After the About . . .

If you’ve read my About section, you may have noticed the “past tense” in the writing.

It wasn’t always that way.  When I first wrote those words, they were in the present tense.  Life was good, and the words were easy and breezy . . . just how I felt back then.  But as I sometimes say in my writing, That was then.  This is now.  Much has changed since then.

Our little salon downsized and moved to a sweet boutique location that was a little slice of heaven on earth . . . colorfully saturated walls, splashy paintings, and a large window overlooking a lush historical garden and the town green . . . and then, just when our oh-so-busy life seemed to be settling down and I began focusing on this little site . . . my dear husband was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer.

One moment life was humming along sweetly, the next moment Don was mentioning that he had coughed up a small bit of blood.  Honestly, I wasn’t overly concerned.  After all, gums sometimes bleed. I barely remember him mentioning it.

Thankfully, a very dear friend (a “client friend” as I like to say) was a nurse practitioner . . . and she wasn’t as nonchalant as I about such things.  She pulled a few strings and got us an appointment with a pulmonary group that her daughter, who had recently become a nurse practitioner herself, had worked with before relocating to Texas.

Our first visit was fairly routine.  We left with a possible diagnosis of pneumonia and a prescription for antibiotics.  The doctor also ordered an x-ray . . . and thus, about a week or so later, we returned for a follow-up visit.  I remember sitting in the waiting room thumbing through a magazine and checking my phone as my husband met with the doctor.  It was a beautiful September day, and this was just a quick stop before we got on with our life.  Or so I thought.

I remember when the doctor’s assistant, a tall guy in a white lab coat, peeked his head around the door and asked me to come inside.

Thinking nothing much, I walked into the room where my husband sat at the edge of the medical table and the doctor on a stool with a computer screen on wheels near him.  My husband looked at me and somewhat resignedly said, “Not good” as he slightly shook his head.

I wondered if he was being melodramatic and looked to the doctor for clarification.  The doctor began explaining to me that there was a large mass in Don’s lungs.  He tried to show me on the computer screen, but the system was misbehaving, so he couldn’t pull it up—although it was evident that he and Don had viewed it earlier.  Thinking back, I’m glad I didn’t see it.  I don’t know if I spoke or simply listened, but the doctor . . . a kind, likeable guy with a name that Don found gleefully funny (“Dr. Wurm”)  . . . began explaining that the mass could be a fungal infection, or even tuberculosis.  There were no other options mentioned, but the thought of what was unsaid hung heavily between us.  Still, hope remained.  After all, as my husband would tell me later, the doctor had asked if he had recently traveled internationally.  Don said he hadn’t, but his clients sure had!  They could have brought back a big ‘ole dose of tuberculosis.  That was the thought.

It was either later that day or the next that we were set up for an appointment with another doctor . . . one who asked for a PET scan before the visit.  Another kind, likeable doctor, he chatted with us in the examination room as Don sat on the examination table and we waited for the results of the PET scan taken earlier that day.

He kept leaving the room to check for the results, which seemed to be delayed.  After several trips back and forth, he returned with a serious look on his face, leaned against the door he had just shut behind him, and softly said, “Not good.”  Those words . . . again.

To say we were devastated as we listened to the list of places to which the cancer had spread would be an understatement . . . and yet, the initial reaction was more of shock.  We simply couldn’t wrap our minds around such life-altering information.

I remember driving out of the parking garage after we left the doctor’s office, which was located across the street.  Although it may not have been the first call, the call I remember is Don calling his cousins, two brothers who happened to be together in a car heading to a business engagement.  They remember, too. It was hard news to hear.

The initial days were days of running around, getting tests, a biopsy, and gathering information.  We hadn’t yet chosen an oncologist, and it seems like each time we saw a new doctor, he or she would mention yet another area in which Don’s body had been attacked by the cancer . . . the lungs, the adrenals, the bones, the kidneys, the brain.  The hits just kept coming.

There’s so much to the story . . . but much is for another day.  Let me just say . . .

