In Honor of My Father-in-Law, Morris Cordova

I have a need to write, but it’s not a blog I can post. Why not? Well, because it’s about my 93-1/2-year-old father-in-law who has entered hospice. And his 92-year-old sister does not know the extent of his condition because her health is not so great either and we don’t want to worry her.

 

Morris – my father-in-law – got pretty sick right before Christmas with the ‘flu and RSV. He went to the Emergency Room, but they released him. He went a couple times, actually, and finally ended up with pneumonia. This was too much for his body to fight and he eventually became unresponsive.

 

He had made a living will in which he stated he did not want to be kept alive by artificial means, including feeding tubes – so we made the difficult decision to put him in hospice.

 

I’ve been through hospice with both my parents and it’s not an easy thing. Dad was in hospice for only a week after his head injury, but mom was in hospice for over a year as she declined from Alzheimer’s.

 

I hated that they both had to be in hospice, but I will say that the hospice organization is amazing. They are the most caring, wonderful people who deal with so much grief. They care about us, our dying family members – and they even care for us again after our loved ones have passed.

 

I can’t say enough good things about them.

 

On Saturday, I went to Newark to see Morris in his hospice room. I had prepared a playlist of music I knew he liked.

 

Back in 2019 after his wife Marilyn died, Vince and I went to Newark frequently to help Morris organize his paperwork and visit him to keep up his spirits. Morris was eager to tell me about his morning routine, which was to get up, turn on his computer and access his music. He’d tell me how much he liked the station that played songs by artists such as Andrea Bocelli and Michael Bublé.

 

Many of those songs are some of my favorites, too, so it was fairly easy to create a playlist for him.

 

So when I got to his room, I turned off the TV. I decided Miss Kitty on Bonanza and Andrea Bocelli’s song featuring Celine Dion were not exactly compatible sounds.

 

We spent the better part of the hour listening to my playlist and then when it was over, I talked to him. Told him stories about some of the songs – how several were played at our wedding, how Vince told me how much he loved me after listening to one of them on our long flight back from Maui. And how much we enjoyed going to the Michael Bublé concert in 2019 and how we wished we could’ve had the opportunity to take Morris to the Andrea Bocelli concert the next time he came to Columbus.

 

Morris, of course, did not acknowledge any of this, although I want to believe that the furrow in his brow smoothed out some.

 

And while I was talking to him, I cried. A lot. I brushed Morris’ hair back off his forehead. I prayed aloud as I held his hand. I couldn’t help but feel Vince in the room with us. Waiting to welcome his dad home.

 

I was missing Vince terribly and wishing he were physically with us – but even though I was so sad, I also felt a sense of peace come over me.

 

It’s hard to explain, but there it is.

 

After a couple of hours, I told Morris that I was leaving. He actually opened his eye a bit as I bent down to kiss his forehead, told him I loved him and thanked him for bringing Vince into this world and welcoming me to the Cordova family.

 

When I passed the nurse’s station, I did remember to ask if they’d turn the TV back on since I’d forgotten. Television noise has been one of the constants in Morris’ life in recent years and I didn’t want him to lie there in silence before his son Keith came in for a few hours to sit with his dad.

 

When I got home, I was exhausted. My eyes were burning from having spent hours crying earlier. I was thinking that it would’ve been so much easier if someone had been with me in the room with Morris.

 

But you know something? It was then that I realized that I was happy that I had that time alone with him. That if someone had been in the room with me, I probably wouldn’t have spent the time talking to him or had the opportunity to tell him the things I was able to tell him.

 

We don’t always get that chance – so it’s important to take it when we can.

 

I wasn’t able to tell Vince I loved him just one more time because he left this world so suddenly. I wasn’t able to tell him that I wished we had many more years of happiness together and that I loved him and would miss him forever.

 

Even though I believe he knew – whether I voiced the words out loud or not.

 

The older we get, the more loss we experience. And it sometimes seems overwhelming to be in the midst of facing yet another loss, such as this.

 

But to experience loss, we must first experience love. So I wouldn’t forego this awful feeling of loss for anything. Because I know I have loved. And I have been loved.

 

I can’t alleviate the pain that all those who love Morris are going through and will experience in the days, months and even years ahead. But we can be there for each other and acknowledge a life well lived.

 

And we can honor our cherished memories of him.

 

Morris – I have been truly blessed to know and love you. Thank you for having me in your world.

A Sad Anniversary

For some time I’ve known I was going to write a blog on this, the one-year anniversary of my Vince’s death.  I think I had even roughed out a draft in my head. Which is a complete waste of time because I can never ever remember my perfectly phrased and clever composition when I finally sit down in front of the computer.

 

But when I opened my blog document and entered the date, I found I couldn’t get past it. No words would come.

 

So I forced myself to at least start.

 

And that’s what the past year has been. I’ve been forcing myself to start – over and over again. Every day.

 

It’s hard. And it’s painful. And I can’t believe I’ve done this for an entire year.

 

But what I’ve discovered is that I’m stronger than I thought I could be. And I’ve managed to accomplish a lot – even though I didn’t think I could get beyond waking up and brushing my teeth and walking the dog. Hair washing was optional. And the only reason I wore actual clothes instead of my pajamas every day was I figured the neighbors would start talking and worrying a little bit about my sanity.

 

In the past year, I cleaned out and sold my too-big house. And I’ve managed to make my smaller abode a nice haven that feels warm and welcoming.

