Today is the day — two years ago — Hubby left his cancer-ridden, morphine-pumped, lymphedema-swollen body for heaven.
Today I helped a friend pack up her kitchen, and unpack in her new home. The new kitchen — the heart of the house — is now open for service. And I loved that I had a part in that.
Today, I sat in a coffee shop infused with comforting aromas, writing and enjoying a Chai tea, courtesy of my niece who sent a generous gift card.
Photo credit: Unsplash
The title of an online article — “4 tips for throwing a successful funeral” — caused me to do a double-take. Perhaps it was the use of the word throwing as opposed to say, planning, that made it sound a little … um, inappropriate.
Two years ago this week, the most overwhelming aspect of my newly-widowed life was the thought of planning a service. But after all was said and done, the Celebration of Life service we *threw* for Hubby was just that. A celebration. And why not?
Photographer: Howard Gorman
These local Ponderosa pines intrigue me. Tall and strong, joined at the hip, each growing their own boughs and pine needles and pine cones.
What happened ages ago that caused their union? And then what induced them to grow from that solid foundation into beautiful displays of individuality?
Central Oregon Ponderosa pines
At the encouragement of a friend, I presented at this week’s IGNITE Bend event. IGNITE events are produced in places like Helsinki, Paris and New York City. Presenters get 5 minutes and 20 slides, which automatically advance every 15 seconds. The tagline is, “Enlighten us, but make it quick.”
And so I applied to be one of the speakers. Because I didn’t want to.
Photo credit: Amy Turner
Dear Gary —
One of the tools from a widow grief class was letter-writing, beginning with these words: “My favorite memory of you is …” The problem with that: There are so many favorite memories of you. In fact, there are entire categories of memories.
Being the overly efficient person you married, here are some of my favorite memories. By category. And alphabetized. Just for the fun of it.
Dear Gary …
Snaking through the security line at Los Angeles International, I noticed an abandoned backpack. I watched it for a few moments as the line continued to move. “Is this anyone’s backpack?” No response, so I slipped under the barricade to report it.
About the time I got back in line, a woman claimed it. She had left it on the ground so she wouldn’t have to carry it down and around the barricade. The TSA guy lectured her, I apologized, but a woman in line behind me said, “You did the right thing; I’d want you on my team.”
Which got me thinking about the concept of team. And who we might want on our teams.
Photo credit: Pixabay
This is the beginning of my favorite time of year, this golden-aspen-football-pumpkin season that extends to turkey-morefootball-pie-gratitude season—although gratitude season should be year-round—followed by the Christmas-music-lights-knitting-scarves-gift-giving season.
Photo credit: Unsplash
“I can do that for you, hon.” Hubby couldn’t reach his feet due to swelling, and I offered to clip his toenails. I’m sorry to report that I may have nicked the top of his big toe. (But only because he jerked in anticipation of me clipping the top of his toe.)
In view of my tendency toward injuring the patient, I thought I’d better ask the experts what they did well while caring for a spouse, a child, a parent with cancer.
Photo credit: Pixabay
Two years ago this weekend, Hubby and I rented a small cabin in SunRiver Resort to celebrate his birthday and our anniversary.
The cabin came equipped with bikes, and Hubby wanted to ride. “You set the pace, I’ll follow,” I said to the man who had grown considerably weaker and was losing muscle mass; the man who only had two months left to live, which we couldn’t have known at the time.
Photo credit: SunRiver Resort
We ended up riding out to the marina. About five miles from the cabin.
Tomorrow is the second wedding anniversary without Hubby, and there is still so much I miss about being married to him. So much.
Copyright © 2025 Marlys Johnson