We moved forward.  As the shock subsided, we focused on our course of action.  We ended up under the care of a highly respected lung oncologist (a younger, better-looking version of Steve Martin, Don used to say) whose kind demeanor and personable disposition kept us engaged, smiling (even laughing!) and, yes, moving forward.  He and his wonderful team were located just 11 minutes or so from our house . . . a convenience that made life less stressful and coping much easier.

We learned that life goes on . . . even when you’re faced with an enemy battling to steal it.  After all, we all live just one day at a time.

We continued to do everything we had previously done, although often in smaller doses . . . and little by little life returned to normal in so many ways.  We began to look at the situation as something we simply dealt with, like any other challenge in life.  For that, I am eternally grateful.

As for me, I got my faith on, consuming every book I could find on miracles and healing, and claiming every hope-filled scripture I could find.  I believe in the power of speaking and declaring, and I often dimmed the lights late at night and walked around our downstairs like a warrior (albeit a pajama clad one) declaring health and healing and victory after victory over Don and me and our lives.  There were moments of great faith and peace . . . and signs that only God can give.  Even today, I continue to declare that “All things are possible with God” and “Nothing is impossible with him.”  God says in His Word to, “Bring me into remembrance,” and I still do.

There were victories throughout Don’s medical treatment . . . like  the initial good results of immunotherapy, Don’s first treatment . . . and how its success led to the word “remission.”  In retrospect, these early victories probably helped us reset our outlook and move forward more positively.  For that, I am forever grateful . . . because we continued living . . . laughing, talking, engaging, being.

I would not allow any negative speech to be spoken over my husband.  To the best of my recollection, the words “He has cancer” never came out of my mouth.  Rather, the words spoken were, “He was diagnosed with cancer.”

And yet . . . my dear husband lost his battle with cancer.

But still, there were beautiful moments, even in the last weeks.  Although my husband was strongly insistent on staying home, as things began to worsen, I ended up calling 911 and cajoling him into going with the promise that we would be back home later that day.  After all, I was sure he mostly needed hydration.  I believed what I said, but he needed more than hydration and ended up staying a week as they treated him for kidney failure.

At one point, when he could barely move, and words were few, two young (undersized) emergency room staffers attempted to pick him up . . . quite awkwardly, I might add.  Despite his condition, my husband . . . suspended in the air by the two struggling youngsters (I mean staffers!) . . . managed to look me in the eye and dryly remark, “This is what I was trying to avoid.” Emphasis on the word “This!”

One of my favorite memories was another time, and I’m not quite sure if it was in the hospital or after he came home.  I just remember that he could barely move, but managed to call out to me, prompting me to rush to his side, saying “I’m here.  I’m here.”  I immediately wrapped my arms around his neck and began kissing him all over . . . his face, his neck, his bare chest.  So many kisses . . . they just kept on coming!  After several moments of my expressive love, Don decided to hit the pause button by declaring,  “Now you’re taking advantage.”  Emphasis on the word “Now!”  I burst out laughing.  It was classic Don.  He loved kisses, but I could certainly overdo it . . . and he realized he was captive to my over-the-top love.

I only remember crying a few times after Don was diagnosed and before he died:  A deep weeping at a restaurant where the family had gathered shortly after he was diagnosed, once when we were in the car heading to work, unexpectedly and deeply after I purchased birthday cards for what would be his last birthday . . .  and then, finally, in the hospital.  The hospital memory is sweet.  I was sitting by his side as he slept, the chair facing him, when I started to softly weep.  He opened his eyes, put his hand tenderly on my cheek and asked me why I was crying.  I simply said, “Because I want you to be better.”

Don hated when I had to leave his side to go home from the hospital . . . which I only did late at night so I could grab some sleep and return the next day.  I remember him arching his brows disapprovingly and somewhat resignedly as I told him I was leaving for the evening.

At one point he said, “You lied to me.”  I knew what he meant.  I had promised him that we wouldn’t spend the night in the hospital, and here we were . . . here he was . . . still there.

Thankfully, he did come home.

Although the word “hospice” broke my heart, I ended up speaking with a wonderful lady in charge of such things while Don was in the hospital.  I insisted that the word never be uttered around him, but I realized that I needed for Don what only hospice could provide.

