A Fish in the Sea

So, if you know about this blog, chances are you already know what I’m about to tell you. If you haven’t heard, I’m sorry to bring you sad tidings. There is no other way to say it: Jeremy is no longer with us.

I know it’s shocking. It all happened very fast. But take comfort in the fact that he didn’t suffer for too long—that it could have been so much worse. In a way, it was quite on-brand for him to go like this. Over the years, we moved a lot and came up with the most efficient method: live normal until the very day of the move; hire professionals to pack us all up; drive the stuff to the new place, unload, they leave, and we unpack ourselves. This way, we minimize the time spent in boxes and chaos. It’s all about efficiency. (Oh man, he left me for a fish in the sea. That Pooh Bear sure was wise. Thank you for smiling, you cultured person. And here’s a convenient link for you.)

In a very similar way, he lived pretty normal until the very end. We were going to the movies just two weeks ago, and he had planned to come with me to Seattle this past weekend. Then during the ER visit, he was admitted to the hospital. Spent only four days there and said, “Well, I think I’ve had enough of this,” and hightailed it out of here.

Imagine watching him be miserable for weeks or months. I shudder.

I wrote that last post about love in the hospital. I actually felt quite peaceful, watching his face and thinking about how dashing he looked even then. I ended up publishing the post minutes before the doctor told us we were losing the battle, that things were not going to get better, and that when the time came…

Do not resuscitate.

The doctor said we should talk about it and left the room. I hurriedly read him my blog post, thinking it would bring him peace like it had brought me when I was writing it. Now I think it probably helped me way more than it did him any good. But he listened patiently and told me I was a good writer. Then he said, “Let’s switch gears,” and proceeded to tell me how he wanted his memorial service handled and what I was to do about our accounts and our burgeoning business. Then, in the most Jeremy thing to do, he shared a spreadsheet with me named “Instructions for Becky.” (Yes, did you know Excel was one of the lost love languages?)

I’ll spare you the details because I want you to remember him in strength. And it takes a heck of a lot of strength and courage to die. I didn’t know that.

At the very beginning of this journey, I wrote another post about pain. I’m happy to report that I did not look away. Not for a second. To be there with him at the end was the most sacred gift I have ever received. I am not made poorer because of it, but fuller.

In A Grief Observed, C. S. Lewis wrote that grief may be as much a part of a marriage as the honeymoon. I guess one always does the dying bit and the other the grieving. Lewis also said there were usually good moments in bad times. One of the good things during this profoundly bad time has been the overwhelming support I’m receiving from friends and family. All of you did not hesitate to pour out your love for me. I cannot tell you in words how your love is literally sustaining me—both in body and spirit. You fed me, took me in so I wouldn’t be alone, listened to me, and lent me your presence so I could simply cry. It’s a long road ahead, but I know I’m not alone.

Then there are the notes. Short messages from people who shared life with Jeremy. There’s a common theme: people told me how he had this gift of listening and knowing just the right thing to say. How he made them feel heard and seen. How generous he was with his love. The safety of his presence. His faith in people, even when they didn’t believe in themselves. So many have told me he had pulled them out of their lowest, darkest moments.

That is his legacy. That is the man I love. And what a lucky girl I am to have my love reciprocated.

This blog was created as a way for him to update his friends in a centralized place about how treatment was going. (Again, efficiency.) Now I think it’ll probably become my grief journal. If that’s not what you signed up to read, feel free to do whatever it is you do when you no longer follow a blog. Is there such a thing as unsubscribe?