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    This seventh anniversary of losing my precious Frances has been especially poignant for me for some reason, so last evening I was sort of hoping for some sort of "magic" or sign from her like some of the rest of you have reported. I don't really believe in such, but what the heck, I thought I'd at least give it a chance. So way in the middle of the night I roused myself from dozing in front of the TV and went into the living room where Frances had spent her final weeks in a Hospice-provided hospital bed. I sat down in the armchair where I had kept a vigil for her last three nights, holding her hand so she wouldn't have to die alone in the dark, but nothing magic happened last night other than my remembering quite vividly how it was that night seven years ago. I remembered that when I had gotten up for a potty break after midnight I could still hear her labored breathing, and then after dozing for a couple of hours I awoke again to find that her breathing had just stopped. I woke my son in his room and we called the folks at Hospice, which set all the right stuff in motion -- notification of the funeral home and the brain bank and such as that, and then after daylight we called a couple of family members and friends and asked that they notify the others. Realizing that the end was almost at hand, I had already made all the arrangements for her cremation and a memorial service, so after the hubbub of removing the body was over I found myself surprisingly calm -- sad, but at the same time relieved that it was all over.

    I guess my sons must have felt some of this same poignancy today because I've had touching emails from both of them -- one enclosing a favorite photo of Frances posed with a bouquet of wildflowers against a backdrop of the Indian River Lagoon, squinting a bit in the bright sunlight and showing off her "Shirley Temple" dimple beneath her right eye. That's how I choose to remember her -- not that pitiful creature in the hospital bed! I still love her and miss her and blow kisses at her photo every day even though I've been able to move on with my life with remarriage and loads of new activities to occupy my time and energy. So life is still good at age 88 -- although I'll have to admit that I'm finding it a bit distressing to have outlived most of my friends....
    • CommentAuthorAdmin
    • CommentTimeAug 31st 2016

    I completely relate to what you are saying. As I have mentioned before, my rabbi told me that Sid's soul would live in my heart forever, and if I listened closely, I would hear and feel him. I was seriously doubting her, as I cried every night wishing I could hear or feel him somehow. Emotionally, it is still too difficult for me to write about the experience, so I will simply say that 6 months after Sid died, I had an experience that assured me that he did, indeed, live in my heart, and would always be with me. It still happens now and then, but never when I expect it.

    My sister's explanation is that he knows when I need him, and knows when I am okay. Maybe your Frances is at peace knowing that you have moved on to a life with someone who makes you happy, and she is looking down on you from Heaven, and doesn't feel it's necessary to make herself known to you.

    I hope that explanation helps you. And I hope anyone reading this doesn't think we're both nuts. But I have had experiences in my life that defy reasonable explanation, so I don't scoff at unusual stories about loved ones who have died.

    Gourdchipper, anniversaries of events in our lives can be celebrations, happy and joyous occasions. Anniversaries of other certain events still bring back every single detail and can be heartbreaking all over again. I think you remember and honor her well! Blessings to you today our dear friend.