As usual, I’ve been writing this off and on for weeks and when I came back to it today it was FIVE PAGES LONG! Cut, delete, prune and paste. I’ll just start and end with this …

My husband and I got together under rather rocky circumstances, both of us on the rebound from painful breakups. We had been co-workers for 3 years at an upscale dining establishment before we took a date, and only then because the two of us were somehow charged with catering an off-site Valentine’s Banquet for Ducks Unlimited. (How we joked about that! Ha!) On our first date he tried to kiss me (I didn’t mind) and when I arrived to work the next day, he was waiting for me in the parking lot – to APOLOGIZE for ‘maybe being a bit forward’. And that’s when I fell in love!

We were married 24 months later, bought a broken-down mobile home on a beautiful corner lot, and got pregnant with our first child within a month. Twenty-four years later we watched as ALS stormed in like a monster, an unwelcome guest, an elephant sitting right in the middle of the house we built two years into our marriage.

We had many heartaches – losing both my parents, his Grandpa, and our sweet baby girl in our first 5 years together. Grief on top of grief on top of grief. And Phil knew me well in my grief! He used to say when times are good, we will work extra hard on our relationship so, when times are bad, we always have each other. Because of that we grew closer over the years of his ALS (he carried so stoically), more in love than ever.

A Kahlil Gibran quote speaks about the need for “Spaces in your togetherness … Let the winds of the heavens dance between you ... Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.” This is us. We loved each other intensely, but also maintained a level of independence (maybe because we’re both introverts). I loved that he respected my need for alone-time after a day of work: “Give your Mum 30 minutes before you bombard her with questions.” (How could you not love this man?)

Phil had always been the greater nurturer, bringing me coffee in bed nearly every morning and frequently delivering food and encouragement to my work in those high-stress seasons. This was his language of love. But as he grew weaker, the tables turned and it was my turn to ferry food and drinks to his side and, as time progressed, help him with even the smallest tasks we all take for granted. He was an undemanding patient, always gracious and grateful. Sometimes he just wanted me beside him to hold hands while watching the news: those 33 miners in Chili miraculously rescued after 69 days, earthquakes in Haiti and Japan, the wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. We watched as Apple co-founder, Steve Jobs died from cancer, commenting on the fact that even he, with all his money, could not escape the inevitable.

We spent more and more time together as his world gradually shrank from the wide outside expanse to the confines of our bedroom, but despite all this he still encouraged our independence. Even as his health was failing and he needed me most, he insisted I accompany my sister for our annual beach trip so I could recharge. He always wanted to take care of us first, even with all he was experiencing himself, and this never changed. “If you stop ‘doing’ just because I'm sick, then this disease will take your life as well as mine.” (How could you not love this man?)

In his last days Phil was quick to say how much he loved us. We told him how much we loved him, how we would always love him, and how blessed we were to have him in our lives. By this point, he was struggling to speak but he looked right in my eyes and said, “Too.” We knew what he meant.

Twelve whole years ago, a Phil-shaped hole was punched into my life. I became half of a couple. A houple. A two-legged participant in a three-legged race. I check the box with a status that cannot apply to me … Widow. “I am still a wife!” I want to shout. I am a woman whose husband has died. He is not "late", he has not "passed", nor is he "lost". (He was never late, and I know where he is.) He is absent but he is not erased. He inhabits our world like a technicolor dream. When I call on him, he makes his presence known and I love him for it. 

Phil is dead, but our relationship lives on. I am grateful for the independent self that we sustained through our years together, that somehow helped me prepare for this. Even without his physical presence … Phil is still Phil. We are still we. I never returned to my ‘old self’ because I am a different person now. I too am not late, passed or lost. I am moving forward. But still … The independence that was nurtured in our marriage has always been, and will always be, indelibly connected to Phil’s love being there for me, a secure base where my flaws and vulnerabilities are shared, soothed and accepted. From which I can confidently head back out into the world. 

As time goes on, so it will be as it has always been on difficult days ... I simply look to our children to find comfort and peace. They have faced these years with indescribable strength, grace, and resilience. Phil lives on through these girls we created together and what joy they bring! I thank him every day for such an incredible gift. 

We are forever reminded of his wisdom: "Dreams do not end when we wake up. They only end when we give up." ... And so, the journey continues. 

xoxooxoxoxo