And more days than not, I was blessed enough to understand that and to truly KNOW how lucky I was that this man loved ME. That he had vowed, in front of God, our church, our family and our friends to walk beside me, love me and cherish me all the days of his life.
And he did.
I was the luckiest woman in the world. Not just because he loved ME, but because I understood it, while I was in the moment... that this THING we had was special, that we both recognized it and tried hard not to take it for granted. Of course there were times that we did - we're only human. But I can honestly say that we did cherish each other. We (mostly) did NOT take each other for granted.
I remember clearly the night that realization dawned on me that I was losing Mr. Poj. My head knew what my heart wouldn't accept. He wasn't going to recover.
Everyone had gone home, finally. They were all so afraid to leave me alone, but I wanted to be alone with him. I needed to be alone with him. I put my hand in his, he was so hot from a fever from the stroke and the septicemia - but his hand was still pliant and I could ALMOST pretend like he was actually holding my hand one last time, and I just started whispering to him about all of the reasons that I loved him. All of the things that I was going to miss. And how ALL of the most amazing moments of my life had been with him. Because of him. I stared at his face, desperate to try and memorize every line, every freckle, the curve of his chin, the way the whiskers didn't grow on the tiny scar on his cheek...
I wish I could tell you, like in the movies, that I saw some response, that somewhere I just KNEW he heard me, but life isn't like that. So, while I BELIEVE that somewhere, whether in spirit or what was left of his poor, damaged brain, I BELIEVE he heard me, and he knew.
What I have to sustain me is the fact that I told him every day that I loved him. I tried to SHOW him every day that I loved him. That in almost 13 years, we went to bed angry exactly ONE time and vowed to each other never again. That even, on the rare occasions when we fought, I always made it clear that while I might not LIKE him very much at the moment, I loved him always, truly and completely.
The following day, Friday - I stood in the hallway outside of my husbands ICU and had a conversation with Mr. Poj's main doctor about the reality of his situation. Somehow, poor Dr. H ended up being the one who coordinated all of Mr. Poj's care and he was my primary contact with Doctors in the hospital. So, he drew the short straw and was the one who had to have the most horrible conversation in the world with me. Don't ask me how I did it, because I still don't know - but somehow, I stood in a quiet spot of the ICU and asked the hardest questions I've ever been faced with in my life. What constitutes "brain death"? Is the respirator the only thing keeping my husband alive? If we were to take him off of the respirator, how long would he last? Mr. Poj and I had fortunately had the foresight to have THAT discussion... what we should do if one of us was on life support.
I WANTED to run away, not deal with these questions. Let someone else handle it.
I FORCED msyelf to ask.
I WANTED to lay down on the floor in that hallway, kick, scream and curse the injustice of the situation and the God that would allow it.
I FORCED myself to stand there, listening to Dr. H's answers.
One year ago today, I entered the hospital in agony, after a sleepless night, having decided that it was time to let him go, that Mr. Poj didn't want to be sustained by tubes and machines, that I would ask them to remove the respirator and leave the rest in God's hands.
And, as in all the other facets of my life, Mr. Poj somehow, somewhere, tried to make this easier for me as well. His poor, decimated body was starting to give up the fight. His fever broke that morning, his heart rate was starting to slow, his blood pressure was almost critically low and he had stopped breathing above the respirator. It was the ONLY thing keeping him alive.
Family and friends gathered around him all day, coming to say goodbye and offering me their support.
In the end, I was weak. I knew that I couldn't let him die alone, but I also knew that I couldn't watch them remove the respirator tube. The nurse was honest with me and told me that it's messy and uncomfortable. So they closed the curtain around his bed, and 15 seconds later opened it. And somewhere in the fog, I heard the nurse telling me
"Oh, Laurie - he's not breathing"
Because, you see, no one was quite sure if he would continue to breathe on his own or not.
So, I sat down beside him, took his hand and told him, in the strongest, clearest voice that I could muster
"I love you. You've given me the happiest, best years of my life."
over and over again, as his heart slowed, then stopped. I alternated between looking at his physical body, and staring heaven-ward.
I watched the color drain from his face, and continued to hold his hand as his physical body began to cool. I pressed my forehead to his, one last time.
5:25 PM - he was gone. My best friend, my lover, my husband, the father of my son... gone.
