Well Done

 Well Done

Our last family vacation at Rehoboth Beach

This was taken less than one month before she passed away

 

     The calendar turned from the 24th to the 25th with such ease that no one noticed.  It was a normal November day for every other person on planet earth, except for me and Tiffanie. Prior to last year that date held no significance to me.  It’s amazing how a date that bears no meaning can all of a sudden be permanently etched into your mind for the rest of your days. The decades we had hoped for, the life that we planned now slipped away to hours.  Hours.  That simple word to describe time brings such a pang into my heart.  Fathom the word hours for a moment. Imagine that someone told you that you only had a few hours left with the person you love the most. What would you be doing? What conversations would you be having? I never in 1 million lifetimes thought that my last few hours with tiff would’ve been spent in a hospital , but we made the most of those last few hours. I want to detail those final hours. 

      She didn't sleep well that night, a matter of fact she didn't sleep at all.  She was antsy, jittery,  couldn't get comfortable, it was noticeable that something was wrong, something had changed dramatically in her physical being.  She wanted me to put my box fan on a chair but it kept wanting to slide off.  I took my belt off to keep the fan anchored to the chair so she would feel cool. She thought that it was funny that my blue jeans kept wanting to fall down lol.  Her breathing became increasingly labored, to the point where she had to go on a full face mask for oxygen. She was on dozens of liters of oxygen just to sit up.  She was unable to talk so we texted each other.  She kept apologizing for how much work she was and how scared she was.  At 1:52 AM she texted me, "you sit with me for a bit." I had sat with her for 14 years, I wanted to sit with her another 14 years. But at that moment I wasn’t even sure if I was going to get 14 more minutes.  I remember sitting at the end of her chair rubbing her feet, pulling her blanket tight, fluffing her pillow.  I hadn't slept in a few days and I started to doze.  For three weeks I was living on an hour or two of sleep a day, but I didn't want to miss one moment with her.  By this time she was on morphine to help with her breathing symptoms but it was only once an hour.  The nurses hooked her up to a morphine button that would deliver morphine as needed.  A little after three in the morning she texted me "was I more work when we had babies or now lol."  I laughed and smiled at her.  She was never too much work.  I would have cared for her forever.  At 4:32 AM she texted me "I scared."  I remember going into the hallway to talk with a nurse and the nurse made it clear that she was dying, that she only had a few hours left.  My heart sank in my chest.  The time had come, and so quickly, but to be fair with you years, wouldn’t have been long enough. I swallowed deep, said a brief prayer at her door, and I came into her room.  She texted me "what did the nurses say?" and I replied that she was going to heaven soon, that she was going to finish her course.  We cried, we prayed, we held hands, and we were left to trust the Lord.  She didn't want to leave me as a widower.....she didn't want to leave her precious babies.  She had fought so hard, been so determined, and was so faithful.  But the finish line was now before her.  She knew it.  You could see fear in her eyes but you could also see faith, a determined faith! She mustered the deepest of faith, the greatest of courage, and she went toe to toe with one final enemy, an enemy that was already defeated, death.

      My dad and Tiff's mom came in early.  My mom had to take my babies to school, knowing that when they left school that day that their momma would be in heaven.  The darkest gloom, the worst of pain was laid upon us.  You could Feel the invisible weight of death already in the room. I had already started saying goodbye while she was still there. We knew.  We could see the ending.  We sat in the room to face death together. We had already faced a multitude of things as a couple, but this final giant was the most imposing. Death was an enemy that Christ had already come to break.  She continued to get worse.  She didn't have the strength to push the morphine button so I had to push it for her.  I could feel her body grow colder and colder.  I could see the love of my life slipping between my fingers.  I prayed that Jesus would be so gentle with her passing.  I prayed that He would hold her close.  I was like a broken record telling her how proud I was of her, how much I loved her, how I would honor her life.  She was in and out of consciousness,  unable to talk.     

