May 5, 2025

Grief can reveal the difference between what is true and "the truth."

​

I think it is a universal experience to go thru bursts of grief in all the "firsts" during the year after your beloved dies. And if you've followed my journey you know that for the last three weeks I've been experiencing an intense season of re-walking the period of Shelby's final illness, but this time I am processing my own pain and trauma that I had deferred while focusing on him.

​

I've got three months of this to make it through, so I've paused all "work," including teaching my beloved Bible class. I've leaned into visits with family and friends and time spent spinning, crafting, and dancing. I have started a new weaving project. I've signed up for more dance classes.

​

But there has been pain there too. While most of the time we hear our internal narrative of what is true, grief pushes us beyond our customary narrative. It tugs the curtain back to reveal "the truth" behind that narrative. Grief forces complete honesty as it drives you to your knees.

​

Here's one I hit last night--

THE NARRATIVE THAT IS TRUE: I love the social dances and dance my tootsies off every time. I go home smiling.

​

THE DEEPER TRUTH IS: During the moments a song starts, as the men are inviting partners to dance, I am triggered with old humiliations of always being the one not chosen for teams. (I don't blame them. I can't run, hit, catch, kick, or throw.) I struggle with my impulse as an introvert to run and hide.

​

As silly as this may seem, the fact is that this is indeed a trigger for me. Normally I can overcome it because of the joy of the dance. I know, in my head, I am dancing far more than a single woman might expect. But my heart does not have the bandwidth right now to cope with the feelings these triggers bring.

​

Here's another one from last night:

​

THE NARRATIVE THAT IS TRUE: The men are kind, take turns asking all the single ladies to dance and take my missteps with humor and grace.

​

THE DEEPER TRUTH IS: I am spending social capital. I know I am one of the worst dancers in the room because I simply don't know enough steps to enough dances yet. Even for the steps I do know, I sometimes have trouble recognizing the lead or remembering quickly enough what I'm supposed to do. And I don't want this--for me or for them.

​

I now know how the socials work, what I need to know to participate well, and that I do indeed enjoy them. And I don't want to waste my social capital. I want to be more proficient and dance with more confidence and joy.

​

I realized last night that I need to stop going to the socials for now, partly because my grief is too great to give me the buoyancy I need to withstand the feelings that are triggered and partly so I can spend the bandwidth I do have on what is more important right now--learning the steps. I need to focus on classes right now. And on rest and solitude. That too.

​

This is the truth. And it brings its own little sting of grief and narrative of failure. But I know enough now to know that in addition to our narratives that are true, we also listen to narratives that are NOT true. And this narrative of failure is not true. I am not a failure. I am simply a human, struggling through a particularly difficult season of my life, and making choices to protect what is left of my shredded heart.

May 14, 2025

Starting a new weaving project. Comfort activity.

​

I am paying attention to my need for comfort in this fresh season of grief. It started mid-April and will likely continue through August. I have paused all commitments and even some activities that normally give me pleasure. I check with my heart. I check with my soul. Do you WANT to do this? Do you have the emotional resources to do this?

​

Such an odd season for me. I feel like a stranger in a strange land.

​

Yesterday was the day (last year) when we found out there was no hope left. Shelby was already in the final stages of congestive heart failure (we'd just found that out in April) and had reached the final stages of chronic kidney disease. The slow decline of his kidney had begun eight years earlier and now it was getting critical.

​

But we had a plan. We were going to take the meds that relieved his heart congestion even though they would kill the kidney. He would go on dialysis indefinitely. It was a stretch. He might not have been able to do the dialysis. But it was still a possibility, a hope.

​

Then yesterday (a year ago) we saw the results of his latest MRI. Kidney cancer engulfed his kidney. The spot on his lung that we'd been told the previous summer was not concerning for cancer had doubled in size. And there was a new spot on his spine. In the bone marrow. And we knew, without a doubt, that he would not live to the end of the year.

​

The doctor had never called us with the MRI results. I pulled them myself, so I was the one to tell Shelby he was dying. In a way that was a good thing. I could tell him with love and tenderness in our own home, just the two of us together.

​

I saw the news land on him like a body blow. He became very still. Then he asked if I'd take him to get a BBQ sandwich at a place he'd been wanting to try. There was no point in continuing his strict diet. We hopped in the car and drove, only to find out the place had shut down.

​

But on the way home we pulled into Round Rock Donuts--famous here in central Texas--drove thru and then parked and ate our donuts in the parking lot on a bright, sunny Texas day just like today.

