Patterns

I had a professor in college who told us this story. He and his wife lived in an oceanside town out east. There was a lighthouse nearby, and they would hear the foghorn at regular intervals throughout the day and night. As time went on, they didn't even notice it anymore. But one night, for some reason, the foghorn stopped and didn't sound at the regular interval. They both woke up with a start, asking, "What was that?!"

It wasn't the sound that woke them.

It was the lack of sound, the disruption of a pattern.

While Al lay beside me, taking his last labored breaths, even then, there was a pattern.

For five days, I watched him, listened to his breathing, and held his hand. He was unconscious and unresponsive, one foot in heaven and one on earth. Sometimes, he would go for a minute or more without breathing, only to take another series of breaths. Other times, he would breathe in a very shallow, rapid manner. He was on the very edge of death for five whole days.

I've always wanted my life to be an easy, peaceful pattern, but I can't remember the last time it was that way. However, Al was always part of that pattern, no matter how complex. His health changed, but his existence, his warmth, and his presence created a comforting pattern for me.

For almost 28 years, Al was part of the fabric of my life. He was the one I chose to be with for life, and he chose me. More importantly, he was the one who chose me. He pursued me long before I saw him as a potential mate. Often, when I told him, "I love you," he would reply, "I loved you first." When we became one, my pattern and his intertwined.

Even as he was dying, he was still here, still my comfort, my dearest love.

But on the morning of Saturday, September 7, 2024, that pattern stopped.

I had promised him I would be with him until the very end, and when I was next to him, especially when we went to bed for the night, I would hold his hand just to let him know I was there. As the night wore on, I usually turned and pulled my hand away without realizing it.

Even before I opened my eyes each morning, I would listen for his breathing. But that last morning, I woke up quite suddenly, and I knew he was gone. I was still listening to him even while I was sleeping, but the next breath never came.

It was expected, and I even rejoiced with him because he was finally home. During that time, while we were waiting for him to die, we kept saying, "It's okay, you can let go. We're ready, and you're ready. We'll be all right."

When his lack of breathing awakened me, I said to his body, "You made it!" because I knew he had finally been able to let go of this earthly life and begin his eternity with the Lord and with our loved ones who had already passed.

We all told him we would be okay, even though we loved him immensely and we would miss him forever. Deep down, I knew I wouldn't be okay for a long time. That very steady pattern of my life with Al has been permanently disrupted. Now, I just feel like I'm wandering, not really sure of what to do with myself.

I crave a new and comforting pattern. My kids are all living with me again so we can travel this uncertain road together, but they won't always be the way Al would have been. They will begin their lives, their own patterns. In fact, they've already begun.

For now, I'll continue to do what I've been doing for the past eight weeks: taking as much time and energy as I need to grieve deeply and cry for however long it is necessary to process the profound losses I've experienced.

And whether I like it or not, I will trust God for what comes next.