 

Experts say one shouldn’t make any drastic changes in their life after the death of a loved one. Well, I’m apparently not one to listen to the experts.

 

Because moving – for me – was one of my better decisions. I’m completely and utterly relieved that I don’t have to worry about keeping my too-big house clean on the inside and repairing and replacing things on my own. Not to mention maintaining the outside – pulling weeds or planting anything. (If you know me, you know I do not like digging in the dirt!)

 

I knew I’d miss my neighborhood. The friends I’ve made there are special.

 

But, without Vince, I knew I needed to simplify my life.

 

Certainly, I didn’t accomplish this all on my own. I had a squad of friends, family and neighbors who were there to support me – in person or via calls, texts, cards and notes. The in-person ones were especially appreciated as they helped me focus as we pulled boxes and bins from every nook and cranny in that too-big house. And, believe me, there were a LOT of nooks and crannies!

 

My sister Denise dropped everything to be with me when she heard the terrible news about Vince. She also scrubbed the grout in my kitchen and later helped clear out and box up my many drawers, cabinets and closets. (And she could only shake her head at me as she pointed out the multitude of cleaning products I possessed.) My brother Andrew also drove more than 10 hours to be with me after Vince passed and helped me get through those first few incomprehensible days.

 

My friend Joe painted my incredibly high living room ceiling and lent support as I made arrangements at the funeral home. Sue carefully packed Vince’s clothes to donate to Dress for Success and helped pare down countless rooms and Debbie helped pare down boxes in the overflowing attic and the lower level kitchen. She also made many runs to donation centers for me. My brother- and sister-in-law came over numerous times to take things out of the house that I wasn’t going to use and helped it become a little less overwhelming to plan for the movers.

 

Once my house sold and I was now on a deadline, my neighbor Susan helped pack up the garage. And my neighbor Suzy (tried to) help me catch my cat Jinx and put her in the carrier as my final act in that house – but neither of us could catch her as she streaked from one floor to the next and back again. When I had a meltdown after Jinx (in her terror) scratched me, Suzy sought out reinforcements in the form of neighbors Barb and Dave, who came over wearing thick gloves and carrying a blanket. They calmly and efficiently coaxed Jinx into the carrier and put her in the car for me. And Barb tended to my wounds so I wouldn’t contract cat scratch fever and wind up in the ER hooked up to IV antibiotics.

 

I hadn’t planned to name people who helped me because I know there are many others that lent a hand or a shoulder or an ear – whenever I needed it. And I don’t want them to think their contributions weren’t incredibly appreciated. Because they were.

 

In the past year, I’ve learned that asking for help is not a bad thing. So often we try and do it all on our own – and we can make a mess out of things by doing so. At least that’s true of me.

 

So I’m grateful for the life lessons I’ve learned.

 

All this is not to say that I don’t desperately miss my Vince. I do. Every minute of every day.

 

Up until recently, I cried every single day. But then, I’m a big baby and cry easily. Sad movie? Check. Sappy song on the radio? Check. Little kid giving his mommy a weed he picked for her thinking it was a pretty flower? Check.

 

Many times they were silent tears. But sometimes it was a full-on ugly cry…so I was grateful that I was usually by myself when that happened.

 

There are some days when I don’t cry now. Or the utter sadness I feel doesn’t last quite as long. And sometimes I can get through an entire evening with friends without tearing up.

 

I used to think that meant I wasn’t being “loyal” to Vince. And I worried when someone said to me, “You’re more like your old self again.”

 

What does that even mean? I certainly don’t feel like my old self. I’m not sure I ever will again.

 

I feel like I lost part of myself. I can’t tell you how many times something has happened in the last year and my first thought is I can’t wait to tell Vince… only to remember I’ll never again get to tell him.

 

And I get very sad when I know that we will never plan for and take that dream trip to Italy together. I miss his companionship and know future cruises and vacations will seem…I don’t know – "lacking" – since he won’t be with me.

 

I miss the meals he lovingly prepared for us. Walking past the meat aisle at Costco can reduce me to tears when I see packages of chicken wings or racks of ribs. (He was the best cook!)

 

I’m so sad his grandchildren don’t get to Facetime with their Grandpa – and will grow up without him.

 

I miss the simple act of sitting next to him in the morning on the loveseat drinking our coffee and planning our day. And I miss seeing the look on his face when he told me he loved me. Because I felt loved. Every day.

 

Now I have to settle for pictures. And my memories.

 

Fortunately, I have a lot of the former, since Vince was the snap-happiest guy I’ve ever known. And we crammed an awful lot of memories in our short thirteen years together.

 

So I’m grateful for that, too.

 

I’ve said this before (and I’m sure I’ll say it again…!), but I know that I had true love with Vince. I hadn’t known what that was like before I met him. And many people never get to experience that kind of love. So I was incredibly blessed.

 

Now I just have to keep on going without him. And I have to revise my future from a “Vince and Jane” life to just “Jane.”

 

But I know I don’t have to go it completely alone. I have that squad, remember?

 

So my dear Vince? I wish you were here. What I wouldn’t give to spend more time with you. But I know you’re in a better place. And you don’t have to shed any tears.

 

I’ll close with this poem I used in the program for Vince’s Memorial Service:

 

Until We Meet Again

We think about you always,

We talk about you still.

You have never been forgotten,

And you never will.

We hold you close within our hearts,

And there you will remain,

To walk and guide us through our lives,

Until we meet again.

                            Author Unknown