​

He told me he wasn't going to let this bother him. Then as we pulled out of the parking lot he told me he felt more sorry for me than for himself. That, my friends, was quintessential Shelby right there.

​

We did not realize we only had two more months left.

​

And thus began a terrible time of scans, biopsies, medications, and all the trauma involved as his body began to fail. I only had a few minutes to write in my journal each evening and keep friends and family updated. No time to process, and really, no privacy to grieve out loud like I needed to.

​

That is what now is for. I wake up each day and my body remembers. My soul is very, very sad. My mind falters. I am feeling a generalized but intense anger for the first time. But I know what is happening. I know I need to lean into it. I know it will pass.

​

I laid aside my wedding rings last December, but yesterday I needed to wear them again, just for the day. I suspect there will always be particular days I need to wear them. I don't try to rationalize it or fight it.

I went and got a couple of donuts and sat in the parking lot and ate them and sobbed.

​

I do what I need to do to get through this. I focus on taking the actions necessary to live even if it is tempting to stop (not suicide...just stop participating in life). I know that way lies danger.

​

My story is mild. A lesser grief and smaller trauma than so many others. And even still I am astounded at the impact this season of "firsts" is having on me. I feel loved and seen and supported now, just as I did last year. I am going to make it through this.

​

Meanwhile, thank you for letting me grieve out loud. It helps.

May 18, 2025

My thoughts from this day a year ago:

Shelby and I are in a good place together in this. Sure, we are frustrated with the healthcare system. Sure, we are somewhat fragile. But we are going thru this clear-eyed and hand-in-hand. He knows he is dying, and we've been able to make a fairly good guess as to how much quality time we have left before things get rocky.

​

He's brought up end-of-life topics in casual conversation, so we talk about things like what he wants for his memorial service (he doesn't want one, we'll just have an open house), and we strategized about how to sell his ukulele collection, etc.

​

And those conversations are interspersed with laughing at the antics of the squirrels and giggling at memes. He put a new battery in the MacBook Air today. We talk about how much we are enjoying our new toaster oven. He insists that I go to my crafting events with my friends.

​

When I commented that I need to replace the sock I'm using to heat rice for my eye treatments, he laughed and said I'd inherit a lot of them, but that he was going to make sure he hit all those premium golf balls he's got in boxes. We laughed, because of course, he cannot hit them and it's so silly that he's saved them all these years.

​

We are laughing at ourselves. We are cherishing our time together. We do all we can, and we talk about his illness and death as just another step in our life together. It has made this time so precious and bearable.

​

It is good to be able to hold each other and our lives with open hands. What will come will come, and holding tightly to what we have now only adds an element of fear NOW--it does not diminish the pain of what will come. So why not open our fingers now? Why not release the tenseness and fear? It makes the time we have like a peaceful meadow rather than a field of land mines.

​

And when the time comes for hospice, I will be his advocate to be sure he is able to refuse treatments that are not helpful in prolonging his quality of life. I will be his protectoress and his champion, his defender and his helpmate.

​

And when it is over I will give my thankful heart to God for allowing me to meet, fall in love with, and marry this amazing man. He is dying as gracefully as he lived. I am a very fortunate woman.

June 1, 2025

​

May has been a tough month emotionally as I process the grief and trauma from this time last year. I tend to alternate good days and bad days.

This was when he lost his appetite. It was when he stopped being able to walk more than a few yards. He could no longer go to the grocery store for himself.

​

This was when we played chicken between his heart and his kidneys and even the medicine of last resort stopped working well. I could see the swelling in his body and hear it suffocating him.

​

This was when he would urge me to go craft with my friends and I would come home to find him trembling with anxiety.

​

We were in the midst of trying to schedule biopsies and treatments, all while one of the major hospital systems in town was locked down due to a ransomware attack.

​

The stress was intense. The grief could not be processed. Until now. Now it comes crashing down on me for hours at a time.

​

I have been on guard against overeating (my self-medication of choice) only to realize last night that I am overspending instead. In the last week I spent nearly $1000 I did not have budgeted. And I am exhausted trying to recognize and fend off all these unwanted behaviors.

​

I am also distressed that more of us aren’t shouting to the rooftops or even well-informed about the horrific budget bill currently in the Senate. It will affect not only “the least of these” but also everyone’s Medicare and taxes as well as our children’s future that will be buried under staggering government debt (that translates to increased taxes, reduced services, and poor investment returns).

​

Before the last few months I rarely posted anything specific about a bill or other government actions. I can allow room for differing opinions that are made in good faith. But this is different. This is not about opinion but about the survival of our nation. It’s about becoming educated as to the facts and taking action.

