A Voice in the Night

 I have not taken the time or effort to write lately. I have been busy, but I was just as busy before and always found time to write as a way to work through my grief.

So have I worked through my grief? Not on your life. Grief will be with me for the rest of my life, and while I wish in so many ways that this wasn't my life, it is. 

Let's give this a go again. 

My husband, Mike, had his second hip arthroplasty (hip replacement) surgery a little over a week ago, so I have been pretty much homebound, managing medications, watching over him, helping with his care and mobility. Thankfully, he is doing well again. He is sore, which is expected, but progressing well. 

Last night after he went to bed, I was up on my computer catching up on some things when I went to my photo app and straight to the videos. I was longing to hear Jessica's voice again. 

There is a video where she is filming, and we are watching little H. crawling over to the coffee table and pulling himself up for the first time. Hearing Jess say, "He's so strong!" warmed my heart. Hearing her amazing laugh with a bit of a giggle to it gave me such a feeling of peace. 

Oh, how I miss her laugh. 

I miss her voice.

I miss her presence. 

Then I watched the video taken of her very last birthday on this earth. There is my granddaughter walking so proudly with a lit birthday cake, and we are all singing Happy Birthday. 

When H gets to Jess, there in plain view is that dreaded sling and brace. 

Those reminders of the fracture, the break of her arm.

That dreaded disease that stole her from us. In the prime of her life. 

Then the video that JR took when Jessica was in the palliative care ward at the hospital the day before she died. I'm singing to Jess "I Can Only Imagine" as it plays on our speaker. He recorded it without my knowledge, which is fine. It is a touching moment, a beautiful time of singing about coming face-to-face with Jesus. 

But the nurse in me notices something else.

Her breathing.

That breathing that people do as they are lying in bed dying. In the medical world, it's called "agonal breathing" and is normal for people in the last hours of life. I know I saw it then, and knew what it was, but seeing it now was a jab to my heart. 

A reminder of what little time she had left as of this recording. 

A reminder that her life was cut short. 

A reminder that her children would be without their mother here on earth. 

As I sat watching this video, I cried those familiar tears. Remembering that day. 

Then I went back to a happy video. The one where little H was starting to stand up. It was so beautiful. Jess was recording it on her phone, so she wasn't in the picture, but her voice and her laugh were there. 

That beautiful laugh that has a little giggle in the middle of it. 

As I heard my own voice and laughter, it dawned on me that I have the same laugh. A trait that my girl and I share. A reminder that my laughter will bring a part of Jess into my moment, my day, and my life.

That made me smile. 

And that's a good thing.