I fear that much of what I am about to say will sound cliché. My response to that is, can’t help it; it’s how I feel.
My wife Mary Ellen passed away last week.
She went into the hospital almost three weeks ago for a total knee
replacement. The operation went off perfectly – no complications
whatsoever.
She came home three days later, and I took the next week off of work
to wait on her. The day that she came home, she was walking around with a
walker, and she even climbed the stairs that night to sleep in our bed.
Two days later, she exchanged the walker for a cane. A day after that,
she shed the cane and was walking unassisted. The home health nurse and
the physical therapist who visited the house both were amazed at how
quickly she was progressing. She did all of the exercises that were
prescribed to her faithfully. She and I were both excited by her
progress and by the thoughts of our future together. We talked about
taking long walks every evening once again, as we did twenty years ago.
She couldn’t wait to go back in six weeks and have her other knee replaced.
Then, a week ago, she got out of bed in the morning and felt
nauseous. She laid back down until it subsided. Then she stood up again
and the nausea returned. She also complained about shortness of breath.
So I called the surgeon who had operated on her. He said that it was
probably nothing too serious, but, just to be on the safe side, I should
get her to an emergency room and have her checked out.
So I got her up and moving. She got nauseous and dizzy after a few
moments, and then she sat down at the top of the stairway and passed out
for a few seconds.
I called 911, and the ambulance came and took her to the hospital, and I followed in my car.
When we got to the hospital, I grabbed her hand as they wheeled her
into the place and whispered in her ear, “I love you, My Honey.”
With her eyes closed and her face ashen, she whispered back, “I love you too, My Honey.”
Those were the last words that we ever spoke to each other, and that was the last time I ever saw her alive.
She died from a pulmonary embolism about an hour later. Her heart
stopped, and the doctor revived her three times. The fourth time was
unsuccessful.
My beautiful, amazing wife, the absolute love of my life, my soul-mate, was suddenly gone forever.
I was all alone in the emergency room waiting room when the two
nurses and the social worker came in. I had called all the kids, and
they were en route, except for Kyle in San Diego. The nurses told me
that my wife was in very serious condition and the doctors were doing
all that they could. They were sweet and compassionate, and when they
left, the social worker remained just to hold my hand and attempt to
comfort me.
The next thing that happened was like a scene from a movie. I was
sitting with my head down, worrying and praying that My Honey would be
all right. I heard a sound in the doorway, and I looked up to see three
women in white coming into the waiting room. Two of them were the nurses
that I had seen before. The third one was the doctor. One of the nurses
closed the door behind them as they entered, and I took that as a
terrible sign.
“It’s not good, is it?” I asked weakly, getting to my feet.
The doctor shook her head, took my hand and said, “We did everything
we could. We couldn’t revive her the last time her heart stopped.”
I stared at her for a moment, not comprehending what I had just
heard. Then, when the reality hit me, I my knees buckled. They grabbed
me and set me down in a chair and I just bawled with abandon for the
next twenty minutes.
That is what happened. Those are the facts.
 
And now, enough of the physical. I would like to spend the rest of
this post writing about the REAL essence of a person’s life, the part
that cannot be measured by years or dollars or possessions. I want to
talk about the love that a person leaves behind. And that will be Part
Two of this series.