​

Several friends and family have objected to my posts—all saying they don’t want to see it or don’t feel like they are up to seeing it. This is incredibly distressing to me because “not seeing it” and not taking action is going to allow these horrific things to happen to me and to you and to the people who cannot fight back.

​

I hear people say they can’t do anything about it. If I have not called my senators, if I have not learned what is in this bill, if I spend $50 on a meal out but am not donating to folks like the ACLU who are fighting for us in court, then I have things I CAN do.

​

Meanwhile I will continue to struggle along with my grief, feeling more isolated because of this extra layer of tension with those closest to me.** But I will not shut up. I cannot. This is too important.

​

** Update: I have pondered this some more and realized that I am in the wrong here. There is no need to feel tension between me and my loved ones. They are allowed to feel how they feel and think what they think, as am I. I must give myself and them the space to approach these things in our own ways. I felt criticized but I should not have let it land in a way that made me resentful. I am still learning, even at this late stage in life. Forgive me, dear ones.

​

Artwork by my mother, Veranne Graham

June 11, 2025

​

Last year on this day Shelby had the biopsy that would confirm that it was indeed the kidney cancer that had returned and had metastasized from his kidney to his lung and to his spine and to his bone marrow.

​

I thought, “I am in such a weird place in my heart. Grieving deeply. Not wanting to walk further in the Valley of the Shadow of Death even though I know I must. In a sense I am making it through because I know it will end relatively quickly and I will sit in the ashes as long as I need to and then I will get up and move on. So I am clinging to life with Shelby, dreading the period of his suffering, and looking forward to the future. It is a very weird headspace.”

​

A puzzle also arrived that day that was of hummingbirds. We’d ordered it because it reminded us of the day in Estes Park, July 4, 1986, 38 years earlier when Shelby and I spoke our own private wedding vows to each other among the hummingbirds and beauty of that place. No one was there but the two of us. I had a terrible migraine and he’d brought me to the chalet from the dance to tuck me in bed before returning (he was one of the callers for the square dance). As I lay there in pain and he tenderly held my hand we vowed to love and honor each other for the rest of our lives.

​

And now in June of 2024 his life was coming to a swift end. I wrote in my journal that when that puzzle arrived I realized we would not make it to the 40th anniversary of our vows. And it broke my heart.

​

It made me realize how many layers there are to grief while your beloved is dying. There is the loss of what has been, the grief over the suffering yet to come, but also an anticipation that “this too shall pass” and that soon your life will be your own. For a woman whose life had never been her own, this was a very odd feeling.

​

And now here I am. I am living that new life of my own, and I like it. But it is painful at the same time. Experiencing it now is as weird and contradictory as thinking about it was last year.

​

Isn’t life strange how it cycles and repeats, different yet the same? I feel like I am part of a pattern that I do not yet understand, but I am learning to trust the One who is Leading.

June 13, 2025

​

Making cookies with my granddaughter. It really doesn’t get better than this. That smile is so wonderful.

​​

Today is the day last year that the oncologist saw the results of the tests and told us Shelby only had months to live. The doctor wrote the order for hospice on this day. We did not know he only had weeks left.

​

Today is my precious’s unicorn daughter’s birthday. She brings unutterable joy to my life. I laughed out loud with delight when I saw the pictures her wife posted.

​

Then, as I was waiting for my granddaughter to arrive, the radio played a waltz that was particularly meaningful to me and Shelby. I sobbed as I remembered what it felt like to dance in his strong, loving arms.

​

My heart feels stretched to its outer limits. All at once. This is the first year of grief.

June 15, 2025

​

This day last year was one of the hardest ones. The entire family was in pain. Shelby was struggling to breathe. His limbs were swelling. The cardiologist himself called us and told us to be prepared to go to the ER. The kids came and brought him cookies he’d been craving.

I thought:

My daughter is concerned for me. She does not want me to go through this pain. Me either! But I trust God in this as in all things.

​

Tonight I felt the strongest sensation of looking into God’s eyes, face to face, as he held both my hands as I trembled on the threshold of this terrible journey. God is with me. I am not afraid.

​

I am a whole person in and of myself. I am not defined by my children or my husband or my ministry or my work. I am whole and complete, and I will continue towards joy even though my heart be torn out by the roots.

Love still grows. Shelby still lives. And my God is here beside me.

​

It was Father’s Day when I ordered the urn for his ashes. I knew the end was near and it had to be done, but it was so hard to do when he was still here with me.

