Reflections at Sunrise
By Sandra Dorsett
Copyright 2010 Sandra Dorsett
Smashwords Edition, License notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Discover other titles by Sandra Dorsett at
http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/dragonflywings
Dedicated to the memory of my first husband
Chuck Davis
Reflections at Sunrise
A Memoir
February 25, 2005 - Sunrise
I wake suddenly, thinking it was all just a dream. I do that often now. As usual, there's a moment of panic, but it soon ebbs. I lay quiet and still, trying to think of a reason to get up.
I turn, place my hand on Chuck's pillow and a heartbreaking sorrow comes for me. I take a deep breath and push out a sob. I see the old black alarm clock on the table beside our bed. I never imagined I'd miss the irritating buzz at the crack of dawn. But I do.
How I miss the alarm's snooze; it was my best friend on chilly mornings. I'd doze peacefully through slivers of an hour until Chuck grumbled and ran his hand gently over my hip; a syllable from the quiet language we'd created over many years.
Suddenly the phrase comes up through the shadows of my bedroom and punishes me with brutal reality. "Widow," it whispers.
I don't sleep well. I toss and turn and have wild dreams. I have medication for that, but I take it randomly. I'm afraid of being unplugged.
This Valentine's Day was really hard. Years ago Chuck brought home heart-shaped boxes of luscious candy and a beautiful card he always inscribed with a love note. Over time I found that the candy went straight to my ample birthing hips. And so, about ten years ago, I kindly asked Chuck to stop bringing the candy, because I have absolutely no will power when it comes to food of any type. Since then Chuck gave me a stuffed bear on each Valentine's Day. All nine of them are sitting on my bedroom sill.
I can't watch any of our favorite shows. I'm cunningly evasive and find all sorts of reasons not to. But in the deepest part of my heart I know I'm doing it deliberately.
In the waking hours I miss him most around dusk, when Chuck would come home from work and we'd drive to the stables and tend our horses.
On Friday nights we'd stop at the video shop and Subway for sandwiches and then rush home to watch our favorite shows. It was our version of date night; not particularly romantic, but they were nights filled with contentment. One of us always had to wake the other, because we'd fallen asleep during the movie we rented. He turned off the lights and locked up, while I tottered off to bed. It was a blessed ritual then; a bittersweet memory now.
In fair weather we spent our Saturdays with our horses, or with our kids, or in the yard. Rainy days were strictly reserved for watching old movies. After thirty-three years of marriage, and raising our children, our life had settled into a comfortable routine that fitted together like tattered puzzle pieces.
They found the cancer in November of 2003 after a routine medical exam for a work assignment in Brazil. One minute we were packing for an exotic adventure in Rio, and the next we were seeing cancer specialists and consulting with surgeons.
In those early weeks it seemed oddly like the story of Alice in her Wonderland behind the looking glass. Our dark hole was through glass hospital doors that swooshed open to let us in as we held each other, fighting unspoken fear and uncertainty. Our Wonderland characters were cloaked in white coats with clipboards and sharp scalpels and nurses with bags of poison to kill the cancer that was killing Chuck.
The oncologist was kind. The nurses were compassionate. But we were unprepared for the quality of life speech. We heard: metastasis and stage-four lung cancer, but I don't think it really hit home until months later when the veil of denial was so cruelly ripped away. I heard six months to two years, and thought surely they have us confused with someone else. This can't be happening to us.
But it was.
Chuck underwent brain surgery on December 17, 2003. The surgeon removed five tumors. Radiation followed in January. Chuck was determined to be home for Christmas that year. And he was. It was our last real Christmas together.
My Chuck was a rock. His only concern, even then, was for his family. The years we would spend together in old age became a fleeting hope in the long months that stretched into that following year. Chuck became frail and weakened by the harsh chemotherapy, but his spirit and his will to live was strong. The glow in his eyes never dimmed.
He didn't complain and his smile remained kind. He was without bitterness he might've thrashed upon the world and God and us. He always had a kind word for his doctors and nurses, and I'm sure any one of them would say the world is a lesser place without Chuck. His faith was simple … as a child's.
Birthdays and holidays were never so special than in 2004. Our lives were measured by medications, doctor visits and test results. I learned to live one day at a time that year, thankful to see a birthday or holiday come and still have Chuck with us to celebrate. By the end of October I began to watch for death around every corner.
We had one last Thanksgiving and then early on December 18, 2004, three weeks past his last chemotherapy series; Chuck took a turn for the worse. It was bitterly cold that morning when Chuck woke me to say he was in great pain. His breathing was labored and his color was off. I called Chuck's doctor and I was advised to call an ambulance immediately. I wrapped Chuck against the cold and we were rushed to the hospital with sirens blaring.
