Home, (bitter) sweet, home

When you open up the curtains,
start answering the phone
Stop driving around for hours
’cause you hate going home
You can talk about it,
even say their name
When you start thinking you’ll survive
even though you’ll never be the same

That’s how you know
That’s how you know
That’s how you know
That’s how you know
-Lori McKenna, That's How You Know


This house is a story of us.

We walked in that front door, noticed the cigarette-stained ceilings, broken steps and chipped paint and foolishly declared it, “perfect!” Nearly. We spent seven years demolishing, rebuilding, painting, repainting, decorating and making a home here. We scoffed at the people we knew who hired out to do what we did ourselves (small consolation for spending date night at Lowe's).

You built the front steps without a plan, at least not one on paper. That’s the way you did most everything. I helped carry nails and hold boards and hand you a drink when you needed a break. (I swear the clam juice was unintentional. It looked like water.) The kids ate watermelon slices, teetering on the frame of the emerging porch, as they learned their dad really could do anything.

In ’04 we transformed the living room into a birthing center to prepare for baby number two. You and Jake filled the tub with as much hot water as our pitiful tank could supply. When I yelled too soon from the top of the stairs, “It’s time!” you used the stove and teapot to supplement the best you could. And when Cole arrived, you kissed my forehead tenderly and said, “You did it baby!” and I said, “WE did it! And we never have to go through that again!” But upstairs is where we forgot all about the sleepless nights and newborn psychosis. It's a good thing we did too, because soon enough, we got Anna.

Remember when Maya called her new friend and asked her to come over for the first time? Her dad got on the phone and asked with all gravity, “Do you have any guns in the house?” That mirror in the living room is where I caught your eye and said, “Guns! Never! But we sure have a lot of drugs!” You stared back at me, appalled, but the couch is where we dissolved into a fit of giggles because, c’mon, that’s funny.

You cleared the driveway and made Maya your assistant when the snows came. In the fall, you blew back the leaves (and the kids) with your fancy leaf blower. They’d shriek and scream and tell you to stop but come back for more a few minutes later. When spring came, we did all we could to loosen the grip of the interminable winter. We made bonfires and roasted marshmallows and you played guitar and taught Cole to putt. I took pictures-those blessed, irrefutable accountings of time.

We made fires inside too, and when I could talk you into it, we laid our mattress to sleep in front of them and planned our future. We dreamed dreams for the kids and talked about how different life would be when we finally had money. But we had everything two people could hope for and most of the time it wasn’t lost on us.

You perfected chocolate chip pancakes when we bought the new gas stove-an expected, highly anticipated event of each weekend. At night we’d gather around the kitchen table to process the day, trading our ‘best and worst’. You’d say, “My worst part of the day was leaving for work and my best part of the day was coming home to you guys”. (Us too)

You’d play hide and seek downstairs, shutting off just enough lights to stay hidden and catch a nap. The piano I swore I’d learned to play, the one you moved more than once, is still here. How could I give it away? The woman who sold it to us gave us a demonstration by playing our song. Now tell me, what are the chances of that?

We logged a lifetime of memories in this house, and each room has the echo of you still. I’ve found comfort in that for almost two years now. Your tools in the workshop. Your clothes in the closet. Your books on the shelf. So how can I say goodbye to this house, to all these memories of you? Perhaps, finally, it's time.

After you died people offered comfort the best they could. They’d say, “It’ll get better. It takes time. You’ll find love again.” This I found to be of little solace. I didn’t want to get better, or move on, and the very thing promised-time moving forward-was the very thing I feared. Moving on without you? No thanks.

The amazing thing about being human though, every bit confounding and comforting, is that we do survive. Against our better judgment, in the face of all evidence to the contrary, we continue to seek purpose and meaning and joy. And time-that frequently merciless tyrant-does indeed lay salve to our wounds and tease our hope forward. And this is what I am clinging to now, a chance to begin again.

We dreamed of a place where our kids could ride their bikes, visit the neighbors and be safe. I wanted the 'pile in' house; sleepovers and basketball games, kids spilling out every which way. This would allow us to keep a pulse on their lives and become a safe haven for whichever hurting friends God led their (our) way. I want that still, Paul.