​

Today I look up at that urn, now laden with his ashes, and I see it as a promise of being reunited one day. My own matching urn is in my closet. I look forward to the day when we can be together again. I know he will meet me at the door, with love radiating from his countenance and a big hug welcoming me home.

June 17, 2025

​

The next two months are going to be really tough. I am filling my days with short spurts of comfort—coffee on the porch, a little research and writing, decorating cookies, weaving, listening to music, spinning, dancing, and of course, lots of friend time.

​

But even these things are harder than usual. My edges are rough in every way. My hands are shakier than normal. I have lost interest in books and paper crafting. I just don’t have much creative energy right now. I can feel the Valley of Grief narrowing. I know it will become darker over the next weeks.

​

It’s okay. I survived it the first time through. I will survive the aftershocks. I feel God’s presence strongly again, reminding me to only do what I feel up to. There are times during the day when I can feel the pain in the air. I stop and sit and write to you, my loved ones. Thank you for being here with me on this journey.

June 19, 2025

​

There are tears every day now. I make sure I keep my body and my mind moving. It’s not that I’m trying to ignore the grief. It’s more like these activities are providing a protective shell around my quivering soul. Even if I can only do each one for an hour, it keeps me from sinking. It keeps me healthy.

​

At this time last year we were facing a triad of death: death by suffocation from the congestive heart failure, death by cancer with excruciating pain, or death by kidney failure.

​

I realized we didn’t know what death by kidney failure entailed. What a relief to read that as the toxins build up in your body you drift off to sleep. At that very moment a friend showed up to bring us her famous zucchini bread. And as God is wont to do, this friend provided exactly what we needed along with the food. Her MIL had died of kidney failure, and Susan was able to confirm it was a peaceful, quiet death.

​

It felt like a way forward through this nightmare had suddenly materialized. We’d been caught between a rock and a hard place—if he took the meds for his heart it would kill his kidney and we’d need to go on dialysis. But if he went on dialysis he couldn’t receive hospice care.

​

And now, suddenly, we realized that NOT going on dialysis might be the way to go. He would be able to receive hospice care and the meds he needed for his heart. He would hopefully pass away peacefully before the cancer got bad.

​

But with that realization also came the knowledge that his life would be measured in weeks, not months. I wrote in my journal that we both began to realize we would not make it to our wedding anniversary in mid-August.

Each day, to the extent he was able, Shelby showed me how to care for the house and yard. How to do pest control, how to change the AC filters, how to clear the dryer vents outside, how to spray wasp nests, how to fix a running toilet, how to turn the water off at the street. We joked about it being all the things I didn’t learn in Princess School.

​

Today he looked at me ruefully and said, “A lot of good knowledge will be lost when I die.” Afterwards he was unable to walk from the front yard to the front door without leaning on me. It was awful for both of us when he called out to me to come get him after I’d walked off not realizing he couldn’t move.

​

Later he said, “That hurt me today.” And when I asked whether it was physical pain or feelings, he said it hurt to realize how fragile he’d become and how quickly he was declining. It is hard to realize your own death is imminent.

​

As he gave me instructions about how to give away or sell his possessions, he looked at me and said, “All the things I’ve saved over the years don’t seem so important anymore.” I said, “I think most people who come to this point realize that. But know that I am going to handle your things with tenderness and respect. I know what they have meant to you.”

​

And then we moved on to talk about other normal things. But it is from these glimpses into the “sore spots” in his soul that I know he realizes his death is coming soon. He is making his decisions about what treatment to accept and whether or not to go into hospice.

​

I am standing back. Not asking. Not pressuring. It’s like standing by with a bowl of cool water and a soft towel to refresh him as his soul works.

​

I pay attention. I listen. I normalize the conversations around his death. He knows he can mention it and I won’t flip out or make a big deal. He knows we can flow in and out of the conversation as he is ready.

​

And that, my dear ones, is why I’ve written this to you in hopes that it will help ease your own conversations. Do not be afraid to talk about the big things. You don’t have to tackle it all at once or even resolve it. There is great comfort in the smallness of the conversations—in the humor as well as in the pathos. May your own journey be blessed.

July 7, 2025

​

Once again it feels almost petty to post my own small suffering against the backdrop of suffering around me. But we each live in both spheres. I know there is no measuring stick for grief.

​

This weekend last year was the last time the family was able to gather with Shelby before he died. This picture is so precious to me. I knew this “first” would be a particularly hard weekend, but I had no idea what was about to unfold.

​

My sister called on Tuesday to tell me the nanny cam had caught evidence of severe neglect and rough handling of our mother in her room. She’s in a facility for residents with dementia—95 yo and unable to advocate for herself.

