Molly died last month…… I still have a hard time saying it, but the person who I spent my last 25 years with died last month. This means no more birthdays, no more Thanksgivings, No more Christmases…..means no more anything. I watched a part of me die that night; a part I will never get back.
Molly’s health declined rapidly four months before she passed. I left work and devoted my life to taking care of her. I was fortunate enough to have a very close friend name Elle who works for Mission Hospice. Elle arranged the best palliative care group possible for Molly. She arranged for doctors, nurses, caregivers, physical therapist, etc. My parents even moved in with us to help. Molly had the best care anybody can ask for.
But ultimately I took care of Molly. She was my responsibilty. Hollywood has made a terrible job portraying what a good marriage is. Marriage is not about romance and candlelight dinners, it’s about two people committing to take care of each other. That’s true love. I had a great marriage.
I loved taking care of Molly. It was very hard work as she was weak and could not walk far. The cancer in her lungs was so advanced that she would have painful shortness of breath throughout the night. It would sometimes take me half an hour to get her breathing comfortably just to have the entire process start again an hour later. Toward the end when Molly was so weak that she couldn’t talk, I knew what she needed just by looking in her eyes. Molly’s blue eyes had become even more radiant due to her sudden weight loss. Her eyes told so much.
During those last months, Molly and I talked about of a lot of things. Twenty five years is a long time to be with the same person. We had definitely made our share of mistakes, but those seem so unimportant compared to how much we had done right. We talked about the love we had for each other, and all the adventures we had had. Elle said I was the only person who could console Molly. I loved when she smiled, I loved the sound of her breathing when she slept, her comfort brought me so much pleasure and peace. There are nights now when I look over to the empty side of the bed and imagine her still lying there sleeping and breathing. I miss her smile, I miss the sound of her breathing.
When Molly died on those early hours of morning, I sat with her alone despite repeated pleas from my aunt. I was her husband and I was going to be there until the end. I kissed her head and lips, and said good bye. I promised her that I would take care of her daughters and raise them to be kind, compassionate humans. I sat there and looked at her until they took her away. Then I felt the pain. It was the sharpest pain I have ever experienced in my life. Part of me died there with her. A major chapter of my life was over.
The days immediately before and after Molly’s death brought an unprecedented showing of human kindness. Our story had touched so many people. Support in every form poured from friends, from family, from complete strangers on the street who had heard about us. Some of the kindest notes we received were from children. For most of these children, this was the first time dealing with death. I applaud the parents who not only did not keep their children away, but actually invited mine into their homes. I wish CNN would have this as part of their news flash.
It’s just the three of us now. We miss her a lot, but we are trying to go on. We are lucky to have so many people who care about us. We are lucky to be living where we live. We are lucky to have a loving family. Every day has it’s joys and tears. We know many more sad days are ahead of us, but we also know Molly would want us to be happy eventually.