(Scroll to the end for links to my previous blog tributes to Joanna since her passing.)
My mind has gone a thousand places in the 4 months since Joanna passed away on February 14.
I cry every day, some days several times. Sometimes it happens when I start thinking of the places we went together, the things we did together – going to shows (we both loved Broadway-type shows, comedians, singers, dinner theater, etc.); going shopping (yes, though shopping may not have been my favorite thing, being with Joanna made it good); going to movies; driving (anywhere, whether on a trip, to a restaurant, or just to the grocery store) with Joanna in the seat next to me; going out to eat (one of our favorite things) . . . then the realization comes that I can’t go any of those places or do any of those things with Joanna anymore, and the tears start gushing.
It also happens when I start looking at pictures or videos of her.
I accept this as a fact of life that’s going to be with me a long time. Friends who have lost their long-time spouses tell me it won’t get easier anytime soon, and I believe them. However, I call these tears “good tears,” because they remind me of how deeply we loved each other. I’m paying the price now for having such a long, good marriage to such a special person. In September 1976, we vowed to love each other and care for each other “’til death do us part”; well, now death has parted us after 44½ years of marriage, and I’m experiencing the deepest pain I’ve ever known, and it’s the kind of pain that doesn’t go away.
But that’s all right. As I said, this is the price one pays for having such a long, wonderful marriage to such a special person . . . and it’s a price worth paying for the life we had together, and the memories that I have now.
Though I’ve found, in talking with friends who have lost their spouses, that some of what I’ve experienced is relatively common, I can’t speak for anyone else or their experience. I’m sure our experiences are all unique in one aspect or another. Different personalities, differences in the relationships we had with our spouses, etc., mean that each of us experiences grief in our own way, even though there may be some commonalities in our experience.
I can’t speak for my kids and grandkids, either, though all are hurting in their own way. Our children have had their own difficult moments and experiences . . . both were close to their mom, and I can’t fill the hole that her absence has left in their hearts and lives any more than they can fill the one that her absence has left in my own heart and life. Though the three of us share our deep sense of loss and pain, and there are some commonalities in our feelings, we each experience this grief in our own way. So I can speak only for myself.
Perhaps the most difficult thing for me has been accepting the reality . . . and the permanence . . . of Joanna’s death. This probably is somewhat common to any loss, especially where the relationship is one of long-standing, but it is particularly pronounced after the loss of a spouse following decades of marriage. Even after 4 months . . . and more than 2 months after Joanna’s remains were cremated and inurned in our church’s Columbarium . . . I still have a hard time accepting her death as real . . . and final . . . and permanent . . . that I have to live the rest of my life without her.
When you spend practically every day with someone for 44½ years . . . when you go hundreds (thousands?) of places with them, near and far . . . when you do countless activities together . . . when you rear two children, then celebrate four grandchildren together . . . must I go on, or do you get the point? So I see Joanna’s face everywhere I go and in everything I do, yet she’s not there anymore.
I walk into our bedroom, and I half-expect to see her sitting in her recliner, watching TV or playing games on her phone. I lie down for my afternoon nap in our living room, and I half-expect her to “disturb” my nap – as she did many times – with a text message and the sound of its “ding.” I work in my study late at night, and there’s this nagging feeling that Joanna is in bed, wondering when I’m coming to bed, worried about my health because I stay up so late. Old habits are hard to break.
You get the idea. But besides that, there’s this totally irrational thought, deep in the recesses of my emotions – not my brain, mind you, but my emotions – that, if I keep telling the Lord how much I miss Joanna and how deeply I’m hurting without her, the Lord will be moved with pity or simply by my nagging persistence (Luke 11:5-10 has long been one of my favorite scripture passages – go figure) and suddenly, mystically, materialize Joanna in my presence, but now healthy and free of disease, and we can go on as before. As I said, that’s my emotions speaking; my brain knows better. I know that’s not going to happen. But Amazon has “wish lists,” and so do I, even though it’s nothing but a fantasy.
And yes, I do say, at least a hundred times a day, “Lord, I sure do miss Joanna,” or sometimes I say it directly to her – “Babe, I miss you with every breath I take.” But not because I really expect it to bring her back . . . instead, it’s because I simply have to say it, because I feel it so deeply. Joanna’s death hangs heavily over every moment of my life. Oh, I have plenty to keep me busy, and I stay very busy. But Joanna is never out of my mind.
Truth be told, when she was living, she was never far from my mind, either. For over 48 years, from the time we started dating in January 1973, Joanna has brought me joy. In recent years, when I’ve been away at Baptist conferences or meetings without Joanna, I called her during breaks to share with her what was going on . . . the people I’d gotten to see and visit with . . . perhaps a sermon or music or presentation that had particularly impressed me . . . and so forth, because the joy I’ve experienced in my involvement in Baptist life was always tied to sharing it with Joanna. I’m praying these days for God to help me to find joy again, because nothing I do gives me the joy it gave me when I could share it with her.
