15 years - What Have I Learned?

15 years.  

On a bright, cold but clear February morning in 2006 at about 7:30am, her breath, her eye movements, her body ceased.  I could feel the warmth of her skin fading as her heart stopped.  My wife of just 2.5 months, my best friend and companion of the previous 4+ years, had succumbed to metastatic breast cancer.  Her body was wracked with pain and tumors that started in her breast and in the course of 14 months had spread to her spine, her liver, her brain.  It all seemed like being in a hurricane. 

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Just over 4 years earlier, I had met this incredible smart, pretty, graceful woman in a bookstore.  We took in a movie, Lord of the Rings, that same afternoon; it went so well, we then shared dinner at a local Indian restaurant together across the street.  We had a wonderful time that early December day, 2001, didn't want it to end, and vowed to meet again.  We indeed did again around Christmas and also New Year's.  

We came together at a time of turmoil in our personal lives; she had been divorced about a year at that point, and I had witnessed a suicide attempt earlier that year from my then-fiance.  And, of course, the country and world endured the improbable tragedy of September 11th.  So, fair to say, we were both looking forward to 2002.  We were in our early thirties and had led fairly unorthodox lives relative to many, if not most, of the people we knew in high school and college.  That was another compact we shared together: our paths were quite different than most. Undoubtedly, it was a mutual attraction.

Over the next four years together, many things happened to me personally within the context of our relationship most of which was due to her direct and indirect influence; I learned how to use my singing voice in ways I hadn't previously considered; I learned (roughly) how to play new musical instruments; I probably read more books than ever before up to that point; I traveled much; I bought a house; I became more of a regular churchgoer than I had since my teen years, grew deeper in my faith, and was baptized at age 33.  It seemed as though I had found the woman who would help me became the man I hadn't thought possible.  I certainly knew this was beautifully strange and almost dreamlike. 

Life was wonderful.  Though, of course, there were distresses in our relationship (like everyone has), the possibilities seemed endless with this wonderful woman by my side.  Nothing seemed more hopeful of the future to us both than when we got engaged in August 2004.

Then, the Stage IIB cancer diagnosis was handed down that December.  A 'radical mastectomy' followed in January; then chemotherapy and radiation.  By June, the follow-up CAT scans showed that her cancer was gone (i.e. remission).  We enjoyed that summer, going on bike rides, dining out again, and generally just watching her heal and her hair grow back.  Frequent smiles and hope were returning...until October.  That month, after several weeks of severe and growing backpain that we thought was a just a muscle pull from a bike ride, her oncologist brought her back for further tests.  This time:  Stage IV.  The cancer in fact had spread pretty aggressively and had not gone away.  We were both obviously frightened.

Yet, despite and in the midst of this, we married in November.  It was a glorious day; she was radiant, and had more energy than I thought possible.  We danced at our reception.  We flew to Charleston, SC for a weeklong honeymoon.  It was apparent, however, that the energy she had on our wedding day was fading; she barely left our hotel room for the first 3 or 4 days there.  She was in pain.  She was tired.  

Upon returning home, she quit working in December because she was just exhausted from the new regimen of cancer-fighting drugs; a new drug and administered steroid around Christmas briefly restored her energy, but the cancer was just too prolific.  By January, she was walking slower.   Then on February 1st, I got a call at work from healthcare workers at the hospital.  They told me that I needed to come and get her as she shouldn't drive home, that she was "in and out of lucidity".  I arrived to the hospital to find that she was jaundiced, and indeed semi-lucid.  

The next week was like a whirlwind time for me, and I have a hard time remembering all the details.  Basically, there was a mad scramble of doctors, nurses, chaplains, friends and family informing me of options.  Options?  What did that mean?  In the end it was agreed that we would bring her home to live out how ever much time she had remaining.  I remember falling on my knees in my living room on Super Bowl Sunday - that game could hardly distract me from the gravity of the situation - and asking God, "If You could perform a miracle, right now would be a great time for one."  But, interestingly, very shortly after that and through many tears, I asked in a post-script:  "But YOUR will be done.  Please, if she is going to die, please let it be soon and absolutely take away her pain."  

God heard my plea.  We brought her home on Monday, got her comfortable in our living room on a just-delivered special bed by Tuesday, and then, my sister, who along with her partner kept vigil overnight, opened my bedroom door very early Wednesday morning to tell me:  "You need to come out to see her.  She's going."  

And so I did. She was not talking anymore, she was very still, yet at the moment I saw her, still breathing.  I put on some Early Music, and I whispered in her ear probably something like, "It's OK.  You can go.  God is waiting for you, and we've got your back here.  There will be no more pain, my love.  Please, you can go."

