"That" Day...

Wow.  So here it is: my leap of faith into the unknown world of 

blogging.  My sister, Amy, convinced me to do this, so I hope that 

it becomes what I hope it will.  I hope it becomes a 

place where I can heal and maybe help others heal along the way.

I'm not going to give you a self-help blog for widows because I don't care what anyone says, nothing makes it easier. It just takes so much time, countless prayers, and the strongest faith in God that you can muster. It is a pain so real that it becomes this tangible entity inside of you and it manifests itself into an ugly monster at any given time, with no warning or way to stop it.  You can literally feel its heartbeat right under your own, and when it is ready to rear its ugly head and rip your soul apart all over again, all you can do is breathe.  Cry and breathe.  

Sometimes the memories flood my mind like a torrent of despair and confusion; other times they flow from my heart like a sweet melody.  Many of my memories are so incredibly happy and they are ones that I will cherish forever.  I will hold them near and dear to my heart until the day I take them to Heaven.  On the flip side of that feeling, are the memories that break my heart and soul into pieces every time they resurface.  Penning them for others to read is a scary notion, but I wonder how many other people might share similar scars, so I continue to write even while at some points, the tears are unstoppable.  I will get through.  I will stay strong.  I will tell the stories of my scars.  

I loved a man who was ripped from our world way too soon. He left behind a wife, two sons, and countless family and friends. Every part of my being misses every part of him. My husband, Mike, left this world on a cold Monday in December of 2014, in a terrible and tragic way. He was 44 years, 10 months, and 22 days old.  

But our story did not end on that day, nor did our love.  And the beginning of our story was written when I was 23 and he was 31.  I was a recently divorced girl who had never known the magnitude of true love until I met Mike.  He was my second chance at love.  I cannot imagine ever loving anyone like that again.  I hope that you can know the power and depth of a love unending, just like I had the great honor to know for 13 years on this earth.  I will know it again when The Good Lord reunites us one day.  Until that day arrives, I will hold on to my faith and to my son to see me through.  On my darkest of days, I will hold on to the memories and stories that unfold before you.  They are perfect and pure.  

When I was 18, I married my high school sweetheart.  We were married just shy of 5 years when he asked for a divorce.  At that time in my life I was 23 and thought I was going to be alone forever.  I was depressed and felt more alone that I ever had.  When I look back now I know that the divorce was a cakewalk compared to life without Mike.  

For a little more than 3 months from the date I moved from my house that I shared with my ex-husband, my sister would tease me about Mike.  She knew he was single since his first marriage had also ended.  He had been divorced a while at this point.  So, my sister would tell me every time I visited that if I did not quit crying she was going to call Mike.  I just brushed their ideas away and said Mike didn't even know who I was.

I remember once being at the Jolly Cone, a local fast food restaurant in town, with a friend.  We were sitting at a table when Mike pulled up.  He smiled as he walked up to the order window and said, “Hi, how are you?”  I smiled back and said, “Good, you?”  He answered that he was good.  Once he left, my friend teased me that he was nice and flirting with me.  I did not believe her; I told her that he was just being nice, but secretly hoped.   

Another time my sister and I were at Wal-Mart and ran into Mike and his son Tristan.  Mike was all smiles and spoke very nicely again.  We ran into them inside Wal-Mart and when we left, it just so happened that we were parked directly across lanes from each other.  Mike told me that both times he was very happy to run into me and wanted to flirt with me, but he had Tristan so he didn't. He told me that the Jolly Cone incident was no mistake; he did not “need” a soda.  He already had one in his truck, but he saw me sitting there and wanted to say hi.  

After living with my mom for almost one month after my divorce, I rented a small apartment in town.  I did not know it but Mike had asked his best friend Ron, who works for the city, to tell him where I had moved to hook up utilities.  Ron told him and unbeknownst to me, Mike would drive by sometimes, trying to muster the nerve to stop and ask me out.  One time when my sister and I were having a yard sale, Mike drove by and waved and smiled.  He had plans to stop and ask me out then, but my sister was there, so he chickened out.  

