Waiting

I hold her hand in mine, caress it, feel the thin pulse as it winds its way through her long fingers. I look at her face while the fading light of day passes over it: serene, unblemished, beautiful. I notice the way her hair is brushed back and how strands of gray are finding their way into the dark brown color. I listen as the machines sound to the rhythmic beat of her heart and the rise and fall of her lungs, the only noise in the hospital room. I can’t help but feel a certain love for these devices as if they are her essence, her being, her very soul…

Marie. Her name is Marie, if you must know. Twenty three years ago she became Marie Allencourt. She’s my wife, my friend, my lover and mother of our two children. And now, twenty three years later, I feel she is near to becoming one of God’s children.

So I cry. I cry a lot now. It helps me get through each day without completely breaking down. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but I never let Marie see me cry. I don’t know if she would understand how her strong husband could fall apart so easily. At times, I don’t understand myself. There’s never any logic to it. I might be at the grocery store, picking up some milk or bread and I’ll feel the tears begin to well in my eyes. Or I’ll be driving to work with the radio on and something will click inside me. Maybe it’s because I feel her with me during these times, but when I look, she’s not there. I fear the loneliness most of all.

I will always have memories. I remember the times we shared together and think that it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. We were going to spend the rest of our lives with each other. We planned on making new memories and reminisce about the old ones, taking each day not for granted, but making it wonderful and something to be cherished. We were going to retire and move to any place we desired to be. Maine, Arizona, Iowa… Two careless, wandering spirits. We talked about watching our kids grow up and start families of their own and what we would be like as grandparents. Little did I know that the rest of our lives would last twenty three short years.

There’s so much more I want to do with Marie that I’ll never get the chance to experience. There’s so much more love I have to share and she won’t be there to receive it. The large queen bed that we spent so much time in, the one that saw the consummation of our marriage, the conception of our kids, the one breakfast was served in so many times, seems too big for just one person now. Every morning the left side of the bed is cold and empty. The hospital bed she lays in now doesn’t seem big enough for her spirit.

Now, as I wake from my reverie in the hospital room chair, I thank God that he had given me one more day with Marie. I wonder though, if she feels the same way. Does she want this; never to wake again, with the certainty of death waiting to fold it’s eternal arms around her at any time?

I’m selfish, I guess. It’s the only way I know how to be when it comes to Marie. Why should I let her go when I can have her here with me? Why should I give her to God to hold when I’ll only be left with memories to cherish? What about our children? What will their lives be like afterwards? Will they be able to rise above this and overcome the loss that will most certainly cause them suffering? Or maybe they have already accepted the outcome and made peace with it. I don’t know.

I really don’t know.

I wish I had learned grace as an adult. I wish there was a way I could tell her it would be alright if she went with God, to give Him the same pleasure and joy she has given me for so long. I feel He would love her just as much as I do, but never more. She is my light in this world. There’s nobody in the world who loves Marie more than I do. She would tell you that if she could. And she would also tell you I never learned the art of grace.

I reach into my jacket pocket for a pen and a small sheet of paper. I write Marie a short note while I look upon her peaceful face and wonder. I feel the tears run down my cheeks but I don’t bother to wipe them away. It feels good to cry today, even in front of Marie. I hope she understands. We’ll be together again, someday, and the reunion will last forever. This thought sustains me and gives me hope.

I fold the note and tuck it into the palm of her hand. She’ll know what it says. She always knows. I gather my things, kiss her with a few whispered words of endearment and leave the hospital. Maybe tomorrow when I return her room will be empty and she will have found her peace.

Maybe.

Only God really knows.