I realized today that it has been one week since…well…since the door slammed shut on this chapter of my life….since I went back into Alex’s room to get milk for my coffee and noticed that he seemed…restless. I took his hand and hit the call button to summon the nurse and before she even came in to declare, “oh my…” I knew what was happening.
They seemed not to expect it, but I did. They said it would likely be a week or two, but I knew better. I still wasn’t prepared for the universe to hit the fast-forward button. I wasn’t prepared for that to be the moment (I was just fixing a cup of coffee.) that I would realize it was ending. He was trying to breath, but his lungs wouldn’t inflate. He reflexively opened his eyes and they were at first unfocused, but then they rested on mine. And all I could do was hold his hand.
I knew when his eyes closed that that was it. I needed no sympathetic doctor’s declaration.
Something like an emotional bubble closed around me and there was action to be taken…phone calls to be made…and other people’s tears were uncomfortable and inconvenient, but had to be born.
The next day was a blur of meetings and check writing and coordination of details. The funeral was a lovely service…and also a bit of a blur. I found it very difficult to grieve publicly, especially when trying to shuttle my 6-year-old child through the ceremonies.
And the Rabbi spoke eloquently.
And the casket went into the ground.
And the hole was filled up.
And the roses were laid on top with the temporary marker.
And crowds of people came and went.
And I slept.
And the next day, another crowd came to spend their last hours before long road trips with us. The children played together and it was almost…(almost) like any other gathering we had had over the last 15 years. Then the house was quiet again and the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow through the west windows, and I was alone in my room without the buoy of All That Must Be Done keeping me aloft, when my bubble exploded like so much plate glass in an earthquake: I had just buried my husband.
> all I could do was hold his hand.
You say it like it was a little thing, but I believe it to be one of the most important things you can do at such a time.
W.
To paraphrase Tolkien: “No one should ever have to bury their loved one.”
I am so, so sorry, Celeste. Much love goes out to you and the girls.
Oh, Celeste… It was so difficult to leave your home that day. I think we all knew that when the quiet hit, the reality would hit you. Torn between wanting to extend the community time and to off that moment for you and knowing that you needed the space to feel.
I’m glad that Alex was able to hold you and see you in his last moments. To have “rested” in your eyes is such a fitting word, and it was probably where he most wanted to be.
You have every right to shatter like glass, and whatever we can do to help weld you back together, please ask.
Love,
Stephanie
Thank you Celeste.
Celeste, this was such an intimate and beautiful update. Thank you for sharing. My heart breaks for you.
Thank you for your grace and honesty, Celeste.
You write so beautifully. Words fail me right now, but I wish I could just be with you and help somehow.
Celeste, thank you so much for sharing this with us.
Thank you for loving Alex so well. It’s good to hear you were there with him at the end.
Thank you again, Celeste.
As the waves of realization and grief crash against your shore know that we will be here for you, forever more. I certainly appreciate your sharing with us, it would be nice to get to know you more.
This was intimate, beautiful and heart-breaking. You and Alex have shared an invaluable gift with the rest of us. Those of us who have not gone through what you are going through really cannot understand what it’s like or how you feel. It is an honor that you have let us in.
So many of us thinking of you and the girls Celeste, and remembering Alex with love. Thank you for writing.
Celeste, I am so sorry. My best to you and yours in this heartbreaking time.
I am so sorry, Celeste. My heart goes out to you during this time.
I like the blog’s new style. That picture makes me want to pull up a chair and sit and reflect on this, never really ending, journey.
I’m with Kim. It makes me want to sit on Alex’s bench.
I appreciate you sharing that personal moment, my friend. He was with you at the end. That to me is the least courtesy this life could have given him after the last year he had. I think of you and the girls often as you’ve lost the most in all this, and I remember he would want us not to look back but mostly forward. I miss him now, his little smirk and biting wit. I hope we will get together soon this summer and hang out, the whole gang, and it will be as you said… (almost) like the old times. Call anytime and chat. Hugs.
Thinking of you Celeste, and wanted you to know that.
I’d been thinking of you and the girls and wondering how you were all holding up. I’m sure I’m not alone in stating that you remain in my thoughts.
Celeste, thinking about you and the girls today. Decided to say something this time.
Our afternoon at Christmas has been on my mind a lot this week Celeste. I hope you know that so many of us are still thinking about Alex, and sending love, and hope for peace, to you and the girls.
Just thinking about you all and wondering how you are doing.
that’s partially true.
the other part of that is that this blog is the only link back to Alex that could/may be active and I wanted to see if you’d posted. Somehow it feels less real if I/we still know you and how life is going.
I do hope you are recovering.
I was updating addresses at my firm and came across returned mail addressed to your husband. A Google search brought up this blog and I read, stunned, that someone I never knew was gone. I read your words, so eloquent, and it reminded me of all those that I had lost.
That’s something that everyone has in common – and something we tend to forget. If only we could see the common things and disregard the differences more…
My sincere condolences for you and your family. Thank you for sharing your story with me.