Love is forever…One woman’s journey with grief

E had the Kansas-Missouri game on last night, and on the screen I saw Mark Mangino, the KU coach, who did not look like a well man.  A little research tells me that he is 51 years old, born 5 years after A.  

It was a cold day in Kansas City, and you could see everyone’s breath in the air.  But as I watched him on the screen, he was sweating profusely, and looked uncomfortable.  He looked like a heart attack waiting to happen.  This man must weigh 400 lbs.

I look at someone so obviously unhealthy, and I wonder again how it is that my A, slender and strong, despite his complaints about the gut that arrived along with middle age (I don’t know what he was talking about), with no obvious signs of poor health, is gone, and this man is here.  It’s not that I wish to make a trade, or that I wish Mark Mangino dead.  Not at all.  And I fear for him—he may not make to 55.  But I just don’t understand it.

It is evidence such as this that makes me think it truly was genetics that doomed my sweetheart.  Or maybe genetics and a cosmic plan beyond my comprehension.  But I cannot account for it any other way as I see people smoking and drinking and overeating their way into an old age denied my boy, who did none of those things.  

Knowing that doesn’t make losing him any easier, though I feel it exonerates all of us, including him, for not preventing it, because I don’t know that we could have.  And that’s something.  It evaporates a lot of the anger I’ve felt on and off for him not taking better care of himself and for me not being more aware.  Less guilt is always a blessing.  But I wish his genes would’ve had other plans for him.  I sure did.

I was sitting in my chair tonight, working on embroidery for some Christmas gifts, and the TV was on.  An advertisement for a movie based on Mitch Albom’s book For One More Day came on.  It is the story of a man whose mother, who has passed on, comes back for one more day to help him get his life straightened out, I guess.

The preview made me tear up; I’m thinking I won’t be watching the movie.  But I kept thinking about the idea of “one more day.”  There’s a thread at the widow board asking what people would do if they could have their beloved back for one more day.  I have to say, as much as I would love to have him back for one more day, losing him a second time might well kill me.  But nonetheless, I’d risk it.

I would tell him I loved him; but he knows that.  What I’d really want to do is ask him “Why?”  Why did he have to go?  Why then?  Why so soon in our time together?

I’d ask him if he knew he was sick.  I’d ask him about what he’s doing now, and if he’s happy.  I’d ask him if all the signs I’ve attributed to him were correctly read.  I’d ask him if he truly is always with me, and if he hears me playing my guitar for him.  I’d ask him why he can’t come more often.  I’d ask him if my dog is with him and if he’s with his parents.  I’d ask him if he was okay with the way I’ve dealt with his family, and if he had any other advice for me on that front, or in general.  I’d hold him close to me and listen.  And I’d videotape the whole day so that I could replay it exactly, so that I could hear his voice again, so that I could know I didn’t just imagine the whole thing. 

I wonder if I could stop myself from begging him not to go?  Somehow, I doubt it.  I also doubt that it’s a good idea to entertain such thoughts.  Because now I need a Kleenex.