BEFORE THE DEADLY DIAGNOSIS

  BEFORE THE DEADLY DIAGNOSIS

We are grateful for,

and appreciative of

the quality of life we own,

the gift of each day,

the opportunity to live life

to its fullest.

Was life, just life,

ever so real, so near, so present,

indeed, so important,

before the deadly diagnosis?

Is that what it takes?

How sad.

John A. Bayerl, October 9, 2009

This is another Friday evening, and I am once again filled with the melancholy feeling I always get when I remember how wonderful Friday nights were for Gwen and me, both before our marriage and all though it.  Tonight it's as though her spirit and presence are everywhere.  That's a good thing in a lot of ways.  

Yesterday I was taken aback when I realized that Monday was December 12, a year and a month since Gwen died.  And, it slipped right by me.  In a way that is a good thing, a sign that things are changing.  On the other hand, I don't ever want that date to become just another day.  

My poem about our life before you were diagnosed with cancer, Dear, is a reminder about how important life is and how we try never to take it for granted, even now.  The poem was written on your birthday; a good time to remember the importance of this one wild life we are given.

TONIGHT TEARS (AGAIN)

TONIGHT TEARS

A familiar country road

at night

made special

by sheer ordinariness   

Dare I say sacred?

The big hill always surprised us

just by being there.

Look, the lights of Brighton

and Howell, and I think that’s Novi.

All twinkling and sparkling

in the cold clear night.

So beautiful.

You would say.

Comfortable silence.

down the hill

toward the freeway

and that life.

I reach out

you take my hand

squeeze it between your knees.

No need for words.

Tonight, tears.

John A. Bayerl, February 15, 2011

It's been a busy day; driving over to Milt's Mom's funeral with Dick, Mary and Terri was something I've been needing to do.  Spend good quality time with family, and then  more of the same at  the funeral service and lunch afterwards.  Memories of Gwen's funeral did come flooding back, but there was always someone there to share my "quiet moments" with me.

Driving in the car today I was reminded of the many trips Gwen and I took together.  Sometimes they were long journeys, other times just a short trip to visit family or friends.  TONIGHT TEARS  is a poem I posted back in February; I was reminded of it today as we made the trip home from Grand Rapids.  

How many times, Dear, did you grab my hand as we drove along?  You would squeeze it between your knees and whisper "I love you."   Each time that happened it would give me a warm feeling, but not as warm as the feeling I get tonight as I once again recall those ordinary moments that are now so special.

TOGETHER

TOGETHER

You are always foremost in my thoughts

never an afterthought

You are forever held close in my heart

my heart is yours

When life was but a breath

we breathed together

From the first I love you to the last

our love goes on.

John A. Bayerl, December 14, 2011

Rain is dripping off the cast-iron school bell mounted atop a pole in our back yard.  I am reminded of the fun Gwen and I had searching for that bell when we moved from the Forestbrooke subdivision to our home on Baseline Lake.  She insisted that our yard was incomplete if it didn't include a wagon wheel and a bell mounted on a pole.  We perused antique stores and the Treasure Mart in Ann Arbor in search of a bell, when, quite by accident, we found an ad in the newspaper.  A local farmer had decided to move into town, and our perfect old school bell,  as well as an old wagon wheel, were offered for sale.  We snapped them up immediately, and they soon decorated our yard. 

 On this rainy, cold, dreary December day crows have gathered in the barren oak tree back along the fence.  What an Edgar Allen Poe image that is!   Even that can't chill the warm feeling I have in my heart as I remember another of the endearing things about the woman who completed my life.  When she decided she wanted something, be it an antique school bell or a B. S. Degree in nursing, she simply went out and got it.  I've never had a doubt that when she decided that I would be the one to complete her life I didn't have a chance. I have never stopped being grateful for the time she said, "John, we should get married;  no matter what."  

Dear, the sappy, sentimental poem I've included with this only begins to speak of the miracle we know our love to be. 

A Busy Day

There were lots of things on  my agenda today.  This morning began with a Story Time Players reading at a local elementary school.  We read for a couple of  kindergarden classes.  They were totally engrossed as we read and acted out Three Little Pigs, The Three Billy Goats Gruff (I got to wear the red wig read the part of the troll under the bridge.), and, always a favorite, Tikki Tikki Tembo. . In Tikki I read the part of Chang, and had to repeat that long name several times.  Always fun.

