Four months (#1334)

Topics/tags: Michelle

Michelle passed away four months ago today. I don’t know the exact time. I was sleeping next to her, as always. I checked at 2am, and she was breathing. I woke up at 4am (I think), and she wasn’t. It was time. The cancer was growing and growing and growing. We were giving her painkillers to help. She wasn’t conscious and hadn’t been for a few days. She didn’t want her life to end that way. As I said, it was time. We gave her permission. The kids had told her that they’d be okay. They will be. I’d told her I’d be okay, too. I hope I didn’t lie.

Four months is a long time. A third of a year. It’s also no time at all. Only slightly less than the two months she spent in the hospital over the summer, the month more at home, and then the month back in the hospital before she died. Almost nothing compared to thirty-seven years of married life. One one-hundred-and-eightieth of her life. Or maybe one-hundred-and-seventy-ninth; she didn’t make it to her 60th birthday. I’d hoped she would. But I also hoped we’d make it to more than fifty years of marriage. I know we say, ’Till Death Do Us Part, but I hope to feel our marriage bonds go on indefinitely. I don’t want to part. I don’t want to be apart [1].

I still talk to her each day. Or each night. I tell her about my day. There’s generally not much to tell; I’ve never been good at narrating such things. I tell her about the boys. I tell her about friends. I tell her about things going on with the house; some day we’ll get them fixed. I don’t talk about the state of the country or the world; she doesn’t need to hear such things. I want to ask her things. What advice should we give each child? They need advice, but they always listened to her better than me. What does she think is going on with our ill friends? She’s a doctor; she’d know. Or at least have suggestions. What should I do about the troublesome things in my life, my career? How is she? What does she need? Particularly this past year, it was wonderful to be able to show my love by doing things for her. Now? I suppose I show that love by talking to her each night and by musing about her. By remembering her. By continuing to feel a deep connection to her. Perhaps not deep enough; I wish I could feel her more. But she sometimes visits in my sleep. Usually, the dreams take place in past places. The old Steele family home. The old Rebelsky home. Sometimes I remember to tell her that people miss her and send their love. Unfortunately, when I do so, I usually figure out I’m dreaming, and I wake up.

I end each nightly conversation the way I did in life. Good night, love. Sleep well! Does she sleep? I don’t know. I never quite understood her model of the afterlife other than that she was sure there was one. I still don’t understand how our loved ones can be with us when we talk to them, but they aren’t necessarily always with us. I know that scriptures suggest that the dead will be one with G-d. I’m still confused as to whether or not that means they retain their individuality. But this is not the time for theology or philosophy. I’m comfortable just sharing my love. Our love.

There are times I want to ask forgiveness. I’m sorry I didn’t encourage her to seek help earlier in May when she was spiking a fever. (We’d visited with her doctor on Monday and had some phone conversations. By Friday, her oxygen saturation had dropped to terrifyingly low levels.) I’m sorry that there were so many nights that I sat downstairs working or playing on my computer rather than heading upstairs to spend time with her. I’m sorry that I too often prioritized what was good for me rather than what was best for us. I’m sorry that I’m not getting her stuff organized or disposed of. I’m sorry I don’t know what advice to give the boys. I’m sorry that I’m not keeping up with the checkbook. I’m sorry that I’m still grief shopping. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know she’d forgive me. She always did. We had a good marriage. A great one. There were times we didn’t connect well. But we figured things out. And, yes, there were also times she needed me to forgive her. I always did.

Once in a while, I’m angry with her. How could she leave me? How could she leave us? So many people counted on her. I need her. The boys need her. Her brother. Her cousins. Her patients. Her friends. So many! I still don’t know how I’m going to make it without her. But I promised I would, so I shall. I’ll even find times of joy. But I can’t imagine life ever being as good without her.

It’s hard to stay angry with her. I love her. And the anger often turns to worry, to sorrow. From late 2022, when she was diagnosed with the first kind of cancer, through June 2023, when she went into remission, into July 2023, when the even worse cancer appeared, and up to that final hospital stay, she did her best to prepare us. And to prepare herself. But a week or two into that last hospital visit, when they told her that all the treatments had failed and that there were none left to try, she said, I’m not ready. I thought she was. We all did. Of course, when she came into the hospital on our anniversary, she didn’t think she’d be there to stay. It was just a little thing, a reaction to the chemo, something we could fix. Right? But it wasn’t. Like the treatments, her body was failing. She was ready, but not yet.

I don’t think I ever heard her say, I’m ready. I hope she was. We tried hard to help. We got her out of the hospital for a few hours, took her home, out to lunch. It’s better than feeling stuck there. That was a great day. Another day, we took her out to the courtyard. By that time, she couldn’t even get out of bed. That was hard. She wanted to move. She wanted to be able to sit up. She wanted control. She wanted more time. We all did. It’s hard to give up, to let go. As I said, I never heard her say I’m ready, at least not to me. Still, I think she was. I hope.

Four months. Just a moment in my time of grief. An eternity without her. An opportunity to remember. Four months.

Postscript: I started this musing with no clue as to what I’d write. My muse guided me well.

[1] Don’t worry. I also don’t want to be dead. I wouldn’t do that to the boys. Or myself.

Version 1.0 of 2025-02-08.