Within a month of renting that apartment, I moved to a cheaper house just outside of town.  I had grown accustomed to living alone and had decided one day while looking in the mirror that I wasn't actually as bad as I thought and if someone would ever call to ask me out, I was going to go.  I even went so far as to call my ex-husband and tell him that.  

I had been so depressed and could not eat or sleep.  I lost weight and was sad every day.  My first year of teaching was plagued by this life altering event that made what should have been such an exciting time, a time of sadness.  I thought that I would never find love again and that if my own husband did not want me, then no one else would.  I am so glad that I was wrong.

I had just arrived home from work on Thursday, October 18, 2001, when my phone rang.  “You are never going to believe who just called!” My sister was on the other end of the phone.  

“Who?”

“Mike Hollis just called!” My sister squealed with delight like a little girl.

“Yeah right, Amy.  Don’t mess with me.”  I was exhausted from working and was not in the mood.  

“I’m not kidding! He just called a few minutes ago and asked for your number!  Oh my gosh! He’s going to call you!”

I was hesitant and nervous, and still so doubtful.  “Well, what did he say?”

Mike had called and asked Amy what happened with my ex-husband and me and if there was ever a chance of us getting back together.  Amy told him that there was never a chance for us again.  He then asked her if she thought I would like to go out sometime or if I was dating anyone. She told him I was not dating anyone and would probably like to go out on a date with him.  

“I’m telling you, Roni Lynn, he’s going to call you!  I just know it!”

“Well, even if he does, it doesn’t mean he’ll call me tonight.  He may change his mind and not call me, who knows.”  I was so scared to get my hopes up. 
See, I had never been on what I consider a “real” date in my life.  The summer I turned 13 my ex-husband and I began “going out”, but never did really go anywhere until I turned 15. Then we were already a couple so I did not consider any of those times a date; we were boyfriend and girlfriend so it was just a part of us.  So, at 23 years old, I had never been called and asked out on a date.  

That one amazing phone call on Thursday, October 18, 2001, at 5:40 p.m., changed my life forever.  I fell in love instantly with everything about him.  He was so sexy; his voice was raspy and perfect; his laugh was contagious; his smile was golden; and his hazel eyes twinkled when he looked at me.  His hands were rough and worn from the years of work, and his skin seemed to always be sun-kissed.

Our thirteen years together seem to have flown by.  We dated a few months, moved in together, married after two years together, and gave birth to Conner 9 months after we married.  Our doctor’s appointment confirmed we conceived Conner one week after our August wedding.   I always told Mike that I was worried people would think we married because we were pregnant, but we weren't.  It was God blessing us with perfect timing.

We were married 11 years, 4 months, and 20 days, when Mike was taken from us.   

Mike had recently established a private contract company in hopes that he could resign from his traveling job with Missouri Rural Water Association. Mike enjoyed his job with MRWA, but he began to hate the travel and the nights away from home that had been part of the job for the past 14 years. One part of his private contracting company involved mixing, delivering, and pouring concrete. I was never keen on the idea of him purchasing the concrete business but I also knew that he was unhappy with MRWA. I supported him, reluctantly many times, but because I loved him. I wanted him to finally be happy.

I also knew that with our cattle farm and other properties, he needed to be here to see them in full operation. Mike's step-dad is aging and is no longer able to fulfill some duties that come with operations of a huge cattle farm. Mike knew that and hated having to depend on Gayle. So, when an opportunity arose to buy a small "mom and pop" concrete plant 20 miles from our home, he did. We fought about it and he even asked me one night, "basically I need to know if I do this...will you still be here?"

