Please be advised, the following story is both beautiful and heart-breaking.  If you have recently suffered the loss of your spouse or significant other, it may be difficult for you to read . . .

His death had not come suddenly, so there was time to prepare—as best one can for losing your soulmate.  They’d tried all the treatments and consulted a multitude of professionals, but without success.  When they realized the inevitable was inevitable, he told her they should stop.  They should enjoy what time they had left, without doctors’ offices and hospitals.  And so they did.  But now that time was drawing to a close.

When he was still up and about she had watched him.  She wanted to remember every little quirk, every habit and mannerism he had.  She wanted to see the twinkle in his eyes and memorize every line and freckle.  There were moments she would caress his face with her hand and stare into his eyes.  He thought she was just being sweet.  But she was storing away the feel of his freshly shaved skin, the strong curve of his jaw, the depth of the eyes looking back at her.

On that particular night, she knew.  She didn’t know how she knew—she just did.  The hospice nurse had come and offered to stay, but she said no.  They’d never had any children.  It had always been just the two of them.  And on this night, she wanted it to be as it had always been.

He was resting comfortably.  As comfortably as one can when preparing to leave one world for another.  The pain medication had done its job and his restlessness had settled into a peaceful stillness.  As she sat beside the hospital bed that now occupied their spare room, she gently stroked his hand . . . thinking . . . wishing . . . hoping for a miracle and one more day.  Knowing that probably would not be the case.

As the night wore on she grew tired of feeling so far away from him, so she gently slipped into the bed, nestling beside him, moving his arm so it encircled her, the way they always slept.  A twin bed would have suited them fine (but she had insisted on at least a queen), and one pillow was all they ever needed.  They had rarely spent a night apart, and that wasn’t just referring to being in different beds in different locations.

All through the night she talked to him, because she believed as every sense failed him, he would still be able to hear her until the very last moment.  She talked about their first date and their first kiss.  She talked to him about their wedding and how his “friends” hid their car (with his dad’s help) so when they came running out of the church they had no place to go.  She talked about the trips they’d made, their first and only house and how they’d agonized over the decision before finally taking the leap of faith.  On and on, throughout the night, she recounted their happiest memories.  And every few minutes she told him how much she loved him, how much she would miss him . . . but that she would be okay. It would be hard, but it was all right for him to go.

She listened to the slow and steady sound of his breathing.  Placing her hand on his chest she felt his heart as it beat beneath her fingers.  She wanted to remember.  She had to remember.  How it felt to lie beside him, how their nights had always been.  She wanted to be able to close her eyes and feel him with her . . . beside her . . . wrapping his arm around her as they drifted off to sleep.

She spent the night there, watching his face, listening as his breathing slowed, the span of time between each breath growing longer.  Each time she waited anxiously, praying for just one more breath, just one more minute.  But as the dawn crept into the darkness, his chest rose and fell once more. And she waited.  And waited.  And then she cried, still nestled beside him.  Still wanting to remember.  Still so afraid she would forget.

Several years had passed since she shared the details of that night with me.  I saw her not long ago and we took some time to visit.  When the opportunity presented itself I asked if she could still remember.  I didn’t specify what because I knew she would understand.  She smiled and slowly nodded.  There were some days it was harder and she would have to focus more.  But she could still see his face when she closed her eyes, every line and every freckle.  She could still feel his freshly shaved skin and the firm curve of his jaw.  She could still see his soul as she looked into his eyes, and she could still remember the sound of his breathing as he slept . . . the beating of his heart beneath her hand . . . the peace that was hers when they were together.  And then, before I could ask if I might tell her story, she asked me if I would . . . because she knew there are so many others who, just like her, want so desperately to remember.  There are those who need to know they aren’t alone, even though it may feel like it when night falls and the world grows quiet.

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.

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