I mentioned earlier that I sometimes speak to Joanna directly, telling her I miss her. Well, I talk to her a bunch. Whether she hears me, I don’t know. Our pastor, George Mason, told me – in the week leading up to Joanna’s inurnment service on Easter Sunday – that he believes that Christ’s death and resurrection freed Him from the constraints of his earthly body, to be at any place with anyone at any time. “Since Joanna belongs to Christ now, in His risenness,” George said, “you can expect to experience Joanna’s presence wherever you can expect Christ to be.”
George suggested that, when grief threatens to overtake me, I should go to the old familiar places that Joanna and I loved together, and experience the kinds of things I saw Joanna doing, such as caring for those in need.
Honestly, I’m still trying to learn how to experience Joanna’s presence as George suggested. It’s going to take a lot of prayer and reliance on God to show me just how to do that. I want to learn more about what some theologians call the “thin places” between earth and heaven.
In the meantime, though, I talk to Joanna. You know, I don’t believe that people in heaven are just waiting to be summoned by their loved ones who are still earthbound. I certainly hope not. I hope – and believe – that Joanna, in her new body free of disease, is living a robust life in heaven, fellowshipping at the Lord’s great heavenly banquet table, as I wrote a few days after her death, building and growing relationships there, learning from the great preachers and teachers, and even sitting down for an occasional talk with Jesus. How all that works, I have no earthly (or heavenly) idea. But my faith is in Christ, who promised, “I go to prepare a place for you,” and I take Him at His word.
So I don’t believe Joanna is hanging around here all the time, waiting for me to “summon” her. Nevertheless, I do feel an occasional “nudge” to get busy about the things I know she wanted me doing, and I have to believe it’s her . . . seriously! And I do talk to her all the time, often – as I said earlier – just to tell her how much I love her and miss her (though I really don’t want her worrying about me – after all, she knows the “end game” now, so there’s no reason for worry on her part anymore); occasionally, I sit on the edge of our bed, facing that recliner in which she spent so many hours, and tell her what’s been going on with our family. After all, we’ve talked about that kind of stuff for years – our lives have revolved around our family, and we’ve spent countless hours talking about family. Talking to her is a hard habit to break, and I’m in no hurry to break it, so I talk to her.
Oh yes, I should add that Joanna often asked me to open the bedroom blinds for her in the morning and to close them at night. Only, she rarely said “open” or “close.” She usually asked me, “Would you please turn on (off) the blinds for me?” So now, every morning – without fail – I open the blinds in the bedroom; as I’m doing it, I look over at her chair and say, “Okay, Babe, I’m turning on the blinds for you,” and the reverse in the evening.
One thing I began realizing soon after Joanna passed away is how very much I relied on her wisdom. She was much wiser than I. It’s very hard now, navigating what has become a much more difficult life, without the one who has helped me navigate the past half-century. We bounced ideas, concerns, and so forth off of each other, kicked things around together, and more often than not, her wisdom helped us find the way. Honestly, I feel somewhat adrift these days, trying to find my way without Joanna’s help. I’ve even prayed that God would help me to continue to draw on her wisdom. I hope that some of it has “seeped” through this leaky brain of mine.
Another thing that has bothered me has been to look around our house and realize how little I’ve done to contribute to it. The decorations in the house? That’s all Joanna. Any improvements that have been made (like the new grass that was installed in our front lawn just a few weeks before her death)? Those were almost always by Joanna’s initiative. Organization of things around the house (utility room, garage, etc.)? Joanna. Honestly, I feel a little guilty. I put so much responsibility on her, mainly because she was always quite happy to take it. She liked to take charge of such things. She was the artistic one (decorations) and had the organized mind. Still, I look around and wonder: “Of what use around here, if any, was I, anyway?”
(CORRECTION, June 18 – It dawned on me, as I was folding clothes from the dryer last night, that maybe I shortchanged myself by implying that I was of NO use – I was of at least a little use. There were two things I did regularly: (1) From the time we were married, I always did the laundry. I had done it for my family when I was growing up – spending a few hours at the laundromat on a Saturday afternoon was my way of getting away from chores at the house, and it gave me time to sit and read my baseball magazines, etc.; and (2) For several years now – I don’t remember just when it started – I’ve washed the dishes every night before going to bed. In the dishwasher, of course, not by hand – let’s not get carried away here! So I often heard Joanna bragging on me to friends – “Bill does the laundry and the dishes.” It didn’t seem like a big deal to me, but I think it was important to her that, with all that she did for the family, those were two things she didn’t have to worry about.)
