On June 18 at 10:45 p.m. the love of my life, my partner, my mate, my best friend and confidant John A., a priest of the church and a recovering alcoholic, died of a chronic condition while I was asleep in the recliner next to his hospital bed. John always listened to my TtRD blogs as they were in process, offering occasional suggestions and unfailing encouragement. John supported me in whatever I chose to do—write blogs or sermonettes, play the piano, sing, work extra hours at my paying job, drive hours to visit grandchildren for an afternoon or try once again to establish an exercise routine. How can I manage without his support?
Because it’s crazy COVID-19 time, for the first half of his three-month hospice sojourn it was just him and me and the visiting hospice angels here inside the condo—I was afraid to let anyone else into the house for fear that the coronavirus would make John’s last days even worse and would take me down also.
We had planned a trip to Florence and Rome that we canceled in February after one of his hospitalizations, knowing he wouldn’t be strong enough to travel. So we took some of our travel money and poured it into our front garden. We worked with a designer and bought many mature perennials that John could enjoy as soon as they were in the ground.
Finally, after many weeks of tears and prayers, confessions of concerns and conversations with allies, I was able to let go of my fears and so family started to visit inside. Sometimes I would get away to walk the dog with friends wearing masks. Once or twice I went into the guest room and just slept for a few hours. I wanted to let John and his kids be alone together without my hovering presence. The day came, though, when it became apparent that home hospice and I, along with some amazing 24-hour friends and family members, couldn’t provide enough care for John and so he had to move to the hospital. That was hard.
The afternoon before John died, he crashed and it was touch-and-go, but his medical team finally got him stabilized. I was away visiting the kids, but Jamie, the rector of our church, was there with him. She had brought communion and made an altar out of the bedside table, moving aside IV kits and nasal cannulas and basins. Jamie started the service but John stopped her and whispered, “Invite them all in…” and so in came the doctors, in came the nurses, in came the LNAs and they encircled John’s bed and they communed.
And so it was evening and it was morning, another day. John was awake and agitated part of the time, but then became comfortable enough to sleep. Our golden retriever was allowed to come in to say good-bye and John moved his fingers when Bridget licked his hand, trying to scratch her on the head the way he always did.
So John died when I was asleep on the recliner next to his hospital bed. I think I woke up just as he entered the gates of larger life...
And now I’m writing my Red Door blog and trying to figure out how I can do this without my greatest encourager and advocate proofing my manuscript and praising a phrase or asking for an example.
But my point is—nothing can separate us—nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Loss and loneliness aren’t the only things I’m feeling today. It’s not even two weeks since John died so there’s also a lot of numbness, a lot of not feeling at all. But I am becoming aware of a deep well of gratitude. I’ve had many, many years of training in Alcoholics Anonymous in how to live one day, one moment, at a time without drink or drug. I’ve had the support and the example of thousands sober people who have shown me that there is nothing, nothing in the world…that can separate us from the love of God. And that love is made manifest in our Fellowship. You have shown me and taught me how to recognize God’s love all around me. An old-timer—was it John?—said to me recently that sobriety is growing to recognize that God is everywhere. Love is everywhere. Gratitude is everywhere.
So I’ll end with a list: I am grateful for the sober years that John and I had together. I am grateful for the easy sober laughter we shared. I am grateful for the sober spats and the sober reconciliations. I am grateful for going sober to church and for going sober to meetings together. I am grateful for our sober dinner parties. I am grateful for our sober symphony concerts and sober Red Sox games. I am grateful for the garden, a gift of our sobriety.
And most of all, I am so grateful for sobriety, for recognizing that God is here with me now, and that God always has always been with me—has always been with us.
Nothing can separate us from God’s love.
–Christine A. H.
