Together

“Til death do us part,” I echoed, my flowers shaking as I took this forever step into the unknown. All those vows are all about being “together.” For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. We vowed not to give up. Neither of us went into marriage thinking there was a backdoor, like divorce, if things got tough. And they did. There were scary times. Lots of moments when we knew we were in over our heads in life. “We’re a good team,” we often reassured each other. And when it was hard to see eye to eye, “We’re worth fighting for,” was the point we agreed on.

We always kept our promises.

I was eighteen. We’d been in love since I was sixteen and you were twenty-one. But I had school to finish, and you had orders for Germany, courtesy of the U.S. Air Force. I couldn’t go. Actually, you wouldn’t take me with you. So, you went overseas, promising to come back for me. Sixteen months later you did, stood beside me in that church, made identical vows with me, and we headed down a road that wouldn’t end for forty-four years.

Til death did us part.

Does anyone ever think what that will look like? I guess that’s a dumb question. That part of the ceremony is the scariest. It could end a million ways. I just hoped we’d go out the same way we began—together. “I don’t want to be a rich widow,” I warned, but you only laughed. “You won’t be rich,” you quipped. It was the “together” part I wanted guaranteed.

You’ve always loved to give me cards out of the blue. I saved most of them. “A cord of three strands . . . We’ll make it together, Babe!” you wrote in one. I still have that card. “I’m your greatest fan! I’m with you all the way,” you wrote in another. “I’ll be lovin’ you through whatever may come! Let’s do it together!” you penned. And, “No matter what .. or how long . . . we’ll get through it together, my precious darlin’! I promise!”

Together, you said. Until now. Because before you penned those promises to me, we made this promise to each other—til death do us part. It’s the law of first mention. There’s no “together” when death does its part.

I’ve been agonizing over how it happened. Separated for five weeks, both in and out of the hospital while we each suffered from covid. No communication. Dependent on phone call updates and the hope that our text messages were being read to you. I’ve worried that you felt abandoned, left to fight alone. Others remind me you knew hospitals were keeping people apart and that we’d have been there if we could. Knocking down the hospital doors would only have guaranteed I’d never get even one last chance to see you again.

Honey, I always believed you’d recover. We all did. Everyone except the doctors, who didn’t pass that on to us until twenty-four hours before you died. We’re still not over the shock of it. The decision you made that you’d had enough. The decision I made to support you and whatever you needed. I guess we did that together even though discussing it was out of the question. All you could do was nod yes and no in answer to us.

Twenty-four hours. I know, some couples don’t get that much notice. All they get is a phone call or a knock at the door with no chance of saying “I love you” or “good-bye.” I know I should be grateful that we were able to drive up to Show Low to be with you finally. Sit at your bedside for a few hours and tell you how much you mean to us while you still had the ability to hear us. Katy and me. Lee by phone. Your sister, Risa, late in the night when she took my turn at your bedside.

But I have regrets. Sorrow. Too many questions. No one explains to you in the brief moments before you walk that aisle to the sound of the Wedding March that, when death finally parts the two of you, it’s full of trauma. And confusion. Frightening. Sometimes made up of rapid decisions while you do the best you can based on the information you have at the time. Guilt and condemnation are unwelcome companions when the dust settles.

I guess I keep writing the same things here over and over again. It ended too fast. I never saw it coming. I wouldn’t let myself think that you might die. You were fighting so hard, so many people were praying, and between the phone call updates every day, we held our breath and listened for hope and believed you’d make it. You always made it before. It was out of the question to think it would be different this time. No matter what, we’d get through this together.

I don’t understand—none of us do. We’re just trying to make sense out of something that is senseless and painful and traumatic. It’s hard to realize that even if we had answers, they wouldn’t fill the void left in our lives by losing you. That even if we’d been able to do anything different, you still may not have made it.

This is grief. This is what it looks like. This is the risk we took forty-four years ago while my flowers shook and the vows were made and we tried to forget that death comes for everyone eventually. That someday, despite our best efforts and heartfelt promises, we might not be together.

For a while.

I will be with you again. And when I am, there won’t be any need for vows that talk about sickness or poverty or death. You know it and I know it. “Together” will be forever.

That’s the promise I’m holding on to now.