After that I dashed over to a local restaurant where my bereavement group was having its monthly meeting.  Again,  good friends, and I enjoy the ease of being able to talk with others who walk a path that is similar to mine.  After that it was on to a luncheon with a group of former colleagues from Forsythe Middle School, where I was a counselor for several years.  That was a tough one, so many of them attend with their spouses, and, although they go out of their way to make me feel welcome, still . .

 Finally, tonight I attended a dinner for those of us who worked at UM football game this fall.  After that, we were given tickets to the UM basketball game; it wasn't much of a game, so I left at half time.

When I walked in the door of the house this evening the sadness overwhelmed me.  By keeping busy all day I had kept those sad feelings at bay, but there comes a time when once again it is necessary to face the fact that Gwen no longer waits at home for me.

 I look forward to next week when all our children will be home for Christmas.  Each day I do a little decorating, and by time they get here at least the house will have some Christmas Spirit. I've decided to once again decorate a dwarf Austrian Spruce that I will plant in Gwen's Garden this spring.

Tonight, Dear, I hold you so close in my heart.  Along with the sadness, all the good memories also come flooding in--even the bad times were good, you know.  Now I'm going to say good night, I have a couple of poems I want to work on.  One of them is kind of sappy and sentimental, but the world needs that too.

SECRET LANGUAGE

  

SECRET LANGUAGE

  

When I told my friend Dave

about her dreams

he cried

because he knew

the special language

used by the dying

to comfort the living—

those who love them.

It would be a year beyond the time

she no longer told me dreams

when I learned

the secret, special language

the dying use

to make precious every moment

with those who love them—

it’s knowing

we are all going to die.

Now her dreams make me cry.

John A. Bayerl, December 12, 2011

This is kind of a poem about a poem.  Way back on January 22 of this year I wrote a poem called FINAL ACTS.  The poem was about the time when Gwen told me that she was going home.  At the time I heard what she said, but the idea that she would be dead a week later was incomprehensible to me.  Now, more than a year later, I understand the special secret she shared with me.  It's the secret everyone knows.  Son Mike, the physician, puts it this way:  "Death is totally democratic."    Or, as I one time heard someone say, "Life is a terminal illness."   

When my perfect partner left me it was and continues to be the loneliest feeling in the world.  Then, as life continues onward, a certainty persists that there are still things to be done by me.  Each day this is made more apparent by a loving kindness on the part of one of our children, grandchildren, a friend, or one of the myriad of new friends I discover daily.  The lonely feeling is buffered by gratitude.

Today, Dear, I came to the realization that you are with me as I contemplate another Christmas without you, a song to be sung, a poem to be written, a friend to be comforted, and yes, jokes to be heard and told.   As gratitude arrives, so will meaning.  I'll never forget that sunny afternoon, early in November, when you awoke from your nap and told me the secret.  What a gift; even though it took me a more than a year to unwrap it.

Silent Sunday

Gifts of relative strangers.

"The gifts that relative strangers can bestow on us are among the best."  A friend, also a relative stranger, left that remark on my blog yesterday.  The simple truth contained in the comment conceals a deep wisdom that those who grieve the loss of a loved one know well.  It is always the seemingly unimportant events, reminders, memories, sounds, sights, tastes, smells, touches that evoke deeply-held memories and feelings of gratitude.

This morning, for me, it was when I completed wrapping a gift for a gathering I will attend this evening.  As I complimented myself on a job well done, I experienced  a gnawing sense that something was missing.  A bow!  There has to be a bow on the package.  Even when Gwen and I would squash wrapped presents into the car in preparation for the long trip north at Christmas, she insisted that there be a bow on each package.  No matter that it would be a flat piece of ribbon when we arrived in Birch Creek or Gaastra, it was the thought that counted.  I'm sure I grumbled while dashing to the CVS to buy their last package of bows on Christmas Eve.  Such a small matter in the scheme of things.  Today, I would drive all around town to find just the right package of bows that would make Christmas complete for the love of my life.

You'll be at my side this evening, Dear, at the gathering of friends from the old neighborhood.  I can't call it a party; I'm not in the mood for a party.  I'll be dressed in black and gray, but the gift for the exchange will have a pretty red bow on it; in honor of you.

MOMENTS OF HOPE

MOMENTS OF HOPE

This morning

when I came in the house

the driveway clear of snow

I wanted you to greet me

at the door

with a little hug and peck on the cheek.