My aunt, a wonderful, cheerful, caring person who loved Don, flew into town a few days before Don was released from the hospital . . . which happened to be on her birthday.  We moved furniture and created a spot in our small townhouse-like home where Don could see what was happening in both the kitchen and the living room.  The twin-sized hospital bed arrived and I made countless, frantic trips to Kmart, Home Goods and the like searching for all sorts of things to make his life comfortable . . . extra mattress padding, soft sheets, etc.  I ordered standard-sized pillows, along with small, “travel” pillows from My Pillow, so we could adjust his positioning and make him more comfortable.  He had a drain in his side from many months prior that we had originally hoped was temporary, but turned out not to be.  It was just one of the areas in which the travel pillows proved helpful.

The house is colorful and cheery and, despite the undeniable stress that hung in the air, there was a sweetness and love that seemed to permeate the atmosphere.  Don was surrounded by love and life.  He was home those last seven days, and each night I slept a few feet away on our living room couch . . . so he was never alone.

A sweet young girl who worked for hospice came each morning.  We used her time with us to give him a refreshing sponge bath and massage lavender essential oil all over his body.

One time when my aunt was at the kitchen sink with her back to Don, he managed to quite suddenly and loudly bark out the word “LuLu,” a humorous and endearing nickname she sometimes goes by.  He certainly got her attention.  Startled, and slightly amused, she turned around, and he pointed to an area that was swollen and said the word “Hurts.”  She, of course, comforted him the best she could.  There was another time when my aunt was sitting in front of the TV and Dr. Phil was on.  I wasn’t in the room at the time, but my aunt tells me that Don became all excited, flailing his arms, and, although his speech wasn’t 100 percent clear, he delivered his message:  He wasn’t a fan!  (Years ago, one of our clients shared some less-than-flattering dealings with the doctor and Don was clearly on our client’s side!)

There are many memories . . . like the time Don called out to me in the middle of the night and I came rushing to his side and sat with him.  We held hands, as we sometimes did, and his clasp was so strong and tight.  He wanted me there, and I stayed.

A day or so before he passed, my aunt and I couldn’t believe how healthy and handsome he looked.  His skin looked tan and his complexion was radiant.  His one-time paunch had given way to a slim physique.  He looked more like the handsome, young Don I knew from years ago (less the thick, gorgeous hair, of course!).  I told him how beautiful he looked and said he looked ready to put on his shorts and head to the boat.

When Don passed it was in the middle of the night.  I don’t remember how I got to his bedside.  My only memory is being there.  I was there when he drew his last deep breath, and I believe he saw an angel in front of him.  I frantically called for my aunt, who was sleeping upstairs, but had at that very moment woken to use the bathroom.  She heard me and came downstairs.  I thought I still detected slight breathing, so I continued to pray and declare life and love and the grace of God and the blood of Jesus over him . . . for a long time, not knowing if he was gone or still lingering or if my words would keep him with us or bring him back.

My aunt said that she felt such a peace and holiness.  Looking back, I feel that in times like these, our words and love and prayers help usher those we love into their new life.  When I finally became too tired to continue, I gently let go of his hand and told him that I was going to lie down on the couch, not far from him.  I remember thinking that he would still be with us . . . or he would not be with us . . . in the morning.  I slept soundly, waking up the next morning and turning to look at him.  I could see that he was gone.  Later my aunt would point out that we were both peaceful enough to sleep . . . which on the surface makes little sense, but looking back is a sign of God’s presence.

Although there is more to the story, I will say that both my aunt and I felt unexpectedly at ease with my husband’s body in the house the next morning.  We busied ourselves getting ready, as we waited for the arrival of staff from the funeral home . . . which was owned by a kind and wonderful man whose wife had been a long-time client of my husband’s.  Before Don’s body left, I walked over to him, placed my hands on each side of his head and planted two long kisses on his forehead.

I believe my husband is with his parents (and others!) who passed before him.  Raised as an only child, I remember hearing years ago that his mother had a miscarriage before he was born.  I was told it was a boy.  Perhaps he has a big brother in heaven.  Two handsome guys hanging out, sipping espresso . . . and surely riding in a beautiful boat on some ocean wave.