​

Despite the long history of strained relations and separation between the two of us there was NO QUESTION but that I would drop everything and come to her side. I was the one who could get to her the most quickly. I’ve been here ever since.

​

My two sisters flew in as quickly as they could. We are working hard to find Mother a new home and to address the trauma she’s feeling over the mistreatment. It breaks my heart.

​

It also overlays my own sorrow. As I was driving to replenish supplies yesterday, tears came. I could sense the core of pain I carry, and I remembered that people who cut themselves often say they do it so they know they are alive.

​

Suddenly I could relate to that.

​

In the privacy of my car I was accessing a pain that reminds me I am alive. It’s very hard to explain. And I think there is a significant difference between this and cutting. This pain evanesces in a flame of love; cutting is a vortex to death.

​

But the need is so similar. I was in a desert of suffering and the pain reminded me why. It reminded me that I was loved and I loved greatly. I am not sure our hearts are meant for this pain to go away. It is a part of me that is excruciating but is also a source of strength and comfort.

​

I don’t know if that makes any sense at all. But I think it may have something to do with why bad things happen to good people—why God can allow tragedy such as we have experienced this weekend a mere 60 miles from where I sit in Texas. There is a place for the pain, and it is found where love dwells.

July 12, 2025

​

Today is Shelby's birthday. Our first without him. He was always so touched when I would make a homemade birthday cake for him. That wasn't done in his family, and he felt so loved when I would spend the time and effort to create a small family celebration for him.

​

As I write this, Mother is in transit to her new home. It is the day my father died. It is a day with weight, a pressing down on my shoulders.

​

I am home from a week helping my sisters stay with Mother 24/7 until we could get her moved. Family of origin trauma is a real thing. It was an incredibly difficult time emotionally and physically. The boundaries, now once again confirmed as necessary, are going back up.

​

My beloved daughter, Courtney, came both yesterday and today to hug me and sit with me and talk. I needed that so badly. It was beyond hard to get to the end of each terrible day this week and not be able to call Shelby to tell him about it. I finally feel safe again in the arms of my children and friends. I am where it is safe to be heard. I am where I do not have to stay tightly controlled to avoid fire and to be sure I am actually supportive and helpful rather than reacting to "incoming."

​

It was a hard week. Today is a hard day. I am so grateful to be home.

July 13, 2025

​

My thoughts on this day last year:

​

The fact that he slept all afternoon and evening without any pills that would account for that drowsiness means he is sleepy because of the toxins building up in his system. That is the final symptom of kidney failure and means he's only got a couple of weeks left--could be one or two or, at the most, three I think.

​

His lab results came in this morning. They confirmed his kidney function has dropped to 6%. The doctor did not want to tweak his meds even though his potassium is dangerously low. She and the nurse both said the tipping point is coming very soon and the end will come quickly after that.

​

Last night on his birthday, as I held him and comforted him he told me, "I can't tell you how content I am and how lucky I feel." I pointed out to him that we've gotten to the part where he will be sleeping all day, and I asked him if there is anything else he needs to say or do or have done. He said no. He is ready.

​

My friend Linda texted tonight, "Gayle, driving home this evening I very clearly heard for you and Shelby, 'Tomorrow begins Holy Week.'" How amazing our God is who speaks through his servants. How faithful he is to make sure I know we are being held in the palm of his hand.

​

I still have trauma responses like feeling detached from my surroundings every once in awhile. I felt immense strain awaiting those lab results even though I'd told Courtney the day before that I figured his kidney function was around 5%. I felt so much relief when that was validated by the bloodwork.

​

These traumas and stressors are at the body/soul level. They are addressed by reaching out to people for contact and support, by comfort food and soothing activities, and by receiving concrete information.

​

My spirit on the other hand, like Shelby's, feels a great peace about this. We can walk calmly and regally towards our deaths with the sure knowledge that God is holding us. We are at peace at a very deep level, and it allows us to set the boundaries we need--no visits except short ones from the kids, for example.

​

When my therapist asked me what would help afterwards, I reached out to my friend Janet for help. She found me a beautiful lakeside BnB in the Ozark Mountains. I'll be able to look forward to two weeks of solitude in a beautiful place in early October. I will need that after the busy weeks following his death as I sort through possessions, sell the car, give away the clothes, and tackle the collections. Knowing that I have a time of rest at the end will be key.

​

During that rest I will grieve and journal and let the bits of myself float down, and I'll reflect on where they fit now. I have canceled Evers Bible Class until January 2 to give myself plenty of time to prepare and gather myself for the final push through the New Testament.

