Tuesday, March 3, 2015

"Until my dying day..."

"...until my last breath."  My wife Megan and I had those words tattooed onto our forearms on February 8th, 2014.  It was my suggestion, and she was completely taken aback by it.  Not because she wasn't sold on the idea of a little ink (she had sixteen tattoos already), but because I suggested it and came up with the whole plan.  I only had two tattoos at the time, so it wasn't my "thing", and she found it one of the most romantic gestures I had ever made.  Yeah, we were weird like that.  





Megan and her younger brother were born with Cystic Fibrosis.  I won't get into the details of it, but in summary, the symptoms are effectively like having permanent pneumonia.  Look it up if you're interested, but prepare to be depressed at what some people have to go through just to live.  Her brother Jason only made it to age 19.  I was at his bedside with Megan in 2005 when he passed.  I was 24 years old.  That is the very moment that I knew that I would be seeing this scene play out again, probably before I turned 40 years old, but it would be my wife lying in that bed.  Four days after her brother died, Megan and I were married, in the same church where Jason's funeral was to be conducted the next day.

Talk about sobering.  She was sick before I even met her in 2002, just after being honorably discharged from the Marine Corps.  She was sick when I proposed to her, at the hospital, no less, in 2004.  She was sick when we married, and she was sick in 2007, when our daughter Shelby was born.  She was sick until 2011, when she received a double lung transplant, and we finally got three healthy years where we maximized every moment we had, not worrying about when her time would come, but knowing in the back of our minds that it would come entirely too early.  She wasn't sick again until January 2014, when the "pop" was felt when we were at Crossfit together.  That "pop" was the first sign of those recycled lungs beginning to be rejected by her immune system.

On November 19th, 2014, at age 33, Megan took her last breath.  I held her hand and watched as her heart rate went from 90 beats per minute to 3, then zero.  The tattoo, after spending less than a year on her body, had just taken on its true meaning. 

So here I am, writing about my dead wife on the internet.  At age 34, with an eight year old daughter, I'm a widower.  I was gifted 12 years with an amazing woman.  My perspective is somewhat unique, because after the initial shock of losing her, I came to the realization that I don't feel "cheated" like many other widow(er)s justifiably do.  I made a deal with the devil, because I loved Megan "in sickness and in health, until death do us part.  There wasn't any fine print on that contract.  It was all there in big capital letters: IF YOU MARRY HER, SHE WILL BE DEAD BEFORE YOU'RE 40.  

I simply refuse to let something that I knew and accepted would happen someday destroy my life.  It's not too bad.  It's too soon.  Of course, I wanted more time with her, and would have sacrificed anything to grow old with her and never have to be here, where I am, right now.  She would have never let me do that though.  She was guiding me long before she died, and she's still doing it now.  I can't help but think that she actually lived, and gave her life, for Shelby and I, and I am eternally grateful.   

Did her death change my life?  Obviously, but it did not destroy me.  I still get mood swings or bad days like everyone else, full of rage and hate and pain and fear of self, but generally those days are followed by ambition and an intense need to scream out that I will not let life take me down.  Those bad days are the ones that let me know that I'm human, so I wipe the snot off of my face, get the hell off of the couch, and get shit done.  Feeling sorry for myself accomplishes nothing.  When that switch flips from suffering to determination, it is simply not possible to feel more powerful.     

All of my strength and love and fire went into Megan, involuntarily, for 12 years, and now that she's gone, I've got one hell of a surplus outside of Shelby.  I'm still trying to figure out what to do with it all, but I've got a pretty good idea that it shouldn't be left to collect dust.  The odd part, and the part I've still got to figure out, is that I don't get to just decide where that all of that fire gets applied.  She's somewhere, still stoking and handing out those flames to whomever she sees fit, and I have no choice in the matter but to awkwardly accept it.

Her smart-ass personality (and her brother's) will find it hilarious to watch me flounder around, but I know she only wants what right for Shelby and I.  I'm falling down life's staircase, and she's at the top, laughing her ass off at my misfortune as always, but still helping me crawl back up by bringing people and events into my life that even I don't understand yet.

Breathe easy babe.

16 comments:

  1. Very powerful message Mike...Thank you!!

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  2. It's brilliant. I am SO proud of you for accepting this writing spot and sharing here. And so honored to be sitting next to you as a fellow writer here. Well done sir. I am looking forward to so much more…

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    1. Thank you Sarah, and you know I am just as honored to be included, and anxious to put more out there!

