"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.

How I got ... here

My crazy, active son

(link is to the pro photographer who took it - this was an 'outtake' shot)

To catch up, it's about four weeks after Ian's had heart surgery, and I've rushed him to hospital where he collapsed on arrival.

Once Ian was settled and awake again, we opted for me to head home and be with our son.  We were used to Ian being in hospital, so it was no biggie to either of us at the time for me to head off.  I had been advised he’d probably be moved to a high care ward as they weren’t sure what was going on.

At 3am I got a phone call to say that he was in ICU.  So I drop our son off at my parents (who were very conveniently located between our home and the hospital), and head into the hospital.  I was there for a couple of hours and he was scared, but still quite chatty. 

I went home for breakfast, then headed back to the hospital.  While Ian was relaying John’s antics to the nurse, he crashed.  At this point I thought I’d be a widow by the end of the day.   His cardiologist was interstate for the weekend, but flew home to manage his case.

Later that day, I wound up in a meeting with 5 heads of department from the hospital.  The first thing I was told is Ian had suffered a massive stroke, but they didn’t know the impact.  Then I got told, as they had suspected, Ian had the rarest of complications from his ablation – an atrial-oesophageal fistula.  A hole had formed between his heart and oesophagus.  This would kill him unless it was repaired, but the scar tissue from his past surgeries made everyone really nervous to try the usual repair options available.

Except the one specialisation that apparently gets everything that everyone else doesn’t want to touch – the radiographic surgeon.  They planned to insert a stent to block the hole under x-ray, and without inflating the area with gas to reduce the risk of a further stroke – a strategy they couldn’t find other records of.  And there was no guarantee he’d survive the surgery.

Our Minister and my step-mother kept me company while Ian was in surgery.  I was really relieved when I got the message he was back in ICU. 

Then started a three week battle to beat the various infections he had developed. 

Once he woke, we learned the extent of his stroke – language was gone, as was his left side mobility.  And he’d developed an interest in Australian Rules Football, which he’d detested prior (he was a soccer man and a Birmingham fan). Thanks to the efforts of staff, a stubborn personality and I’m sure his son, we managed to get to a good point medically, and he was released to the stroke ward.  

He did pretty well for the next 4 weeks or so, and then we found his oesophagus was growing through the stent and bleeding.  Back into ICU and yet more procedures.  The upshot- the stent could not be removed, and he’d likely die on the table during any attempt to do so.  So it had to stay put.

A few days later, Ian had his first seizure. 

Then we celebrated our first wedding anniversary. 

A few days later I was finally told there was no hope and given two options – either let his oesophagus rupture, which would be a traumatic end, or let infection win and give him a peaceful end. 

I chose the latter.

Ian passed away about a week later, on 14 June 2012. Ten days after our first wedding anniversary. 

We’d crammed more in 3 years and 3 days of knowing each other than many do in a lifetime.

Now 18 months later, I’m raising our crazy, active son the best I can, and facing my 40^th in 2014 with a life experience I never thought I’d have at this early in my life.

Hi...

 

I’m Kerryl.  In 4 days I’ll be 18 months into my journey as a widow and single mum.  And you may note from my spelling, I’m an Australian blogger. 

I’ve read Widow’s Voice since I joined the ranks, and am honoured that Michele has asked me to now write about my life as a widow.

Ian and I first met on a dating website.  I liked that he actually used complete words and sentences in his profile - a rarity in my experience.  After a few emails, we met face to face for the first time on 11 June, 2009.  I walked into the bar, saw him and my immediate reaction was “that’s him” – and not that I’d identified the person I was meant to be meeting, but as the man I knew would be my husband. 

As our conversation progressed that evening, Ian invited me to move on to a fundraising event for a friend’s kid’s band.  I figured why not.  Apparently his friend was on the phone saying ‘no, no, this is NOT a first date type of event!!’  The event can only be classified as being so bad, it was a great evening!  And I agreed to see Ian again – much to the surprise of his mate. 

Four months later, Ian proposed, with a cactus rather than the traditional roses.   And we started trying for a family.  Quick, yes, but in hindsight…

We welcomed our son John in February 2011, and married at our church on 4 June that year. 

I returned to work and Ian stayed with our son as a stay at home dad.  Being a father was something he’d wanted so badly and Ian was determined to spend as much time as possible with John.  Many of Ian’s friends who had experienced fatherhood before him had said they regretted not spending more time with their children when they were young – perspective he was grateful for. 

Ian had an extensive history of heart problems including two prior open heart surgeries, all bizarrely un-related.  As confident he was, I was always concerned about what would happen in the future.  Rightfully so, it turns out.

In early 2010 Ian started getting a rapid heart-beat – a resting rate in the range of 120 beats per minute. We spent a bit of time bouncing in and out of emergency at our city’s main hospital getting it set to rights. He was referred to a cardiologist who scheduled a radio frequency ablation to correct this issue for 22 February, 2012.  After 12 months waiting, the surgery, by all reports at the time, went well.

On 17 March 2012, Ian’s 46^th birthday, he became really unwell at his birthday lunch.  He asked me to take him to the hospital and I made a one hour plus drive from the restaurant to the hospital in about 40 minutes.  He collapsed in the foyer, freaking me, our 13 month old son, and the medicos as there was blood everywhere.  He broke his nose on the floor, and being on blood thinners, he made a bit of a mess.

This was just the start of our journey...

 

Photo: One of the many wedding photos with Ian's cheeky smile - he'd just bitten the end of my nose, something he did regularly.