​

Ed. Note: We did start class back up in January, but I had to press pause again this May thru September as I work through these months of "firsts" that I did not have a chance to work through in the moment. I have so appreciated the support the class has given me and the space you have held for me as I needed it.

​

As always, this glimpse into my private thoughts is my gift to you--to help you normalize your own thoughts around illness and death, to help you recognize trauma as it happens, and to know that through it all, God is holding you close.

July 14, 2025

I know I'm posting a lot. Sorry. I've got a lot to process. The next two weeks will be the worst. Due to FB algorithms you'll prolly be spared from seeing them all unless you actually look on my page.

​

Today, in the here and now, was another hard day. A brief dizzy spell this morning. Putting my coffee cup in the pantry after I washed it. Unable to focus.

​

I marvel as I read my journal entries from last year. You and God were so faithful to walk me through this.

​

June 15 last year was when I first had the sensation of looking into God's eyes, face to face, as he held both my hands while I trembled on the threshold of the last few steps of this terrible journey.

​

A month later, on this day, July 14 last year, I again had that same "vision" of God holding both my hands and gently drawing me forward. Once again it was a dark place bathed in blue light. But this time the blue light illuminated four large stone pavers that I knew were my next steps, the last steps of Shelby's life. It was time to move from the threshold to the first stepping stone.

​

In my pain I wrote about the words, songs, cards, food, and other encouragement you were all showering me with.

​

Then I thought, "It is as if I am coming to these last four steps and the Lord is sending people as himself--to lift my feet and take my hands and bear my weight. I am like a runner who is weak in the last few yards--in sight of the finish line but struggling--struggling so hard--and other athletes are coming alongside to help me across.

​

So much beauty and grandeur in the midst of devastating pain and weakness. Shelby is working so hard to sit, to breathe, to swallow, and to stand. He did not feel up to a shower or even changing clothes tonight. He is as dependent as a baby, yet he still retains his grace and his humor. If ever a man died well, it is he."

July 20, 2025

​

Watching the birds today. Don’t know if I’ll even get out of my nightgown. Thought twice about turning on the light. Didn’t know if I could bear it today.

​

This is the week that Shelby died.

​

He is so wobbly on his legs that even using a walker is not safe without someone hanging onto the gait belt we use to help him to his feet. Even that scares me. If his legs buckle there’s no way we can hold him up. The wheelchair arrived but the standing up and sitting down just to get in and out of it is too hard on him. We gave up on that.

​

And still he retains his sense of humor. His sense of masculinity is mightily offended by the elasticized edges of the pull-ups. When Courtney came over today he hiked up one edge of his gym shorts and said, “Look what they’ve done to me. Ruffles!”

​

Today was the day I had to tell him it was too dangerous for me alone to try to transfer him from his recliner in the bedroom to the recliner in the living room. So today we sat side by side in the living room for the very last time.

He dozed all day. When I got up to make a sandwich he opened his eyes, focused on me, smiled sleepily, then dozed back off.

​

Courtney and Daniel have both been here. Daniel helping me with the heavy lifting, hooking a TV up in Dad’s room, and doing a sandwich run. This sounds so ordinary but it was traumatic for Daniel and me to have to manhandle Shelby into position on the bed. Shelby has no arm strength to help us move him. We will need a hospital bed very soon but Shelby is adamant against it. I’m not looking forward to telling him it’s time.

​

Courtney came and talked me through. She has been such a source of strength. But today she broke down in her own grief. She was afraid she was a burden on me by letting me see her grief, but it had the opposite effect. It made me feel needed (to comfort her) and made me feel not so alone in my grief.

​

Shelby has pretty much stopped eating. His body is shutting down. I’m pretty sure his kidney has stopped functioning. His feet, legs, knees, and hands are swollen despite massive diuretics. The nurse had warned me this would happen and said I could stop giving him the diuretics at that point. It can wait until Monday until she is here to confirm what I see. They won’t hurt him.

​

I had to start giving him morphine this week. Most of the time he refuses it. He is of a generation that is fearful of morphine addiction.

​

This time, when the vision of the blue light came, there were only two steps left. The altar is in view. I know where we are going, God and I.

July 21, 2025

​

Better today. I'm going to get dressed, at least. Maybe not much else. Tried to turn my phone screen on by tapping the back cover. Got confused when I held one thing in each hand. Had to put them down to decide what I was doing. Definitely no brainwork for me today. I'm looking forward to dinner with some dear friends tonight.

​

I've noticed that my body does not feel things on the calendar date but on the day of the week that they occurred. The dates in my journal are a day off of the aftershock I'm feeling in my body.

