this is the time

It has been a long week.
Gray skies all day everyday.
Rain, intermittent, everyday. 
Yesterday it was 32-36, just right for sleet, ice, yuck.
The upside today was that the temperature climbed to the mid 50's.
I thought that the weather was a huge contributor to this afternoon's teary-ness and weariness. 
Today at 5:45pm Sarah and I were getting out of the car to go into the drug store to pick up a couple of prescriptions.
I said "I don't why, but my heart hurts. It feels like it has a knife sticking out of it."
She said something about it being Friday.
I had not thought about it being "the day" of the week.
I had not been thinking about the time of day it was.
But my body knew.

Fourteen weeks ago at that time I was having my last conversation with my husband.
Within the time I was in the pharmacy and we got home, a few minutes after six,
I had heard his voice for the last time.
I had watched his arms move for the last time.
I had listened to four labored breaths and one shallow one.
I had seen his last tear.
I had pounded his chest and said "stay with me".
I had pushed the call button and explained to the nurse what I had seen and heard in a few short seconds.
I had heard "code".
I had seen a flurry of doctors and nurses race into his room.
I had heard the things that go on when there is a code.
I had gone to the hallway and began to pray,
knowing in my heart that he was already home.
Thinking "I could be wrong".
Hoping I was wrong.
Praying that I would be able to honor God, 
regardless of the outcome.
I had asked for a pillow so I could kneel as I prayed.
I had heard a nurse say "shut the door"
and I had seen the look on her face as she said it.

I sat in the car for about fifteen minutes after we got home and cried and screamed and listened as animal-like sounds came from deep inside.
I came inside and watched the clock move-
this is the time I listened as nurses came out at various times and said "they are still working on him, that is a good thing."
This is the time our family doctor came out with tears in his eyes and told me they had tried all they could and they could not bring him back.
This the time our family doctor sat with his arm around me and asked me what I was going to do, what I was going to say to the kids.
This is the time he sat with me. Just sat with me.
This is the time I called the kids to tell them their daddy went home to be with Jesus and had to repeat my words to them.
This is the time I heard my girls cry and my son cry out "what?, no, no, no..."
This is the time I had to call Bill's mom.
This is the time I called his brother.
This is the time I saw Daniel and Caitlin coming down the hall to visit and I had to tell them he was gone.
This is the time Andrew and Bre made it to the hospital.
This is the time I was keeping a watch on social media, via friends and family, so that Deborah would not find out that way.
This is the time we had to remove some posts.
This is the time we temporarily shut down Bill's Facebook page.
And mine.
This is the time Ruth turned her Facebook account on to watch for posts that needed to be removed.
This is the time I sat in disbelief, angry that people had posted things.
Fourteen weeks ago at the time I am writing this blog, I was talking to the coroner about an autopsy.
In between all of that stuff my family doctor ran interference and made all of the arrangements that needed to be made.
This is the time my friend Karen and her husband and a couple other friends came to the hospital.
This is the time I was waiting on Ruth and Kyle to get to the hospital-she wanted to see her daddy before they took him.
This is the time I went in and kissed his cooling face for the last time.
This is the time I told one of the male nurses that I wanted Bill's wedding ring. I did not want it going to Frankfort.
It is almost the time we left the hospital.
It is almost the time I walked into my home, without my husband, but with all of his stuff-things he will never need again. Clothes. His watch. His glasses. His work bag.
It is two hours away from the time the girls finally got to talk to Deborah. In Siberia.

How I miss him.
I have reached for him.
I have wished for more time.
I have wished for more snuggles.
I have wished for conversations with him.
I have wished for a warm, returned kiss.
I have wished to hear "I love you" from his lips.
I have wished for him to be sitting beside me holding my hand.
I have wished for a hug from him.
I have wished for him to be coming home late from work.
I have wished for him to put up the tree.
I have wished for him to be here and see the remodeling project.
I have wished that my kids still had their dad.
I have wished my grand children still had their grandpa.
I have wished that this was just a nightmare and that I would wake up and it wouldn't be real.

I have been thankful for my blogging.
It allows me to express things I cannot I talk about.
When the ugly cry starts I can keep typing,
but when when I am talking, 
my throat gets tight and the words get strangled.

I type more than I can say.

But I cannot type 
all that I think,
all that I feel,
all that I want,
it would be too raw.

This is the time I cling to living by what I know to be True rather than by my emotions.