This Time

It’s a sad anniversary. Not in honor of a wedding forty-five years ago. No longer a celebration of our first date in 1974. That one was always a bigger deal for you than the day we said I Do.  It’s not even the one coming up in February.

A year ago today was the last time we ever lived together. Last night was a year since I slept beside you. The last time I kissed your lips. The last time we had a home. And a life. Dreams. And one another.

A year ago today I lost everything.

I didn’t see this pain coming, Baby. I’ve been bracing for February 19, not January 13. But the nightmare began weeks before we had to let you go. Nine days in the hospital for me, worrying about you from a separate room. Four weeks once I got here, waiting for the phone to ring twice a day. Your sister kept us updated with news from your doctors while we all held our breath and hoped against hope . . .

That you’d make it. We all believed you would. We’d been believing it ever since Dan drove up and called for the ambulances. I was so relieved when they all arrived. I just needed someone to take care of me. To take care of you. To take care of Brody. We were so sick. I was grateful for oxygen. Grateful for doctors and nurses and a place to rest. I knew we’d get well. You always got well, Rob. So did I. But this time . . .

Well, this time was different.

You sent me a picture of you in your hospital bed, blowing me a kiss while wearing the bi-pap oxygen line, tethered to all those monitors. I was so full of hope. And relief. And delusion. We didn’t know how sick we were, did we, darlin’? Especially, how sick you were. It took five long weeks for all of us to realize that this time . . .

This time. It was the last photo taken of you.

I began to cry last week, dreading today. Knowing it would all roll back in on me. The nightmare days I spent in the hospital while the nurses danced around the truth every time I asked how you were doing. The guilt I felt when I had to tell you they were going to release me. The catch in your struggling breath as you answered, “I’m so glad for you, darlin’.” You couldn’t come with me. I couldn’t stay. They wouldn’t let me come back. Not until . . .

The last time I saw you. That’s the next hurdle. That day will be here in a few weeks—when it’s been three hundred sixty-five days since I touched your hand and kissed your forehead and watched you fade away. I always thought you were going to make it, Babe. No one could have had more faith than me that you’d rally and we’d have one heck of a story to tell. This wasn’t the story I had in mind.

I’m talking to God again, honey. I guess you already know that. It’s different now. I don’t even know what prayer is anymore. It’s not what I thought. It’s not what everyone else thought either. But the other night I cried out to Him, asking Him to comfort me and give me hope. Right away Romans 8:28 rose up. For we know that all things work together for good to those who love God.  That’s a tall order. Losing you wasn’t God’s fault, no matter what anyone has tried to tell me. If they believe that, they don’t know God.

The first time I asked God to comfort me after you left was the first time I’ve ever had a vision from Him. As hard as it was for me to focus in those early days without you here, I sat with my eyes closed and tried to wait for hope. I saw God reach for me with His left arm and pull me in close to Him. It was pure and tender, and I knew He saw my anguish. When He turned to face me, I saw his right arm was wrapped around you, Babe. He saw the heartbreak in us and held us close to Himself. All three of us just stood there.

I think I’ve spent most of my life telling people I love goodbye. Waiting until I could see them again. Separation is the story of this broken world. But in that moment, hope pulled back the veil and I saw God’s heart for us. Sharing in our pain. Standing as the connection between us. Promising that He’d make good come out of even this horror.

I don’t know how He’s going to do it. I’m not even sure I believe it. I’m tired of pretending I have all the answers. None of us know. None of us have any idea what we’re doing. You know more than any of us now—you don’t even need faith anymore.

But I do. I need faith. I need hope. I need to get through the next five weeks as the last year finally counts down and I can put the “year of firsts” behind me. If only I didn’t have to. If only this time . . .

I could wake up and you’d still be here.