyone how poor they were growing up, and how Cyn was still always happy.  A happy disposition is a lost art these days.  Anyway, Mary is a marginal human being, and a crappy sister in law, but she was a good sis.  Well, as good as she could be.  

I invited other family member to speak next.  I had none of this scripted, and just relied on whoever wanted, or felt the desire to talk to the group.  I forget the exact order, but every time I was about ready to open it up to friends, another family member stepped-up.  A lot of people spoke.  They were all insightful and touching, but I remember my nephews addresses with the most clarity.

My one nephew Jimmy (Catherine’s son) explained how after we moved up to Washington, we let him stay for an extended period on our futon downstairs.  He was 19 at the time, and at a crossroads in his life.  He explained that if we hadn’t shown him that unconditional love, he probably “wouldn’t be here today” (he was using a lot of drugs, and hanging with marginal friends).  He thought we didn’t know that he was smoking pot at the time, but we did, and kept an eye on him.  He’s fine today, working, living with a nice girl and settled down with a new baby (Avella).   Cyn just provided that love to let people grow.  

Another nephew told a story from much longer ago.  Michael is 42 (God, how old does that make ME?!).  When he came out, his father treated him like shit (“No son of mine is going to be a motherfucking faggot!").  Michael told everyone how he could just come over to our place, hang out and relax.  We’d treat him with respect, laugh at his humor and engage his intellect.  He now works at Google, and lives a pretty damn good life.  Many in his situation might have considered something drastic when they were young, even suicide.  Cyn just seemed to give everyone a reason to be happy.  A reason to live.   

All of Cyn’s work friends told stories about how kind and patient she was with the kids at school.  These are special needs kids that regularly don’t follow verbal commands, and often act-out physically.  She would come home with bite marks, bruises and such.  She would sometimes be frustrated, but never angry.  No one ever saw her angry.  Just consistent and caring.  

Ben’s Naval Science Instructors, Scout Leader and Emilie’s Band Director told everyone what a joy our kids were to work with.  And it was obvious that Cynthia’s goodness was in the kids.  The adult leaders knew this, because Cyn volunteered in all those programs, and everyone saw how she treated other people.  All people.  

My sisters related a bit of selfishness.  They each explained that when I introduced Cyn to them, they knew they could relax because I was in good hands.  It was like their baby brother had won the jackpot, and I would be taken care of for the rest of my life.  Most people could tell what a genuine, good person Cyn was within minutes of meeting her.  

And that’s how I wrapped-up the address portion.  I Just talked about “goodness”.  Not Sainthood, or excellence in specific things.  I simply extolled the virtue of goodness, and Cyn’s consistency in modeling that behavior.  I explained that if I could continue to be at least half as good as her, I hoped that would make her happy.  And I challenged everyone there to try to carry that goodness in their hearts.  That would honor her.   

I was told later that while I was speaking, dragonflies zipped over the pond behind me, birds bobbed and weaved as the wind gently shook the leaves.  Yet it was almost eerily quiet.  If you could hear a smile, I think that’s what it would have sounded like.  I think she was smiling.  

We all broke into small groups.  I tried to circulate, focusing on identifying people that looked alone.  That’s when I saw my other sister, Ruth.  She’s Michael’s mom.  I have so, so many reasons to be mad at her.  Instead of ignoring her, I sat down and thanked her for coming.  I even asked how her shitty husband was doing (he had been hospitalized).  We hugged.  She’s like the “Mary” on my side of the family (drama queen).  Cyn tried to help Ruth with her drinking, and befriended her.  Ruth treated Cyn like shit.  Cyn never complained, just lamented Ruth’s stubborness.  I’ll probably never trust Ruth, but I will not hold a grudge.   

There were so many stories.  But how do you truly capture the essence of a life with only words?  They are insufficient.  That afternoon we tried, though.

I am reminded of an old sales adage:  “People forget what you said, even what you did.  However, they never forget how you made them feel.”  Cynthia just made people feel good.  The love at that Celebration of Life was tangible, real.  She touched so many people.  

And now, we would all have to find a way to get along somehow.  Without her.


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## SueC (Aug 17, 2020)

Bless your heart, Winston. Now the healing can begin. Healing thoughts are sent to you and your children. I believe Cynthia still has her eyes on you.


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## dither (Aug 18, 2020)

That's one helluva a read Winston.


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## Olly Buckle (Aug 19, 2020)

> I even asked how her shitty husband was doing



I had a wonderful image of you sitting down and saying, "Hi, Ruth. How's your shitty husband doing?"  I don't suppose you phrased it anything like that, but it made a lovely image in my mind. What is it they say? "Friends at a funeral, fights at a wedding." That little glimpse of mortality makes people behave so much better.