Four days later we were back home and in the cradling arms of hospice. In those last hours of Chuck's life I prayed for God to take me too. To remain in this life without Chuck was unthinkable and unbearable.
But God did not answer that prayer. He answered another. Chuck slipped peacefully away in the wee hours on December 27, 2004.
I'd fallen asleep on my little cot beside his hospital bed in our room; where my children and I had pinned hundreds of family photos around the room. There were photos of our boys as babies, young men and as adults. There were photos of our granddaughters and of us as a family. There were photos of his parents, photos of Chuck as a boy growing up in Arizona. There were photos of his sister; photos that told the story of a life.
Nearby I had the dark towels the hospice nurse advised I keep handy. It was explained to me that lung cancer patients often expel massive amounts of blood at the end. Our son, Scott and his wife, Melissa, were asleep in the next room. Our little granddaughter was with friends.
I woke on that bitterly cold December morning to an odd sound. It took mere seconds before I realized what it was; the oxygen hiss had an uneven, patchy sound; like a heart beat out of rhythm. Chuck had stopped breathing.
In death Chuck's face was void of suffering and pain. His brow was not puckered and his lips were curved serenely. There was no blood. Only Chuck, finally at peace. I don't know if angels with gossamer wings came for Chuck and carried his soul to Heaven, or if there was a tunnel of brilliant light where Jesus waited with perfect love. I do know death took Chuck gently.
I wish not to imagine how hard it will be to plow through life without my Chuck. I become weary when I think of all the years that stretch beyond this day. I feel lost knowing our littlest granddaughters will lose all recollection of their papaw, except for the memories we keep alive for them. I do not grieve alone. Chuck left a great big hole in many lives. I know for me it will never be filled. The ache in my heart may ease, but I doubt it will ever completely heal.
I miss my husband. I miss his companionship. I miss his voice and the tender, passionate way he still loved me after all these years. I miss his exquisite patience in all ways. He even overlooked my menopausal ravings. I miss cuddling next to him and I miss hearing him say good-night and kissing my ear exactly three times. I miss his hand gently on my hip. In his arms I felt safe against the world, and I miss that most of all.
I feel the pain rising in me now. Soon it will become bigger than me and I'll cry as I've never cried before in my life. It will leave me drained and shaking. Sorrow comes like a thief with a suffocating blanket and tries to smother me. And just when I think it will carry me away to a dark, cold place, the heartache fades and I can breathe again. It never ceases to amaze me; those sudden bouts with grief. I call out to Chuck and beg him to come home. But then I realize … he is home.
I wish we could've grown old together. I miss our date nights. I miss seeing him pull into our drive in his blue truck. I miss seeing him in his favorite red cowboy shirt and his tan boots. I miss seeing the love in his eyes. I miss him. I know that missing him may become a shadow in my heart, but it will never stop.
I've kept a few of Chuck's clothes where the smell of him lingers. Every now and then I slip into my closet, close my eyes and bury my face into his favorite shirt. I have all his favorites; his golf clubs, his slippers, the white hankies I gave him one birthday where I embroidered a "C" into the corner … his pillow beside me now. I have his wallet safely tucked away along with his watch and his reading glasses.
In a way our life together in that last year was a blessing. We were able to put our house in order and heal all relationships. There was nothing left unsaid. No burden of guilt to carry beyond death. For that I'm grateful, but it comes at a high cost.
Although I have a tremendous support system and a loving family to lean on, I know the hardest work will be accomplished alone. I muddle through the days and try to find my new place in the world and pray someday life will feel normal again. I'll have to find a new definition for the word.
Chuck would want me to live the best life I can; to pick up the pieces and move on. He would expect me to find joy in each new day, because it was his belief that even on the worst days there is always some joy … no matter how small the measure.
As I stumble into this morning I wait for my mind to stop spinning and wrap around something real to push me onward. After a little while, I'm reminded of the promise I made to Chuck before he died and it sets me into motion. There is a degree of comfort in that reminder and also in the promise, and I know my husband's great love has survived even death.
###
Thank you for purchasing this memoir. If you have recently lost someone, or if you and your family are struggling through a terminal illness, I do so hope these words have given you comfort. The original draft, written on a piece of notebook paper in the wee hours on that February morning, is tattered and tear-stained. I keep that first draft well-preserved and cherished along with my other treasures. I still cry every time I read it. It's been six years since Chuck passed away. His memory is a deep shadow in my heart and always will be. Chuck lives on in our children and grandchildren. We display pictures of him and remind our littlest granddaughters who papaw is and how he's a guardian angel looking out for them.
I cherish the bond Chuck and I shared during that last year and I always will. I have to believe there is a greater purpose in all life events, even the unbearable ones.
Kind regards,
Sandra Dorsett