I know not to expect that

although I felt that moment of hope

all year long

each time I came in the kitchen door

from raking leaves

mowing the lawn

planting the garden.

That afternoon in November

I came in from golf

and you were there

patiently waiting

to say hello—

then goodbye.

Now you wait

on the shore of another sea

with a smile, a hug and a kiss on the lips.

John A. Bayerl, December 9, 2011

It's another of those Friday nights when memories of that Friday night in November when Gwen died come flooding into my consciousness.   This is always mingled with sweet memories of a year's worth of Friday nights when Gwen would greet me at the door of her home in Gaastra, with, as the poem says, a smile, a hug and a kiss on the lips.  In that moment there was no more waiting, only joy.  Now I find myself once again waiting with faith and hope, certain that one day Gwen will once again greet me with a smile, a hug and a kiss on the lips.  

This morning I shoveled snow for the first time.  I did get the snowblower out of storage and started it up, but the snow was light and fluffy and I cleaned it up with a snow shovel.  After that, I  went to a Mass that my friend Mary had said for the love of her life, Jim, who died on this day a year ago.  It always seems almost profane to just simply make a statement that someone died, especially when it's a friend whom I know well.  For Mary it continues to be a life-altering event.  We see with different eyes, hear with different ears when someone whom we dearly love dies.  It deserves more than a simple, matter of fact statement.  

When I got home I went to the gym.  While there, quite by accident, I met a young woman who works at a coffee shop where I sometimes stop.  She teaches figure skating at the Ice Cube, where my gym is.  This young woman has beautiful eyes that remind me of Gwen's, and each time I would see her at the coffee shop I would say, "I see you wore your beautiful eyes to work today."  It makes her day, she says.  We only chatted for a moment today, but it was not only endorphins that lightened my mood as I left that serendipitous meeting.  

I so wish you had been by my side, Dear, when I met this young skater, I don't even know her name, but she has that same wholesome beauty you have.  A nice addition to an otherwise melancholy day; to be reminded of the gift that you are to me.    

A poem from April

THE WATER IS ALWAYS COLD

It’s like washing my hands in the winter

this grief of mine.

I turn on the faucet marked hot

and the water is always cold.

It’s always the same.

Wait patiently for the warmth

to take away the cold pain;

the water stays cold,

sometimes even gets colder.

I fill my hands with foam,

rub them briskly,

sing happy birthday to myself,

rinse in the clear, cold water,

long for the warmth.

In what seems like forever winter

I turn on the faucet,

the one with the red H,

and it’s always cold.

John A. Bayerl, April 28, 2011

It's cold tonight and there's snow in the forecast. It seemed like a good day to post again this poem that I wrote in April.  Then, I was coming out of winter, now I'm heading back.  

It seems like it is always cold, Dear, the warmth you added simply by being in the room with me is what I miss most.

Our Faith and faith in each other.

Every year our church has distributed a little booklet during Advent and Lent.  Each day there's a little historical article and also an article that presents a short extract from one of the readings for the upcoming Sunday.  Gwen and I enjoyed these, and each night, including her last year, I would read what was presented that day, and then we would discuss it.  As far as faith was concerned, Gwen did not easily suffer fools.  She had a keen ability to separate what was "man made" from what spiritual and meaningful.

In addition to our faith in each other and the miracle of the love we shared, we also maintained a strong religious faith.  Early in our relationship this was particularly true; it's a large part of what drew us to each other.  Gwen had attended a parochial school through grade 8, and I had served for one year as president of the Newman Club, a Catholic organization on campus at  NMU.  We were not bashful about discussing the role our faith played in our relationship.  That was a far different time than now.  As I've talked about elsewhere in my blog, we were strongly physically attracted, and it wasn't easy keeping our hands off each other.  Yet, we persevered, and found enjoyment in living the best way we could.  Going to Mass together each Sunday morning was a highlight of each weekend.  During our first year of marriage when we lived in Ann Arbor we continued to enjoy attending services together on Sunday morning and then going to a favorite little restaurant we discovered where the best grilled caramel-pecan rolls we had ever eaten were served.

Tonight, Dear,  it seems important for me to talk not only about the miracle of our love, but also the Faith we shared.  You aren't with me this this Advent, but each  night in bed I still read the Little Blue Book to you; out loud.  You feel nearer then. All day today I've had an image of you all dressed up for Midnight Mass at St. Mary's in Gaastra. Some of it was stepping outside into the clear -20 degree night, but it was always your beauty that took away my breath.   That came full circle on the night you died when we were blessed with the opportunity to make you once again beautiful.  I'm not sure if any of this makes any sense to anyone but you and me, but tonight I needed to write it.  

