I just wanted to hold his hand...

This morning I chose to continue straight on with sharing the story of "that" day and the immediate days following. These are my raw memories, not sugar coating, no false emotions. It's all real and it all literally makes my stomach churn all over again. I found a quote on Pinterest and it is so true. It applies to every single day.  

Early the next morning when I woke, I went into Mike's office. I hadn't known before, but his coat was draped over his office chair. Our other "son" Matt (one of our farm hands) had gotten it for me. I don't know how, but he had. I went to the chair and wrapped Mike's coat around my arm in place of the jeans. I fell into his chair and sobbed. I cried so hard that I guess I woke my brother in law Merlyn, for he came into the office and knelt in front of me and just let me cry into him.

Conner woke soon after and I remember just sitting in the recliner, unable to move for a long time. I just sat and stared. I would cry, then just stare.

I sent Erik a text that read, "Can you make it where I can hold my husband's hand without having to see his face? I just need to hold his hand Erik." I received a reply of "Yes, I can make that work." The morning seemed to creep by but the time finally came to leave for the funeral home.

I wanted Tristan to be as much a part of the decision making for arrangements as he wanted to be, so I asked him to meet me at the funeral home if he wished. He wanted to. He pulled into the side parking lot right after we arrived; Mom had driven me and Conner. I think my sister had ridden with my dad. Becky and Chris drove themselves. I was still weak and needed help walking, but I hugged Tristan as soon as he crossed the parking lot. I told him again how sorry I was and that I love him. I then told him if he wanted his mom there, she was welcome. I told him to text her. He did. She would arrive in a little while.

We all entered the double doors and began the small climb up the stairs. Erik met us and hugged me, telling me again how sorry he was. He and Mike had been really close right before and around the time we began dating. Erik and his wife Farrah, and Mike and I used to run around some nights and we all have good memories together.

Erik asked if I was ready to see Mike. As soon as he said it a wave overtook me and I crumpled to the floor, crying and screaming that I couldn't believe he was gone. Nothing about life seemed real. I could not comprehend. I finally composed myself as best I could and I was helped to a standing position. I still had his coat wrapped around my left arm.

"As soon as I open the door, you're going to be able to see him, ok?" Erik looked so pained to have to do this for one of his good friend's wife.

"Ok," I barely breathed.

"Are you ready?"

I shook my head and I'm unsure who was on each side of me but I was still being held up not of my own will. Tristan chose not to go in, so my sister stayed in the foyer with him. I didn't know this until later; I thought Amy was with me all along. I took a deep breath and we began stepping into the room.

On a cold metal table, covered in a white sheet, except for his left arm, was my husband. I collapsed again and began screaming and sobbing while whoever was holding me up helped me drag myself to the table. I reached out for his hand and it was so cold. I noticed two horizontal indentations on his arm and I rubbed my right hand over them, fearing that they were marks from the concrete truck hitting him. A few days later Erik explained to me that those marks were actually from the table that holds a body for cleansing.  I was relieved when he told me that, but right then I just hated to think of the pain he must have felt.  I only imagined the worst images I could of how he died.  I imagined the concrete chute and the mixer just spinning and spinning, while his body was trapped.  

I imagined his final thought.  Was it guilt?  Was it fear?  Was it anger?  What was it?  I pray that his final thought was of the love we shared as a family: him, me, and our boys.  But I fear that his final thought was anger that he slipped and fell, or anger that his clothing became entangled and pulled him in.  I worry that his final thought was of fear.  What was going to happen to his wife and children?  How were we going to handle this loss?  I wonder if his thought was guilt.  How could I have been so busy my whole life; too busy to spend more time with my family than on work?  I wonder if he just thought, “I’m sorry.”  

I know that no one will ever know my husband’s final thoughts, or if he made a sound when death quickly grasped him.  He was alone.  He was by himself at the plant and was totally alone.  No one was there to see him slip and pull him back.  No one was there to keep him from being hit over and over again.  No one was there.  I often wish that I would have surprised him that day, maybe Conner and I could have brought him lunch and it would not have happened.  But then I think again that it would have happened no matter what because it was in God’s plan, so had Conner and I been there to surprise Mike, we would have witnessed the tragedy and would have never been able to heal.  

I remember just crying onto his hand and barely being able to breathe. "I'm so sorry babe, I'm so sorry this happened to you...I love you....I love you...I love you...I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry babe....I can't believe this happened to you...I'm so sorry..." I remember saying these things over and over again as I held my head to his hand, my knees buckled beneath me. I think that my dad and Erik were holding me up the whole time.

