lcoxwell

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for sharing your story. Reading this breaks my heart, for you and for all that you have lost. It is gut wrenching, reliving those last moments, but I hope you are finding, as did I, that there is something therapeutic about putting our stories in writing and sharing them with others. ^^^ For the last several years of my Kenneth's life, he was in and out of the ICU, often due to being in and out of a comatose state. This brought back memories of all the times he had to be restrained, and even though he was unable to open his eyes or respond, even when he was intubated and agitated, he would always settle down, when I held his hand and spoke to him. It truly saddened me to see him retrained, like that. I am sorry you had to watch your Brooks go through it, too. ((((Sweet Lady))))

Welcome, Deedee. There truly are no words, but I want you to know that this community of people is made up of some of the best people you will ever find anywhere. Please, come here as often as you need to, post when you need, read when you need, and take comfort and support from knowing that there will always be someone here to listen. Eat when you can, sleep when you can, and be gentle with yourself. If all else fails, just breathe. ((((Hugs))))

What a beautiful picture! Amazing how the tears can be triggered by things we don't even realize we're thinking about, isn't it? After my Kenneth died, I had taken to going tthrough the Burger King drive thru for one of their Hershey pies, from time to time. It seemed like every single time I went through that drive thru, I would end up crying. It was so odd to me, because I rarely ever went through there when Kenneth was alive. Then, one day, I realized that it was the music I was listening to, as I was waiting for my food, that kept triggering the tears. At the the time, nearly all the music I had was music we had listened to, while driving 1-1/2 to 2 hours (one way) for medical treatments, or that I had listened to, while sitting with him in the hospital all those hours. ((((Hugs))))

I was going through some of my old posts on YWBB, and I came across this one that I wrote at about 2-1/2 months out. Thought I would share it here, as well, especially since I have a whole new reason for admiration, given how this community has pulled together and supported each other in this past week. I just wanted to take a moment to say that I admire you all so much and to thank you for helping me to keep breathing through this grieving process. I am still a newbie at this, and I don't know what I would have done without you. For those of you farther into this journey than I am, I appreciate so much the advice that you have passed on and the sharing of your thoughts, struggles, and successes. It helps to know others who have learned to keep swimming, even when the waves come crashing down on your heads. On those really bad days, I can read some of your amusing dating stories, and it lifts my spirits, even for a few minutes, or a post on the more positive threads reminds me that even on the darkest of days, there are still a few good things in life. You all give me hope that it won't always be this bad, while still reminding me that the bad days will come, too, so be gentle with myself when they do. For those of you on similar timelines as I am, I am thankful for your willingness to open up and share your experiences, too. Some days, I am so lost, but I can read one of your posts, and it is like you have reached into my mind and expressed my feelings so much better than I could have. I am sorry we all have to be here in this place, and that we have had to suffer this great loss; but I am thankful for all you have done for me, whether you realized it or not. Your strength is amazing, and I am in awe.

Thank you, Stargazer. I am sorry for all that you, I, and everyone else, who is here, has had to endure. I cannot explain why I felt the need to share Kenneth's final days, as I have, but I hope that by sharing, it somehow honored him and his memory.

^^^^Thank you for writing this. I really cannot even begin to tell you what a precious gift it is, to know that we had the chance to say all that needed to be said.

This was beautifully worded. I, too, feel like I was given an incredible gift by being there through those final days.

Sending good thoughts your way. I know that having a job with those hours will certainly make it easier for you, as a solo parent. Good luck!

I have to admit, I am a natural-born flirt. Like Mac, I have some confidence in that area. Being short, petite, and Southern born and raised certainly makes flirting easier for me, than it might be for some people. Having mostly guy friends throughout my entire formative years also helps. As a general rule, I think I am able to read the signs and know when a man is interested in me, and to pick up on when he is flirting. My problem is that, often times, people think I am flirting, when I am not. I'm not going to lie, that has gotten me into hot water, a time or two.

I want to join the others in welcoming you. I am also glad you came out of the shadows. I am so sorry that you were treated as a stranger, after the loss of your love. It sucks! Everything about this sucks, but all the emotions you describe feeling are emotions that many of us here have expressed, at one point or another. Please post as often as you need to. I am sure there will always be someone here, who will understand.

A student came to me this morning wanting to talk. Without sharing confidential information, he had a really bad night and a difficult morning. I offered to contact his other teachers to get his assignments and allowed him to just stay in my room, for today.

