reinventing sandy, one widow's journey to the other side of grief

8/6/2019 Reinventing Sandy, One Widow's Journey to the Other Side of Grief

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Reinventing Sandy

One Widow's Journey to the Other Side of Grief

© Sandy Clendenen 2011



Chapter One Death Comes Too Quickly

I feel angry and resistant. I want to deny what I know in my heart to be true. I bargain with God, with

the universe, with life. There must be another way.

My pleading words seem to reverberate through some sort of haunting, enveloping empty space.

Helplessness doubles me over in a nauseous heap of pulsating pain.

My husband is dying. How can this be happening? Twenty-one years is not enough time. Please, just

give us more time. But I see his gaunt face and the glazed eyes. I hear his gasping breath through the

drone of the oxygen machine. My husband is dying.

I hear a voice from within my tormented mind. There could be a miracle, it says with a hesitant sense

of optimism.

I acknowledge this fragile optimism and fading hope. Is it wrong to keep hoping for a miracle? Is it

also wrong to want to just let him go? How can I want both of these things? What should I do?

He has been such an optimist. He could always see the good in whatever was happening. But I can’t see

it. I can’t feel it.

I gently slide next to him in the hospital bed, caressing his hair and face. I must acknowledge through

my grieving numbness that the strong rock of my life appears to be transforming into an apparition of

decomposing sandstone, withered and porous.

Sweetie, what should I do? I don’t know if I can go on by myself. I need you. I love you so much. I am

so grateful you have been my husband and partner and friend. When I asked you to marry me. I knew



you would probably die first because of our age difference. But twenty-one years is still not enough..

I find myself remembering picnics and birthday parties and long summer evenings gazing up at the

stars. The memories seem to be flowing between us in a silent conversation of the heart.

As I feel our souls merging in this nether land of unspoken conversation, my inner eye is infused with

more and more images of remembrance. Within this temple of memory I can feel a sort of cosmic

embrace, imbued with comfort and loving protection.

How do I hold on to these very palpable memories as I gaze at this near-lifeless form which seems to

be leaving me breath by breath?

I feel waves of sorrow crash against the fragmenting rock of physicality, releasing grains of life back

into the sea of eternity. Time seems to be advancing relentlessly and falling into the void of

timelessness. It’s as if he and I are sitting on the very edges of what we have shared together, side by

side, and yet isolated from each other by this abyss of transition. I feel we are together, but yet so very

far apart. I feel so empty and yet so full.

In that fragile moment between worlds, I realize I must let go of my grasp on what has been. A feather

light peace encircles us as I let him know that it is okay to go on, that I will be fine. I thank him one

more time for being such a wonderful husband and partner and friend.

My physical senses begin to acknowledge that only his outer shell remains. My soul acknowledges that

he has gone beyond this world of trees and sky and earth and sea. The room is filled with what I can

only describe as a whispering embrace of the most profound love that I have ever experienced. I am

astounded by the sense of peace within me. The peace I desperately sought in miracles of physical

recovery has actually come to me through my tentative and fragile act of letting go.

For some reason I do not feel fragmented and lost in this moment of profound loss. I feel a loving



wholeness which brings gentle tears, along with an open heart of gratitude. In this moment of no time,

between worlds, I seem to feel only gratitude and love.

The hospice nurse arrives and goes about her duties of declaring time of death and disconnecting the

oxygen machine.

As she turns off the oxygen machine whose rhythmic drone has been our constant companion for

months, I am blasted by a silence so piercing it seems to deafen me. Am I the only one experiencing

this intrusive silent clamor? Silence is supposed to be quiet and peaceful. But it’s beating at my ears.

Maybe I am going insane? It doesn’t matter. Maybe insanity will again bring stillness and peace. I can’t

listen and I can’t stop listening to the silence. I am exhausted. The silence paralyzes me. I can do

nothing but yield.

As I sit, overwhelmed by the numbness, my husband’s daughter arrives. Somehow I find myself totally

beyond my grief and supporting and sharing in her grief.

How is this possible? I am falling apart and helping others who are falling apart at the same time.

As the phone calls subside for the evening, I decide to try to get some rest. I have been sleeping on the

couch for nine months. It feels so strange to be here in our bed. And the bed feels so lonely that I really

want to get up and maybe sleep on the floor. I find myself feeling compelled to write a letter to my

husband. Maybe that will be a way to stay connected with him tonight.



Dear Floyd,

Thank you, sweet husband, for being the rock of strength in my life for 21 years full of joy and love,

and happiness and struggles, and frustrations and pain. Our marriage was one of spring and autumn,

of the planting and the harvest, of youth and maturity. But I never really saw that difference in age. I

saw and felt the warmth of your powerfully gentle heart, your strength of integrity, your

resourcefulness. You have taught me a great deal about life and love.

You have taught me a great deal about patience—about waiting for life to unfold and the next step on

the road of life to reveal itself. It takes courage to wait. It takes wisdom to wait.

You lived the seasons of nature. They were so much a part of you that they seemed to flow through your

veins. You just knew what needed to be done next on the farm. No computer, no testing, no calculating

—just listening to Mother Earth.

You lived your life to the fullest. You knew what was important. You could sort the chaff from the grain

of life and transform a seemingly impossible situation into a manageable plan of action.

I will miss you so much, my friend and teacher and lover. Life will never be the same without you. The

world feels and looks immensely different without you. But that’s only when I forget to feel my heart.

Love truly never ends. Life changes and shifts and tosses us around. But love never ends; it only grows

sweeter through the tears and the difficulties.

Rest now, dear husband. I will miss you deeply, but my heart is so full of the life and love we shared

that you will never be far away.

With love,

Sandy



Restless sleep finally engulfs me for a few hours. Months of exhaustion will still not yield to genuine

rest. It’s as if my body has been living on autopilot for these past months. I realize I had become as

vigilant with my husband as a new mother is with her infant. Whenever I heard a sound or movement, I

was up checking on him, listening to his breathing and really trying to assess if he was okay.

reinventing sandy, one widow's journey to the other side of grief

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