    Around 8 she started to pull at the mask, it was uncomfortable for her.  The nurse made it clear that once we took the mask off that she was going to pass away fairly quickly.  We didn't want her to suffer or be uncomfortable so we changed to normal oxygen from the nasal cannula.  Within moments her oxygen level dipped, her heart rate dipped.  I told her it was ok to go home, to be with Jesus, that I was going to take care of our kids.  I whispered in her ear again and again that she was going to hear well done good and faithful servant.  I told her that there was nothing left for her here.  I told her to run to Him, to feel the warm embrace of Jesus.  I told her that I would be alright.  I told her to stop fighting.  Her breathing became labored and I would have to dab the drool from her mouth because she wasn't able to swallow.  And then, peacefully, at 8:20 in the morning her faith became sight and she gloriously heard the words well done my good and faithful servant, enter into your master's rest.  Her chest no longer rose to breath, her body cold, her heart no longer pumped blood...she was absent from her body, but present with Jesus. I vividly remember having to close her eyes with my fingers. I think that was the last time I ever touched her face.

 Tears filled my eyes, it flooded the room.  My best friend in the whole world, my wife, the love of my life had crossed the bar, finished her race, fought her fight, and rested with Jesus at the age of 37.  It was a glorious day for her, but o' the pain that ravaged my soul.  Death had come.  But death lied, as it always does.  Death thought it would have the final word, but it didn't.  Because Tiffanie trusted in Jesus at the age of 6 death was already defeated.  Death couldn't touch her.  Death couldn't hold her.  It was only a shadow, a shadow that couldn't touch her. Death was only the final barrier that separated her away from Jesus, and when that barrier fell she went home.  Nurses, doctors, friends, and family all gathered in that room to weep over one of the most wonderful women ever created. 

      I vividly remember coming home after leaving the hospital. I sat on the couch for the first time in my house, the feeling of loneliness striking me for the first time. The reality was that she would never be here again, and I could feel my world crumbling all around me. I could see her everywhere, I could hear her voice in her laughter, and all of a sudden in the house that was supposed to be our dream home quickly turned into a prison. Everything that we had hoped and dreamed for was gone. I sat on the couch and prepared for the arrival of my three kids. They had no idea that she had passed away. I laid tissues on the couch, pictures of her handprint that we had done a few days earlier, a copy of her last heartbeat printed out and put in a glass bottle, and her Bible opened to John 11, I am the resurrection and the life. I had mentally prepared myself for this conversation for months, but how can a father tell his children that the woman that gave birth to them had passed away.  There are no words that you can rehearse, the English language doesn't have word that express that kind of pain.  Maggie asked a few days earlier when I was going to be home with them, and my reply was sad, but honest.  I told them the next time they would see me at home was when Tiffanie passed away.  My mom picked my kids up and brought them home.  They came into the living room with the initial response of joy and happiness, but that evaporated quickly when they realized that Tiff was gone.  We wept, we held each other's sobbing bodies.  My hoodie was stained with little tears that rushed down their cheeks.  I opened the Scripture, showed them the last mementos, and told them that I would love them all my days and never leave them. I told them that tears are ok, that it was alright to be confused and frustrated with God.  But in that dark, seemingly hopeless moment that faith that Tiff instilled into their lives sparked into a flame.  They turned the conversation to heaven.  They asked what it was like, what she was doing, if she had seen Jesus already, if she was safe, and the ultimate tragic question, when can we see momma again.  

      That night we ordered food to go from Tiff's favorite restaurant,  Texas Roadhouse.  We talked about her.  We laughed, told stories, we watched I Love Lucy, one of her favorite episodes.  I started falling asleep on the chair.  The emotional drain finally struck.  I was on empty.  We all brought down our mattresses and slept in the living room so we could be close to one another. That night we started to adjust to a forced new normal, a life with an aching emptiness.

      In this first year without her, I have felt the full weight of her absence—empty chairs, quiet rooms, holidays that feel both familiar and foreign. Grief has both broken me and rebuilt me. I have felt and thought things that are beyond what I thought I could bear.  There are still days when I instinctively reach for her voice, her presence, her steadiness.  But alongside the ache, grace has been present too. God has carried me. He has held my family. He has rebuilt parts of my heart that felt shattered beyond repair, and He still is working on me to this day. Grief hasn’t left, but it has changed. It doesn’t consume me—it accompanies me. And even in the hardest moments, I can say with confidence: God has been faithful. And because He is faithful I refuse to just grieve today, but to celebrate. Celebrate a life well lived and celebrate the day not of her passing, but her homecoming.