Thank you for sharing this. I can relate to so much of what she described. Being a long-term, extreme caregiver is exhausting on so many levels, both physically and emotionally. I, too, remember living from one test result to another, looking for any hope of a treatment that would keep my Kenneth with me, just a bit longer. I also remember the feelings of despair, each time the doctors and medical professionals told me there really wasn't any hope. I remember the heartache, when his cardiologist told me there was no hope, that he was nearing the end, and that it was sad, really, that they were having to take him piece by piece (Kenneth had multiple amputations). I remember the sadness, when I was informed that he needed a kidney transplant, but that he wasn't a candidate, due to all of his other medical conditions and the fact that he was a smoker. I remember watching him fade away, a little more each year. I remember being so sure, during those final three years, that he would not make it to the next year, but there had always been a little bit of hope, because he kept hanging on. About three weeks before he died, I took him in for dialysis. I knew in my heart that he was truly dying at that point, that we had nearly run out of miracles. He was in bad shape at that point. Three of the four workers at the dialysis center that day spoke with me privately, and they all three told me that he death was imminent. Two weeks after that, he decided he was done with dialysis and done with hospitals and done with doctors. That emotional roller coaster still plays through my mind on a regular basis. All the ups and downs, FOR YEARS, are on what seems to be a permanent playback loop in my head.

Thinking of you, as you go through the inquest today, sending positive thoughts, and big, big cyber hugs. You can do this. I know it will be hard, but you will make it through. Just remember to breath and take one step at a time.

As I have said so many times before, thank you all for the support and for helping me to make it through these last few days. I have wanted to make this post about my Kenneth's final day, all day long, but have been struggling to find the right words. I am not sure that I will be able to express this as clearly as I would like, but here goes.... One year ago today, after being up nearly all night long, due to the need to watch him and to take care of him up to the very last minute, as well as the fear of closing my eyes and not being "present" at the moment he took his very last breath, I finally drifted off to sleep in the wee hours of the morning. I think I really just collapsed from shear exhaustion, in all honesty. About an hour or so later, I woke up once more. It was around 5:30 or 6:00 am, when I opened my eyes. Thankfully, he was still breathing those slow, shallow breaths, that only those in a deep sleep or comatose state breathe. I remember feeling such relief that he was still there, but there was also a part of me that knew, KNEW, that it was only a matter of time, and he would be gone. I knew he would not make it through the day, and suspected he only had a few hours, or maybe minutes, left. Much of my struggle from the night before, of when and how to give him permission to move on, was still there. I don't know if it was the prayers of my dear friend the night before, if it was the many hours of prayer I had personally prayed throughout the night, or if it was the realization that he had suffered long enough, but there was a bit of resolve that I needed to somehow find the courage and the strength to tell him he could let go. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't just tell him it was alright to die. I couldn't tell him he it was time. For about an hour, I tried to will the words to come out of my mouth, but I just couldn't say them. What I could do, though, was to lie down next to him on the bed, to put my head on his shoulder, to place my hand on his heart, and to tell him through my tears that I would be okay. It hurt like hell, and I am not sure I really believed it, but I knew he needed to hear it. After spending a few minutes lying next to him, just feeling his warmth next to mine and watching him, I went to tell our two youngest, "The Boy" and "Nutmeg" (as my Kenneth called them), as well Nutmeg's fiance, all three of whom had stayed up throughout the night and helped me keep "The Death Watch", that it wouldn't be much longer. Then, I returned to sit by his side and pulled out the laptop, so I could write lesson plans for the sub, and so I could contact my son's school to let them know he wouldn't be in school that day. As I was constructing the email for my son's school, I was listening to Kenneth's every breath, acutely aware of every single one that entered his lungs. At some point, I noticed the breaths were coming just a bit slower. I listened to one breath, then the next, then I heard a little "catch" in his breath - a small, minute sound, but that sound spoke volumes - and then, there was nothing, just complete silence. I looked over at him, holding my own breath, willing him to take the next breath, but there was nothing, just utter silence, and I knew that he was gone. I looked up at the clock. It was 7:41 am. My first thought was to lie down beside him once more, and to tell him, yet again, that I would be alright and to tell him I loved him. I also thanked him for loving me and my kids and for giving us a good life. My second thought was that I wasn't ready. I had known for years that that moment was going to come, and I thought I had made peace with it. I had spent a week, waiting for that moment, saying my goodbyes, telling him I loved him. I thought I was ready to let him go, but at that moment, my thought was, "I am not ready. I still need you." I guess, no matter how prepared we think we are, we are never truly ready for that moment, when we lose the most important person in our lives, whom we have loved so completely. I remember noticing, somewhere in the back of my mind, that it had been less than an hour, since I had told him I would be okay. It was the words he had been waiting for, the words he needed to hear, and once those words were spoken and he had permission to move on, he finally stopped fighting to stay alive. I also remember going into the other room to tell the kids that Kenneth was gone and calling home hospice to tell them he had died. They came in, took care of Kenneth's body, and made arrangements for the funeral home to come pick him up. We were given a few hours to sit with him, before they had to take his body away. My son, who is our quiet, stoic, sensitive one, stayed in his room with the door closed. He couldn't bring himself to come in and sit with his dad or us. He couldn't share his pain, so we left him alone and gave him the time he needed. My daughter, on the other hand, who had wanted so badly to have her dad at her wedding, to give her away, and to be a part of the ceremony, decided that he had to be a part of her special day, somehow. So, while we sat there, waiting for them to come take him away, we planned the wedding. She and I sat on the bed beside him, talking about all those little details that go into the planning of a wedding and sharing memories of him. We laughed, we cried, we mourned. Those few short hours passed so quickly, but I shall always cherish the time spent with my daughter, planning her wedding and talking about him, as we kept our vigil by his side.

