“I’ve been
thinking…” I said as I placed my husband’s coffee next to the newspaper. “You
need to let me know that you made it to heaven okay.”
Paul leaned
forward in the wheelchair and stabilized himself enough to pick up the steaming
cup. He looked at the headlines of the newspaper and not at me.
“I’m serious.” I
slammed cupboard doors and the refrigerator to jar my interest into preparing
breakfast. “Houdini and his wife worked out an elaborate code so when he came
back to haunt her she would recognize him.”
“I don’t think he wanted to haunt her,” Paul
mumbled from behind the Sunday comics.
“You know.
Communicate with her…What do you want for breakfast?”
One month and two
days after our palliative care meeting with the specialist, we became chatty
about Paul’s impending death. Three years before, brittle diabetes brought on
five carvings of his left leg to a final below-the-knee amputation. After two
surgeries to his right foot and the breakdown of the skin all over his body, he
cried, “Enough.” My husband then stopped the drugs that held his fragile life
together.
We planned a
good-bye weekend for our friends and family—a time to visit our home Memorial
Weekend. Only God knew how I would handle
those days.
“I don’t care.” Paul moved his foot and winced
as in pain. My heart twisted like a salted pretzel.
“What?”
“I don’t care what
I have for breakfast,” he said and flipped the paper from his face as if to
emphasize his indifference.
“Okay, eggs or
biscuits or a fat lip.”
Paul smiled the
wide toothy grin that made my knees weak. “I’ll take the fat lip.”
I scampered across
the floor, grabbed his boney shoulders, and planted a kiss on his lips. “Take
that.”
“Any day. Any
day.”
“So biscuits it
is.” I pulled my favorite mixing bowl from the cupboard. “About Houdini…”
“I don’t see a
code working. Do you?”
“Well, it didn’t
for the Houdinis. We need something simple that will not be mistaken for the
wind or earthquake or Chinese Ninjas.”
“Were you
expecting Ninjas?” Paul dropped the paper on the table and fussed with his
coffee creamer.
“Could be possible,
if you are not here to stop them.” I threw Bisquick and nonfat sour cream into
the bowl and stirred frantically. “But let’s set some ground rules.”
“Ground rules to a
haunting?” Paul half laughed.
“Yes, I think it
is necessary, given the parties involved.” I paused to give proper emphasis. “No
haunting, visiting, or inhabiting any electronic gadgets. I know how you are. I
will not call a priest to exorcise my computer. Thank you very much.”
“Okay. I won’t
haunt your gadgets.”
“Swear.”
Paul held up his
translucent right hand. “I solemnly swear to NOT haunt or inhabit any
electronics including the notebooks, servers, and iPods.”
“And cell phones,”
I added.
“And your cell
phone. So help me God.”
June 13, 2011,
Paul died of natural causes—blood poisoning from the infection of multiple skin
wounds—the result of diabetes. He was forty-seven years old. Before my eyes,
his body jerked and his breathing turned to deep gasps. I caressed his shaking
body. He screamed one drawn-out sentence. “I loo-ve you.” I had the chance to
say it back.
I sat with him and
held his hand until it became icy cold. Paramedics arranged the removal of my
husband’s body. I cried so hard the muscles in my abdomen felt as if I had been
doing sit-ups for hours.
Loved ones came to
me throughout the day. My mom—before the firemen—came first and stayed three
days. She did not want me to be alone. Late in the evening, Momma kissed me
good-night and took the guest room.
I wandered around
the house for a while, sipped some water, and petted his dog. With a bit of courage,
I entered the bedroom where he died and took my place next to the open window.
The smell of a recently mowed lawn floated into the room. I tried to form a
prayer but could not think of a thing to say to God. Sitting up against the
headboard, I touched the fresh sheets in a hope of finding Paul’s warmth.
Closest to the window-side
of our bed, my left hand felt his. I caught my breath as if surprised. So
gentle, Paul held my hand, gave it a squeeze, then no more. Peering into the dark,
I hoped to see something but the dimness exposed nothing.
Paul satisfied his
promise. I knew he made it to heaven. I thought of a prayer. “Thank you, God.”
Undaunted, I went home and put the gadget to work on my kitchen counter. Stabbing and spinning the apples was fun. But now I had a bowl filled to the rim with browning apple spirals. Something had to be done. I pulled pre-formed graham cracker crusts from the pantry and started layering apple slices, flour, sugar, cinnamon, and butter. When the pile domed, I mixed instant hot oatmeal and maple cereal with melted butter to form a crumble crust. I popped that puppy in the oven at 350 degrees. 