And for a single moment, I felt peaceful.
His passing had been peaceful. We had been given that much. And, in the end, it's probably all that we can hope for, a peaceful passing from this life, into the next.
There, in the ICU, I was somehow able to do what needed to be done. I chose a funeral home, signed all of the necessary paperwork, talked to some of the relatives who had come in to say this more final goodbye.
And there was this little voice in the back of my head chanting over and over and over again... "he's died... my husband has died" over and over and over again.
And I kept pushing it away.
I hugged all of the nurses, thanked them for their care and gentle patience with him, and especially with me.
And then I stepped through the doors, out of the cardiac ICU unit and into the hall and special waiting room. More family and friends waited for me there, wanting to help, offer support.
And that voice in my head started shouting "He's Died!... My Husband Has Died!" over and over again.
My friends and family gathered me into their circle and I vaguely remember praying together, holding hands, as we had done multiple times before, only this time, commending my husbands spirit to heaven.
And everyone asking me over and over "are you okay?". And telling them that I was, I would be. And the voice was getting more insistent
"HE'S DIED!... MY HUSBAND HAS DIED!"
Until I finally paid attention to it. Heard what it said and recognized that the voice needed to tell me something else.
Only this time, instead of shouting that stupid voice whispered to me.
"Now I must tell the Cuteness that his daddy has died, that his daddy is in heaven and he's not even three yet and he will not understand but somehow I must make sure that he does understand AND that he's SOMEHOW OKAY."
And that's when I fell apart.
It was all I could do, to sit down on that little couch, where I had spent too much time during the week that had passed. And I finally allowed the full force of it to hit me. And it was too much. I couldn't take it. I had to let just a little bit of it out - because if I didn't - *I* was going to burst or die from the force of it.
I remember looking at my mother in law, in awe of her stoicism. She had lost her husband 8 years earlier and now her baby, her only child... as well.
And I allowed THAT pain into my heart as well.
I'm embarassed, even now, that those around me had to witness my grief and pain. It should've been something private, but I couldn't hold it in anymore.
When I was finally able to bear the weight of it all again, I stood and walked out of the hospital on my own two feet, because ready or not, there was one more thing that I had to do.
There is no way in hell or heaven or even here on earth that anyone anywhere should have to have THIS conversation with their almost 3 year old.
I quietly took the Cuteness into the bedroom at my parents house, and we sat down together on the bed. I kept hugging him fiercely - and finally he pushed me away - he allowed it at first because I had been so absent the past week, and he didn't know what to make of it. Prior to this, stability could've been our middle name.
"I have to tell you something important. Can you look in Mommy's eyes?"
He nodded his head.
"Daddy has died and gone to heaven."
"What's died?"
"His body doesn't work anymore and he's not with us anymore. He's gone to a good place, called heaven, where he's with God and the angels and he'll watch out for us, forever."
"I want to go to heaven too."
"We can't baby, not until we die."
"Will you go to heaven too?"
"No sweetheart, daddy was sick. Mommy is not sick. I will be here with you for a long, long time."
"Where's heaven?"
I pointed up... (what else are you supposed to do?!?!?)
And then he cried. And I cried. And I hugged him tight.
I don't remember His funeral. Not one moment. Where it should be, the memories, there's nothing, just this big, black wall of... nothing. And I don't dig too deeply on that one yet, because as much as the other part hurts, I'm unbelievably afraid that THAT part will hurt more.
I don't know how I was lucky enough to find such a really special man. Mr. Poj loved me just a little bit more than he loved himself. Knowing that... knowing what our life together was like... knowing how he always strived to make me happy (he had a little joke that he used to tease me with... "Happy wife, happy life" - but he LIVED that, he really did!) I've kept going. I put one foot in front of the other, head down, facing the future.
At first, that's all that I could do... that's how I got through each day... one foot in front of the other.
Time does heal though... amazingly. I've posted about it here a lot. And now, as we've hit the one year mark, I'm working on happy. Some days, it feels the same... one foot in front of the other, trying to CHOOSE happy. Choosing to smile, laugh, joke, have fun and enjoy life, enjoy the Cuteness and BE PRESENT. I honor him and his impact on my life in that way.
But today - the anniversary of his death - I will mourn some more, for the wonderful man who's life was too short, for the son who will never get to know him on his own, and for a future that might've been.