I have to admit, this made me smile, just a bit.

Dear, sweet Baylee, this is just beautiful. Thank you for sharing this memory with us. I wish I had better words, words of comfort or support, but right now, I just don't. You are in my thoughts, though, and I am sending you tight, tight, cyber hugs.

I am so sorry for your loss and that you have had to join us. I would echo what so many of the others have said. Everyone grieves differently, but that's okay. You don't have to feel bad about not crying. You may very well still be in shock. For me, personally, I have found times, when I thought I should cry, that I didn't. Then there were other times, when it made absolutely no sense at all, and I would suddenly find myself in major meltdown mode, with tears flowing. Give it time, and I am sure the tears will come.

Welcome! I am so very sorry for your loss, and that you have had to join us. This group of people have been my lifeline and have given me so much support and strength. I hope that being here among these wonderful people will be as healing for you, as it has been for me. In my early days, some of the best advice given to me was to be gentle with myself, to eat when I could, to drink plenty of water, and to just breathe. I thought the breathing part was ridiculous advice, at first, but at one year out today, that has become some of the most valuable advice anyone has given me.

My goals: 1) Attempt to sleep more than 1.4 hours at a time. 2) Schedule a physical, since I haven't had one in more than 10 years. 3) Exercise at least 3 times a week.

I agree with Jen, and in honor of this accomplishment thread, let me be the first to list my accomplishments for today. Today was the one year anniversary of my Kenneth's death. I went to work, I managed not to cry in front of my students, I went by his grave, I fed the dogs, and I cooked dinner for "the boy" (who is now 19, but will be forever dubbed "the boy", because that's what Kenneth always called him). I also managed to put on clean clothes this morning, to comb my hair, and to brush my teeth. Go me! ;D

and I just feel numb. I don't know if it is shock, or the fact that I have been sick for the last few days, but today, I just feel numb. I am in utter disbelief that I could have made it an entire year without my Kenneth. Here I am, though, so very numb. Maybe it will sink in, in a day or two, and I won't feel this way. Maybe it will hit me, when I finally slow down enough to head toward the bed. I promised my New Guy I would take care of myself and get rest tonight, so I will have to go into that room, where my Kenneth died, and lie down on that bed, where he drew his last breath, in a little while. I had wanted to write something heartfelt and profound to mark the one year anniversary, but I am too sick and tired tonight. Maybe, in a day or two, I will find the words that I wanted to share. I might make that my first official new topic in the "Beyond the First Year" section. In the meantime, I will include my comments about his final day on my other thread about his last week. It seems fitting to put it there.

I reached the one year anniversary today, and I went into work. My teaching assistant was MIA today (of all days), and I was not only grieving, but sick. I tried to be a good teacher today, really I did, but by the end of the day, I was just done. When my students came in for the final period of the day, I told them honestly I was having a bad day and that all I wanted was for them to just give me quiet and to stay in their seats. After spending about ten minutes reading aloud to them, I told them that they could pull out the Chromebooks and play cool math games for the remainder of the period. I didn't even bother to try to teach. I did, however, give extra credit for making good choices to those who opted to work on homework or missing assignments instead.

I have been debating all day, on whether to post a comment here, or not. Somehow, I just could not find the exact words to express what I was thinking. This, however, exactly expresses my thoughts. It is like you reached into my mind and took what I was thinking and wrote it down, just how I wanted to say it. Thank you for wording this so eloquently!

As a widow, who just hit the one year anniversary today, I dearly hope that you all will continue to be a part of this community. I have often taken comfort from the wisdom of veteran widow(er)s. Your willingness to share your stories and your experiences has often given me hope, when I needed it, and allowed me to feel that I wasn't a complete lunatic, when I thought my world had fallen apart and no one could possibly understand. I realize that time moves on, and that some of you may no longer feel the need to post often, but when you do, there are some of us, who are truly listening and holding onto your words, like a lifeline.

I might not have received your message, but I am very touched that you were thinking of me and willing to take that much time to type one out.