Kerrie once reminded me, "wherever you go, there you are." I am not so foolish as to think this move will erase my longing for you. I'm fairly certain 5:30 will still find me waiting for your car to pull in. There will be ache and sorrow in leaving behind the story we began here. But there is joy too, and hope in looking ahead. And you'll go with me, won't you?

I have heard that those who've passed are closest to us in our joy. If that's true, I can only assume it's because sorrow and grief are human emotions, quite removed from the reality of heaven. Light can have no part of darkness. Last night I turned the music up and danced some Elaine-style moves in the kitchen. The kids were predictably horrified, which only spurred me on. The funny thing is, I had the distinct feeling you were there with us, watching us sing and groove and laugh, a family tradition from the start. (I even raised my hands, inconspicuously, to let you know I felt you near.)

This is what I want more of in the future. Since I know you'll be with us wherever we go, less tears, more dancing.

Tenzin's Prayer

Amid my late teens and early twenties, when any nod to my own physical appearance incited an immediate internal rant about my weight, I sought the counsel of the food/love guru, Geneen Roth. Many hours I drove the hills and valleys of my Kentucky home and listened to Geneen weave her tales of failed diets, faulty relationships and that ever elusive bag of M&M's. The latter goes a little something like this:

One day a mother, alarmed by her young daughter's increasing waist, decided to set locks on the kitchen cabinets and ban all M&M's (the little girls favorite treat) from their home. The daughter continued to gain weight. Exasperated, the mother called in a professional. The therapists advice? Remove the locks from the cabinets. Take a pillowcase, fill near to overflowing with peanut M&M's, and replenish at the first sign of depletion. When the little girl realized it would not be taken away, the therapist reasoned, she would begin to eat from 'stomach hunger' and nothing else. After two weeks the little girl had lost six pounds.

I spent much of my childhood bobbing and weaving through various tumults, where safety miraged just outside my bedroom window. In the huddled, desperate space of that adolescent pain, I swore someday a different path. Above any other dream I lusted after, grander than the palatial weddings of movie stars, all my heart ever desired was a family of my own. One day, I will have my own family and I will be safe.

I took to marriage the way an impatient swimmer waits for winter's end. I had been training for quite some time, after all. I stopped working and cared for our children. I made dinner and cleaned house. I deferred to Paul on all manner of domesticity: finances, houses and where to eat dinner. In the name of love, I cleaved unto my husband; God bless that wonderful, tolerant man.
And oh how I thrilled to the sight of my hand adorned by my wedding ring! Its very presence broadcast my unquestionable value to the world. Look now! I am loved! I am wanted! I will never be alone again! I corseted love around my chest, unlocked the kitchen cabinets and allowed my candy filled pillowcase to runneth over.

Along the sometimes bumbling path of our marriage, there were moments of such exquisite sweetness, I thrill to remember them now-and it is good to give account to some here, for they made up the majority of our lives together. Sharing sinks in the early morning hours, Saturday morning snuggling. Birthdays and dinners and bottles of wine near the fire. Nursing each other through stomach bugs and weight gain and finding more love with each new push past selfishness. Laughing at almost everything. We both held mightily to the power of humor to dissipate the greatest of tension. "I'm a human blanket!" I would say as I draped my body over his after a fight, and he never refused the olive branch. It simply wasn't Paul's way to stay angry. These ordinary moments were my life's greatest blessings.

Several months ago, my dear friend Wendy gave me a book entitled Tenzin's Deer. As I began to read, I felt a stirring I knew from experience signaled something important. In the kind of unmistakable skin prickle that begs you to Pay Attention I read on. In this story, a tender-hearted Tibetan boy named Tenzin wanders along the woods and finds the wounded tracks of a felled deer. Touched by what he sees, Tenzin begins to care for the animal, eventually renaming her Jampa, "Loving Kindness". Over a series of several nights, Tenzin's dreams become the blueprint to heal Jampa. Under his tender hand, she soon grows well enough to run and play and eat alongside her beloved friend. Eventually, a startling dream came to the young boy. Jampa had been healed and wished to be released. "Please stop praying and holding me close to you. Please let me go."