As for me, if you had asked me to entertain a thought of life without my husband during the two-plus years that we battled this enemy, I would have said, Don’t worry about me.  I’ll be fine.  And that is what I thought.  I’m a pretty strong, independent person.

Yet, somehow my world did come crashing down.  I experienced a grief that I never thought was possible.  I realized that when the Bible says that “The two shall be as one,” it means that the loss of a spouse means that a part of the one left behind is gone also.  It’s a far more complex equation than I had realized.  There is a heartache that comes from watching someone you love suffer and die . . . and another that comes from thinking of all the wonderful things you had wished for their future . . . and yet another that comes when you hear a special song or see a special something that embodies the essence of that person.

For me, that last heartache is bittersweet and comes when I see or hear or am simply reminded of marinas and boats, the Long Island Sound, convertible sports cars, Italian music, John Deere tractors . . .  and the list goes on.

I was listening to some CDs in the car a while back and remembered that the car allowed the storage of CDs in its internal system.  I hit the button and sure enough, up popped stored music . . . all of our favorites.  I pushed another button, and the beautiful voice of Andrea Bocelli came floating through the air.  Feelings of heartache surrounded me, and I immediately stopped the sound.

That music . . . like the Italian classics sung by Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra and others . . . can bring back such beautiful memories that my heart sighs with sadness.  These are the songs that we used to play as we drove to and from our beautiful home in the White Mountains of New Hampshire . . . sometimes in a convertible with the top down, singing joyfully along . . . Don in his beautiful, soulful voice and me in my tone deaf, enthusiastic one.

These are the songs that played during the cocktail hour of our amazing wedding that took place in the backyard of our New Hampshire home surrounded by majestic mountains and filled with the Spirit of God.

One of these songs was a defining moment in our wedding.  When the pastor pronounced us husband and wife and we turned to face our guests, I laughed because Don had secretly arranged for the classical music I had chosen for that moment to be replaced with Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore.”  Forever after, the reverberating sound that opens that song would make Don and I turn to look at each other, laugh, smile, get excited . . . and prepare to hear “our song.”  When it played that day, everyone laughed . . . and it kicked off an amazing, fun wedding.   (When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, That’s amore!)

Someday I know that I will enjoy those songs again.  They will make me smile, and I will remember beautiful times and I’ll tell someone how my beautiful, handsome husband introduced me, a little straight-laced girl from the Mid-West, used to decorum and politeness, to the rich landscape of the Italian culture, filled as it is with great food, passionate conversation, love of family, a dose of irreverence and lots of love.

I’ll tell them how I moved to my Dad’s hometown, a suburb of New York City, on a lark in my mid-to-late 20s and ended up walking into a hair salon and locking eyes with one of the most handsome men I had ever met.  I’ll tell them how I always loved soft brown eyes, and Don’s were pure velvet . . . in spades.

But that was then.  This is now.

Don passed away less than a year ago (10 months ago yesterday) . . . and I can honestly say that it’s been 10 months that I would never want to relive.  And yet, I am finding that time is a great stabilizer and brings increased strength and healing.  I have discovered that people are your healers . . . and I say that meaning that God uses others to comfort, love and support us.

I was given the gift of a sister when I was 7 years old . . . and it is a gift that I am still unwrapping.  During this season of grief, my sister, who lives far away, became my daily phone friend . . . listening to my heartache and feeling my tears . . . sharing in laughter and making me a part of what was going on in her life . . . and keeping me engaged and involved as I sought my return to the land of the living.

Others were there for me, too  . . . a cousin of Don’s who was “like a brother” opened his home to me, so I could stay there when I was too distraught to stay in my own house, family and friends who called and texted and kept me connected, another cousin who became a comforting presence and a great movie pal, hairstylists who worked with Don and loved him and have been there for me, a client of 30-plus years (whose birthday fell on the same day that Don died) who called me regularly just to check in to make sure I was okay, and clients who met me for lunch and dinner . . . some of whom are now dear friends.