As Dither so eloquently puts it, "One helluva read." I think you can feel you have done her proud, and I am sure you will find a way to get along, and completely without her. Without her physical presence, but when you know someone that well for that long you can still refer to their world view when you need to.

There is a future, and it may have downs at times, but there will be ups as well.


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## Winston (Aug 19, 2020)

After the Celebration of Life that day, things were kind of a blur.  We were all so physically and emotionally drained.  I remember my nephew Michael dropped by the house for a while, and he and my son compared notes on the virtues of various electric bicycles.  We joked about my son crashing his bike, and how pissed his mom would be.  Michael mentioned he's going to move-out of Silicon Valley, since it’s God-awful expensive, and he does his job via telework now.  It was good to see the kids taking things well. 

Our goofy neighbor stopped by as well.  He’s my daughter’s age, and we love the hell out of him.  We nicknamed him “Eddie Haskell” (some of you may get that).  He would always drop by the house and have his ‘second dinner’ with us.  His routine always included looking for spare jars of dill pickles to finish off.  Tonight, he brought over a bottle of Johnny Walker Gold.  We sipped and talked.  But it was an early night for us.  We were going to be busy tomorrow.   

Mary and Catherine were going to meet us out at the coast to lay Cynthia’s remains out to sea.  My visiting sisters and niece would be arriving in their rental car.  The kids and I (including my daughter’s boyfriend) all took one car and left right after dawn.  The kids held Cyn’s urn in the back seat.  There wasn’t room for all of us on the charter boat, still, some family just wanted to see her off from the shore.  

It was about a two hour drive, and half-way there, I got a text.  Mary said she overslept, and told us to go without her.  No one in our car was surprised, in the least.  Mary had to provide drama, even on Cyn’s last day with us.  Although she was an hour behind us, I told her that we’d try to delay the charter and wait for her.  I could have (and maybe should have) not even bothered to try to wait.  But she was the sister of the love of my life.  I had to.  

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Catherine called.  She would not be coming.  

We checked-in at the charter office when we arrived at the coast.  I explained what was happening, and the counter girl called the boat captain.  They were very nice, and said they could wait an hour.  It turns out, the coronavirus kinda killed their fishing business, and we were the only group they had that day.  Still, I hate making people wait.  It’s disrespectful.   

Me and the kids met-up with my sis’ and niece, and ate a light breakfast while waiting.  The beach is kinda nice that time of day.  Mostly a few locals, and no tourists.  The weather again was perfect.  It’s usually cloudy and windy there.  But that day, it was clear with a light breeze.  Mary finally showed up 70 minutes (and six texts) later.  I really think she thought we’d leave without her.  Lord knows I wanted to.  The burden of being an adult.  

The kids and I, Mary, my sister Cathy and niece Corryn boarded the boat by mid-morning.  Cyn’s urn sat on a table in the cabin.  Deep sea poles and tackle hung from almost every open wall and ceiling.  The boat captain suggested a spot by a marker buoy.  He said you can get weather reports from that station, and it’s kinda like checking on her in that respect.  We deferred to his expertise and experience.  A good fisherman may lie on occasion, but not about things that really matter.     

The waves started getting rough after we left the harbor, but the boat was stout, and the skipper knew how to pilot.  It wasn’t a log journey out, but Mary still found the time to talk incessantly.  I kept looking at Cynthia’s urn.  I don’t remember my exact thoughts, other than the irony that this is how it ends.  All or plans, our dreams, gone.  I was well past the “It isn’t fair!” anger.  But acceptance was still far, far away.  It wasn’t fair.  And it hurt worse than anything I ever felt in my life.  

After approaching the buoy, the skipper cut the motor.  Mary got her phone out so she could share the event (and her pity-me grief) on social media.   I took Cynthia’s urn to the stern, and everyone followed.  I asked if anyone wanted to say anything.  Mary blurted out a few words, but was uncharacteristicly quiet.  I smiled wanly at everyone, and nodded.  I think the only thing I was able to croak-out was a simple, “goodbye”.  

There was so, so much more that I wanted to say.  I lifetime of “Goodnights” and “I love you’s”.  But it all came down to that one, final word.  

When I let go, her floating urn splashed, and slowly drifted from our stern.  The skipper pulled the boat away just a little so we could all see better.   The urn was designed to degrade quickly in water.  We all sniffled and sobbed as Cyn’s ashes slowly sank.  

We consoled ourselves that Cyn loved the beach, and very soon she would be one with the sand.  The sun glistened on the waves as her remains slipped from sight.  Never again would she feel that warmth.  Never again would the moon reflect in her eyes.  We all would have to carry those memories in our hearts.  The memories of Cynthia truly just enjoying life.  