It is week six of our eight week hospital stay, but I do not know then how long we'll be there. I know only one thing with increasing certainty: Paul is not getting better. On the website we created I write these words: "For almost six weeks now, you have carried the burden of prayer for Paul and for our family. We are so grateful for that love and support. Would you join me now in asking God for a miracle for Paul? My prayer is that God would heal every muscle, organ, infection and injury..." Those desperate words remind me how clear-headed I was: Paul was leaving me.

In the hospital room, the frantic pace had slowed. The inevitable would come. We would wait. In a moment of exhaustion; physical, mental, spiritual exhaustion-I draped his arm over my neck and fell asleep. When I finally woke, I moved close to his ear and uttered what I believed was my duty as the self appointed One Who Loved Him Best: I let him go. "I do not want you to say goodbye. I want you to keep fighting. But Baby, if you can't do it anymore, if your body is too sick to go on, we'll be okay." I promised to take care of our kids. I promised to keep him alive in spirit. I promised to love him forever. "It's okay Baby" I said, many, many times over.

It would be a disingenuous account to paint myself a Tibetan monk who knows the beauty of love and releases it to its full breadth. My truth is simpler and far less sage. All that I dreamed has died. I am struck the petulant child, longing for what she cannot have. But when I am quiet, when that still, small voice rises up to guide me, I remember Tenzin's prayer. I admit my weakness and ask for strength. I ask God to show me how to love as Tenzin loved.

"At the moment he felt his bravest, (Tenzin) began to breathe with Jamba. As she breathed in, he breathed out. His breath deepened, and he felt as if he was now breathing for her, making it easier for her to leave. He said gently, "Go, beloved friend, to the wild. Do not be held by my love. Go bravely and well and clearly know we will meet again. Return to the earth as a gift."

Independance Day

In the days after Paul's death, there were things to be done; some expected and some I had not bargained for. I had begun mental preparations for the funeral days before I had to. I knew which songs he would want; who would facilitate the service, who I wanted to render the eulogies. What I could never prepare for were the small, imperceptible slights that unglued a thinly constructed veneer; the social security office, for instance. I knew I'd be asked for my identification and his certificate of death. I handed them to the woman behind the desk, trembling but resolute. When she began typing and, without looking up, asked, "What was your husband's name?". I finally heard it. "Was", past tense.

I have written here before that what surprised me most is the inequitable quiet of death, the absence of reassurance or comfort. I must rescind that now. Having passed a year's time without him, I can tell you truly there have been suspicions of something more.

This winter I got characteristically stuck in the mud and tried to turn around in a spot grossly unsupportive of mini-vans. This habit had been a running joke in our marriage. One year, on my way to Christmas service, I made a helpless call to AAA. The driver did a horrible job hiding his amusement with me. There was a night out with the girls when my triple A membership rescued me again. A good thing, since my sleeping husband never heard a single frantic call home. So, on this particular day, I was familiar with what to do, only here's the thing: I had left home without my cell phone. The more I tried to back out of the mud, the more stuck I became. Will you believe me when I tell you what happened next? I question myself, even as I write it. In one quick motion, my car seemed to lift up from the mud and be deposited once more onto solid pavement.

Visiting San Diego in April, I spilled out the details of the previous ten months to my dear friend Jules, her Golden Retriever Luna sitting between us. While I petted her dog and cried with Jules, Luna winked right at me. Not a blink, but a legitimate wink, the exact way Paul had, so many times from his hospital room.

After one particularly difficult grief session with my counselor Claire, I hurried home, realizing all the windows downstairs had been left open in the rain. As I closed one window, I saw something that stopped me. There, wedged between two panes of glass, was a dragonfly. The dragonfly, as you may already know, has become for the kids and I, a symbol of transformation. So there I was, in the midst of working through some painful stuff, looking at a trapped dragonfly. With great gentleness, I lowered the window, hoping to set it free. It didn't move. I gingerly blew on it and watched as it took flight. Could I possibly miss the symbolism? I was holding on so tightly to Paul, keeping him trapped. Mired down with pain, I could not set him free. When I called my sister to tell her what I'd seen, she had a different perspective. "Heidi, is the dragonfly you? Do God, and Paul, want to set you free?" This would make for a better story if I told you that was all it took. That, from that revelation on, I began to release my desire to have him back. But there were still months of anguish and arguing ahead before I could begin to let go.