You may be wondering why this question arose. Well, my husband was, for lack of better terms, a workaholic. Probably more like a workaholic in overdrive. He never stopped. He rarely slept. He didn't eat properly, or take care of his health properly in really any sense. Mike always had some kind of a plan for a business venture and he always purchased more and more and more in hopes that he would be able to pay off all of his debt and make a profit for himself. This would allow him to see our boys more often and to leave them a profitable farm.

So his work ethic could never cease or even slow down because he had so many obligations for which to pay. Had he not been taken from us, he would have had every single inch of land, every piece of equipment, and every business venture paid in full before the age of 60. Then he would have been able to give to his boys what he had always dreamed of.  So, I always struggled with every new purchase or every new business idea because I just wanted my husband home.  I missed him every day. I hated that we rarely had date night anymore, or that often Conner and I were in bed before Mike arrived home. The financial strain also made me extremely apprehensive. I always worried that he was getting in over his head and that one day the overload of debt that required an overload of work would kill him.  

Unfortunately I was right.  One fateful morning he left for work and never returned.

I am blessed and grateful that three times the morning of his passing we told each other we loved each other.

I rose at 6:00 am to the sounds of his coffee pot brewing and I entered the kitchen quietly. He came over to the sink with his back resting against it and welcomed me into his arms like every day. I folded my hands into my chest and curled up into him like a baby. He held me, kissed the top of my head and said in his husky, amazing voice, "Hey beautiful...I love you." I replied, "I love you too baby."

We talked briefly of the day's work ahead of him. He said that he had a couple of small concrete jobs to deliver. I poured my cup of coffee and went into the playroom just adjacent to the kitchen. Mike sat at the kitchen table and I sat on the couch so that I could still talk to him. We made small talk..."I'm really glad you ordered those NBA tickets last night for Tristan, babe," I told him. "Yeah, me too. Thanks for making me do it." "That's my job. I think it'll be such a good trip for you two." "Me too." 

Tristan, my stepson, was turning 18 in just 2 days and I had wanted us to do something big for him. Since I've already explained a few things, you'll understand that spending $208 on NBA tickets plus a couple of nights hotel stay in Memphis was a big deal for us, but they hadn't been able to do a father-son trip since we had our son Conner 10 years before.

We continued the small talk for a little while longer but I noticed that Mike was quiet. He sat at the table looking out our sliding glass door, seemingly in deep reflection. I didn't know what he was thinking, but I knew he seemed tired and almost defeated.  The night before he had slept in Tristan's bed right across from Conner's room for what they called a "special night". I assumed he hadn't rested well and was tired. I wish I had begged him to stay home. He wouldn't have done it, but I still wish I had tried.

So, after about 30 minutes he rose and said, "Well, I guess I'm not getting anything done here am I?" I said back, "well please be careful today, babe. I love you." He returned the "I love you" and added, "I'll be careful."

About an hour after Mike left, Conner was awake and hungry. I made cinnamon rolls and decided to call Mike to see if he was still on the farm and would like to come by and grab a couple of the cinnamon rolls. He answered his phone but was already out of town, between Winona and Birch Tree, which is the town where the concrete plant is located. We said "I love you" again at the end of the phone conversation. That made 3 times that morning.

I busied myself all morning with cleaning our utility room. It had been a mess for months and I could not stand it anymore. I was so proud of my accomplishment and cleaned the rest of the house before lunch.

A little before 1:00 pm I received a text from Tristan's mom that read, "We heard Mike got hurt today. Tristan is pretty worried about him. Can you let him know what is going on and how his dad is doing when you get a chance? Thanks, hope all is ok."

I stepped outside for fear of Conner hearing the conversation, and I called Mike's phone, never in a million years imagining what I would hear.

A man's voice answered and sounded breathless so I thought it was Mike. "Babe, are you ok?" I asked. "Hello? Is this Veronica?" I still thought it was Mike's voice. "Yes it's me...are you ok?" And then my world fell completely apart with just a few simple words.