I became the recipient of great kindness.  I often thanked God for what I termed “kindness(es) shown.”  Soon after my husband passed, I did the thing that came naturally:  I tried to accomplish what I needed to accomplish.  Few people tell you this, but there is a lot of paperwork to handle when someone dies.  I am an organized person, so I wonder how someone less organized, and dare I say older, manages.

On one of those early days, I decided to knock a few things off my list.  My plan was to go to CostCo, the car dealership and the bank.  I went to CostCo to return a bulk package of the Irish Spring soap Don liked, and wept deeply in front of a lovely lady named Simone who was manning one of the return counters.  She was kind and sympathetic and called over a co-worker named Alexis . . . who I later learned was “a hugger.”  I was soon surrounded with kindness, love . . . and hugs.  From there I continued onto my other errands, weeping and crying in front of everyone . . . and receiving only kindness and support.  Later, as I would recount this to others, it became hilariously funny . . . how I was bouncing from here to there, weeping and receiving kindness from strangers all over the place.

I also found great kindness at the BMW service center where I found myself in need of car maintenance and repair.  Although my mechanically inclined husband sometimes handled car matters himself, he had often remarked how much he liked a long-time service manager named Doug at our local center.  I made a point to find Doug, as I wanted to share with him the news of Don’s passing.  As I did so, still so fresh in my grief, I found myself weeping, as usual, and was met with such authentic sympathy and support.  Doug, I found out, had lost his father in his teen years, leaving his mother a widow and he and his brother without their Dad.  We spoke about how his mother was doing all these years later, and although I may have been too distraught to ask, I wondered about the effect it had on he and his brother.  Every time I return to the center for maintenance or repairs, I feel a bond with Doug and rest of the crew.

I also found an unexpected bond with other widows.  They are out there . . . and whenever we connect, an inexplicable communication passes between us . . . a depth of hurt and loss that few have known.  There are few words that need to be said, although it’s a wonderful thing to share words and stories and life experiences . . . strategies for coping and moving forward . . . and hope for the future.

I learned that I loved to be in the places that Don had once been in and breathe the air where we lived our life.  Although, Yes, those familiar places and things could bring heartache, they also bring comfort and connection.  Although I never ventured too far in walking about our neighborhood, the same neighborhood in which Don had grown up, I found that I wanted to know it more and imagine the paths where Don and his cousins once rode their bikes.  I’ve learned more about our neighborhood in the last 10 months then I have in 27 years.

Although I once thought it impolite to mention someone who had passed . . . believing their name would would trigger pain . . . I now know the exact opposite is true.  Our loved ones are still with us . . . and it is comforting to keep their memories alive and bring them into our presence.  They are always in our hearts and they are part of the fabric of our being.  They are never forgotten . . . and we must always remember them.  They may have passed on . . . but we will meet them again some day.

For me, remembering Don and honoring his life (and our life!) brings comfort . . . and healing.

Just yesterday, I was surprised to find myself happily singing the lyrics to “That’s Amore.”

That’s Amore

(Dean Martin Lyrics)

(In Napoli where love is king, When boy meets girl here’s what they say)

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie

That’s amore

When the world seems to shine like you’ve had too much wine

That’s amore

Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling

And you’ll sing “Vita bella”

Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay

Like a gay tarantella

When the stars make you drool just like a pasta e fasule

That’s amore

When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet

You’re in love

When you walk in a dream but you know you’re not dreaming, signore

Scusa mi, but you see, back in old Napoli

That’s amore

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie

That’s amore (That’s amore)

When the world seems to shine like you’ve had too much wine

That’s amore (That’s amore)

Bells will ring ting-a-ling-a-ling, ting-a-ling-a-ling

And you’ll sing “Vita bella” (Vita bella)

Hearts will play tippy-tippy-tay, tippy-tippy-tay

Like a gay tarantella (Lucky fella)

When the stars make you drool just like a pasta e fasule

That’s amore (That’s amore)

When you dance down the street with a cloud at your feet

You’re in love

When you walk in a dream but you know you’re not dreaming, signore

Scusa mi, but you see, back in old Napoli

That’s amore (Amore)

That’s amore

Copyright 2019-2020 Jonna Crispens.  All rights reserved.