On the Fourth of July, our neighbor "Mr. Paul" came to my kitchen window as I stood washing the dishes. "Honey," he said, "Are you ready?" I hesitated, uncertain. Later that night, the three of us set sail; Mr. Paul, Miss Ali and I. Paul navigated the boat just past the beach where we swim. "We can sit here until 10 at night if you need to, honey. Take as much time as you need" Ali said. After a few minutes and a few words of goodbye, I walked to the back of the boat and released Paul's ashes into the ocean. "I will always love you". I said. He exists in another dimension, but Paul, and our love for him, remains.

I have often viewed life through a spiritual lens. On the night before my childhood dog died, I whispered goodbye and knew it was the last time I'd see him. I cried in fearful foreshadowing the night my brother ended up in the hospital with a bad concussion. Whether it was rubbing my rosary in rote prayer or raising my hands in evangelical vigor, I have always huddled near Him. My one constant was the awareness of God in, and over, the world. How could I miss Him in the months after Paul's death? The answer is clear to me now. The truth is, when we numb ourselves from the pain-when alcohol or food or people or things medicate the place of pain inside us-we numb ourselves to everything else, too. We keep at bay the very things that might bring us forgiveness, joy and peace. We miss the dragonflies.

This summer I walked the beach. I cried, sometimes in deliberate, scheduled ways. I laughed every chance I could. I admitted areas of excess in my life, those convienent escapes from grief. I spent time with strong, sage people, willing to keep company with suffering. I played with my children. I made dinner and fed my friends. I swam.

After his ashes were emptied, Paul and Ali held me, encircling me with all the love two chosen parents could give. Ali whispered words of comfort. Paul added that my Paul would continue to be with us; in the water as we swam, next to us as we gathered quahogs, washing up onto the sands of the beach. As we turned around and headed home, the night sky had tuned into an explosion of pink. We were struck quiet by the sheer beauty of it. A band on a nearby beach began to play. A bonfire burned in the distance. Showy and splendid, so very Paul.

A few years ago, I stumbled upon a lesser known passage of the Bible. It says, "Call to me and I will answer you and show you great and unsearchable things you do not know." In the throes of crisis, as Paul's doctors gathered to discuss with us the considerable obstacles to his recovery, I wondered about that scripture. I imagined praying that line over every doctor gathered that day-how 'unsearchable things' revealed to those collective, capable hands, might change things.

In my future, not too distant, I suspect there will be a reunion between me and the wooden pews of my chilhood. Or perhaps I will meet with God, as I often do, calling out in the early morning sun on His (Her) sea. Perhaps I might glean some unsearchable things as I walk along the beach. Wherever I end up, one thing I am certain. The same God who sends the dragonflies is holding onto my best friend, preparing for me the greatest reunion I could ever imagine. Because Paul was. Because he is...

I Still Miss Someone

Oh, no I never got over those blue eyes
I see them every where
I miss those arms that held me
When all the love was there

I wonder if she's sorry
For leavin' what we'd begun
There's someone for me somewhere
And I still miss someone
-Johnny Cash

This is the hackneyed, banal way our lives (as we knew it) ended.

The loud knocking at the door, the sober faced cop.

"Are you the wife of Paul Dube?"
Me, swallowing, "Yes".
"The Paul Dube running the Granby Road Race today?"
This time I only nod, quiet fear beginning to take root.
"Ma'am, your husband has fallen. You'll need to go to the hospital."
"My God," I said, "is he okay?" And only this, as inadequate reassurance, "Hartford Hospital Ma'am, drive carefully, please."

What kind of mad optimism had me believe that a broken leg-surely all my healthy, athletic husband might have suffered-would lead itself to a revival within our home? That a deft blow of humility would cause a cease fire to the fighting between us? But driving to the hospital, a burgeoning hope had begun in me that God had found a way to intervene on our behalf.

We had been away that weekend, the kids and I, safely ensconced in the arms of my family. This is what I said to my husband, the night before he ran. "When this is over (his hunting for self, his navigating his own way), you'll have some making up to do!" Threatening, ugly. Hurting people hurt people. So waking the next morning, remorseful, what did I want more than anything? To cheer him on at that damn race.