I remember kissing Mike's hand and I told him I loved him one more time before I turned to let Chris and Becky say their goodbyes. I also remember Becky telling Chris, "No, not yet..." I didn't know what it was about but Becky later told me that Chris was crying Mike's name and that she wanted to see his face. Becky was afraid Chris would turn back the sheet too soon and that I would see his face as well.

Becky told me later that after I was safely out of sight, Chris pulled back the sheet and kissed Mike's face. I asked her how he looked and she said that his face was swollen because of the blood having rushed to his head as he laid on the edge of the concrete truck after impact. She said it looked like the hits came to his right side of his face and head. Part of me regrets not seeing his face one more time.

The morning continued in a sad, melancholy charade of answering questions and choosing funeral arrangements.  I had asked Tristan to text his mom and tell her she was welcome to join us for support for him.  I told him that I wanted him to be as much a part of the decisions as I was; soon his mom joined us.  I remember just feeling numb and overwhelmed at all the questions and decisions one has to make.  We spent some time in the discussion room answering questions about dates and such for the obituary, and then the time came to choose a casket.  

A thirty-six year old woman should not have to pick a casket or make these kinds of decision regarding the love of her life; a son should not have to make arrangements to bury his father the day after his own eighteenth birthday; a mother should never have to bury a child.  But, we were all here doing these terrible things; at least we were able to all be there for each other.  That fact did not make any of it easier, it just helped us to know that none of us were alone in the process.  

As we crossed the hallway to re-enter the room where my husband had been a few minutes before, my knees grew weak again.  As soon as I looked at the caskets, I knew which one looked beautiful and “like Mike” on the outside.  It was crafted of old barn wood and looked rustic, sad, and beautiful all at once.  I immediately pointed to that one and as Erik slid it out for us to view, and lifted the lid, my eyes immediately fell upon an embroidered farm scene.  I fell to the ground again, grasping the casket.  I was in complete disbelief that we were choosing a casket for my husband.  

I asked Tristan if he thought that one was ok and he said, in the sweetest voice with which he answered all questions that day, “Yes, ma’am.”  Once I was collected, I was helped back to a standing position and we walked a few steps to the side to view the guest books and obituary programs.  We chose a matching farm set.  A beautiful open field with a round hay bale was pictured on the front of the guest book and obituary programs.  It was perfect for my husband.  

After these decisions were made, we returned to the discussion room.  A couple of hours passed as we continued to answer questions and make decisions.  A rough draft of the obituary was typed and a few of us made minor corrections.  Once this was complete, the morning was finally over.  I was completely and utterly drained.  Exhaustion was starting to take its toll.  We all said our goodbyes and I thanked Tristan's mom for coming and I thanked Tristan for helping me make decisions. This was Tuesday, December 30.  Tristan’s eighteenth birthday was Wednesday, December 31, so the visitation and funeral would both take place on Thursday, January 1, 2015, beginning at 11:00 a.m.  

Once we arrived back home, I went straight to bed.  Most days during the first two weeks after MIke’s passing, I spent a few hours in bed during the day.  I suffered from headaches, nausea, stomach pain, and just utter exhaustion.  I only ate and drank when forced.  I worried non stop about Conner and Tristan; more about Conner because of his age and because he already is such a worrisome, anxious kid.  

Every morning, every day, and every night it’s like I relived, and still relive, the tragedy of my husband’s death.  I imagine the way it happened; I picture terrible things that I wish I could unsee.  I worry about what Mike’s last thoughts were, or if he even had time to have any.  I am so afraid that Mike felt fear, or anger, that I just could not get it out of my head.  Rest is fleeting and restless; in the beginning I usually had to take a xanax or ibuprofen to sleep, especially the first few days.  It took two xanax to help me fall asleep at night.

On Tristan’s birthday, he texted to see if he could come get Conner and go to their Nanny Chris’ house to hang out with Becky’s boys, Billy and Derrek.  I was so happy that he asked to spend time with his brother on his birthday.  So, when Tristan arrived, I gave to him an old photo album I had found in MIke’s office.  It contained pictures of his parents when they were dating.  Tristan seemed to enjoy the pictures. I also had found his dad’s high school class ring and his Marine Corps ring; I gave Tristan first choice of rings since it was his birthday. He chose the class ring from high school.  I told Conner that his daddy’s Marine Corps ring would be his one day, but I would like to wear it for a long time if that was ok.  He agreed and then they boys left the house shortly after Tristan arrived.  Conner told me later that his bubby had taken him to Pleasant Site Cemetery before going to their Nanny’s.  Tristan wanted to show Conner where their dad would be buried the following day.  

