Do you remember what I said to you in the hospital that
night? It was the night we realized you'd be going home on hospice the next morning.
We were crying together, just sitting there in disbelief. I could feel a realization stirring in the pit of my stomach, thick with fear. My throat tightened and there was panic in my voice. "You're going somewhere I can't follow." It was all I could get out, but it hurt to say. It was true, and it physically hurt to say.
And with those words all the strength I had within me, all the hope I had been carrying for 10 months since your diagnosis, all the brave faces I put on and the "we'll get through this," the logging and advocating with doctors, the prayers and faith, all of the holding it together for the both of us...it was gone. I laid myself next to you, deflated - exhausted - hopeless.
I fell onto your chest wailing like a child, sobbing uncontrollably. You stroked my head and whispered "You will be OK. I love you."
But I'm not OK.
And with those words all the strength I had within me, all the hope I had been carrying for 10 months since your diagnosis, all the brave faces I put on and the "we'll get through this," the logging and advocating with doctors, the prayers and faith, all of the holding it together for the both of us...it was gone. I laid myself next to you, deflated - exhausted - hopeless.
I fell onto your chest wailing like a child, sobbing uncontrollably. You stroked my head and whispered "You will be OK. I love you."
But I'm not OK.
I have been going through some old e-mails between us - so much love and so much excitement about the life we had created together and the forever we were looking forward to living.
On October 7, 2019, just a month before your first emergency hospitalization (before shit hit the fan) we exchanged the following:
Me: I just applied for this job. Have no idea how much it pays, but what if I got it? Would you be willing to move to Austin?
Joe: Yes! I would follow you to the ends of the Earth! Chase your dreams Jen Jen! I will carry your luggage.
Me: I love you!
Man! We had it good didn't we?
Dying was your new journey. And I wasn't invited.
From the time you left the hospital to the time you passed (just two weeks), I followed your lead and watched you prepare to leave.
In those last days I feel like we walked to the edge together, right to the edge of it all. We held hands and looked out on what was to come. You said it was beautiful. You were so strong and unafraid - so you.
I would have followed you right off the edge. If you said "jump, I'll catch you," I would have jumped. Is that why you waited for me to run that stupid errand? I was gone less than five minutes before I got a call that your breathing had changed, and I had better come home. You were gone by the time I got there.
You knew I would beg you to stay. You knew if given the chance, I would try to follow you somehow, and you knew it would tear me apart. Instead, ever my protector, you let me walk out the door. You let go of me and transitioned on.
Now I spend my days chasing you, chasing your scent in every piece of clothing, every hair brush, every item left behind. I look for little traces. Maybe if I reach far enough, love hard enough, I'll get to you somehow. But no...just empty shirts, shoes left where you kicked them off in the kitchen, and a jacket hanging on the hook by the front door.
But you're there aren't you, sitting just beyond my reach? Maybe we’ll laugh about this someday, about how silly the physical world is - how dull yet painful our human experience is – how short and limited and fragmented compared to the expansiveness and light of eternity. I hope so.
On October 7, 2019, just a month before your first emergency hospitalization (before shit hit the fan) we exchanged the following:
Me: I just applied for this job. Have no idea how much it pays, but what if I got it? Would you be willing to move to Austin?
Joe: Yes! I would follow you to the ends of the Earth! Chase your dreams Jen Jen! I will carry your luggage.
Me: I love you!
Man! We had it good didn't we?
Dying was your new journey. And I wasn't invited.
From the time you left the hospital to the time you passed (just two weeks), I followed your lead and watched you prepare to leave.
In those last days I feel like we walked to the edge together, right to the edge of it all. We held hands and looked out on what was to come. You said it was beautiful. You were so strong and unafraid - so you.
I would have followed you right off the edge. If you said "jump, I'll catch you," I would have jumped. Is that why you waited for me to run that stupid errand? I was gone less than five minutes before I got a call that your breathing had changed, and I had better come home. You were gone by the time I got there.
You knew I would beg you to stay. You knew if given the chance, I would try to follow you somehow, and you knew it would tear me apart. Instead, ever my protector, you let me walk out the door. You let go of me and transitioned on.
Now I spend my days chasing you, chasing your scent in every piece of clothing, every hair brush, every item left behind. I look for little traces. Maybe if I reach far enough, love hard enough, I'll get to you somehow. But no...just empty shirts, shoes left where you kicked them off in the kitchen, and a jacket hanging on the hook by the front door.
But you're there aren't you, sitting just beyond my reach? Maybe we’ll laugh about this someday, about how silly the physical world is - how dull yet painful our human experience is – how short and limited and fragmented compared to the expansiveness and light of eternity. I hope so.
Until then, find a bench nearby, a nice place to watch over me and your boys. We will remember our promises to you, to use our time here wisely, love each other, and live the way you did - all out.
And when my time comes JoJo, meet me at my bedside.
Tell me it's time to jump.
Tell me you've come to catch me.
Remind me that you've been with me the whole time and you're sorry you had to leave without me. But you're here now.
"Follow me JenJen," you'll say..."I will carry your luggage."