In the name of full disclosure, I'm not the wildly confident sort. I've been in love twice in my life and neither one turned out so well, in the end. Paul had been a big surprise, oddly timed but so welcomed. And having waited impatiently for love to come, I was greedy for his attention, perpetually wanting more. In the beginning of our coupling, when affection was generously offered and given, all was well. But as love cooled some, Paul withdrew, taking with him the security of his promised devotion. I grew frantic, he felt threatened. He retreated, I invaded. And on and on and on it went.

So the morning of that race, after a two hour ride home, teeming with self talk and affirmations, I opted to attend my Y event instead. It was my leaning into independence, constructing some necessary emotional space. "It's time to take care of yourself!" I intoned with conviction.

And herein lies the self-accusation I sit with tonight, one year to the date of that wretched run. What if we had been there? Had we lined the streets, shoulder to shoulder against that encroaching evil, would our light have been enough to save him? As he ran, what would the image of his family have meant? Would the tangible reminder of all he had with us been enough to pull him back? Would we have tamed that irrepressible beast that bullied him to achieve and accomplish and push, at all costs?

Have you heard stories of people, one leg earthbound, one leg in the next place, recount a moment of floating above themselves? How they have listened to conversations they had no natural ability to hear? When I am angry (and yes, I am regularly angry now), I almost hope he was privy to that day in the ER. Pray he saw my face when the doctor told me she wasn't sure how much brain damage he had suffered. I want him to have been present to our kneeling prayers, us four, pleading his case before God. Hope he saw his brother breaking down at each tube that willed decay out of his body and the ones that crammed life back in. A road race? Surely there are more noble ways to die...

When death is hypothetical, every type of romantic idea is entertained. The posthumous arrival of anniversary flowers. Vivid dreams of answered questions. Signs, signs, everywhere! But the reality of death, at least as I've experienced it, is this: death is, above all else, deafeningly silent.

I miss him with a longing I am inept to describe here. I miss his voice. I miss his deep laugh. I miss his touch-the hand on my back, reassuring kind. I miss the 'We'll be down in the minute! We're talking about your Christmas presents!" kind, too. I miss every facet of our lives together. The emptiness he left behind is crushing.

Marriage is the stage upon which we act out our deepest fears. We choose (consciously or unconsciously) a cast of familiar characters who might redeem our childhood hurts. We carry into marriage unspoken expectations and grow weary when the partner we've chosen fails to heal us. Much of what we do, or how we do it, we cannot name at all, prone as we are to numbly stroll through life. The courage it takes to unearth the origin of these feelings and behaviors is treacherous business. Some of us, quite understandably, simply give up. But for those who choose to stay the course, we may find that more than understanding someone else, we finally unpack our own baggage, find our own selves. Only then, when we see clearly the extent of our own frailty and shortcomings, can we view with forgiveness the child of God who is our partner. With forgiveness comes freedom.

Ultimately, we got it right. I put aside who I wanted Paul to be to allow who he was to be enough. For eight weeks in that hospital room, I loved him purely, gratefully accepting what he could give in a way I wasn't able to before. And in return? He did as much as he was able: mouthing "I love you", resting his eyes on me until I turned away from the intensity of his stare. For a man who spent much of his life observing, I am certain he was able to see me through the eyes of ethereal understanding.

It isn't redemption. Eight weeks simply does not suffice. But like everything else, what's given must be accepted and made enough, if we are to survive at all.

Thank you, for Loving Me

It is silly, this waiting for love in a parlor,
when love is singing up and down the alley,
without a collar. -Helene Johnson

I had the chance to walk the beach over Thanksgiving break. The wind was cold and the rain was heavy enough to mat our hair and soak our clothes but like always, I was grateful just to be there. I stood at the edge of the water and breathed deeply with a kind of starry-eyed wonder. I am continually moved by the beauty of it; the microcosms hidden below and the symbiosis of light on sea. To catch a glimpse of this world is profoundly humbling to me. It is good to remember that I am a tiny speck in a very large, very complex creation.

As we walked together along the shore, Cole found a piece of blue sea glass that Maya proclaimed to be 'very rare'. I added that sea glass is actually broken glass that has been smoothed down by the ocean itself. Starting off as discarded trash, the waves of the ocean, the tumbling of sand and sea, create the smooth frosted glass we held in our hands.

