It takes no talent to become a widow. There's no course of study. Your spouse dies and, then, there you are, a full-fledged widow but with absolutely no experience. And even though you knew weeks beforehand that this was going to happen (as I did) you still aren't as prepared as you thought you were going to be. When my husband Art drew his last breath and I knew he had passed on, I felt utterly bewildered, not knowing just what was expected of me. Should I weep and wail, or should I be quiet and stoic? Actually, I did both — weeping and wailing in private for myself, and quiet and stoic for my children who were suffering their own deep grief.
Some people die young, some old, some slowly and in great pain while others leave this world in one blinding instant by accident or with a fatal heart attack. Whatever their mode of travel, they leave forever. There's no return route, no coming back. Death is final, the end, and that's what is so hard to grasp. No more sharing, no talking it over, no discussion of any kind. None. As deaths go, Art had a good one. He didn't have to enter the hospital; he died in a bed he had built, in a house he constructed, with all his children and most of his grandchildren in the room. Peace and gentleness surrounded us and you really can't expect better than that. Yet, he left such a hole in our lives.
We know now that he'd probably been born with a faulty heart valve, but he was always such a strong, healthy man, supporting his family through construction, a very satisfying but manually demanding vocation. He believed in a healthy diet and lots of exercise and for 25 summers before he died, he swam every morning and late afternoon, was always very careful about what he ate and wanted to live to see 100.
Art was sick for only six months and although doctors told us he was not a candidate for an operation, he never gave up hope, didn't want to die, believing help would come from some source. We tried different therapies which kept him more comfortable, but did nothing to halt death that came to him on Christmas Eve.
He was always a believer but because he was such a private man, rarely discussed his faith. One day, wanting to relieve what I perceived as his increasing anxiety, I steered the conversation toward the magnificent love of God into which we'll pass when we leave this world. His eyes filled with tears, “I know that, Gwyn, I just don't want to go now!” It was just too painful to think of leaving all the ones he loved so dearly.
However, the night before he died, I recounted for him the occasion when Jesus said goodbye to his disciples and told them he was going to prepare a place for them and then come back and take them where he was. “Imagine that, Art,” I said. “He's going to come and take us to the place he's chosen for us.”
“Well,” Art whispered so low we barely heard, “you can't beat that.” No, you certainly can't beat that.
The next morning he was slipping quickly away but desperately trying to tell us something. While weakness made his words indecipherable, he kept struggling to say them. Finally, I took his face between my hands, kissed his cheek and said, “It's all right, Art. Don't worry about anything. Remember, I love you.” His eyes flew open, and for an instant locked with mine, then he closed his eyes again, dropped his head to the side and died.
One of his favourite old hymns was Beulah Land, the chorus of which he often sang:
Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land,
As on thy highest mount I stand,
I look away across the sea,
Where mansions are prepared for me,
And view the shining glory shore,
My heaven, my home, forevermore!
My husband had reached his Beulah Land and I had arrived at that fearful, unknown territory of widowhood.
