It was 1967 when they married.  August the 12 ^th , to be exact.  She was a beautiful 20 year old, kind and loving with a heart big enough to encompass everyone she met.  And he was a man who knew how lucky he was.  It was something he never forgot in their almost 53 years of marriage.

They were not blessed with children, but they had each other and that was what truly mattered.  At least it was until the dementia began to rear its ugly head.  He tried to care for her at home, but over time the job . . . no, it wasn’t a job.  It was a labor of love, and that labor became more than he could manage.

She weighed 93 pounds when she was admitted to the nursing home and he made it his mission to change that.  Every day he visited.  Every day he would stay and feed her, making certain she ate.  Making certain she was cared for as if he was her sole provider.

Slowly her physical condition improved.  She gained 20 pounds thanks to his constant care.  But mentally she continued to decline until she no longer knew who he was.  But that didn’t matter.  He still knew her.  And he still loved her beyond words.

Then the pandemic struck.  He was no longer allowed to visit his beloved wife.  He was no longer allowed to be there for her meals, to gently, tenderly encourage her to eat.  It was the only thing he could do for her, and now he couldn’t even do that.

She died just a few weeks ago. They had moved her to a hospital room from the nursing home, making it possible for him to be by her side.  He was holding her when she died, telling her how much her loved her.  He could feel her slowly slip away.  He could feel his angel leaving him . . . and his heart breaking.

The arrangement conference was lengthy but not because he didn’t have the necessary information.  Not because he couldn’t make decisions.  He needed to talk.  He wanted to tell whoever would listen about her . . . about their life together . . . about how much he’d lost.  And he cried.  Oh, how he cried.  Even though she had slowly left him over the last ten years, he could still see her and touch her and tell her how much he loved her.  But not anymore . . . not anymore.

It was a private graveside service.  COVID-19 saw to that, but he really preferred it that way.  They had spent their entire lives together; it wouldn’t have seemed right if a crowd had been there to watch him say good-bye.  He hadn’t wanted to leave during his time with her at the funeral home.  It was difficult to tear himself away from her so they could make the trip to the cemetery.  As long as he could he stood beside the casket, tears streaming down his cheeks as he stroked her face, telling her over and over how much he loved his baby.  At the cemetery the casket was opened again, remaining that way during the service.  When it was over and those few in attendance had started to leave, he wanted just a few more minutes.  One more chance to say good-bye.  One more chance to gently stroke her cheek and tell her he loved her.

We often see husbands burying their wives . . . or wives burying their husbands, but rarely ever do we see someone whose love and devotion are so pure and so amazing in their depth.  He laid bare his soul in his love for her and blessed us by allowing us to see that love.  And he graciously gave me permission to share their story with you.  I don’t know about their early life together; only that she was an excellent seamstress, a real estate agent and a tax preparer.  She enjoyed her yard work and her flowers and her heart was enormous in her love for others.  He knew how lucky he was.  And I have a feeling she felt the same way about him.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

The post Love Beyond Words appeared first on Shackelford Funeral Directors | Blog.