Nature is teeming with allegory. Behind every creature and sunset there is a greater truth waiting to be unearthed. The message of the sea glass, for instance. I rolled it in my hand and remembered the girl I used to be before I met Paul. How the hopeful parts of me rose up to meet him; hesitant to believe that this gift was meant for me alone. How his friendship came and eroded some of the sharp edges of doubt and distrust. How loving him changed me and, met with his consistent acceptance and grace, made me softer. Starry-eyed wonder, my falling in love with Paul.

There is a snapshot of the two of us, laboring in the hospital with Maya. I had been delicately advised to visit the bathroom because apparently (and no one thought to tell me this before labor) when you are pushing out a child you might expel other, less dignified, matter. So the picture shows me, on the toilet, and Paul leaning in, our heads together. I remember word for word what he was saying to me, "I'm sorry about my breath. I had onions for lunch". And I looked at him, raggedly incredulous and laughingly muttered, "Paul, I am going to the bathroom. In front of you. I don't care about your breath!" Our marriage conceived an ease I had not experienced before. His love had freed me to be myself with full disclosure of the best and worst of me.

The extensive route his love traveled has left behind an emptiness that continues to cripple me. But the irony is this: were it not for the depth of that love, I could not miss him as I do. The challenge now is to embrace equally the stinging pain of loss and the exquisite gift of love. I had hoped the pain would run its course; now I know suffering and joy must find a civil way to coexist.

As I cried aloud one night this summer over dinner with our good friend Sarah, she asked a question I revisit often. "Heidi, If God had told you in advance that Paul would die when he did, would you have chosen to walk this road with him"? What I answered then is the same answer I would give today. Absolutely. I cannot advocate the type of reckless careening into love which marked my earlier relationships. But I can say assuredly that even safe, just as you are kind of love, requires risk. It takes courage to fully unveil ourselves to another person, but what reward could be greater?

Would I choose it again, knowing what I know now? There's simply no question. Loving him was the best thing I've ever done. I am immeasurably better because he loved me.

Are you there God? It's me, Heidi

I have often heard people recount a moment when they experience God for the first time, or in a new way, and it changes the direction of their lives forever. Certainly I have experienced several significant moments of awakening to His presence. More than one particular moment though, my relationship with God has felt like a continuous unfolding, a kind of treasure map of experiences which ultimately lead me into greater wisdom or empathy or growth. My well-worn prayer has always been: "God, let me not be full of crap" and "Help me to give over everything to you. Don't let me hold anything back". So it stands to follow that I eased comfortably back into His arms in those dark nights of our hospital stay. And I had a steady confidence (not arrogance, but a hopeful expectation) that we would be the recipients of a bona fide miracle. After all, I reasoned, hadn't all I ever learned about God-His favor to those He loves, His power to save them-prepared me for just this moment?

So I prayed. Quietly; in whispers at night. Publicly; in front of doctors and nurses, family and friends. Collectively; with the few allowed to see him, and the hundreds gathered at home. Continuously; not slowing or losing heart when things looked bleak. Passionately; pouring all of my hopes and fears into each plea. Assuredly; knowing who I was praying to and being certain of His ability to rescue us. My faith was, pound for pound, a good deal heavier than the mustard seed, but my mountain wasn't budging.

Desperate is the word that best describes our eight week hospital stay. Brutal is a close second. The mountaintop highs, the desert lows. The 'cautiously optimistic' pronouncement followed soon after by a visit with the Palliative Care Team. The extremes were exhausting, heart wrenching and, it seemed to me, bitterly cruel. But even when I saw the blood and heard the echo of his doctors saying a second GI bleed would surely kill him, I believed a miracle would come.

I asked for signs and looked everywhere for answers. Riding the elevator up from the cafeteria one day, the hospital priest asked how I was doing. "Happy to see a man of God," I said, dodging. "We are all children of God," he said pointedly. And I stopped to take it in, to believe it was true. Because as such, even as Paul's breath became shallow and quickened, I held out a persistent hope that God would intervene.

I have read about devastating loss and suffering and the men and women who continue to lift eyes and voices heavenward. After Paul's death, I had hoped I would follow in their leading. Instead, I find my fists are clenched instead of folded and my prayers seem more accusatory than conversational. I don't doubt God could have saved my husband, it simply breaks my heart that He did not.

