Until We Meet Again

Updated: Jun 28, 2020

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| This is the 337th story of Our Life Logs |

When it happened, everyone claimed that the grief would only last a year until I was able to move on, so I consoled myself with this small hope of a future without tears. But as time passed, I discovered that “everyone” was wrong. Grief became a part of me. What was I to do?

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I was born on May 17, 1950, in Sibley, Iowa, on a farm to innovative parents. Dad only had an eighth-grade education, but he was very smart despite this, always finding ways to use his land to make extra money—more so than the average farmer. I was the second oldest child of nine, always the peacemaker, and I always had a place in the kitchen alongside Mom (though I tried my best to hurry so I could go outside and play!).

Little baby me, 1951.
Little baby me, 1951.

Growing up, I attended public school and went on to become a full-fledged registered nurse. Around the same time I graduated, I met my husband, John. From the start, I knew I really liked him. He was tall and clean shaven, and he had an adventurous spirit that sparked a twinkle in his eye, much like my father. I loved everything about him.

John and I got married on October 7, 1972. We started our married life living in a duplex, then moved to a home, after John came home and said, “We should move.” He worked for a lumber company who surprised us with an offer to help build us a house. It was a dream come true.

Our engagement photo, 1972.
Our engagement photo, 1972.

Over time, we had four beautiful children who became the center of our world. They grew up, they went to college, and we laughed and loved for the next 41 years together. John always made life fun in little ways to break up the pace of everyday life. He never let a year pass without enjoying the unique fact that we both shared a birthday. I still remember the delight on his face when the servers brought two slices of free birthday cake to our table!

Family photo, 1983.
Family photo, 1983.

Some of our best memories outside of our children were the times when we played racquetball and tennis together. Because John was into sports, he wanted me to be in it too. I fought him on it until he agreed to play left-handed to give me the upper hand. Despite handicapping himself to make me more comfortable, he still always beat me. In our 60s he still played tennis a couple times a week.

Life wasn’t all bliss, but our love never wavered. We were together, and we were happy. That’s what mattered.

Our family photo (John and I are in the back at the far left), 2010.
Our family photo (John and I are in the back at the far left), 2010.
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Then, the unexpected happened. John had been in excellent health all his life, but one day in 2013, he came home doubled over from violent stomach pains. I was frantic and took him to the emergency room immediately.

They said it was pancreatitis. I felt good about his diagnosis because as a nurse I knew that this was treatable. But his symptoms quickly moved beyond pancreatitis. John was unable to eat, so he just got weaker and weaker. They put him on every antibiotic known to man, but his body continued to be overrun with infection. Eventually, he couldn’t even walk because of how weak he was.

For the three months while he was sick, I was in denial. There was no way he wasn’t going to make it, I told myself. I needed him. I especially had faith he would get better when the priest came and gave him the last rites and he somehow perked up for a few hours. But it didn’t last. Soon, I could hear his terrible tight cough getting worse.

“Just keep me comfortable,” he said. I just knew then. My best friend, my love, my husband…was dying.

I knew he had such a fear of medicine and hospitals so I sat with him, holding his pale hand and praying for him. John took his last breath on December 21, 2013.

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I didn’t cry at first. I remember frantically thinking, are you there, John? Where are you? Are you in heaven? Are you floating somewhere above my head in spirit form? I wasn’t really able to process what was happening. I just wanted my husband back.

After the funeral, the tears finally came, and I was overwhelmed with grief. I comforted myself by saying that it was his time to go. People had comforted me at the funeral by saying that grief got easier after a year. “It’s only a year, I can do it,” I assured myself.

One year passed. Two years passed. I was expected to wake up and move on, but the lump inside my throat only seemed to grow. Sometimes it was like my mind would go numb and I couldn’t see anything positive. Before, I had always known where he was, whether it was playing racquetball, coaching baseball with his buddy, eating supper, or sleeping. And now, he was just…gone.

One day, as I stared at the walls and floors of the home we built together, I found myself still waiting for him to come home. I felt like screaming, “John! Where are you?” Suddenly, when the silence of my loneliness filled my heart, it finally became real. The grief was the only thing that remained.

I realized I need a new plan to get by and feel better. I started by moving. The emptiness of our house soon became a burden. I didn’t know how to do the upkeep and I didn’t trust anyone to help me. I decided to move to a condo with two bedrooms to make it easier on myself. As I packed up my things, I felt empty and alone. Leaving all those memories behind made me miss John even more.

When I was finally all packed with my boxes, I kept hesitating when the time came to leave, like maybe I had forgotten the one thing inside our home that would make everything go back to normal. But that was just wishful thinking. Finally, I climbed into the driver’s seat of my car and turned the key. It was one of the hardest moments of my life.

Just when I thought my grie