I flew yesterday for the first time without you. Going to see our daughter and grandchildren. As I took off and I’m gazing out the window, with a stranger sitting beside me, I was alone. You should have been beside me. I thought of all our travels to various countries together. Such beautiful memories. I’m planning to go traveling next year with our daughter. Sure wish it was all three of us, sigh. I miss you. 6 months, 1 week has passed …

Under The Bleachers

He took me home one year to meet his family and to show me where he grew up.
We spent days and days exploring every corner of his childhood.
One afternoon we stopped by his old high school.
They’d closed it down years prior.
Forgotten.
Abandoned.

So of course we snuck in …

We explored room after room while he relived a hundred different memories. I loved watching his eyes light up as he spoke of a carefree youth, Friday night lights … and girls lol

As we walked out to what was once The Hornets football field, he pulled me under the bleachers … where we made out like a couple of teenagers.

A few years later while he was back home, he sent me a photograph of that same football field … and of the empty space where The Bleachers once stood.

They’d been torn down.

Up until then, I’d often wondered if that moment meant as much to him as it did me.

Clarification came in the form of that photo.

In some parallel universe, in some snippet of time, The Bleachers are still there.

And on a perfect summer afternoon, he and I are still together —
Listening to the wind blowing through the trees, the crickets chirping in the background, and the smell of freshly cut grass.

And he’s wrapping his arms around me and pulling me in for that kiss … under The Bleachers.

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.

Six months since I’ve held your hand for the last time — how I miss that. I was thinking about how we held hands every night while watching TV. I miss your touch!

Every Friday night, after a long week at our body shop, we would head out for dinner and karaoke at a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill. My husband and myself would meet with our closest friends for a night of fun. My husband’s go-to song was always the same: “People are Crazy” by Billy Currington.

The karaoke guy would announce us as ‘George and Company.’ We would all sing along with him — it was so much fun. Now that is one of my favorite songs and brings back so many good memories.

I can see him standing there with his cowboy hat and his long white beard, drinking his Coors Light while singing “God is great, beer is good and people are crazy”.

Miss you every day …
Te amo, my Nerd!!

In 2020 Robert was a frontline worker in the shipping/receiving industry in Anderson, SC. He was working for a company that had two locations (he worked at their smaller location). He did what he could to protect us from having to go out much. He was exposed at work due to his company not protecting him and the other employees at both locations. They had trucks coming in from all over the Eastern coast; none were masked.

We got all the way to the last Monday in June and he went off to work like any other day, but within a few hours he was on his way home sicker than he had ever been. He did video visits as well as one rapid access visit where they claimed it wasn’t covid per an Xray. They treated him for a week with a Zpack and steroids, yet he only got worse. Finally by the weekend of July 4th he was struggling to maintain his O2 levels and I had to drive him to the ER where they refused to allow me in. Later that night he was sent to the ICU and the next day treated with plasma. Less than 24 hours after the plasma treatment, he called me very early in the morning via Facetime crying, saying they were putting him on a vent. This would be the last time I would speak to him for 81 days where he was in his right mind. Through these 81 days he suffered: ICU delirium (later he would tell me what that was like, it was horrific, he said it was all about kidnapping/demons and other delusions–found out this is normal every time someone is brought out of sedation in an ICU setting–he suffered two types of pneumonia, collapsed lung, aspiration into the lungs multiple times, feeding tubes (2xs), and being on and off a ventilator 4xs the last time being a trach (in the neck); he also suffered massive weight loss and bed sores.

By the time September rolled around, he was transferred to a rehab hospital where he spent maybe two weeks. I was only then able to be in the same room with him, unlike our daughter who couldn’t. I thought the worst was behind us and I was happy to have him even with the long hauler issues he was sure to have. Throughout the almost two years of dealing with long covid he was ignored over and over by the medical community from various hospitals in our area. Every last specialist we could go see told him, in a nut shell, to suck it up and wait and see, that it was just a waiting game to see how his new “normal” would be. He came out of the ICU with maybe 50% lung capacity and by April 2022 only gained 10% more back (60%). He couldn’t do small things like maintain energy enough to do housework or walk through Walmart yet doctors did nothing.

The last few months prior to his death he was becoming more winded, suffering set back after set back and still we were ignored. A week prior to his death he went into the ER and then admitted into the cardio ward for chest and shoulder pain and was given a stress test with ultrasound and was told all was fine. He was released without any other specialist being called in and our concerns when voiced were ignored by two top cardio doctors in Seneca, SC. Little did we know what lay ahead for us. On March 22, 2022 I came home to find him winded but in a good mood. The three of us enjoyed our evening laughing and joking around. About 8:45 or so I went to watch tv in our bedroom and around 9pm he came in and was complaining of intense pain around the diaphragm area. He went to the bathroom, came out and doubled over my side of the bed. I told him to go lay down, he couldn’t. Within less than 2 minutes he was on the ground, eyes not moving and not breathing. The sound he was making haunts me. I called 911 and began CPR. By 10:35pm at the local hospital he was pronounced dead. Now I harbor guilt that I couldn’t save him and have to watch our little girl grow up without her papa bear because medical professionals failed us. How do we get past this? In the end, per the doctors it was a massive widow maker that killed him …