And now the task of finding  joy without her lay before us.  We each had to chart that course fo ourselves. Life without a mother.  Without a wife. That prospect taunted and terrorized me like the cold, deep expanse of the North Pacific.


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## Winston (Aug 23, 2020)

(_Thanks to everyone for the read and the supportive comments.  Sorry I didn't "thank" and comment back.  I'm still tring to figure things out even as I tell her story.)_

I tipped the boat captain well.  I wasn’t sure how his business was doing with all the coronavirus restrictions, so I felt obligated to be generous.  Life has been kind to me, in some ways.  Gotta pay it forward.  

After we got to shore, we met back up with my other sister and my daughter’s boyfriend.  We all decided to hit a few of the local gift shops.  It’s kind of a tradition when in those small costal towns:  You must blow money on useless trinkets.   My daughter is always looking for cool art for her best friend, who is attending an art academy in Chicago.  Inspiration and such.  

Mary, the kids and I decided to go to the beach for a short while.  The kids actually wanted to “boogie board” in that freezing water.  My sisters and niece bid their farewells for the day, deciding a cold tidal sandblast was something that they could take a pass on.   
The kids didn’t spend too long in the frigid water, courting hypothermia.  That was fine by me.  Spending time alone with Mary on the beach was about as fun as having crabs pinching and dangling from your nipples.  Only without the charm and beauty that a dangling crab provides.  My boy had actually turned pinkish from the cold, wind and sand abrasion.  I think they had fun.  We used to frolic in the water years ago when we camped nearby.  Those days are gone.   

By that time it was close to lunch.  There was this little restaurant called Bennet’s Fish Shack that we all used to go to.  It’s a dive, but they do serve good food. Cyn introduced her sisters to it a few years ago.  Now, it was kind of a tradition for Mary as well.  It was a little somber as we ate, but not morbid or downbeat.  We joked and enjoyed our food, but we felt the presence of the empty seat where the glue of the family used to be.  

Cyn meant so much to so many.  At one point weeks back, I told Mary and Catherine that I was not mad at them, but I did pity them (that was unnecessarily mean, I know).   Cynthia would spend hours mediating petty squabbles between her sisters.  With Cyn gone, those sisters would finally have to learn to be adults.  They are in their late 50’s.  I thought about that as we finished lunch.  It gave me no pleasure.  

We bought some taffy at a nearby shop, then said goodbye to Mary.  She had her plane to catch in a few hours.  

My son volunteered to drive home.  But before we got halfway there, he felt himself dozing off, and asked me to take over.  We drove past the area where Cyn and I were looking at retirement property.  I liked the area because it was remote, she liked it because it was closer to the beach.  At least she got to be closer to the coast.  Well, a part of it, in fact.  

When we got home, the house was as we left it.  Just a whole lot more empty.


At this point, most folks would just assume the story is over.  It is not.
My story, the kids story, and most importantly, Cynthia’s story continues.  And there are lessons.  Many, many lessons.  
She lives in us.  The family lives on.  A lot sadder and smaller, but still blessed by her love.


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## Winston (Sep 2, 2020)

That’s the story of “events” thus far.  I’m not good with “feelings”, but I shouldn’t ignore them either.  People who don’t address their feelings are looked down upon by the touchy-feely masses.  

Every day, randomly, I keep having these minor “panic attacks”.  It’s like I would be doing something, lost in thought, then I would remember Cynthia.  It wasn’t some pleasant, wistful moment.  It was terror.  It would occur to me that I would never see her again.  It’s kind of like that horror when you wake up from a bad dream, only in reverse.  It wasn’t a nightmare.  It is real.  

I wore our wedding band for a month straight after Cyn passed.  Before, I would take it off before bedtime.  One morning, I woke up and panicked because the ring wasn’t on my finger.  I was so tired the night before, I took it off out of habit.  

I worry about my kids.  Not because they’ve given me a reason to worry, but because they haven’t.  They have been so strong.  I don’t know how to talk about Cynthia with them.  Something randomly reminds me of her, I mention it, then I feel guilty.  I don’t want to dwell on her, but I don’t want to pretend she is really gone.  Everything is the same, but so different.  I worry about them pitying the pathetic sad old widower.  I worry about them worrying about losing me.  They have no grandparents.  Their aunts are iffy.  I’m all they have for family.  At least they have a great relationship with each other.  

I went off on someone at work a few weeks ago.  They dropped some heavy material a distance away from my work area.  I screamed at him.  I told the forklift driver I’d be damned if I was going to drag hundreds of pounds of bars to my work area, because he was too lazy to get them closer.  The truth is I’m terrified.  I can’t get hurt.  No one is looking out for me.  I need to stay healthy to take care of my kids.  And I cannot be a burden to them.  They have been through too much already.