​

On Monday last year the hospice nurse confirmed that Shelby's kidney had stopped working. We stopped the diuretics.

​

Amazingly, he's still reasonably alert even with all the pain meds. I guess that's a sign of the intensity of his underlying discomfort. Daniel and Jasmine and the baby came for a long visit. Courtney came over. We all sat in the bedroom with Shelby and talked and laughed. It was wonderful.

​

With help, he's still able to sit in his bedroom recliner although he's terribly uncomfortable all the time. If he's alert and able to follow directions, I can transfer him to the bed but it's getting iffy. Daniel is going to start coming every evening to help me. Courtney has taken off work and will be with me during the days from here on out.

​

I remember leaning my forehead against the cool tile on the shower wall and feeling the Lord tell me this will be over soon. You will make it through this. It won't be long now.

July 23, 2025

​

I'm doing okay today. Was able to work on Bible class for a bit.

Last year Shelby was beginning to slip away. He needed meds around the clock. I slept on the bed with him because he was becoming restless at night when he couldn't breathe and I could be there to adjust his pillows. I was exhausted. What a relief to see Courtney dozing on the couch when I awoke this morning.

​

The hospice nurse came. She pointed out that he is jaundiced. His liver is failing too. I had noticed yesterday but thought it was the poor lighting in the bedroom. I begin to realize he may die of the liver failure before the kidney failure. It will not be as easy of a death. I don't know how much more I can take.

​

I finally told him we have to have a hospital bed. As always, when I tell him the time has come he does not resist any longer. He trusts that I have held out for his wishes as long as possible. He knows.

​

But now he's too weak to get out of bed at all. I don't know what to do. Turns out that you call the Fire Department and ask for a "lift assist" and they will come move someone from the regular bed to the hospital bed. When those three "hunks" showed up at the door to move him, Courtney looked at me and whispered, "All I have to do is ask for a lift assist?" Humor is such a relief in these terrible moments.

​

After the transfer I stood by his bed and held his hand. He said, "I wonder how long this part will take." He knows this is the end. I told him it could take a few hours or a few days, but not long.

​

I wonder how many hours we have left before he cannot speak.

July 24, 2025

​

Today will be a hard day. Very hard. My sister said, "Be sure to have cheese on hand." For sure.

​

I notice that the days and nights are jumbled up in my journal now. Shelby needed meds on two hour intervals. Courtney and I took four-hour shifts around the clock to care for him.

​

In the morning of this day, with Courtney facing me across his bed, Shelby and I said our final goodbyes to each other. I was aware of the tears streaming down Courtney's face.

​

He said, "I was the luckiest man alive when you walked in that door." I felt exactly the same way, and we expressed our deep love and gratitude for each other.

​

Later when Courtney and I were speaking about it together she froze when I said it was our last goodbyes. She said, "Oh, Mom. I didn't know that. You always talk to each other like that."

​

As he began to feel his grip on consciousness slipping away he gave thought to his grooming. Ever the gentleman, he asked for his razor. I was dozing on the bed and Courtney was beside him. She said, "Absolutely not!" because he'd clearly injure himself with his already scary old-fashioned barber's razors, but I leaped out of bed and said, "I know where it is. I'll get it for you!"

​

Courtney was aghast until she saw he meant his electric razor. We all laughed. He could barely hold the razor but he still had his sly sense of humor, pretending to cut himself and saying "Bzzzt" while giving Courtney the side-eye. When he tired out, we put the razor aside. A bit later when Daniel arrived he finished the job for his dad.

​

Later in the day the nursing aid came to bathe him. I can't imagine the relief he must have felt. He'd not had anything but a gentle sponging for a week. Bathing was such a comfort to him his whole life and looking back now I realize that it was after this final bed bath that he let go.

​

It became impossible for him to swallow his afternoon meds. I had to titrate the morphine very slowly into the inside of his cheek so he would not aspirate it. One comfort med could melt under his tongue. That was all we could do for him.

​

Late in the afternoon I bent down and whispered to him that he could go whenever he needed to--I am fine. I will be okay. I know he heard me even though he could no longer speak. It was after that, when I was stroking his cheek and murmuring to him, that he leaned his head in and nuzzled against my hand. He knew it was me. He still knew my touch and my voice even though he could neither see nor speak.

​

Later that night as I journaled, the blue vision came for the last time. This time there were no more steps. Only the altar. God was both across from me and beside me. Both places. I was carrying Shelby in my arms. This had not been the case before, but I had understood since the last vision when I'd seen the altar that I was to lay Shelby on that altar and give him back to God.