"Ma'am, I am so sorry to tell you this over the phone but Mike has passed away." I couldn't believe what I just heard so I just kept saying, "No. No you have the wrong person. No."
"Ma'am, my name is Tim and I'm the Shannon County coroner. I'm so sorry but Mike had an accident at the concrete plant and he's passed away."  

I just kept saying "No" over and over.
I finally said, "Well someone needs to come get me right now because I need to see him."
He told me that the local law enforcement had already been called and should be on their way. Well, they weren't.

So, as calmly as I could I entered our house, shaking like a leaf, but still in such disbelief that no tears came yet. I know now that my body and mind were in shock.

"Conner, I need you to get dressed. I don't know what's going on but I think Daddy got hurt today and we need to go see what's going on. We don't need to panic but no matter what we need to pray to God for strength, ok?"

My little boy looked at me in shock, and we both quickly dressed. My mind was not thinking clearly. We rushed to the truck and drove to the highway but once I reached it, I realized I better stay put. I was in no condition to drive and if I got to the concrete plant and it was true, it would be awful for Conner to see. So we turned around and as I pulled into our drive I made Conner go inside.

I called Tristan's mom and told her that if I heard right over the phone that Mike was dead and she needed to bring Tristan up to our house. I hung up and calls were coming in quicker than I could answer. My dad called and I told him I thought it was true but didn't know 100% sure. The same happened with Mike's mom, Chris. And I told her that I didn't know but was waiting on a call back. 

I could not accept the tragic loss of my husband, the love of my life, as true. I didn't know how to tell his mom that her first born child was dead.

Once again I dialed Mike's number. I didn't know but Conner had sneaked outside and was standing at the edge of the house while I dialed. My back was turned to him so I didn't know he was there. The same man answered again.

"Are you sure?" I asked, still shaking uncontrollably.

"Yes ma'am, I'm so sorry. Is there someone I can call?"

"No!" My screams and the tears finally broke free. Conner told me later that I hit my truck and fell to the ground on my knees while I just screamed "No! This can't be real! This can't be happening!"

I told the man to call Erik Mcspadden, the funeral director, and one of our friends. I then asked what happened.

"He got caught and fell into the concrete truck."

I screamed no again and again and told him that the police still hadn't arrived and they better call someone to get there quick. I hung up and I know Conner knew already just by my reactions that I didn't even realize I was doing. Conner was crying and snot was pouring from his nose when I looked at him and said, "Conner, your daddy's gone. He's gone, Conner. I'm so sorry." Those were the most difficult and worst words I have ever said to my son.

I then watched my little boy crumble to the ground beside me and scream over and over my same sentiments as earlier..."No!"

I helped him to his feet and he said, "Well my life sucks now because I don't have a dad!"

As we walked toward the door I said, "Yes, you do bubba, and you always will because daddy will always be in your heart. We just have to rely on God right now Conner. That's all we can do."

We had to stop before we reached the door because he began puking.

I explained that the police were coming to tell us and that we had to pray hard for strength. Right now we had to pray. So we did.

I waited a few minutes and kept looking toward the door to see if the police vehicles were on our road and very soon they were. Two white SUVs were racing toward our house as the gravel flew behind them. Conner and I went outside to meet them. The highway patrol car was a local man, who my sister had taught in school and who is a good kid. I just said, "No, Evan! This can't be true! It can't be!" And I almost fell to the ground. He collected me and told me we needed to go inside.

I called Chris and told her that she needed to come to our house but didn't say anything else. I called my mom and told her and I texted my sister because I knew that I couldn't speak anymore. My mom was working in Ellington, but was in disbelief and said she would be here as fast as she could. My sister was in Branson, a normal drive of four hours. I think my brother in law told me later that she made it in about 2.

My dad arrived first then Chris and Gayle arrived. I didn't even have to say a word when she saw the highway patrol and deputy standing in our kitchen. She broke down and fell, screaming Michael's name. The loss of my husband is terrible, the loss of our boys' father is terrible, but I cannot imagine the pain of losing a child. My heart ached for her. And it still aches for her.

