It's been almost a week since Ashleigh's funeral. I almost said "my wife's funeral", but she's not my wife anymore. The marriage vows say "til death do we part", and those vows have been fulfilled. I'm very thankful for the fact that together we fulfilled them about as well as anyone could hope, given a shortage of years. I have very few regrets, we had a whole year to say goodbye, and we loved each other well through the end. For such a horrendous disease, Ashleigh only had about two weeks out of 13 months since her diagnosis where her quality of life suffered. So I'm thankful for many things.
Jesus was clear about marriage as an earthly, not heavenly, institution (
Matthew 22:30). As new and foreign as it was 8 years ago to call Ashleigh "wife", now I have a whole different set of habits to unlearn. I still call this building "our house", though it's suddenly much more vacuous than it has ever been. If I were a director doing a biopic of this stage of my life, I would set the tone with several long, silent pans of the empty rooms and hallways after the boys are asleep. I miss wearing my wedding ring; I often find myself absentmindedly going to fiddle with it, only to be reminded why it's not on. I know no one would fault me for wearing it a while longer; I recognize my desire to press on is mostly self-imposed. Well, it's what Ashleigh would have wanted for me, too. To be uncomfortable, get out of the house and be around people, and generally embrace life moving forward.
Were it not for the boys I'd be tempted to sell everything I have, buy a motorcycle, (learn to ride said motorcycle), and ride until I hit an ocean. I'm thankful for the boys, they're keeping me grounded. A cross-country motorcycle tour (or equivalent
boondoggle) would just be a kind of escapism. I'm also thankful for so many friends reaching out and being welcoming and understanding, despite the fact I'm not particularly effervescent company right now. I'm thankful for sympathy cards from so many people. So many of you wrote in your cards how they feel like an insufficient gesture, but I assure you they are not. Your words of encouragement and of Ashleigh's impact and legacy buoy me up.
It's been predominantly a week of logistics - cutting up credit cards, cancelling subscriptions, closing online vendor accounts. I know it surprises you that it's helpful for an engineer to retreat into logistics. Still, the last friends and family have returned home and at some point I will have to step back and survey the new shape of my life: as the dust clears, see what has become of the structure with one of its central load-bearing beams removed. At least the foundation is intact.
Before Ashleigh died I told myself I wouldn't do this - turn to the blog or facebook to post morose and introspective thoughts as though loss had made my thoughts somehow weighty or worth sharing. I scoffed at other people who over-shared like this, but now I'm eating my prideful words. It turns out the reason I never felt compelled to over-share is that I always had a loving, listening ear nearby with whom to share my innermost thoughts. So I appreciate you humoring me this once as I'm missing my usual outlet.
After the gala and a few more posts I still plan to wrap up the blog. Not only was it Ashleigh's blog, but I'm somewhat afraid of what I might post without her editorial oversight. That is a small example of the more general fear I hinted at above: what does life look like without Ashleigh? If (ok, when) I do something embarrassing, who will help me laugh at it later? What if I dress the boys in mismatched outfits for church? How can I ever hope to make good decisions without Ashleigh to construct the objective function?
There are two books that have been comforting during this time, and I would commend them to your reading. I have been tempted to post large portions of each of them to the blog, but I will spare you that (and myself the risk of copyright infrigement).
The Weight of Glory - an essay by CS Lewis whose central thesis is that our feelings of nostalgia point to our in-born desire to be a part of a heavenly, eternal frame. He exposes man's desire for eternal things, and points out that desires don't make sense where they can't be fulfilled - that a man may starve to death without bread, but the feeling of hunger indicates at least that we come from a world of eatable things.
A Severe Mercy - a memoir by Sheldon Vanauken about the loss of his wife. I hope it is not
entirely hubris that causes me to see similarities between the love he writes about and the love Ashleigh and I shared. "...he chuckled at the memory, and then, in the instant, tears were burning in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. That was always the way of grief: laughter and tears, joy and sorrow. Almost from their first meeting they had been in love..."
I'm also planning to re-read Lewis's
A Grief Observed. Doubtless I will quote it here if I find it as relevant as I expect.
There are two stories I would share with you from Ashleigh's last week on earth. I'm tempted to keep them to myself, as though a miserly attitude about memories would make them last longer. If Ashleigh taught me anything through this blog, it's that sharing thoughts and experiences is what makes them meaningful and grants them longevity.
Three nights or so before she died (I was on the night shift then), we were alone in her hospital room. I was sitting next to her bed holding her hand and talking to her, not really expecting a response. She opened her eyes and very lucidly asked me "what about the boys?" A mama-bear to the end. I assured her that the boys would be well-loved and well-cared-for by me and an army of others. She closed here eyes and nodded, and I thought that was the end of the conversation. But then something odd happened. She turned her head to face to the opposite side of the bed and put her arms up in an empty circle, as though hugging someone's neck. She sometimes did this to me or Jim when we leaned in close to tell her something. She nodded again, smiled briefly, then said "ok then, I guess it's time to go". She dropped her arms and went to sleep. Say what you want about terminal delirium or drug-induced hallucinations. This was the second-to-last interaction I had with her where I know she was lucid. And I believe that there was Someone Else in the room with us that night, holding her other hand.
The next night, two nights before she died, there was only one very brief moment where she woke up. She didn't open her eyes or talk to me or shift positions. You see, one of the things that I frequently did by her bedside was sing to her. Mostly hymns or songs from our past. I was singing "
How Great Thou Art", and for about two bars during the refrain, she started singing. I went looking for a video clip to link to the title of the hymn, but nothing I found did justice to my memory of it. She joined me on the high harmony, as perfectly and clearly as any duet we've ever sung together. Then she fell back asleep.
