A year ago today, Valentine’s Day, James and I were working through a disagreement.  No different than any other couple in a long-term relationship, we seemed to always return to one central issue when we fought, and the days prior had been spent trying to create a way through and forward.  School was off for the day, but I would have been off work anyway as we had a routine follow-up at U of M with the surgeon who had performed James’ ear surgery the previous June.  It wasn’t the first routine follow-up check, but it would prove to be the last.  Nothing was routine after that. 

But the truth is, I wasn’t there.  We were still sore with each other and I knew his retreat into silence would make four hours in the car feel like an eternity.  So I stayed home and he went to see Dr. McLean.  And for the life of me, I may never forgive myself for not being there beside him, holding his hand when the doctor said the words that would turn our world upside down once more, “How long have you had this lump?” Our fight went by the wayside in that instant, whether I was there or not, and our battle, as it always should be, became a fight of us against cancer, never us against each other.  

It’s been 365 days since we had an inkling there was a problem.  It would be a month after that when we would learn that it was terminal and, without treatment, our time left together was at most, perhaps a year.  We did everything we possibly could, tried every treatment they could give him and we got ten very short months out of it.  

Just a few days ago was the anniversary of the day I met James.  In the two months since he’s been gone, I’ve been through the holidays, our tenth anniversary, the anniversary of the day we met and today, the anniversary of when we learned the cancer was not contained.  I have cried, I have screamed, I have thrown things, I have buried my head under the pillows, I have regressed into silence and isolation and I have struggled to even get off my knees at times. 

But my grief, my sorrow, my anger, my fears are all deep and profound because of love.  Because of love.  Because of deep and profound love.

And so, today, instead of dwelling on my regrets, or my loss, or his suffering, or his absence, today, I have intentionally set my sights on finding joy.  I sat with the hens and listened to their clucks and squawks.  I thanked them for the eggs I ate for breakfast and I fed them warm oatmeal for theirs. 

I slowed my pace walking near the flower beds and found crocuses inching up from the winter soil.  I watched Trudy run and run and run and I threw her football and we both basked in the unseasonable temperatures.  I found the cat sleeping in a ray of sunshine in the bedroom.  When I look around I see a beautiful, safe home.  I am blessed with friends and family and I have no worries of job loss or financial ruin. 

But most of all, today, and I hope for as many moments as I can hold tightly in my soul, I know that I have had the privilege of great love.  I have been blessed by and lived within and shall move forward with the strength and power and joy that comes from such a friendship, such a shared life and from a love as great as ours. I held his hands when we said our vows and I held them again when he drew his last breath. Love was there in the bar when we met and love was there in the room as I wept at his loss. But love remains still today. It has not ended, and even more importantly, it never will.  

Today, and always, love prevails.