BEDTIME PARTNER

BEDTIME PARTNER

Every night,

before drifting off ,

I allow myself to feel again

the wonder

of your body next to mine—

close, soft and warm.

I hold you once again

in the way that husbands do,

and count the many times

I welcomed the reality

of your nearness.

It matters not, I suppose,

that all those times are gone,

tonight I’ll know them again

as all those yesterdays

fill and bless my today.

John A. Bayerl, December 6, 2011

Safety is an attractive barrier to genuine faith.  Dave, the guy who is teaching  me to enjoy golf, had that slogan on his desk today.  When someone we love dearly dies, it puts our faith to the test.  At least it does for me.  Gwen's and my marriage was an example of the truth of this slogan.  When we knew that we were in  love with each other there was no doubt, no rationalizing and analyzing.  We just knew that this was it.  The "safe" thing to do would have been to play it safe, have Gwen return to campus and complete her degree 

while I enjoyed teaching for two years and saw her when I could.  Our faith in each other and belief in our love told us to do otherwise.  Several years later Gwen gave me a card on our wedding anniversary that imparted the message that the best decision we ever made was the one to do what we had to do in order to get married as soon as possible; it was a decision neither of us ever regretted.   It wasn't easy, we were lonely during the week when we were apart, and the weekends were never long enough.  Gwen missed being  with her friends at college, and I felt humbled by the sacrifice she was making for me and vowed that she would never be sorry she made the decision that she did, and that she would someday complete college.  Both promises were kept.  

You always made me feel safe, Dear, and now it is our faith in each other and the purity of the love we shared that helps me survive the pain of this time when we are once again apart.  Someday you will again hold out your arms and greet me at the door, and our wounds will all be healed. 

And, to my children and grandchildren:  Happy St. Nicholas Day!

Blue Beautiful Snow

Tonight, as I was leaving The School of Music after my lesson, I walked out into the parking lot and it was snowing.  This was one of those beautiful snows; thick, big flakes, straight down.  I hummed Jingle Bells as I made my way to the car, and the blues hit hard when I remembered all the times Gwen and I would bundle up and go for a long walk when it snowed like that.  It was the simplest of pleasures to gaze at the snow as it drifted past the Christmas lights in our neighbor's yard, talking about nothing in particular.  It was a profound moment in our marriage; a celebration of our love.

When I got in the car I turned on the radio and heard Floyd Kramer playing Last Date.  That's when the snow became blue.  Yesterday I cried too when I went to a movie by myself; the new George Clooney movie called The Descendants.  It was in the theater that Gwen and I always went to, and I sat in the seats where we sat.  The movie was quite moving and sad, and as it ended I was crying harder than I've cried since right after Gwen died.   This wasn't just eyes watering; I could feel the tears streaming down my cheeks.  It felt so good!

I'm looking out at the snow as I type this, Dear; missing you like crazy.  

Silent Sunday

Where Gwen stood when we were young.

SCENIC OVERLOOK

SCENIC OVERLOOK

Epoufette Bay Scenic Overlook

is what the sign said,

we parked the car in the shade

walked hand-in-hand

down the dusty trail

to the rail fence

at the edge of the cliff.

The most northern tip

of Lake Michigan

glittered below,

the afternoon sun;

made sparkling

the drab homes

in the fishing village

a few yards offshore.

She stood next to a tree

for the picture.

I looked at the picture today

saw her stand there

in the shade of the birch

hands behind her back

legs crossed like a ballerina,

looking out at the world

beautiful, proud and hopeful.

There, by ourselves, but never alone

we shared an embrace, a kiss

vowed to remember this place

always.

This summer

now alone, by myself

I once again parked in the shade

walked down  the trail

to the scenic overlook.

The birch tree remains there

a lonely sentinel

and she once again stands there

hands behind her back

beautiful, proud and hopeful

happy that we remembered.

John A. Bayerl, December 3, 2011

That's how I miss Gwen tonight, remembering her in full beauty, always proud and hopeful.  That summer when we stopped at the overlook was when we were newlyweds, driving down to Ann Arbor to begin our first adventure.  This summer I visited the same spot when I was on my way home from my trip to Portland, and, yes, I could see her standing there next to the same birch tree she stood next to all those years ago.  I'll post a picture of that tomorrow; it's the picture I use as wallpaper on my computer.