After a nap, I asked Matt to drive me to Chris and Gayle’s so that I could be with Conner and Tristan.  I visited in the kitchen with Becky, Bill, Chris, Grandma Mary, and Gayle.  I still do not know how Chris managed to hold herself together as well as she did, and still does.  I could not imagine burying my child; no mother should.  We all visited for a bit and then our renter arrived.  

We own a rental property just up the road from Chris and Gayle; it is the house to which we brought Conner home.  Mike bought the property one year before we got married and did enough work on the old house for us to live in when we became pregnant.  We moved into the house when I was seven months pregnant with Conner.  It is a tiny house, with nothing modern, but it was cozy and just fine for the few years we lived there.  The room that was Conner’s nursery is so tiny, so we moved back to our Garwood farm when Conner was three.  

Our renter came in and sat at the kitchen table with us.  She had the rent money to give me, but told me that things were not going well with her family, so she might be late on the rent some months.  Not sure why she chose to explain things, but she did. She has actually been late with the rent every month, and I used to complain to Mike about it all the time.  However, her story gave me a little insight.  She told me that her husband had just been diagnosed with stage 3 colon cancer and she is a cancer survivor herself.  I hated to hear the news; it is a sad situation.  

“I’m so sorry, April, I sure hate to hear that.  I hope you guys find answers and he heals from this.”

She looked at me and said, “I appreciate it, but at least I still have my husband.”  I know that she only meant kindness and sorrow in the fact that I did not need to feel sorry for her, I was the one who needed the sympathy.  I was burying my husband in one day; she still had her husband, regardless of the cancer.  Regardless of her good intentions, it struck me and I had to leave the room.  I went to the back room where the boys were playing Nintendo.  I took a small pillow and Mike’s coat, which still remained tightly coiled around my arm, and lay on the floor.  They all seemed to be having fun razzing each other.  Conner was having a blast at the moment.  

I lay there watching them for a long while, and we chatted casually.  They are all such good boys.  Every one of them has grown while working alongside Mike.  The older boys have all worked in the hay fields for years, picked up rocks when they were too young to drive a truck or a tractor, and have learned much through their work for him.  I am so proud of every one of them.  

Becky soon joined us in the back room and lay beside me on the floor.  We visited quietly and listened to our boys have fun and forget the terrible sadness for a while.  Soon evening approached and my exhaustion was beginning to settle again.  Also, that tangible feeling of emptiness and sadness that rears its ugly head still to this day, was starting to take hold.  I knew it was time to go when I got that feeling in my stomach, when my breath became labored, and when the shaking became uncontrollable.  Becky and Bill drove me home.  

I remember that evening passing at a snail’s speed.  I was so nervous about the following morning.  I wanted everything to be perfect, but I dreaded every second of what was to come.

My preacher, Brother Johnny Gipson, visited to ask if I had any special requests for the service.  I told him that I wanted it short.  I wanted it to be over quickly because I could not deal with dragging on the sadness for the boys’ sake.  It needed to be quick and to the point.  He asked if I had any special verses.  My mind was blank and I could think of none specifically, but then I asked if we could have some Ecclesiastes.  I have always thought it beautiful how it flows:

There is a time for everything,

    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

a time to be born and a time to die,

    a time to plant and a time to uproot,

a time to kill and a time to heal,

    a time to tear down and a time to build,

a time to weep and a time to laugh,

    a time to mourn and a time to dance,

a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,

a time to search and a time to give up,

    a time to keep and a time to throw away,

a time to tear and a time to mend,

    a time to be silent and a time to speak,

a time to love and a time to hate,

    a time for war and a time for peace.

Isn’t it beautiful how all things bad turn into all things pure and perfect?  That is what I know happened when Mike arrived in Heaven.  He had his conversation with God and then all things sad, exhausting, lonely, worrisome, and terrible turned to pure happiness.

I relive so many things over and over in both the sleeping and waking hours. I miss him with every fiber of my being. And I always will.

I am #stillhis Now, Forever and Always times Infinity.

Love,

Veronica