I began this blog in 2009, before my son’s suicide death. Then Sabine’s terminal cancer diagnosis. This blog is filled with both pain and hope.
I did this as I am doing now — because I cannot handle all the inquires from my children, other family, friends and church family.
Bear with me...
The last few years were a roller-coaster of a full life with Sabine (in spite of chemotherapy and 5 days of home hemodialysis each week — we LIVED and we lived fully, passionately, and fiercely.
Being her “nurse/caregiver” during almost daily 4-hour dialysis sessions suddenly presented me with the time to write. I wrote a book that was inside me about improving our nation’s police, along with a number of short poetry books, my
police blog (http://improvingpolice.blog), and Walk in the Woods YouTube videos during the pandemic. Not to mention our YouTube Covid “Sock Hops” to dance away the virus blues! Sabine was my muse!
Now I’m back and using this blog to communicate with a large family and many friends who are concerned and care about me.
Two days ago, the most feared experience in my life happened. My wife and soul-mate of 40 years died. As I struggle not to die with her, I find I must write...
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Some of you have wanted to come and be with me. I appreciate the love and concern you have shown for me at this crisis point in my life.
But here’s the problem, we are still in a pandemic and I am still in the high vulnerability group. We also do not know what is the outcome of Christmas vacation on the new spread of this virus. Thankfully, it appears that we will eventually get control of the Covid-19 virus. (By the way, my timetable, expectations, and re-framing put our recovery, and open get-together time, for next Christmas!)
If you choose to come and see me, we must take a high level of virus precaution. If you do, we must wear masks, keep social distance, sanitize, and avoid groups. Or, if we wish closer contact (hugs, etc) we must organize what is called a “pod;” that is a very small group of people who pledge to practice safety at all times outside the group.
What is a “pod?” “Pods are small, self-contained networks of people who limit their non-distanced social interaction to one another—in other words, they’re the small group of people with whom you share air without using breath-control precautions such as masks.” For more about podding see:
https://www.verywellhealth.com/how-to-form-a-pandemic-pod-5090149
I would, of course, love to see you. Sabine.mom, was always a deep introvert. She didn’t get energized from being with others. But she could effectively play the role of extrovert quite well. That was just her. Thankfully, I energized her! She often told me during these cancer years that she did not need to have the family around her — just me.
Sure, we had great family re-unions, but really I needed them more than she did. She focused intensely on loving me, almost unconditionally, and always passionately. And I honored that love, that commitment, that com-passion, through a crushing terminal cancer diagnosis, periodic medical crises, and into her final days in which she expected me to be true to what she wanted me to promise to her — that she would be able to stay out of the hospital (her anxiety spiked EVERY time we went into the hospital for chemotherapy). Since the pandemic, she courageously went into that hospital without me being with her for the first time in over a decade.
I now see that she went through this for me — the most intense sacrificial love. Because she often told me that if anything happened to me, she would simply stop her cancer treatment because it so negatively impacted the quality of her life. But for me, she pressed on,
So those vows l made to her at marriage 40 years ago, and made to her after her diagnosis in 2008, were tested this week.
“David, I am tired, worn out. I love you and don’t want to leave you, but i have constant pain in my back, medication isn’t helping. I think the cancer is back again in my spinal cord. I am tired and aching, I do not want to go to the hospital alone were I will be caught up, by myself without you, in the system; without you by my side, holding my hand.”
And, so, the course of events this week. The recurrence of a blood infection we thought we had under control, constant pain in her neck and back, overwhelming tiredness that eventually caused her to forego her daily “walk in the woods” and resulted in her sleeping 16-18 hours a day. We both knew it was time. The quality of her life was being challenged by the quantity of very miserable days and nights. She knew she was dying.
And, thus, she inadvertently became a victim of the current pandemic.
How often I laid in bed at night with her. Was she still breathing? I had to reach across the bed to see if she was still breathing… how difficult it was to decline medical advice to transport her to the nearest emergency room… the agony of agreeing to honor her last wishes and inform her medical team that she wished to cease dialysis and chemotherapy…
At first, they advised me to call for an ambulance and transport her to the closest ER. Yet after I declined we talked not about emergency measures but about how to make Sabine more comfortable. And how painful it was to be at her side, holding her hand, loving her as she struggled to breathe… thenher heart stopped.
We taught a “final decisions” course a number of years in which we challenged attending married couples with this: “One of you lovers will close the eyes of the other. Are you prepared for this?”
Now it was me. I reached over and closed her lifeless, open eyes. “Look at how he loved her!” — a line from one of my many poems to her.
“Look, they will say
Look how he loved her…”
No one. No one can say I did not love her fiercely!
And so she wanted me to go on. That I must heal a shattered heart. It doesn’t seem fair that I should have to live the rest of my life without her. But whoever told us life was going to be fair or painless? What life can be is beautiful in space of tragedy.
So, Sabine’s/mom’s/grandma’s death was tragic, yet, to me, it became beautiful as I closed those beautiful eyes, sat with her and seeped. Then I got a candle and placed in on the table next to her bed. I read the beautiful prayers, “Ministration at the Time of Death” from the Book of Common Prayer:
“Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world; In the Name of God the Father Almighty who created you; In the Name of Jesus Christ who redeemed you; In the Name of the Holy Spirit who sanctifies you…”
I anointed her with holy oil, washed her body, dressed her, and stayed with her.
It was around 3 pm on Christmas Eve. At 4:30 our church had a zoomed worship service, My dear friend, Jeff, filled in for me online. And so, with Sabine at my side, I prayed with my church community who only just learned Sabine had chosen at home hospice care.
Then the attending hospice nurse arrived. The day before she had just enrolled us in the hospice program. Now, a day later, she officially pronounced Sabine’s death. I didn’t not want to leave her. So, I asked, “How long can she remain with me? Can we have those funeral home pick her up in the morning? I want to be with her as long as I can.
She forwarded my request and it was approved.
I have to share with you that I experienced the most beautiful, most painful, most loving time of vigil. I slept on and off, sang to her, “You Are My Sunshine,” and eventually it was morning. We had our last coffee together as we had done for year. Now it was Christmas music announcing a new and holy birth. I was announcing a new and holy death.
Around 8:00 am the funeral staff arrived. My dog, Mocha was ready for our morning walk in the woods. As Mocha and I headed out the door, I asked them to blow the candle out when they left.
I wailed and shouted as I walked up the hill on the trail Sabine and I had run, snowshoed and then walked in our later years. I fell on me knees. The grief literally knocked me down. Mocha ran back to me wondering what was happening. I got up. Tearfully, I finished the walk.
When Mocha and I returned home, our bed was empty.
— Lord, you pulled me through the suicide death of my son a decade ago. Again, please, I beg you, pull me through this loss in my life. I know you can do it — no, God, I expect you to do this because you promised me you would. Amen.
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