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  3. I remember working with two boys, brothers, in medical foster care, both of whom had CF. I remember the chest percussion treatments they had to have done everyday. You must have loved her so much. It takes great courage to open oneself to another, knowing what will be the eventual outcome. It is good that you had those years post transplant. I am so sorry the lungs did not last long. My brother is a double lung transplant survivor--will be four years on April 1st. I am glad you are part of our writing group here at Widow's Voice. I think you have much to say and we have much to learn from you. Welcome.

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    1. First of all, strength to your brother and all those surrounding him. The CF was never an "issue" when it came to loving her, and I think that having that mindset is what has helped me through a ton of this in the short amount of time it has been. It's a horrible disease that needs more awareness, but I will still never regret having her as a part of me.

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  4. Welcome! Loved your post and your attitude! Fantastic tats!

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  5. Welcome Mike - thank you for sharing your powerful story here, and for the inspiration you have already become for me. I look forward to reading more from you and sharing this experience of grief and life.

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  6. Mike thank you for sharing...you could be writing my story. When I married my husband he was waiting for his first lung transplant and I knew how our story would end. But our years together were worth it! Looking forward to reading more of your journey.

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  7. I'm SO freaking glad you're writing here. Thank you for sharing with us.

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  8. thank you so much for sharing...

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  9. What a great writing! Thank you for sharing and I look forward to more. I feel the same, as it was a gift every day with my fiance, when he passed away from cancer a little over two years ago. Sometimes feeling we were living on borrowed time and trying to make the best of every day, hour and minuted not knowing what to expect next. Also too having those bad days that waver through the good, even now. Which I'm sure will always be. Lovely to hear of your drive and ambition, thank you again!

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  10. Welcome to the club that none of us wanted to join. Thank you for sharing your story.

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  11. Took my breath away.....

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  12. Amazing! If only we all had the same courage to love completely.

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  13. Mike,

    Thank you for your post. my wife, Sandie, took her last breath on the morning of October 12th, 2014. I asked her to marry me in November of 2011, and we were wed on March 17th, 2012. I had known her for 8 years by then, and I knew that she probably wouldn't make it to our 3rd anniversary.

    Sandie had stage IV colon cancer, diagnosed in January of 2010. Many of my friends told me I was crazy to marry someone with terminal cancer, and warned me about what I would have to go through when she died. I believed that this was my purpose, and felt God's leading in it. Other, much closer friends knew that I loved her deeply, and gave their support.

    Well, it was really harder than I thought, and also better than anything I have ever done. Now that she's gone, and that fight is over, I'm having a lot of trouble with the fact that she isn't coming back. I wonder what my future is, and how I will ever find anyone else to share my life with.

    Sandie's birthday was two weeks ago, and I'm already dreading our anniversary, but I have to find some way to get through it. She would tell me to just get over it and move on. One of her favorite things to say was, "Waah, Get a tissue.", whenever I complained about anything (she, too, was a smart-ass, and readily admitted it). It's hard to argue when someone is going through the pain she endured for 5 years.

    So I guess this means I will try to get over it, or more accurately, go through it. I don't think much about the pain and sadness when I'm working or busy. That's good, but other times I just want to sit and vegetate, wallowing in my grief.

    I have to do both, I suppose. To everything there is a season...

    Rick

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    1. Rick,

      I had to respond to you, simply because you've shared how similar your situation was to mine. We don't get to choose who we love. "In sickness and in health, until death do us part" is the most meaningful portion of the vows I took in 2005.

      It doesn't matter if it was Cancer, Cystic Fibrosis, depression, or any other illness or condition. To fall in love with someone means that you will sacrifice every fiber of your being to be with that person and make them happy, regardless of what you will have to go through in the future when that person ultimately leaves. To effectively know for sure how and when your partner will die is a huge weight to carry, but it has brought me comfort in the fact that I was strong enough to deal with it, and you should feel the same.

      I could never give you instructions on how to feel or what way is best for you to go through your grief. I can only give my own personal opinions, anecdotes, and observations, and you can do with them what you will. I've found already that the anticipation of events such as holidays or certain significant dates can be far worse than the actual date, and that in my opinion, you can never "get over it", as you've said. You just go through it and try to be as stiff upper lipped as you need to be to function in the world.

      Most tellingly, the "smart-ass" factor is the what has put me at ease the most. If I do something stupid or get in a bad state, all I can picture is her laughing at me and picking on me from wherever she is.

      Sitting and vegetating, to me, is the healthiest possible thing to do, and I'm actually already planning on expressing that in more detail soon.

      Stay strong and carry on.
      Mike

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