The next to arrive were Tristan and his mom. I hugged Tristan and kept telling him how sorry I was. We all cried and just still were in so much shock from it all.

Chris stepped into the utility room to call Mike's sister, Becky, who lives in Texas.
Evan gave me the coroner's phone number, the coroner with whom I had spoken earlier. Evan told me to call Tim if I had any questions later. I knew I wouldn't call him but accepted the number anyway. I asked about Mike being brought to Erik's funeral home and Evan said that was already being take care of. Erik had been contacted and he would be calling me later.

I remember at one point it just all seemed so unreal and I think it was before Tristan and arrived, but I threw a cup across the kitchen and just yelled that this could not be true. I later apologized for that act. I just screamed and threw it. I felt like an idiot later for having behaved that way in front of two police officers and my son, but I had no control.

Evan and the deputy, whose name I don't remember, left soon after but Evan later sent me a text to check on us.

Soon my mom arrived and shortly thereafter the house began to flood with visitors. Tristan does not handle death or large crowds of sad people well, so he left after only about an hour. I hugged him again and told him I love him and told his mom that I would check on him later.

Every person who walked in carried a look of despair. I know that they all were so heartbroken and did not know what to say.  Each one came straight to my chair and offered hugs and words of love.  One of my best friends, Erica, came in and walked straight to the recliner which is where I was sitting. She just fell to her knees in front of me and I screamed into her shoulder. We cried and embraced for a long time.

I was almost numb at this point. Because literally hours had passed but it felt like seconds.

At one point I remember asking someone to check the dirty clothes hamper for something of Mike's. I needed something to hold that still smelled like him. A dirty pair of Carhartt jeans became my crutch for the night. I folded them around my arm and never let them go.

Conner was doing really well at this point and was even way stronger than I. When I would start wailing he would come to the back or the side of the recliner and tell me softly, "it's gonna be ok momma....you're ok." I am so proud and grateful to be his momma.

I don't remember who all came in between Erica's arrival and my sister's, but I remember the second Amy walked in the door. She literally handed Reagan, my two year old niece off to someone, and came straight to me. I broke down hard all over again. I could not believe it. She cried right back just as hard.

Soon my phone rang with a call from Erik--Mike had arrived to the funeral home. It was almost 5:00 pm so I decided to wait until the morning to go see my husband. I asked Erik what happened and he explained in such a tender voice, "He took a pretty hard hit to the head and he doesn't look like Mike." I asked what he would do if he was me: should I see my husband's face, or spare myself the pain? After Erik told me again that Mike didn't look like Mike, I decided then that I could not see his face. I could not have the memory of my handsome, perfect husband tarnished. I would be at the funeral home at 9:00 am Tuesday morning to see Mike.

I would, in a few nights ahead, have a nightmare of what I imagined his face and head looking like. It haunts me still.

In the evening hours Mike’s sister Becky and her family arrived from Texas.  We all hugged and spoke of how we hated that this is how we had to see each other.  PR, Mike’s brother who has been estranged from Mike for a few years, arrived with one of my cousins.  PR and Mike have had more than their share of ups and downs over the years, so I know that guilt was weighing on PR when he heard the news.  He came to sit beside me and I hugged him, telling him that I was glad he came.  He spoke through a broken and shaking voice, “I should have come a long time ago.”

“Yeah, you should have, but you can’t think about that now.  Mike is proud of you for coming and right now you just need to remember your brother.  Forgive him, forgive yourself, and just remember him, PR,” is what I had to say.   All that he could do was shake his head in agreement.

The rest of that first night is a blur. My friends and family poured into our home, many of them for the very first time. I checked on Tristan multiple times and my nephew, who is also one of Tristan's good friends, stayed with Tristan all night long. He never left his side.