I find myself now revisiting those seasons of great faith in my life, holding on desperately to what was so certain then. Through my raging and pain I still seek Him. And maybe that is enough, for now.

Our Father, Who Art in Heaven

I am standing in the hospital room side-by-side with Paul's father, his mother and brother. His Uncle Bob, who has no children of his own save for these adopted sons, keeps vigil with us. We've been called in to say goodbye.

I listen to Glen-his voice breaking and hands clenched-tell Paul how much he loves him. His father paces. His mother weeps and rubs his hands. "Paul, you've been such a good son to me", she says, over and over and over again. And I am thinking, between shock and nausea, how much longer Paul? I need to get home to the kids.

The night he died, I tucked our children into bed and climbed in next to them a few hours later. Paul's mother slept down the hall. Around 10 p.m., the nurses called me back in, "We've increased to three blood pressure medications, at full dosage, what would you like us to do from here?" I got dressed, walked down the hall, and gently woke my mother-in-law. "It's time, Memere" I told her.

In the night, my mother changed shifts with us as we five (six if you count my brother, who set up shop in the waiting room nearby) converged at the hospital one final time. And though I watched every labored breath, took note of every calculated decrease in meds, I never forgot what lay before me when it was over. They would need to be told, and I wanted to be the one to tell them.

Much of it is a blur. The kids were excited to see me still home when they woke. After eight weeks, they had become accustomed to my prolonged absences. I held them close for a bit, slowing the inevitable. And then I began the explanation I'd rehearsed (preventatively, God Forbid) for weeks. "Guys, remember we talked about how sick Dad had gotten? Remember how I told you Daddy's body was working really, really hard to get better? Well...his body just couldn't fight any more". Maya's face, the oldest and most savvy, registering instant horror and disbelief. "He died?" And me, nodding, saying softly, "We're still a family" and trying desperately to believe it.

What we did best, Paul and I, was love our kids together. We supported each others' decisions regarding them or disagreed quietly, separate from their hearing. We stratagized solutions to their particular challenges. We passed knowing looks in wonder of them. We protected them at every turn; our arguments, scary movies, bullies at school, bad news. And then...

Now it is the first day of school and the Dads are driving captain in their minivans and the Moms' cameras are clicking. This is the one day a year Paul cheerfully left late. No matter who it was, what their ages, it broke my heart to see them off to school. He stayed for them but more appropriately, he stayed for me.

And then it is Open House and I am writing a note for Maya to find and remembering how Paul had written last years missive-the sign for I Love You and Love, Dad written below. Now I scribble, "I am so proud of you and Daddy is too" and rush out amid tears.

And then Anna turns five and our friend Howard calls to tell me he's coming over to make her some chocolate chip pancakes. And I am grateful, thankful for him, and yet...

When you lose someone you love, you grieve the many facets of your relationship, the countless roles they played. He was my best friend, my co-parent, the fixer of broken things. He was our provider, the dish washer, bill payer. He was my lover, trash collector, the driver for trips long and short...the list goes on.

Maya, Cole and Anna have lists as well. He was their after-dinner-wrestler, the snowball maker, late night lifter into bed. He was their coach, candy smuggler, gentle teaser, teacher. And then there is the list of what they will miss going forward, too extensive to detail here.

There was speculation in the hospital, as Rhabdomyolosis rendered Paul's body all but immobile, that he wouldn't want to live in a wheelchair. But how can we be sure? Were you to ask Paul on May 2nd for that decision, I believe his answer would be vastly different than it was just two months later. Given the choice between seeing his children grow to become adults, or dying at 33...I believe the fight he showed for eight weeks gave us his answer. He had a lot to live for, and the three of them inspired his fight.

Perspective is a funny thing, in the end.

And now I am faced with the impossible task of doing this alone. And it is both the loss of a father and the loss of their father, that grieves me. Our friend Claire said I had lived with and loved Paul long enough to anticipate his response and 'know his mind' some. And though I would parent without him, I could be sure that Paul's voice-his beliefs and perspective-would stay with me. I pray this is true. His shoes are big. Their loss is bigger.