He's Still Gone. He Always Will Be.

I continue to find it difficult to believe Steve is gone.  I am processing it all, looking back at photographs and emails, remembering the good times. Yesterday I pulled a book off the shelf.  It was a book of photos that Steve made for me -- mostly pictures of me that he had taken over the years.  He inscribed it "To my precious Tara."  Well, that broke me in two.  I'm crying now just writing about it.

I began to grieve for the loss of Steve way back in June when he asked me to leave.  His request was the greatest shock -- I asked him repeatedly, "Do you want to die alone?"  His answer was always "yes."  I think his pride would not allow the thought that I would see him in such a reduced state.  I have read that it is not uncommon for the ill spouse to push the other spouse away, even asking them to leave.  I find this surprising, only because I cannot imagine doing that if the situation were reversed.  From what I've read, the ill person is trying to spare their loved ones from the inevitable.  I know Steve, in his way, was trying to protect me.

After all is said and done, I've had four months of setting up a new life in a new town and state.  This gave me a head start on experiencing living alone and without the man I loved.  When I returned for his last week, and saw him and sat with him, we were able to speak words of love and forgiveness.  I am truly grateful for the time I had with him then.  In the end, he did not want to die alone, and he didn't.  As much as he tried to push love away, his family, many friends, and his wife were there for him.   I'd say the stubborn old bastard was lucky indeed.

We all did our very best to help him in the end.  We all carried him through.  Something I said often in his last days was, "It's okay Steve.  We've got ya.  We've got ya."  It calmed him when he was agitated.

We all surrounded him with the very best we could give.  I believe it allowed him to let go.

And so, I continue on.  I live life in a state of hyper awareness, where mundane things take on great import.  I've recently heard of the music artist Billie Eilish, and I particularly like her song "Ocean Eyes."  Steve had ocean eyes - a bright blue that dazzled.  And, like the song, a "diamond mind."  A brilliant mind until Parkinson's had its way.

Anyway, I find this song very moving.  I hope you do as well.