I can't articulate exactly how I felt at that moment that early winter morning.  But I can share that the presence of God was in that room with us - my dying wife, my sister and her partner, and me.  I remember sobbing about as hard as I ever had and through my tears, which shone like a million suns, I felt the warm embrace of an all-loving God.  

And so she went.  Kimberly Anne Morrison, aged 39, left this world.  I was 36.  I was shocked.  What would happen next?

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I instinctively and intellectually knew that the days, weeks and years ahead would forever be altered as a result from my experience.  Sure, the immediate days and weeks were filled with the necessary arrangements of addressing my deceased spouse's wider world; informing friends and family of her death, making funeral and celebration of life plans. I went back to work 2.5 weeks after she died - all the while being wracked and ravaged with abject and pervasive grief.  Family and friends eventually went back to their lives, and now I had to deal with my new reality.  And so I wondered as new widower: what will the future hold for me?

Gradually, over time, my grief - or the waves of grief - slowly receded.  Me being me, and within weeks, I threw myself into familiar patterns - making music, working out, etc. - as well as looking ahead at new possibilities. I remember a chorister during a Mozart's Requiem rehearsal I attended five days after her death commented to me (and presumably unaware of what I was experiencing):  "Ryan, you seemed to have nailed this with greater authority than I've heard you up to now. What got into you?"  Similarly, someone commented to me a few months later at a rock gig (paraphrasing):  "Ryan, I've never heard you play the bass before with the flourishing as you had tonight. Where did that come from?" 

Soon, I had gone back to school to study the foundations of music (theory, ear training, piano).  I traveled solo to Italy, and then eventually to Kansas City, the place of my birth and a place I really hadn't been back to and explored in 27 years. I learned how to sing operatic bass and eventually auditioned for and started singing in various opera, classical and church groups (I still pinch myself about this from time to time).  Of course, the rock-n-roller in me continues as well.  I'd like to think I can still "flourish on the bass" more than even back then. 

And then...I met her.  Another beautifully talented, intelligent, humorous and graceful woman entered my life and I into hers.  How the heck and why did I find myself in the right place for lighting to strike twice?  It was like walking thru a mental minefield for many months at the beginning, but 2.5 years after Kim's death, we said "we do" in front of our friends and family.  Children followed.  A change of address eventually followed.  Joys and distresses followed and remain.  Such is life.

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And so...what have I learned as a result of my experience of becoming a widower at a relatively young age?

Life continues.  Beautifully, wonderfully, achingly, fretfully, hopefully...life is always evolving and changing.  Nothing in this world is permanent. But the possibilities are also endless.

I have become better at some things, learned new skills, and adapt as needed. I have also become less skillful and less resilient in other respects.  Some relationships and friends I had around that time 15 years ago have diminished or ceased; but, new ones have also been created at the same time.  Also, in the age of social media, which soon followed Kim's death, reconnecting with friends and family from much earlier in my life has been a delight and joy. 

And for me personally, I can't fully articulate how grateful and blessed I am that Erika Morrison is my wife, that I am her husband, and that I am the father of two lovely and loving children. It is no small statement to suggest that there is no way I could have predicted this 15 years ago.  In addition, I would say that, at age 51, I feel remarkably well in soul, mind and body.  

I will add a final thought about my personal faith and conviction because I feel it important to do so:  I am 100% convinced that all that has been given to me in life has been generously done so by a gracious God. I have a deep, abiding faith in Jesus Christ as my personal Savior and Lord.  I daily ask for his forgiveness for I know I am still fundamentally flawed, but I also ask for His strength, renewal and to provide me with the necessary tools to help me grow and evolve as a man.  I know He has walked side-by-side with me through upheavals and trials in my life - a child of divorce, relocation to a new city, witnessing the near-suicide of someone I almost married, and then witnessing the passing of one that I did marry - but He has been there through all the triumphs and joys as well. And those are innumerable.

In the intervening 15 years, other members of my family and some friends have also died.  That will continue over the next 15 years and beyond, including my own eventual death of course.

And although experiencing pain and grief will inevitably occur, I don't live with despair.  I live with joy and hope.  The joy and hope derived from the God-made-flesh who loved His creation so much that he sacrificed himself on a cross to atone for my sins and for yours.  It is what I choose to believe.  It is what, paradoxically perhaps, I experienced on February 8th, 2006, watching Kim die.  That transcendent and sacrificial love is also what I experienced on August 31st, 2008 when I wed Erika, and and again during the birth of our children.  Indeed, it IS what I experience daily.  

I wanted to share with you my thoughts at the 15th anniversary of one of the most pivotal moments in my life, what helped me then, what continues to help me, the perspective I've obtained, and what I've learned thus far as a result of my experience.  I hope that wherever you are on life's journey - especially if you've lost someone extraordinarily and profoundly intimate as I did - that you will also find the peace and joy in your own life to carry on. 

And flourish.

God bless.

-Ryan