​

God was beside me as I did it. God was there to receive him into Love. Shelby had been such a gift to me. It was time to offer my best and most precious gift back to God.

​

I fell into bed exhausted.

​

Later that night Courtney shook me awake. "Mama, his breathing has changed." There ensued a middle of the night fire drill as I spoke with successive levels of hospice nurses. At some point he began thrashing, trying to get out of the hospital bed. Courtney and I had the rails up on both sides and still had to fight to keep him from throwing himself out.

​

I tell you this because this is normal.

​

When it happens with someone you love, do not be afraid. Do not be distressed that you've done something wrong or have left something undone. It is a natural part of dying for some people. I had seen it before and I knew.

​

I was finally instructed by hospice to give him the maximum dose of morphine every hour. It was a big jump in dosage. I didn't feel comfortable with it. I did it twice and then decided he simply didn't need that high of a dose, and I backed it off. Our regular hospice nurse told me later that backing it off was the correct thing to do. Whew. That part was pretty scary.

It will only be a few hours now. When the sun comes up tomorrow, it will be time.

July 25, 2025

​

When Courtney woke me at 6:00 am for my 4-hour shift this morning last year, the first thing I asked her was the date. I knew it would be today. Even though the calendar date then was July 26, my body remembers it as today--a Friday morning just like this one.

​

I don't think Courtney ever went back to bed. It was clear that Shelby was in distress. His skin was mottled. He was thrashing again. By 6:30 I was on the phone with the hospice nurse. She came immediately and stayed a long while, thinking he was dying in that moment. But he calmed, and as he settled she drew us into the living room and told us he would not last out the day.

​

Throughout all these days, we'd been in constant contact as a family via text--Courtney, Clif, Daniel, Jasmine, Erika, Ellen, and me. In each moment we all knew what was happening. Daniel arrived as quickly as he could. Clif and Jasmine were home tending children. The E's, as we call Erika and Ellen, were far away in Massachusetts, but began making arrangements for flights home.

​

After the nurse left, Courtney and Daniel and I stood holding Shelby's hands and stroking him. This is the uncertain period. Each person dies in their own time. We wept. We talked quietly.

​

Then around 11:10, our phones all pinged with a short tearful video from Erika saying goodbye to her Papa Shelby. Ellen was away tending her own sister but Erika said goodbye for both of them. We held the phone where Shelby could hear her sweet voice as all of us sobbed.

​

Then, ten minutes later, Shelby gasped. A pause, and gasped again. A longer pause. The third time he was gone. I felt frozen. In shock.

​

We called the hospice nurse back. Since he died at home there's a particular protocol she has to follow to alert the police, etc. but being on hospice they don't have to come out. Thank goodness. But we did need to prepare him to be taken away by the crematorium.

​

Courtney, Daniel, and I looked at each other and knew exactly what he would have wanted to be dressed in. His new rainbow "Papa Bear" t-shirt from Ellen and Erika. It was a way to have them physically present with us even though it would take a day for them to actually get to us from Massachusetts.

​

He looked so peaceful in it. To my everlasting sorrow, the cremation folks came before Jasmine could get to the house to say her own goodbyes to Shelby. I wasn't thinking clearly (obviously) and I could have asked the nurse to delay calling them, but I didn't think of it in those first moments, and once they were on their way I couldn't stop that ball from rolling. It still makes me sad when I think that she bore a hurt in a tender time when I could have prevented it.

​

The rest of the day was filled partly with family and then later with good stretches of solitude. They know me well. They know I need both--their love and presence and then silence and solitude.

​

When we were together they dug out the family scrapbooks and told stories and laughed. For some reason it seemed urgent to me that we watch an old home video of our grandson's first camping trip with us when he was five years old. Watching Shelby teach him how to put a worm on a hook and then listening to him singing "fishing, fishing, fishing" to himself as he splashed in the water was important in this first moment of bereavement. Why that particular memory in this particular moment?

​

Our souls are deep and inexplicable.

​

This will be the last of the posts like this. There will be hard days to come, for sure, but today is my day to "bless and release" my marriage, to borrow a beautiful idea from my sister who has walked this path before me. Today is my day.

​

I have touched each memory and read each journal entry. I have felt and sobbed and reflected. And now each memory has a place to live in my soul. None have been lost. They have been shared here with you. They are held safely in your hands.

​

My soul is scoured and I feel a need to rest. I will need a few weeks to regain my strength. But on this day I will bless and release my precious Shelby and tomorrow I will live.