I wrote this at Christmas time. It is a mixture of all the emotions I feel. It's my story. There's no way to get through the loss of a loved one, except to push through each day until it feels better. That's my advice. But, I'm a bit of a loner.

Dear Bob:

Two years seems impossibly fast. I have been on an emotional rollercoaster ride. We've talked about our son before, and I am finally able to put it behind me. That was a big hurtle. I wish you had been here. I have so missed the times we talked out on the deck. I remember when you were really getting seriously sick how you came to me and said you finally understood what it was like, and when you got well you'd never complain again if I had to lay down and rest. You will never know how much that meant to me.

The sad thing for me is that I should be writing down memories. I only have this:

I have enjoyed most of Christmas this year. Christmas day, not so much, but got through it this year. One thing that shook me up was all the memorials of family members who are gone on Facebook. All my friends were sharing their memories. I didn't want to remember this year. It hurt. I've lost time trying to pray and bring my own miracle. I wanted my Wonderful Life. My husband and I had just moved here for our new beginning, and I was stuck a lone in a really different place with people very different than those I was used to. I just kept thinking every year that I'd wake up and it would all be back to normal.

Death isn't this nice little ending to a person's life. It stinks. In three weeks I watched my husband go from a man with stomach problems, but still good color to his face, still talking and making the best of things, even cracking about Obama Care. . . . . to a man who could barely speak, yellow as a color I can't even describe, and every bodily function still working coming out an utter, final black. The kind of black there ain't no coming back from. I tried to be so brave and joke back. I didn't want to make it worse. What I didn't know was that he wanted to hear how much I loved him, and how much I wanted him to stay. What I didn't know was this gruff old man of mine was just as scared as me.

My brother-in-law encouraged me to have some time with Bob the day before he died. He was in a coma, and I just exhaled all my breath and let it flow. I said the things I should have. He was so sedated he shouldn't have been able to move, but he turned his head in my direction. He slowly lifted his right arm, and I grabbed it mid way, and just held on. Then I knew that we had had our new beginning, I knew that he loved me, and I knew that he knew I loved him. That was the last conscious effort he made to communicate.

The next morning I slept in about a half hour later than I should have. I got a call from my niece, and when I asked how he was, she said he was pretty active. Well great, that was a sign that the end was near. I packed some things and rushed to the hospice care facility. I didn't know how long it would be. He was pretty quiet then, but shifting his pillow, and scooting down in bed.

So, I spoke to my brother-in-law. He gave me such a huge sense of relief when he took over the funeral arrangements, or lack of really. I didn't have money at the time, and he paid for the cremation. Bob didn't want a funeral. Bob hadn't died yet, but his brother had to return home. They left around noon. Then it was just Bob and I with death looming in the shadows. I made a couple of phone calls, holding the phone to Bob's ears so his friends in Arizona could say good-bye. He heard them, I know.

Then some time right after the lunch hour, Bob opened his eyes and stared directly at me. His eyes were a milky white which scared me, but I knew it must be part of the process. Hell, I'd handled the black liquids okay, why not this. I grabbed his hand and called for help as he began to take big gulps of air, never taking his eyes off me. He looked sad, scared, unsure of what was next. The nurse listened to his heart and watched the time. I tried to make him comfortable, but grabbed his hand again when he kept following my eyes. Something told me I'd better make this count. He let out this yelp and a sucking sound, and he was still. All I could think of was, this is it. Everything that was us - that's it. I sat down, and I just squeaked out, oh Bob. I did cry, but then I thought, why? He isn't hurting, and he had been in so much horrible pain. So I quit, and I was happy for him. He died three days before Christmas, and that was the beginning of hope for all of us. He had the better end of this deal in my mind. But, I have a horrible, dry sense of humor.

The nurse asked which funeral home to call, and I gave her the brochure. I really didn't know the arrangements for sure. They said I didn't have to wait for this if I didn't want to. I am thinking, why wouldn't I? It's my job as his wife. So I waited until they came. I watched as they rolled him side to side wrapping him in an old blanket or maybe 2. Then they wrapped him in a red velvet wrapping which is, by the way, so as not to disturb the others in hospice care, like they don't know? I was fighting back the urge that I couldn't breath - he hated enclosed spaces. Then I just waited and stared at the floor. I don't know how long. Finally I looked up to find them waiting for me to say it was okay to go. I followed them to the back of the building, watched them load his gurney in the hearse, didn't think they still used them. I'm thinking now, when next I saw him, it was in a medium sized, square, but heavy box. I went home, talked to the dogs and fed them. Then I slept hard and long till the next day.

This memory right here is why I know there will never be anyone else. I will always love my Bob, and I'm good with that. I like being just me. Rest in peace old man. Don't worry about me. I am getting there. Finding my own way. My faith is strong, and God has my back. So, till we meet again, Old Man. I love you. Your, Nancy