I cleaned out Cyn’s car this weekend.  In the door pockets, there were belonging bags from previous hospital visits.  Memories. I fixed the back-up camera.  I should have did that for her when she was around to appreciate it.  I should have done a lot of things. 

I watch baseball on the TV.  Cynthia would half-watch with me, doing something else while the game was on (she called it multitasking).  The kids (mainly my daughter) now “pity watch” with me. They never really watched with me and Cyn.  I find that I excuse myself early.  I don’t want them to feel like they need to comfort some pathetic old man.  We joke and say later that our team comes back and rallies when we stop watching.  Something like that.  

Dining has been… awkward.  Cynthia showed her love in her cooking.  A couple weeks ago I made kale soup.  Later, my daughter made taco soup.  They were both good, but they both lacked something.  My daughter kinda overspiced her recipe.  I liked it, but it was not something Cyn would ever do.  We’ll need to crock-pot a batch of spaghetti sauce some time soon.  There are a couple of quarts of Cyn’s sauce still in the freezer.  I almost don’t want to eat them.  It’s like when they are gone, more of Cyn will be gone. 

So much of what was Cynthia’s life is like that, slowly disappearing.  I know I need to let go, but I don’t want to.   The bathroom and closet are the saddest places in our house.  Make-up, bath bombs, loofas, and all those shoes and clothes.  WTF and I going to do with all her medicines?  I know where they go, I just don’t even want to toss them. Or anything.  WTF am I going to do with bottles of metformin?  I’m going to leave them there.  They are Cynthia’s.  

This is silly, but you know what I can’t stand?  Our damned Sonicare toothbrush.   Everyday, I would brush my teeth, then take my brush head off so Cyn could put hers on.  Guess what I don’t do anymore?  The brush head mocks me.  I still take it off out of habit now and then.  I feel like an idiot as I screw it back on.  I have a whole king-size bed to myself, and I still sleep to one side, in case Cyn wants to crawl in.  

The cats are acting strange?  How can we tell?  They’re cats.  They always act strange.  I know, they pick-up on human’s “stress”.  I wish I could talk to them, and explain what happed.  I’d tell them Cyn didn’t leave you guys on purpose.  She would never have done that.  She loved all of us stupid, pitiful creatures.  

I don’t want to move on.  I’d rather live a thousand years mourning her than spend one joyous moment without her in my memory.  I can’t spend a second remembering her love without linking that to the reality that I’ll never have that love with me again. 

Get all metaphysical if you like.  Maybe I’ll see Cyn in Heaven.  Maybe our parents are there, too.  Maybe my pet rat from 3rd grade will be there, too (his name was Jinx).  They’re just waiting for me, and telling me not to be such a dreary jackass.  Heaven is eternal, right?  You know what feels like eternity?  Every day I can’t hold her hand, or stroke her hair, or listen to her breathe as she falls asleep next to me.  And, snore of course.  

Every time I want to tell her something, she’s not there.  Every awkward, painful meal we cook with one less portion.  Her newly cleaned car that won’t get dirty again.  Her cat meowing forlornly.  The one toothbrush.  Mail with her name on it.  The quiet bedroom with no snoring.  That’s eternity.  

We promised each other our love would last forever, and a day.
Some people want to live forever.  They are idiots.  Eternity sucks.


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## SueC (Sep 2, 2020)

Hello Winston,

My children's father passed away in February this year and a month ago, my oldest daughter's husband died from an unexpected, sudden and massive heart attack. Your words bring a familiarity to me, personally, and a comfort as well. I'm sure I speak for others on WF in saying how much we appreciate you telling us your story, and Cynthia's story. Everyone grieves in their own way, Winston, and your children are doing just that. Allowing them to cherish you, to acknowledge the significance of you in their lives is part of their grief process and something you may just have to accept for awhile. 

It takes a lifetime to understand how tentative life really is, doesn't it? I read somewhere - ages before I cared about such things - that our life as we know it is just a passage to something much better; better than we ever expected or dreamed of. We can't even imagine it. 

Every day will be better, Winston, but grieve as long as you want, as long as you need to. We are always here to 'listen,' to have you share as you travel this path. Blessings to you and your family - from a family member here on WF.

Sue


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## Olly Buckle (Sep 3, 2020)

> At least they have a great relationship with each other.



You are talking about your kids, that is the future. It's not 'At least...' , it is a real cause for celebration. Don't suppose you feel like ticker tape and balloons, but there are other ways of celebrating, allow yourself to enjoy them as much as you can, and let them know it. I remember when our eldest was about fourteen going into a cafe with her that I used most days and the woman who worked there saying she was pleased to meet her and "He's really proud of you." It was a revelation to her, shouldn't have been, but we sort of assume people understand without us saying when we really should be making sure they know how much they mean and why.


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