The moments that take your breath away

I started this blog in January, 2020 in the hope of finding an outlet for my shy desire to write. Unpublished and hidden from view, I romanticized that I would write about long coffees in comfortable settings, recording my daily musings while taking in lovely views as we travelled the coast road up to far north Queensland. The "we" was Chris and me.

What I pictured writing was the stuff of romantics, filled with long, self-gratifying and overly descriptive passages detailing our travels. There would be photos of food and sunsets capturing some long awaited moments. Most importantly, there would not be a work reference in sight for either of us. I had taken for granted that I would be sharing my travels, my time, and probably my drafts, with my soulmate. Two months ago or, more accurately, 61 days ago, my Chris passed away.

When I hear couples described as soulmates, I feel defensive about it. The risk of being mocked or worse, undeserved. A soulmate is described as "a person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner". We were that and more, so much more. Chris came into my life with such gusto and a penchant for living that I was swept along with his excitement over winning my heart. We were finally together. I felt so loved, unabashedly cherished, truly special. All the outward misgivings I had about my appearance were swept away; he saw only the good parts. As he crooned about how he felt, I realised what unconditional love feels like. Happiness descended around us like we were in our own bubble. I'm sure it made others feel awkward, especially our kids, but it was a love that took my breath away.

We made great memories, living life like people who know that their time might be short lived. We loved each other deeply and we considered our blended family's happiness as essential to our own. To round out this stream of profoundly sad consciousness, we believed that if “true love is the soul's recognition of its counterpoint in another” (movie reference unknown), Chris was my true love and I was his, Soulmates. The lid to my pot, "he was my north my south my east and west..." (~Auden).

The stark reality of our mortality is proving tough for me to come to terms with. I struggle even to say that Chris has died. I wake up each day and for a brief second I forget that he isn't here before the fog of reality descends. There is no longer a reason for lingering on "the cloud" (as he called our bed). No long leisurely coffees. No dissection of the morning news. No us. Just me. So I make my bed and head for the shower as my biggest accomplishment for the day. 'That's ok', they say, 'be gentle with yourself'. It's overwhelming.

He took my breath away opening his eyes to quietly say "I love you" and "I don't want to leave you". I tried to reassure him and said, "It's ok, I'll be ok". As his breaths slowed and stopped, I reached out my hand and rested it on his chest, still warm and cosy under the blankets, the room so quiet except for a favourite song (Vincent) playing softly. When his release finally came, as he drifted away on his glorious cloud of relief, I was quietly screaming inside. I sat alone in the empty clean Covid ED bay, bereft; overwhelmed with both love and grief.

I am home. Family was not supposed to be here. We're in lock down. My sadness has settled around me as large silent tear drops fall, trying hard but failing to curb my overwhelming pain. I don't want everyone to worry about me. He could do this, such a gentleman. I can do this. I quietly choke back the noise until I can no longer breathe.