My little boy stayed strong through the entire night. He held me up more than I was able to hold him. I felt guilt, but I couldn't stop the sobs or the moments of utter disbelief. I still shook uncontrollably. Another of my best friends, Michelle, had thought immediately to prescribe me some Xanax and had another best friend, Amy, deliver those to me earlier in the day.

At one point my preacher, Brother Johnny Gipson, and his wife, Joy, arrived.  They spoke words of love to me.  I remember that I told Johnny that I was not angry with God.  I wanted to make sure he knew that and that everyone knew that. As difficult as it has been to lose the love of my life, I know that God had a reason.  I may not understand it, or like it one bit for my own selfish reasons, but I think that God took Mike because Mike was tired.  

My sister would say something to me days later that really struck me as right.  She told me that maybe God took Mike because life on Earth was getting too hard for him and Mike deserved rest.  My husband worked his whole life.  He worked harder than any person I have ever known.  He was exhausted beyond the normal realm of exhaustion; he owed so much money (most of which I was completely unaware of until forced to deal with it after his passing); he could never stop working if he wanted to pay his debts; he rarely had time to enjoy his family; and so much more.  He was just tired.  God was ready to give Mike the rest he had so deserved his entire life, but had never received.

I am a Christian; I am not perfect by any stretch, but I do believe in The Lord, in Heaven, and in asking for forgiveness of our sins.  I believe that Jesus Christ died for me and I believe that my husband, once his spirit was gone, had a moment with God and had one last chance at redemption.  I believe in my heart that when Mike met our Creator, and God asked Mike if he was sorry for all that he had done in this world, I can envision Mike as he fell to his knees, cried tears of love and sorrow all at once, and answered yes.  I believe then that The Lord wrapped his arms around my husband and welcomed him into his eternal home.  Maybe I’m wrong and maybe none of that took place, or at least not in that exact way.  But, maybe I’m right.  And so, I will risk the chance of being wrong every day and I will picture my husband being ushered into Heaven with God’s arm wrapped tightly around him.  I can picture my husband wiping the tears from his eyes as he walks alongside The Lord, and then once they enter the gates, all Mike is doing is smiling.  I see sunshine and warmth enveloping them both.  I see Mike’s eyes light up with glee as he sees his dad, Bob, in the distance.  Happiness.  Pure bliss.  Rest.  That is what I hold on to.

Once the crowds left and it was just my mom, my sister and family, and us, I had to pick his burial clothes. Earlier in the day I had considered his Marine dress uniform and my nephew Austin had climbed into the attic to find it. But I realized I wanted to save his Marine uniform for his boys. I would dress my husband in what he wore most every single day: Carhartt jeans, a flannel shirt, his faded brown leather belt, and lace up work boots. I chose his newer pair of work boots because I couldn't stand the thought of putting on him the ones he had been wearing when he was taken from us. My mom, being the amazing woman that she is, ironed them for me. She wanted to make sure her son-in-law looked his best.

Once late night descended, and the Xanax settled into my system, I had to have help walking to our bedroom. It was not even a moment of hesitation that our son would take his dad's place in our king size bed and would sleep there for as long as he wanted. Luckily Conner fell asleep fairly quickly, but my mind would not shut down. I prayed. I cried. I tossed and turned.

As I laid there silently sobbing, I heard my bedroom door softly open. My sister scooted into 

bed behind me and held me, crying into my shoulder. We talked for a bit. I cried and 

recounted how I could not believe this was happening. I could not believe he was gone. 

She laid with me for a long while. In time she left to return to Conner's room to check on 

Reagan. Alyssa, my other niece, who would be 14 in just 6 days, and my mom were 

sleeping in Tristan's bed. I know that the night was restless for everyone.


So on "that" day, my world came to a crashing halt. My heart and soul became broken

beyond measure.


I pray every day and every night for strength. Strength to recover from "that" day and all

things that were soon to follow.


I will love Mike now, forever, and always times infinity... I am #stillhis

Love,
Veronica