One Year Ago...revised
It was a beautiful spring day and I needed to get out of the hopital room for a while. I needed to clear my head, to get fresh air, to take my mind off of what was happening in my life. I remember going to the bike path in Hilliard with my dog. It was unusually warm that day. And very windy. I remember it being very windy. I walked my dog, enjoyed the beautiful spring day we were having, and used the time alone to relax. Unwind.
For the past two and a half years I had been by my husbands side as he battled bone cancer. His was not the typical battle however, and ours was not the typical story. You see, we were twenty-five and twenty six years old. Newlyweds, just starting our life together. We had hopes and dreams. We had plans of a long future together. Plans of buying a house, of having children, of starting our own little life and building a lifetime of lasting memories together.
As I walked back into the hospital room, my mom and mother-in-law were there with my husband. His breathing was significantly louder that when I had left that morning. It was raspy and groggy. I can't describe the way it sounded. It was unlike anything I had ever seen or heard. I went to my usual side of the bed where I would sit with him and hold his hand. This time I didn't let go. For the next four hours I sat on the right side of my husband, leaning over the bed holding his hand and assuring him that it was ok. Telling him how much I loved him. Through raspy breathing, he managed to say, "I love you".
Two months prior, in February of 2007, my husband began recording a CD of music he had written. You see, Michael was an amazingly talented and gifted musician that had a way with bringing the music he wrote to life. His passion for life, and his love for music, flowed through his finger tips and into the keys of his piano. Every song Michael wrote had a story behind it, and every note he played was a piece of his life. He continued writing and recording until a few days before he entered the hospital; the day after his twenty-fifth birthday.
The doctors where in and out. His vital machine was still hooked up and we were asked if we wanted it taken off. All it did was monitor his heart rate and oxygen level, and to be honest, it was a distraction. I often found myself checking numbers instead of watching my husband. I said I wanted it turned off.
I sat and watched as people came in and out of the room. All of our family was there. I have never seen so many people in one room. They were talking, praying, crying, laughing. I could hear everything going on around me, but I had no idea what anyone was saying. I couldn't move. I couldn't leave his side. I couldn't let go of his hand. We had music playing. First his CD, then some worship music, then his CD again. We kept switching it up. I still couldn't take my eyes off him. A little after 8pm as we were listening to the worship CD, I felt the urge to put his CD on. As the first song came on, Dancing in the Sand, the song Michael had written for me, I remember his dad walking over from across the room and taking his other hand. He whispered something in Michaels ear. I think it was, "Jesus loves you", but I don't remember. All I remember is that as Dancing in the Sand began to play, Michaels breathing became quieter. I turned to my mom and I was excited. I said, "Oh, his breathing is getting easier!". But I was wrong. It wasn't getting easier. It was stopping. And as I turned back around to look at my husband, he drew in one final breath. And never exhailed.
That was the moment my world fell apart. I will never forget the feeling of such extreme excruciating sadness that overwhelmed me at that moment. Through uncontrollable sobs, that turned to wails, I kept watching him to see if he would start to breathe again. As everyone in the room gathered together to hold hands and pray, I still could not let go of my husbands lifeless hand. His father began to pray and I suddenly felt like I was going to suffocate. I was so angry that they were praying. I have no idea why, but I was angry. I had to get out. I had to let go. I ran to the bathroom. I collapsed on the bathroom floor and just uncontollably sobbed as my mom held me. I couldn't breath. I couldn't think. I couldn't stop crying and shaking. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn't throw up. All I could do was lay on the floor of the hospital room and grieve the life that had just been taken from me. His and mine.
That was one year ago today.
For the past two and a half years I had been by my husbands side as he battled bone cancer. His was not the typical battle however, and ours was not the typical story. You see, we were twenty-five and twenty six years old. Newlyweds, just starting our life together. We had hopes and dreams. We had plans of a long future together. Plans of buying a house, of having children, of starting our own little life and building a lifetime of lasting memories together.
As I walked back into the hospital room, my mom and mother-in-law were there with my husband. His breathing was significantly louder that when I had left that morning. It was raspy and groggy. I can't describe the way it sounded. It was unlike anything I had ever seen or heard. I went to my usual side of the bed where I would sit with him and hold his hand. This time I didn't let go. For the next four hours I sat on the right side of my husband, leaning over the bed holding his hand and assuring him that it was ok. Telling him how much I loved him. Through raspy breathing, he managed to say, "I love you".
Two months prior, in February of 2007, my husband began recording a CD of music he had written. You see, Michael was an amazingly talented and gifted musician that had a way with bringing the music he wrote to life. His passion for life, and his love for music, flowed through his finger tips and into the keys of his piano. Every song Michael wrote had a story behind it, and every note he played was a piece of his life. He continued writing and recording until a few days before he entered the hospital; the day after his twenty-fifth birthday.
The doctors where in and out. His vital machine was still hooked up and we were asked if we wanted it taken off. All it did was monitor his heart rate and oxygen level, and to be honest, it was a distraction. I often found myself checking numbers instead of watching my husband. I said I wanted it turned off.
I sat and watched as people came in and out of the room. All of our family was there. I have never seen so many people in one room. They were talking, praying, crying, laughing. I could hear everything going on around me, but I had no idea what anyone was saying. I couldn't move. I couldn't leave his side. I couldn't let go of his hand. We had music playing. First his CD, then some worship music, then his CD again. We kept switching it up. I still couldn't take my eyes off him. A little after 8pm as we were listening to the worship CD, I felt the urge to put his CD on. As the first song came on, Dancing in the Sand, the song Michael had written for me, I remember his dad walking over from across the room and taking his other hand. He whispered something in Michaels ear. I think it was, "Jesus loves you", but I don't remember. All I remember is that as Dancing in the Sand began to play, Michaels breathing became quieter. I turned to my mom and I was excited. I said, "Oh, his breathing is getting easier!". But I was wrong. It wasn't getting easier. It was stopping. And as I turned back around to look at my husband, he drew in one final breath. And never exhailed.
That was the moment my world fell apart. I will never forget the feeling of such extreme excruciating sadness that overwhelmed me at that moment. Through uncontrollable sobs, that turned to wails, I kept watching him to see if he would start to breathe again. As everyone in the room gathered together to hold hands and pray, I still could not let go of my husbands lifeless hand. His father began to pray and I suddenly felt like I was going to suffocate. I was so angry that they were praying. I have no idea why, but I was angry. I had to get out. I had to let go. I ran to the bathroom. I collapsed on the bathroom floor and just uncontollably sobbed as my mom held me. I couldn't breath. I couldn't think. I couldn't stop crying and shaking. And as much as I wanted to, I couldn't throw up. All I could do was lay on the floor of the hospital room and grieve the life that had just been taken from me. His and mine.
That was one year ago today.
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