 

Where We Began

A big hello to everyone here at Soaring Spirits and Widow's Voice on my debut post. I'm incredibly honored and humbled to have been asked to join this team. I hope that we can help each other to feel heard, honored, and loved for exactly where we are in these years of tears. I've been a writer all my life in some form, but this is the first time I've ever written anywhere but my own pages. It means a great deal to me. So I thank you for reading! With that said, I will begin...

Last year, I was supposed to be standing at the altar – marrying my best friend. Instead, I was standing at that altar trying to tell a church full of loved ones who this man was in my life and what he had meant to me. Striving to articulate the sheer magnitude of this person was like trying to hold the all the world's oceans in my hands – an impossible task to ever fully contain him... and not something a twenty-nine year old woman should ever be faced with, or anyone for that matter. But there we were.

Drew and I met in Dallas in the fall of 2008. He was in flight school working toward his dream to be a commercial helicopter pilot. I was a web designer at the headquarters for a global fashion company. He was analytical, I was creative. He liked guns, flying, beer and war movies. I liked art, beauty, nature, writing… I was terrified of guns and hated war movies. On the surface, it sure seemed like we couldn't be more different, but underneath all that we shared deep passion and curiosity for life and a seriously goofy sense of humor. We both loved to learn, laugh and explore almost anything. I'd say that's a pretty good basis for the start of something awesome.

We became best friends over the course of the next year and in June of 2009, we started dating. As it turns out, all those differences are incredibly fun when you have two really curious people who love to explore anything new. He taught me how to shoot guns, build fires, and fly planes on the simulator. I taught him about design and how to look for beauty and art in everything around you. He introduced me to delicious dark beers and aerodynamics, to camping and Texas country music, and I took him to art museums and festivals and exposed him to incredible art he'd have never otherwise seen. There was skydiving, parasailing, hot air ballooning, race car driving and so much more. I was his first flight student – letting him practice his lesson plans each night with me while he worked toward his flight instructor certification. And of course.. he took me up for a few helicopter rides. These are by far some of the most special memories – watching him in his element – living his passion and sharing it with me. The war movies though… I never got on board there!

It wasn't always clear skies of course, but for 3 years, we built something strong and good together. There was always, above all else, an unspoken agreement from the beginning that we would be kind with each other's hearts. Neither of us had had a particularly sugar-coated life thus far, so we had our insecurities and issues. But somehow together, we never clashed. Instead we learned how to help each other to become more aware, heal some of the past, and choose new and better ways to cope with life's challenges. I have often said that it was as if I could see the little boy in him, the one that was good and pure and hadn't been hurt or made insecure by the world yet... and he could see that little girl in me, too. It was as though we grabbed the very core of each other and pulled it right to the surface where it could breathe. Together, we were more who we were always supposed to have been.  

It's amazing to look back and see how much impact just one person could have on my life in just three short years together. On any given day, I can look at myself and see a whole list of things about me that feel as though they've always been there... but they haven't. They were the things he brought out, the things he exposed me to and shared with me and taught me, the parts of myself that he saw and encouraged that no one ever had before. I cannot hardly imagine who I was before I met him. Before beer and western boots. Before a passion for flight, which he passed on to me. Before the camera he got me on my 27th birthday – and my love affair with photography that is still going strong today. Who was I then? Surely me, but so much more myself because of him. 

And then of course, it all ended. And everything… as you well know, changed. I changed. And that part, my newfound friends, is a story for next week. 

My name is Amanda and this is my story...

I met my soul-mate on February 6, 1993: it was love at first sight. Greg was the fun-loving, farm-boy to my shy, inquisitive city-girl. He was an engineer who loved all things mechanical and I was in the midst of my PhD in eco-botany. We just clicked straight away and seemed always to know what the other was thinking.

We married in 1997 and after living and working in the tropical paradise that is Australia’s north for a few years, we eventually settled down to married life, buying a house and having our precious daughter in 2002 and wonderful son in 2004.

I was so happy and lucky and loved and I took it all for granted.

Now I am someone different: I am a widow. The man I love beyond breath was killed in a car accident whilst carrying out his normal duties at work on March 1, 2010 – the same day I began my new career as a teacher. He was 47 years and 5 days old; I turned 40 a month later. If it wasn’t for my sheer determination to keep going in the weeks and months that followed, the mawing pit of grief would have swallowed me whole. But I have stubbornly refused to give in to despair, instead pouring my grief into my personal blog.

Today, most of me remains... I am still a Mum to two beautiful children. I am still a teacher. I still am a botanist. I still love Australian native plants and gardens. I still have fantastic friends. My brain still functions on a reasonably good level (short-term memory is a bit wonky though). I still love Holden cars and meat pies and good people everywhere. I still love the beach and the bush and I still love a good laugh.

But I find myself turning into someone new ... I find myself showing more kindness as I have been shown kindness. I find myself seeking out the hearts of others and hearing their story. …and I know one important truth: true love never dies.

~~~~~~~~~~
Widow’s Voice was one of the first blogs I found in the months after being widowed in 2010 and I am honoured to be taking part in this wonderful project. I know I have such big shoes to fill as the wonderful Matt moves on to bigger and better things, and I join with some truly amazing men and women who are also walking this horrible road of widowhood. I hope that I have something useful to say, something worthwhile, something that resonates with other people here and helps us all to feel that little bit less alone. Thank you Michele for inviting me and thank you all for welcoming me here.