Tonight, Dear, I attended Dick's Christmas Concert with the Novi Choraliers.   They have a new director who is someone I so wish you could have met and seen in action.  That's what's so hard about all this; it's important to do things like this, and Dick and Mary make me feel so welcome and are welcoming and loving.  Yet, there's an emptiness to the whole experience because you aren't there with me.  So great was our love.

DUALITY

DUALITY

There’s the me

that always was

and always will be

everyone sees me.

Then there’s the other me

that loves her

as she loves me

no one sees me.

And so I live in that duality,

sometimes the public I

mostly it’s a private I.

It sounds like I may be kidding.

I’m not.

John A. Bayerl, December 2, 2012

This is my weak attempt at putting into words what it feels like to learn how to be who I am without Gwen at my side.  This seems to be a topic that I keep returning to.  What it's about is sometimes being in the public eye and at other times being a private eye.  

It's easy being in the public eye.  I know how to do it.  I've been doing it all these years.  The only time I may be a little ill at ease is at events where everyone is there with a spouse or significant other.  Even that is getting easier now; people either know that I am a widower, (It is so hard to type that word.) or they don't.  With those who don't know I can always play the sympathy card by telling them about the beautiful person they never got to meet.  

The private I is a little more difficult.  It is being a private eye in the sense of having to do some detective work in order to find out who I am becoming.  Even here I'm a lucky guy because I have four children, sisters and brothers and friends with whom I can let down the gates and talk frankly about what my options might be, and, more importantly how desperately I sometimes miss Gwen.  Although I don't yet have a clear sense of direction, I do have a sense that I'm going somewhere and that there may be better times ahead.  Dare I say that?   

Today has been another interesting day.  This afternoon I observed Nolan, a student teacher at Pioneer High here in Ann Arbor.  His supervising teacher, Steve, is an old friend, Gwen and I often saw him at church with his family.  A classroom with 36 AP Physics students in it is about as public as it gets.  On the other extreme, I also had a most intimate conversation with Mary, a dear friend from the caregiver support group we attended together.  There was more intimacy when I was able to visit with a couple of counselor friends whom I know at Pioneer.  Intimate may be a bit strong;  these are friends whom I prize and cherish, and it is possible to reveal that private I with them.  

Here it is, another Friday night, Dear, and it's about that time of day when the realization set in that I would soon lose you.  A dear friend said something very comforting today when she told me that my appreciation of all that you were to me in this world prepares me well for when we are together again in the next.  I still enjoy that image of you smiling and waving at me as you tell me that you've been waiting for me all along.

Something is changing. . .

Some changes are happening.   I still miss Gwen something awful.  Just this afternoon I was reading the newspaper, and I came across a recipe for apples in a caramel sauce with a scoop of butter-pecan ice cream.  If I really wanted to please her, I would bring Gwen a scoop of butter-pecan ice cream.  She loved it.  So. . .I reached for a scissor to cut out the recipe and began making a list of things I'd need.  Then. . .

So, yes, there are moments like that.  There are also moments like this afternoon when I was with Story Time Players at an elementary school.  One of our cast members has cancer, and is undergoing chemotherapy.  She and I had a discussion about chemo-brain.  Part of me was feeling like screaming that I don't want anything more to do with evil cancer.  Another part of me felt very empathetic and sympathetic when she told me that her husband doesn't quite understand about chemotherapy.  I assured her that the most important thing was that he is with her every day.  Then she smiled.  What I get out of all that is that I was fulfilling whatever purpose that I have been left here to do.

It's a process of discernment that we go through as we slowly find a new life.   I don't like it--I'm doing it kicking and screaming, but. . .I'm doing it.

Lately I've been thinking about putting some of this stuff I've written into a book, Dear.  You'll have to help me with that one. That will be a nice project for the winter.

First Snowfall

It snowed last night; not a lot, maybe 3-4 inches, just enough to cover the ground and make everything seem new again.  Gwen and I loved it when there was new snow.  We would go for a walk in it; hold hands like a couple of kids.  We kidded ourselves that we held hands to keep each other from slipping and falling. . .that wasn't the reason at all.  Max The Wonder Dog would be with us, tugging at his leash and frolicking in the snow: dogs do frolic sometimes.  I would throw a snowball for him to chase, and he'd dig furiously in the snow where it landed; then get that puzzled look on his face when no amount of scratching and digging would turn up the snowball.  Those were such good days.