My consolation is that, when it came to taking care of family, especially during Travis’s and Joanna’s illnesses, they’ve always known they can count on me. I love my family . . . they come first with me, and they know that.
Reflecting on Joanna’s illness, I remember all those visits to the dialysis nurse and the kidney doctor over the years . . . I was with her at every appointment, with only very rare exceptions. I particularly helped by taking notes, etc., to make sure we didn’t miss anything important that the nurse or doctor told us.
Last year, Joanna went to the hospital for a week in March with extremely high blood pressure, and again in April with a mineral imbalance that almost killed her.
Until then, she had always set up her dialysis machine every evening since beginning dialysis in January 2016. However, when she came home from the hospital in April, I knew she was tired, her body had grown frail, and she was discouraged. I told her I wanted to start setting up her dialysis machine every night, so I did – and continued to do so until she went into the hospital for her transplant surgery on January 31. It really meant a lot to her – it was a process, taking 15-20 minutes each night, that required careful concentration; a mistake might require us to dispose of the dialysis solution and go get another one to start the process all over again. This had happened more than a few times and was frustrating for her. So she really appreciated my taking over this responsibility for her.
It also meant an extra 15-20 minutes for us to spend together . . . that was definitely a good thing!
Last fall, I had a thought. There’s a point in the dialysis machine process where it has to “prime” the dialysis solution. Once it starts priming, there’s nothing to do but wait about 7 or 8 minutes until it finishes. At that point, Joanna would check the tubing to make sure it primed correctly and was ready for her to “hook up” to her catheter. If it didn’t prime correctly, then we have to re-prime.
Anyway, I got to thinking . . . here’s 7 to 8 minutes of “dead time” where I’m doing nothing but waiting. For years, Joanna has complained of tired, aching feet, and loves an occasional foot rub. So I suggested, while we’re waiting for the machine to prime every night, why don’t I give you a foot rub. She loved it!
So every night, when it came that time, she would prop her feet over the arm rest of her recliner, and I would rub her feet. In fact, it became a source of humor between us, because here was something I had originally suggested out of the goodness of my heart, but it quickly became an expectation on her part. So if I forgot, she would remind me – “WHERE”S MY FOOT RUB???” Truthfully, though, I loved doing it for her, because I know it made her life just a little easier and better and happier. There were times that she would get tears in her eyes, thanking me for doing this for her.
Then came another thought. Around the same time last fall, I began offering to make breakfast for her and serve it to her in her recliner. She usually wanted a “soft” egg (she taught me how to do it just to her specifications – sometimes I achieved it, sometimes not so much) and a piece of toast. Once in awhile, she wanted oatmeal. So I did that for the next few months, making her breakfast and serving it to her in her recliner. One time she got tears in her eyes and said, “For all these years, I’ve cooked for the family and served them. It’s so nice to be served for a change.”
As I said, for all my shortcomings, my consolation is that Joanna knew she could depend on me to take care of her. When she needed something, whether it was to bring her an “alka drink” (as she often texted me when her stomach was bothering her at night – Alka Seltzer, of course) or to heat the gel pad when she had pain in her shoulder, she knew she could depend on me. Finally, of course, I was in the hospital with her those last 2 weeks during visiting hours from 8-8 (and usually a little beyond) every day; the hospital’s COVID restrictions prevented me from staying overnight. I fed her dinner on what turned out to be the last night of her life – the last meal she ever ate.
Of all the wonderful things that people have written and said to me since Joanna’s passing, few have meant as much to me as what Keith Stone – one of Joanna’s friends from her ExxonMobil days; in fact, she and Keith carpooled together for awhile – wrote to me. Keith wrote that, in his last telephone conversation with Joanna, she had told him, “Bill is my hero.” Wow! I will cling to that for the rest of my days – how beautiful to hear that.
Well, these are just a few of the thousands of things that have gone through my mind in the past 4 months. Despite Joanna’s disease, I never would allow myself to imagine the possibility of losing her. I took it for granted that she would always be here with me. But life isn’t like that. Death is a part of life, and now it has become a big part of mine.
Now the first thing I do every morning is to thank God for giving me Joanna’s love for 48 years. I was blessed beyond measure. I still will never get over my amazement that someone as special as Joanna would choose to spend her life with me. Joanna is the love of my life . . . and she always will be.
My previous 3 blog tributes to Joanna since her passing on February 14, 2021:
3/19/21 – Joanna spoke out against demeaning racial slurs and the fears they caused her as an Asian-American
2/22/21 – How Joanna and I got together . . . the beginning of our love story
2/19/21 – The painful journey that took the love of my life, Joanna . . . to the great heavenly banquet