His Empty Chair
I sit here in our silent house; across the small table between, Leland's chair is empty. We sat here together so many times just to talk, to read a story or a book together, listen to music or watch an old MASH movie. Now that chair is empty, the imprints made by his arms still showing on the arms of the chair. We sat here together nearly every morning and shared a worship reading, most lately reading through several books of the Old Testament, then starting in the New. We sat here in the evenings, to read or watch something together, and sometimes would bring our supper to these chairs and eat while we watched a favorite movie.
Everything in this house has his touch in some way or another; the furniture we chose together, the pictures he hung on the walls, the candles he so carefully placed so they would be straight, his personal things put neatly away.
His watch, glasses, keys and wallet lay on the dresser where he last took them off, until I could no longer bear the pain of seeing them every time I passed by, and put them in a drawer. It is such a testament to who he was, this dear husband of mine, now gone. He was careful and precise and hardly ever mislaid anything. I, on the other hand, am the opposite; always looking for my glasses or a pen. He told me several times with a little sideways grin, that if I would keep them on my face, I would always know where they were. Then he would help me look for them.
His clothes still hang in the closet, everything neatly organized and all facing the same way, shirts all together, pants and ties, jacket and hats, each in its own space. His shoes are where he last took them off, right on the shoe rack by his step stool seat in the utility room. He assembled that stool, and stained it. His music, DVDs, computer, and Kindle all here, where he left them the last time he used them, just a couple of days before his death. I sat up late the other night, listening to his keyboard music, and looking at pictures he had put on his Kindle. A gift he did not know he would be giving me.
The silence screams loss and emptiness. I still have the impulse to call him when I am out, to let him know I am ok and will be home soon. As his illness progressed, he became a little anxious when I would leave to run to the store, and he did not feel well enough to go. "Be sure and come back to me" he would say. "I will," I always promised.
The huge red valentine balloon he gave me for Valentines Day is still afloat in the corner of the dining room. We were in the store together and he was driving one of the handicap carts. The aisle was so full of merchandise, I could not walk beside him, so was a few steps in front. I turned back to make sure he was coming, but he was stopped and seemed to be entangled with that huge balloon. I went back to help him get loose. He grinned at me and said "I'm buying this, it's for you." I love that balloon, the last gift from my Sweetheart.
He wanted a clock for the living room which he could see from his chair, so my gift to him that last Valentines Day was a clock which we chose together. It has a round face, black curlicues and a pendulum that swings back and forth as it ticks softly in the silence reminding me of those last precious days we had together before cancer robbed us of the last thing it could take; his very life.
He was drafted into the army during the Viet Nam war, and went to Texas for his training. We communicated only by letter in those days, but I got a wonderful letter from him nearly every day, once the initial induction period was finished and he had a few moments to call his own. He passed through Portland one day after his AIT training was complete, having been sent to Ft. Lewis in a classic Army Snafu. He called me and said he would be at the train station that afternoon on his way to Ft Irwin, and would have a short lay over. I got off work early and drove downtown to meet him with great anticipation. He met me with open arms, and I felt as though I had come home to a safe harbor, warm, welcoming and wonderful. How I hated to watch that train pull out with him aboard, not knowing when we would see each other again.
We were married a few months later, and he retained that warm, wonderful, supportive attitude all of our 48 years, 8 months and 19 days together. He came and rescued me a couple of times; once when the engine died in our car when I was on the way home from a school board meeting. It was dark on that country road, the lights had gone out and I was afraid. But when I saw the headlights of his truck coming to get me, I felt safe and cared for. And loved. When thanked him, and he said of course he would come and get me any time, any place. A few years later, I was again out after dark on a country road, and got a very flat tire. By then, we had our first cell phone. But there was no service, so I could not call home. I was however, able to call 911, which Oregon answered, patched the call through to Washougal police, and they connected me to Leland at home. Again, he came straight away and rescued me. Again, I felt safe, loved and cared for. I should say, more than usual, for he always had the ability to make all of us feel safe, loved and secure with him.
No matter how long a good marriage lasts, it is never long enough. We had our moments of disagreements, and misunderstandings as everyone does, but our infrequent arguments were quickly resolved and forgiveness freely extended. I still love him and always will, he was the best of men. When he would thank me for doing something special for him, I always told him he deserved it-because he did.
And so, in the midst of the greatest sorrow of our lives, in the huge adjustments we must make to live without him, the mundane chores of life must go on. There is shopping for necessities, the ever present paperwork, death certificates, social security, bills to be paid, the kids must keep their own homes cared for, and go to work and school. Maybe that is a blessing in disguise, better to have work that needs to be done, and take one's mind, if only briefly, away to other subjects. It is only brief however. There is a pall of sadness in everything we do, like looking outside through the sheer curtains which Grant termed "lingerie for the house."
I have learned that there are no human words to make this better. The Blessed Hope is often spoken of and invoked, I am grateful and comforted by that. However, it does not really soothe an aching heart full of grief or fill the huge void he left, for these realities are here and now. The Blessed Hope is future, and while I believe and trust in that with all my heart, it does not take away the sorrow today, only time will do that-so I am told. In the meantime, the days are long, and passing slowly. It
I knew it would be lonely when he was gone, that my heart
would ache, and tears would come unbidden at any time; that was already
happening. But the silence, the
emptiness, the loss of his companionship; so dear and close for 52 years must
be experienced to be understood. The
void is palpable. Family comes, and
friends, and pastors, for which I am
grateful. The kids have been
wonderful, and assure me often that their homes are open to me at all times. I
appreciate that, and I do spend a lot of time with them. But then they must go back to their
responsibilities, and I must learn to live alone for the first time in my life. Facebook