The blanket of fresh snow did motivate me to put out some Christmas lights this afternoon when the sun shone brightly and it wasn't too cold.   Gwen loved decorating for Christmas; outside lights were a bone of contention with us.  She thought that I put them out too soon and kept them up too long. "What's wrong with having a Christmas Wreath hanging on the house on Valentine's Day?" I would ask her.   Now all of that seems so unimportant and inconsequential.

My memoir-writing group went well today; we've become quite a cohesive group and have begun to loosen up with each other.  It's fascinating to hear others tell stories about their lives.  As is the case with writing this blog, I find it to be a good discipline to write something each day.

You wouldn't know it by reading what I've written here, Dear, but I'm very lonely for you tonight.  I was walking through Macy's this afternoon, in the petite department where you always shopped.  I sat on the chair near the fitting room, remembered waiting for you there.  On the way out I saw a sweater that I thought would  look really nice on you.  Then I remembered. . .

FROM IN LIKE TO IN LOVE

Yesterday I attended a memorial service for my friend Marie.  She was a dear friend and came to my rescue when I found a note that Gwen had written to me 50 years ago, in shorthand.  Marie taught business classes at a community college, and she gladly transcribed the note for me.  The note is precious to me because it describes a time early in Gwen's and my relationship when we were overcome by a feeling we had never experienced before; the feeling of being overtaken by an overwhelming love.   This is a poem I wrote about it; I have revised it from when I first posted it:

FROM IN LIKE TO IN LOVE

The note is in shorthand.

Northern Michigan College

 is printed at the top of the paper

Tuesday night, 8:30,

the two of us, sitting at a table

studying in the library

one of our first dates.

My friend Marie teaches shorthand

at the community college.

She transcribed the note for me.

Here’s what it said:

She wonders, in shorthand,

what I’m thinking about—

about her specifically,

says I give her too much

to think about.

Let’s talk about John and Gwen,

Remember last weekend?

How could I have forgotten? she asks,

I’m confused, don’t know what to think.

I remember that weekend,

remember it exactly,

we didn’t make it to the party,

instead, we fell in love.

(Around that time

she had written to a friend:

I’m “in like” with John,

and it will only get better.)

There, that night, in the library;

 she knew it had gotten better.

News like that takes some getting used to.

The last symbol she wrote in the note

is one that means yours.

She got used to it.

John A. Bayerl, February 21, 2011

 The love we discovered that night, Dear, goes on; not only in you and me, but also in our children, and friends, and everyone who knew you.  How am I to replace that?

Our lives are but a single breath;

 "Our lives are but a single breath, we flower and we fade. . ."  I've written about that line from a hymn on another occasion.  Today it once again had great meaning for me when it was sung at my friend Marie's memorial service.  To me it's a good reminder of just where we are in the great scheme of things; it keeps me humble.  Gwen also loved that line when we would sing it together.  I could feel her at my side when we sang it today.  Although I've been in the church many times since Gwen's funeral, today I had a strong memory of her casket before the altar.  Even as I write this I visualize her lying in the casket, and it still doesn't seem possible.

The church was full this morning, and I was nervous about volunteering to say a few words about my friend, but I did.   The story I told was about how Marie, who was a business teacher, transcribed a fifty-year old note that Gwen had written to me--in shorthand.  The note is precious because in it Gwen reveals that she has become aware that there is something very special  happening between the two of us.  It wasn't long after that when we first happily proclaimed our love for each other.

I also said that what I remember most about Marie was that whenever I met her she would give me a big hug and then kiss me; on the lips.  "I will miss that," I said in conclusion.  Marie had a great sense of humor, and those remarks brought a laugh from everyone.  It was also an emotional moment, and at times my voice broke, but it was important that I do it.  When one is the surviving spouse, as she and I are, the realization comes that there will be no one to mourn our loss in the same way that we mourn the loss of our soul mates.    Family and friends can't possibly feel the depth of the sense of loss the surviving spouse feels, but we do as we must.

Our lives are indeed a single breath, Dear, and we are doubly blessed when we breathe it together. Tomorrow I'll re-post the poem I wrote about the night you wrote that note.

Silent Sunday

Gwen, John, Jeanne, Pacific Ocean, 1966