Author: Marlys Lawry Page 52 of 55

The washing machine is humming and Hubby’s side of the closet is looking bare. Declutter is my middle name. And while I’m not necessarily eager to be rid of Hubby’s things, there are men at Shepherd’s House who could use warm jackets and thick gloves and oversized flannel pajama bottoms this time of year. Oversized because Hubby’s legs and hips and abdomen had swollen with edema during his last weeks.

When Daughter Summer—you remember our Personal Pajama Shopper, right?—came home with size XXL, Hubby looked at me and deadpanned, “Your next husband will have to be extra-extra-large.”

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Update bank accounts. Complete Employee Enrollment Form to change benefits. Remove Hubby’s phone from the cell phone account. Fill out the Death Benefits Claim Form to satisfy the insurance company.

Oh, and vehicle title changes. I spent more than an hour at DMV today waiting for Number 217 to be called. And since you can’t break into the numbered order to ask the expert behind the counter which form you need for updating ownership, you’re left to your own common sense.

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On my own for the first time in days, weeks. The last of family left this morning. But not until puzzles were assembled and snowballs were thrown.

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Yesterday’s celebration of Hubby’s life was everything I had hoped it would be. A joyous occasion. Some tears, of course. But also much laughter and a catching up of memories.

I was proud of Hubby’s sibs who stood up together and shared stories of their brother. Of course, for those of you at the service, you know you can only believe about 80 per cent of what they said, right?

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It’s been ten days of keeping appointments, running errands, checking things off to-do lists. Of welcoming SIL Josh and the grandkidlets into the mix after three-and-a-half weeks apart from their wife and mom. Of continued love pouring in via meals, cards and gifts, and people stopping by.

In the process of planning Hubby’s Celebration of Life, a song by Laura Story gave pause for reflection:

But what if your blessings come through rain drops

What if Your healing comes through tears

What if a thousand sleepless nights

are what it takes to know You’re near

What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise.

desk7.net photo

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Grandson Titus, before arriving in Oregon, wanted to know if the Starbux Fairy would still be making deliveries. Actually, her name is Porch Fairy because she’s been quietly leaving gifts on our front porch for quite some time now. Flowers, bouquets of autumn leaves, fun toys for Hubby, thoughtful gifts, breakfast items. And daily, an Americano for Summer and a Chai for me. Daily deliveries in the snow and ice – against our counsel.

I e-mailed the Porch Fairy to let her know that SIL Josh and the grandkidlets were arriving and that it was time she took a much-deserved retirement. She e-mailed back to ask if she could make one more delivery. The grandkidlets were up early waiting for this event. Titus checked the porch at 7:29. Nothing. He put on his shoes, unplugged his iPod, and opened the front door a crack at 7:31. Six red cups.

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Daughter Summer and I actually accomplished a good deal from the couch on Tuesday in between the remembering and laughing and crying. We drew up to-do lists. A draft of Hubby’s Celebration of Life service. Lists of family coming with possible housing solutions. I’m actually a list addict. I’ve been known to complete something, and then add it to my list so I can check it off. Pathetic, right?

And then I came across this forgotten list tucked away in a hidden flap of my wallet. Written by Hubby a while back. Apparently I’m not the only list-maker in the family.

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The rule on this first full day as a widow: pajamas all day. Daughter Summer and I aren’t allowed off the couch except for coffee and tea breaks. And bathroom breaks. And food. And to answer the door. But no one will be allowed in unless they’re wearing pajamas. Although we might make a few exceptions.

Puffy eye gel – just what we’re needing at the moment

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My beloved friend and husband went home to heaven this evening at 6:30. Monday, November 17. One of my fears while at Hospice House was that I would be in the shower room, or making a cup of tea when Hubby took his last breath.

As it turned out, he waited until I was in the bathroom. I think it was his final prank. But it didn’t work, because Daughter Summer pounded on the door and I was at his side holding his hand when he went forever without taking a breath. And then he took a jagged breath. And then he went forever without taking a breath.

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It’s wintumn here in central Oregon, wintumn being that time of year when winter snow clings to autumn color.

Daughter Summer and I continue keeping Hubby company on this last phase of his cancer journey – listening to him breathe, massaging his feet with coconut oil, swabbing mouth and lips, reading out loud to him, stroking his forehead, the soothing background sound of football on TV.

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